He quickly moved past the subject to describe the rest of the day. “It was useful to hear the executives talking about their own roles and plans for next year. They’re an impressive bunch. I’m sure they’ll help me settle in quickly.
“Jamil will handle things in Pakistan. He’s going to set up a video link so it’ll feel like we’re much closer.”
The conversation drifted to housing, medical facilities, social security numbers, and driver’s licenses. Salman was a huge help in explaining what appeared to be daunting tasks to Sikander and Rabia.
On schools, however, Rabia had a jump on things. “I think I’ve found a good school here,” said Rabia. “It’s called Kerr-Vance Academy, which the local people speak highly of.”
Sikander’s head spun toward Rabia. He beamed, pleasantly surprised at her initiative. Pleased with herself, she read his look perfectly.
After an hour or so of idle chatting, Salman reminded them all of Friday’s invitation, excused himself, and left. They, too, were tired. Knowing Tuesday would be a longer day than Monday, they went to bed.
“All right, Sikander,” Rabia began when they were in the bedroom. “What’s wrong?” Her look was stern.
“What do you mean?”
“Sikander!” she exclaimed, annoyed at not being taken seriously enough. This time she would settle for nothing less than the truth. “Something’s gnawing at you and you haven’t been yourself this evening. I’m your wife. Remember?”
Sikander frowned. He couldn’t tell her. He couldn’t tell anyone. Not until he had things sorted out in his own mind.
“Rabia, it’s…it’s been a long day. I have to be back there in the morning to start running things. I have to decide who’s doing what, whether I’d like them to stay or go, how to replace them if they do go, and I’m…I’m just feeling some stress from having to do all these things. You’re probably just noticing that. Can we drop this now?”
Some of it stuck, and after a moment’s hesitation, Rabia nodded submissively. Since Guantanamo, Sikander had, after all, suffered anxiety attacks and maybe this was just a milder form of one. Maybe they hadn’t completely gone away as she’d come to believe, or maybe it was simple stress as he had claimed. Either way, she pulled back from pushing that particular button. It did little to ease her worries.
Sikander couldn’t sleep. He was unable to decide whether to maneuver Mahler out of the company or keep him on. It wouldn’t be easy to let him go. It would send the wrong message to his employees if he were to show up and fire Mahler, two levels below his position as CEO, for no apparent reason, especially if the man had been an excellent performer.
On the other hand, if he were to fire him, and even perhaps come up with a believable rationale, he risked being outed by Mahler to the rest of the company out of spite. Sikander had absolutely no intention of revealing details of his captivity and interrogation to any but the very closest of his friends and family. No one at Carolectric fit that bill. Uneasily, he settled on a path of taking Mahler to one side and having an honest discussion with him about the proverbial “hippo in the room.” If it became apparent that Mahler was not so competent or a serious personality clash ensued, it might create an opening for rationalizing his firing. If he behaved like a professional then things might be awkward for a while, but why not let events unfold a little?
Julie Barnes, Gordon’s executive assistant, remained with the company. Sikander was impressed with her self-propelled personality and asked her to stay on. She found Sikander to be pleasant and courteous and imagined him not to be the kind of boss who would bark orders, relegate her to making the coffee, or chew her out for a minor mistake. She was a slim forty-one with a regal-looking elegance. She was settled in her life, which gave her a quiet demeanor and a good sense of humor. Professionally, she had an uncanny sense of anticipation of her boss’s needs.
Julie was worth her weight in diamonds to Sikander as he took his first tentative steps at the helm of Carolectric. He was surprised on arriving in the U.S. by just how much remained to be understood of the American social fabric, and for that matter, its corporate culture. Hollywood had left out the more pedestrian gaps and Julie would be the one to fill them in. She was a valuable asset in helping Sikander get through the admistrivia of establishing an official identity. Social security numbers, driver’s licenses, choices of health care providers, and registering the kids for school, all had to be dealt with. Julie was also quick to point out that she could be relied upon to perform many of the errands associated with these tasks, to take that kind of load off her boss, leaving him free to focus on the business.
