Джозеф Файндер - The Switch

“She giving a speech?”

He didn’t like lying, but he also couldn’t tell her the real reason he had to go to Boston. “Just a fund-raising thing. A donor-cultivation visit.” He looked around. The apartment was a pigsty, but he knew better than to ask her to tidy up.

Will could never admit this to her, but he preferred being at work to being at home. That was the simple truth. At work he was necessary and appreciated. He knew he was helping advance the interests of Senator Susan Robbins. He was sure she was destined for the White House, and he intended to be right there with her. Chief of staff to the first woman president sounded awfully good to him.

But this ongoing nightmare of the missing laptop — it was getting worse and worse, and he feared it might become uncontainable.

Because there were a few scenarios that now seemed likely. Like reading about CHRYSALIS in The Washington Post or The New York Times. And the Justice Department launching an investigation, which would surely lead to him. He could go to prison for what he’d done for Susan.

He didn’t want to think about it, but he had to force himself to do so.

Retrieving that laptop was crucial. It would keep him from going to jail and keep the boss on the path to the White House.

But if he failed — if his trip to Boston was unsuccessful...

The possibility scared the hell out of him.

But he was equally scared of what he might have to do.

He flashed on what the Problem Solver had said. I don’t work on a leash, okay? I do what I do. You tell me what you need. You don’t tell me how to get it. I do whatever I deem necessary.

He had to do whatever was necessary.

But how far would he go? What would he do?

Maybe the better question was: What wouldn’t he do? There was so much to lose.

Tanner woke at seven in the morning, his eyelids like sandpaper, his head throbbing. He’d barely slept.

Yesterday had been a blur. Early in the morning, rattled by his attacker’s gruesome death, he had driven around aimlessly in the rain, in a state of near desperation. At one point he’d parked and got out and scanned the front end of the car, by the glare of a streetlamp, terrified he might find visible damage. But he didn’t see any. If there had been blood, the rain had washed it away.

He’d killed a man. It had been in self-defense, but would that be enough to clear him if the police came around asking questions? Was that considered a hit-and-run? Not only had he killed someone, but he had left the scene of a crime. After running through dire scenario after dire scenario, he finally decided that he should just drive back to Carl’s house and say nothing to anyone about what he’d done, what had happened. He could report what had happened to the police and spend the next year of his life dealing with a homicide inquest. On top of everything else. And that was impossible.

He was exhausted, but he had to go to the office early. A morning meeting had been scheduled at the last minute, some guy who represented a real-estate tycoon with major holdings in restaurants and hotels and who wanted to do business. A deal like that could represent salvation for Tanner Roast. So he had to get to the office and be alert and prepared.

When he was in good form, he was a top-notch salesman, sure. But he wasn’t in good form now, far from it: he was tapped out and scared. He wasn’t thinking clearly. He didn’t trust his own judgment at a time like this.

Karen Wynant intercepted him at the coffee machine. He was pouring out a mug of whatever the coffee of the day was when she approached. She had her contacts in and had put on makeup, lipstick and eyeliner. She was dressed for a sales call.

“You okay?” she said, alarmed.

“How bad do I look?”

“Not so good. Are you sick? The guy’s coming in fifteen minutes — I said I’d say hi, make him some coffee, show him around, and then you two can meet.”

“That’s fine. I can use a little more time to wake up.”

“Seriously, everything okay?”

“I’m fine. What do we know about this guy?”

“His name is Thomas Berlin, and he works for Morton Nathanson, on the hospitality side of his business empire.”

“Any idea what he has in mind?”

She shook her head. “I wasn’t going to turn him away. Egghead’s definitely going with Cortado.”

“Egghead — oh right.” He could barely concentrate. He kept seeing that guy with a giant gun waving at him. He could hear the sound of the impact, of his car colliding with the killer, that thump when he ran the guy over, crushing him. The image and the sound played over and over in his head like a tape loop. He took a sip of coffee and could barely taste it. He was nauseated. His stomach felt filled with sloshing acid. “Any other cheery news to share?”

“Sorry. I wanted you to know when I knew.” She paused. “Is the Four Seasons a done deal? Like, definitely not happening?”

“It’s over. It’s done. Why?”

“Because City Roast hasn’t announced it.”

He nodded. “Ah. I think I know why. Their IPO.”

“What does that have to do with anything?”

“You know they’re filing to go public, right? Well, they’re in the quiet period before the IPO.”

“So?”

“So they’re not allowed to make any announcements material to the...” His mind had begun to wander. He heard the thump. “Whatever, whatever. That’s all. After they go public, they’ll announce their new customer.”

“Okay. Do you want me to sit in on your meeting with Berlin?”

He smiled. The concern in her eyes was genuine, almost maternal. He must really look bad.

“Seriously, everything okay?”

“I’ll be okay, I promise.”

When he got to his office, he glanced at himself in the antique Maxwell House mirror on the wall and decided he needed to shave. He pulled an electric shaver out of the bottom drawer of his desk, plugged it in, and ran it around his face.

Now he was starting to feel spasms of anxiety. What if he’d been caught on camera yesterday morning? But the tattooed guy would have thought of this. He would have chosen a spot that wasn’t surveilled. Still...

He sat down at his desk and opened his work e-mail, and a while later there was a knock on his open office door. It was Karen with an unprepossessing guy in his late thirties, prematurely balding.

“This is Tom,” Karen said.

“Michael Tanner,” he said, shaking the man’s hand, looking him in the eye. Tom Berlin looked like someone who was used to being in the background, not the foreground. He seemed an odd type to be in sales; not a natural fit.

Karen left, and the man sat in the chair facing Tanner’s desk.

“Can I get you some coffee, or are you all set?”

“I’m good,” the visitor said. His eyes roamed the tight confines of Tanner’s office. “Caffeinated to the gills.”

“With the good stuff, I hope,” Tanner said. “So you work for Mort Nathanson.”

The man glanced around. “Actually, Michael, I don’t work for Mort Nathanson, and my name is not Tom Berlin. I’m sorry for the ruse.”

“Excuse me?”

“I’m here under false pretenses,” said the man. “My name is Will Abbott, and I’m the chief of staff to Senator Susan Robbins. And I think you have something of hers.”

Tanner Roast was a smaller operation than Will expected — just a modest warehouse space that connected to front offices. A couple of coffee roasters and maybe ten or twenty employees, located in a not-great part of Boston. He’d gone there straight from the airport, via taxi, and arrived twenty minutes early. He’d walked around the urban neighborhood, thinking, and the third time he went by the company’s headquarters, he was buzzed in.