Joseph Finder - Power Play

The King Chinook Lodge was located on the shores of an isolated body of water called Shotbolt Bay, off Rivers Inlet, on the central coast of British Columbia, three hundred miles north of Vancouver. The only way to reach it was by private boat, helicopter, or chartered seaplane.

When they said the place was remote, that was an under-statement. This was as close to the middle of nowhere as I'd ever been.

"Remote," to me, described the little town in upstate New York where I grew up, fifty miles from Buffalo, in rural Erie County. The nearest shopping mall was twenty-five miles away, in West Seneca. The biggest event all year was the Dairy Festival, I kid you not. The most important event in the history of my town was when a school bus was hit by a northbound B & O freight train in 1934. No one was killed.

But my town was Manhattan compared to where we'd arrived.

The Hammond jet had landed on the northwest tip of Vancouver Island, at Port Hardy Airport, where we transferred to a couple of small seaplanes. After a quick flight, we landed on the water in front of a simple dock. The sun was low in the sky, a huge ochre globe, and it glittered on the water. The setting was pretty spectacular.

We were met by a guy around my age, who introduced himself as Ryan. He was wearing a dun-colored polo shirt with KING CHINOOK LODGE stitched on the left breast. He greeted us with a big smile and addressed everyone but me by name: obviously he remembered them from the year before, or maybe he'd brushed up. I almost expected him to hand us umbrella drinks, like this was Club Med.

"How was your flight?" He was a slight, lanky fellow with a thick thatch of sandy brown hair and clear blue eyes.

"Flights," Kevin Bross corrected him brusquely as he stepped onto the dock and walked past.

Hugo Lummis needed an assist onto the dock. He'd donned a pair of Ray-Ban Wayfarers and needed only a porkpie hat to look like one of the Blues Brothers. "Fish biting?" he asked the guy.

"Timing couldn't be better," said Ryan. "The Chinook are staging right now. I caught a forty-pounder yesterday, not two hundred feet from the lodge."

Another two dun-shirted guys, who looked Hispanic, were pulling crates of perishable foodstuffs from the back of the plane and unloading suitcases from the baggage hold.

Lummis said, "Last summer I caught a ninety-some-pounder with a Berkeley four-point-nine test line. I do believe that was a line-class record."

"I remember," Ryan said, nodding. Something very subtle in his expression seemed to indicate skepticism. Maybe Lummis's memory was exaggerated, but Ryan wasn't going to set him straight.

"This is one of the best sports-fishing lodges in the world," Lummis told me. "World-class."

I nodded.

"You fish?"

"Some," I said.

"Well, it don't take a lot of skill out here. Nor patience. Just drop the line in the water. But reeling 'em in ain't for wussies. Chinooks-that's what they call the king salmon-they're monsters. They'll straighten out your hook, break your line, tow your boat sideways. Tough fighters. Am I right or am I right, Ryan?"

"Right, Mr. Lummis," Ryan said.

Lummis gave Ryan a pat on the arm and started waddling up the steps to the lodge.

"First time here?" Ryan said to me.

"Yep. Didn't bring any fishing gear, though."

"No worries. We provide everything. And if you're not a fisherman, there's plenty of other things to do when you're not in your meetings or doing your team-building exercises. There's hiking and kayaking, too. And if you're not the outdoors type, there's the sauna and the hot tub, and tomorrow night it's the Texas Hold'em Tournament. So it's not all fishing, don't worry."

"I like fishing," I said. "Never gone salmon-fishing, though."

"Oh, it's the best. Mr. Lummis is right. We've got incredible trophy king salmon fishing. Forty-pound salmon's average, but I've seen 'em fifty, sixty, even seventy pounds."

"Not ninety?"

"Never seen one that big," Ryan said. He didn't smile, but his clear eyes twinkled. "Not here."

The long, deep porch was lined with rustic furniture-a long glider, a porch swing suspended by chains, a couple of Adirondack chairs-that all looked handmade, of logs and twigs. A different staff member held the screen door open for me as if he were a bell captain at a Ritz-Carlton, and I entered an enormous, dimly lit room.

I was immediately hit by the pleasant smells of woodsmoke and mulled apple cider. Once my eyes adjusted to the light, I realized I'd never seen a fishing lodge like this before.

I'm not the kind of guy who goes to hunting or fishing lodges. When my friends and I used to go hunting, we'd stay in someone's tumbledown shack. Or an outfitters tent. Or a cheap motel. So it wasn't like I was an expert in lodges.

But I'd never seen anything like this. A fishing lodge? This was the kind of place you might see in some big photo spread in Architectural Digest titled "The World's Most Exclusive Rustic Hideaways" or something.

There wasn't any check-in desk that I could see. I was in a so-called great room with walls of rough-hewn timber. The floors were wide cedar planks, mellow and worn. At one end was a giant, three-tiered fireplace made from river stone almost twenty feet wide and thirty feet high. Above it was a giant rack of six-point elk antlers. On another wall was a huge bearskin, its arms outstretched like Jesus on the cross. More tree-branch furniture here, but the couches and chairs were plump and overstuffed and upholstered in kilim fabric.

Our luggage had been collected in the center of the room and was being carried off by staff. Obviously we weren't supposed to schlep our own suitcases. We were the last load of passengers to arrive. Everyone else seemed to have checked in to their rooms.

A man with a clipboard came up to me. He was middle-aged, balding, had reading glasses around his neck.

He shook my hand. "I'm Paul Fecher, the manager. You must be Mr. Landry."

"Good guess," I said.

"Process of elimination. I remember all our returning guests. But we've got three new people, and two of them are women. Welcome to King Chinook Lodge."

"Nice place you got here."

"Glad you like it. If there's anything at all I can get you, please let me or any of our staff know. I think you've already met my son, Ryan."

"Right." The kid down at the dock.

"Our motto here is, the only thing our guests ever have to lift is a fishing rod. Or a glass of whiskey. But the whiskey's optional."

"Later, maybe," I said.

He looked at his watch. It was a cheap plastic quartz diving watch. I'd never really noticed watches before. "Well, you've got a couple of hours before you all get together for the cocktail party and the opening banquet. Some folks are taking naps. Couple of guys are working out in our gym downstairs. We've got a couple of cardio machines, a couple of treadmills, and free weights. Very well equipped. And if you just want to take it easy, we've got a traditional wood-fired cedar sauna." He gestured over to a bar at one end of the room, where Lummis was drinking with Clive Rylance. "And, of course, the bar's always open."

"I'll keep that in mind."

"Now, you're in the Vancouver Room with Mr. Latimer."

Geoffrey Latimer, the general counsel, was supposed to be a total stiff, straightlaced and humorless. He was also the one coordinating the internal investigation for Cheryl. That was an interesting choice. I doubted it was a coincidence.

"Roommates, huh?"

"There's twelve of you, and only seven guest rooms. You'll enjoy it. Take you back to summer camp." I never went to summer camp.

After I did the math, I said, "Twelve people and seven rooms, doesn't that mean not everyone gets a roommate?"

"Well, your new CEO, of course, gets her own suite."