On September 12, Jamil and Sikander arrived at Carolectric, proceeding directly to the CEO’s office. Before leaving Pakistan, Sikander had emailed Julie to create a sitting area consisting of a couple of armchairs and a coffee table in the corner closest to the office entrance, which she dutifully arranged. He had been inspired by a local Starbucks branch on his prior visit and liked its casually informal feel. Despite the new furniture, rectangular patches on the walls emphasized the locations of previous wall art and the presently unoccupied state of the room. It looked sad and unloved.
The two men set down their brief cases and leaving Jamil in the office, Sikander stepped out to talk to Julie. “Julie, how’s my schedule looking for today?”
“Let me look that up for you,” she answered as she pulled up his calendar on her screen. “You have the 2007 budget review with Jamil and Glen from 10:00 to 11:30. After that, each individual department head, one after another, will join the three of you to present their budget proposals. You should be able to get through at least the first four or five today and finish the program tomorrow.”
“All right, it’s eight forty-five right now. Ask Jim Mahler to join me at nine. I need to have a chat with him and we won’t wish to be disturbed.
“I’ll get on it,” replied Julie, curious as to why Sikander would want such a meeting. Anyone’s unplanned meeting with the security department was usually ominous. If the security director got involved, that meant it was more serious, and for him to be meeting the CEO, couldn’t be more so.
Sikander returned to his office. Jamil was studying one of Glen’s budget-related memos.
“Jamil, it’s going to be our first shot at the budget today and we need to be well prepared. It’ll set the right tone for going forward. I have to get a couple of things done, but if you go and meet Glen now and preview the budget with him, both of you can come back here for our ten o’clock.”
Jamil agreed and left for Glen’s office.
A few minutes passed before Julie rang on the phone intercom. Mahler was waiting. Overcoming a vengeful urge to prolong the wait, Sikander asked her to send him in.
Mahler stepped into the office, closed the door gently, then boldly, almost menacingly, strode toward Sikander, seated behind his desk. His face was expressionless but he put Sikander on edge with his unorthodox manner.
“Have a seat, Mr. Mahler,” said Sikander flatly. He pointed with his outstretched palm to one of the armchairs at the back of the room.
“Mr. Khan, shall we cut the crap?” began Mahler in a low voice as he tossed a sealed envelope onto Sikander’s shiny and otherwise paperless, cherry desktop. On it the words “SIKANDER KHAN” were scribbled in large letters.
“What’s this?” Sikander asked. Mahler had instinctively seized control of the conversation. Was he just playing mind games with Sikander? Had he simply switched on his considerable Army Intelligence instincts, or might Sikander himself be giving Mahler the opening to dominate him by subconsciously telegraphing submission in some long-buried conditioned reflex from Guantanamo?
“My resignation letter.” Mahler’s tone was defiant. Sikander glanced only briefly at the envelope and didn’t pick it up. It was bait and he wasn’t taking it. He locked eyes once again with Mahler.
“Mr. Mahler, please sit down,” he persisted in a subdued but firm tone. He resented Mahler having taken the i
nitiative and fought to suppress the anger that was bubbling up inside him.
Mahler finally broke contact. He turned around, and approached one of the armchairs. With all his army training, deep down Mahler still found it difficult to ignore an order from a senior authority figure. Sikander was no longer the shackled, disheveled scrap of a man at the mercy of Mahler’s nod to launch the MPs into their terrible action. His hair was combed back and his beard was neatly trimmed. In his open-collared shirt, cashmere sweater, casual pants, and expensive shoes, Sikander was projecting wealth and power in a country casual package.
Mahler’s moment of resignation drama notwithstanding, there was the practical matter of not wanting to be out on the street looking for employment. Puzzled by Sikander’s demeanor, he reluctantly took a seat. Sikander calmly came out from behind his desk and joined him.
“I wanted to have this conversation because I’d like to make sure we understand each other,” Sikander began. “I’m only concerned with your performance and I…I don’t…” he took in a deep breath and let it out as he embarked upon a lie. “No matter what I might feel about our…past relationship, if you’re doing your job well here at Carolectric, that’ll be all that matters as far as I’m concerned.”
“You’re…serious.” Mahler was astonished, puzzled, and skeptical. Seeing a weakening, Sikander took his shot.
“Why wouldn’t I be, Mr. Mahler? Do you think I bought this company so I could have the satisfaction of firing you? Or do you think I paid ninety million dollars because it made business sense?” asked Sikander. “And if it makes business sense, why would I undermine that by firing someone out of spite?” Sikander felt his urge to vent getting the better of him. “Don’t misunderstand me, Mr. Mahler. For what you did? Oh, I’d love to act with spite, but then, as I told you when you…tortured…me for saying the slightest thing you didn’t want to hear, I’m a businessman. But you? You used your job to vent your feelings. I happened to be available for you to indulge a lust for revenge in the guise of, huh! Interrogation. You did it with at least one wrong person. I don’t suppose you know the U.S. government accepted its mistake.”
Mahler gave an unapologetic “humph” and turned away. He was wrestling with conflicts, the foremost of which was between the need to avenge the loss of his friend, Tony, and the possibility—though in his mind remote—of having treated an innocent man as brutally as he had.
For his part, Sikander realized that although he had vented only a mere sliver of his considerable animosity toward Mahler, certainly nothing resembling badal, this meeting would go nowhere if he left it at that. Anxious to avoid the controversy being exposed by a shouting match that would be heard outside the office, Sikander needed a more conciliatory tone.
“Mr. Mahler, to whatever degree has been possible, I’ve come to terms with what happened to me. I don’t condone what you did and I…I don’t honestly know if I can ever really forgive it.” Sikander shrugged. “It’s a complicated matter for me.”
“I was doing my job,” protested Mahler with only a little less resentment than earlier.
“Yes, well, right now I want to respect your expertise.”
“I don’t understand how…” began Mahler, struggling with what was being said to him. His minimum expectation had been a simple firing.
Damn! How did he get released? Mahler struggled to get past the question. Of all the people he’d interrogated, Sikander was among the most likely to be a member of al-Qaeda. Mahler had been sure of that. Yet here he was, free, thriving, and objective about the business. Mahler had not expected such detachment. He was trained to be suspicious and to crush opposition, not question its validity. It was his nature to expect others to be similarly driven.
“Mr. Mahler,” said Sikander, “Look, I…I think a willingness to be cruel and brutal is in me—certainly in you—in us all, really. Civilization—yours, mine, doesn’t really matter which,” he said, “it’s a way of curbing brutality with some kind of code, a structure that creates confidence…lets the weak feel they won’t be attacked or robbed of their possessions—or their dignity—by the strong. But once people are permitted, or even encouraged, to operate beyond the reach of law, well then, as you so amply demonstrated, that brutality will only be limited by the forces at our disposal—no matter who we are.”
Sikander paused but had clearly more to say.
“Was the way I was treated in X-Ray your fault? I think it was. We can’t disown our own behavior. But it was also the fault, and continues to be, of this government for condoning or encouraging that behavior.”
Mahler’s convictions began to fracture. He was confused, unsure of what to think. His silent expression made Sikander feel the need to wrap things up.
“We could probably go on about those experiences forever. But for now, can we at least get back to work and take things a day at a time?”
Mahler’s face reddened. It was with the embarrassment from standing naked before a fully clothed onlooker; a look he was familiar with, but only as the onlooker. Sikander had come to understand the interrogator better than the interrogator understood him, and to Mahler it was like nakedness. He felt the urge to accept the situation and continue with this “interesting” man. Still not completely convinced of Sikander’s innocence—and who cared about acknowledgments or presidential interventions?—he found it hard to accept that his own behavior at Guantanamo might not have had a mote’s weight of justification. The cracks in his conviction began once more to fill. No, he would stick around and maybe even trap this man in a slip-up. After all, he’d gotten a pretty good measure of the buttons to push when Sikander had been detained. Mahler would wait it out. But for now it wouldn’t pay to be too honest, he thought.
“Mr. Khan, uh, on reflection, and…and after listening to what you’ve said, well, I guess it might be wiser to stay on if…if you’re willing to have me stay.” Avoiding eye contact, Mahler evicted the last few words.
Sikander nodded solemnly. It was time to take “yes” for an answer. He got up, went to his desk, retrieved the envelope, and gestured it toward Mahler. “Can I tear this up?”
Mahler nodded. Sikander tore the envelope and tossed the pieces ceremoniously into his wastebasket before facing Mahler again. Mahler’s hand came out in a tentative gesture. Sikander examined it for a moment before taking it in a lukewarm handshake. Neither man completely understood his own feelings at that moment, but each had formed his own reasons for why it was worth continuing the uneasy relationship.
Sikander stepped out with Mahler but felt the need to draw attention away from him. He turned to Julie and asked her to get some wall art that would at least cover the unsightly patches on his walls. She immediately began busying herself at an online store. Sikander poured himself a cup of coffee and stood outside his office pensively gazing around at what he’d bought.
“We’ll have something by Thursday, Mr. Khan,” said Julie.
“Hm? Oh, thanks. By the way, Julie, please call me Sikander.” He felt lighter. A burden he’d been carrying for so long that he’d lost all awareness of it, had just disappeared. It was approaching ten o’clock and right on cue, Jamil and Glen strolled to his office and were ready to start.
“So? Will we still be in business next year?” joked Sikander. The three of them chuckled as they entered the office. The budget review process was a baptism of sorts. Sikander had little familiarity with many of the American market-specific terms and concepts being described to him. But he was a quick study. Instead of trying too hard to grasp the details, he leaned on his instincts to judge the people working for him and get a sense of their own grasp of their specific areas of responsibility.
By the end of the week, Jamil was on a plane back to Pakistan. Sikander and his family, meanwhile, began the task of settling into Henderson, North Carolina.
Summer gave way to fall and with it the Khans were treated to all the blazing splendor that Henderson’s trees could offer. Beyond the hiccup with Mahler, the transiti
on had gone smoothly and Sikander grew comfortable in his role as CEO. Indeed, the family as a whole was taking root.
The weather became cooler, but luckily in 2006, no hurricanes hit the continental United States, something that hadn’t happened since 2001, when at the height of hurricane season, the nation had hardly been able to focus on the weather. The family found a new six thousand square-foot home not far from the Kerr-Vance Academy. They could certainly have afforded a larger space but they didn’t want to get ahead of themselves. Besides, Sikander wanted to do great things with the new acquisition before directing the family’s wealth toward luxuries. To top it off, neither Sikander nor Rabia were comfortable with the idea of a mortgage, given the body of Islamic opinion on the inadmissibility of the receipt and payment of riba. They paid for the property outright.
At the time that Javelin had bought Carolectric, neither company had done much to develop a strong Internet sales channel. In Pakistan, where Internet purchases were relatively rare, it was of little consequence. But rather than build more physical facilities in the United States, Sikander and Jamil decided that a large warehouse near the FedEx hub of Memphis, would be the best way to pursue expansion of the business online. That would enable any order to be fulfilled without inventory being in the wrong place. They would keep supplying their existing walk-in warehouses with the most popular products, while the central warehouse would provide lower costs in a more scalable approach to stocking the full product range. As long as customers could tolerate an overnight delivery and as long as costs of inventory management could be made low enough, they would be able to operate with an overhead advantage, allowing prices to be more competitive than most locally based suppliers. Internet marketing with a good business-to-business brand-building plan, had to be the priority.
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