OPERATIONS REVIEW UNIT/MALAYSIA

HAVE BEEN DELETED

SUNDAY 6/14 AUTHORIZATION DC/C/5905

Scrubbed again. He was pretty sure who had done it, but he had to be sure. "Angel, how do I check deletion authorization?"

"Press the data you desire," the Angel said.

Sanders pressed the authorization number. A small sheet of paper came upward out of the top sheet and hung in the air:

AUTHORIZATION DC/C/5905 IS

DIGITAL COMMUNICATIONS

CUPERTINO/OPERATIONS EXECUTIVE

SPECIAL PRIVILEGES NOTED

(NO OPERATOR ID NECESSARY)

"It was done by somebody very high up in Operations in Cupertino, a few days ago."

"Meredith?"

"Probably. And it means I'm screwed."

"Why?"

"Because now I know what was done at the Malaysia plant. I know exactly what happened: Meredith went in and changed the specs. But she's erased the data, right down to her voice transmissions to Kahn. Which means I can't prove any of it."

Standing in the corridor, Sanders poked the sheet, and it fluttered back down, dissolving into the top sheet. He closed his file, put it back in the drawer, and watched the model dissolve and disappear.

He looked over at Conley. Conley gave a little resigned shrug. He seemed to understand the situation. Sanders shook his hand, gripping air, and waved good-bye. Conley nodded and turned to leave.

"Now what?" Fernandez said.

"It's time to go," Sanders said.

The angel began to sing: "It's time to go, so long again till next week's show"

"Angel, be quiet." The angel stopped singing. He shook his head. `Just like Don Cherry."

"Who's Don Cherry?" Fernandez asked.

"Don Cherry is a living god," the angel said.

They walked back to the entrance to the Corridor and then climbed out of the blue screen.

Back in Cherry's lab, Sanders took off the headset and, after a moment of disorientation, stepped off the walker pad. He helped Fernandez remove her equipment. "Oh," she said, looking around. "We're back in the real world."

"If that's what you call it," he said. "I'm not sure it's that much more real." He hung up her headset and helped her down from the walker pad. Then he turned off the power switches around the room.

Fernandez yawned and looked at her watch. "It's eleven o'clock. What are you going to do now?"

There was only one thing he could think of. He picked up the receiver on one of Cherry's data modem lines and dialed Gary Bosak's number. Sanders couldn't retrieve any data, but perhaps Bosak couldif he could talk him into it. It wasn't much of a hope. But it was all he could think to do.

An answering machine said, "Hi, this is NE Professional Services. I'm out of town for a few days, but leave a message." And then a beep.

Sanders sighed. "Gary, it's eleven o'clock on Wednesday. I'm sorry I missed you. I'm going home." He hung up.

His last hope.

Gone.

Out of town for a few days.

"Shit," he said.

"Now what?" Fernandez said, yawning.

"I don't know," he said. "I've got half an hour to make the last ferry. I guess I'll go home and try to get some sleep."

"And the meeting tomorrow?" she asked. "You said you need documentation."

Sanders shrugged. "Louise, I've done all that I can do. I know what I'm up against. I'll manage somehow."

"Then I'll see you tomorrow?"

"Yeah," he said. "See you tomorrow."

He felt less sanguine on the ferry going home, looking back at the lights of the city in the rippling black water. Fernandez was right; he ought to be getting the documentation he needed. Max would criticize him, if he knew. He could almost hear the old man's voice: "Oh, so you're tired? That's a good reason, Thomas."

He wondered if Max would be at the meeting tomorrow. But he found he couldn't really think about it. He couldn't imagine the meeting. He was too tired to concentrate. The loudspeaker announced that they were five minutes from Winslow, and he went below decks to get into his car.

He unlocked the door and slipped behind the wheel. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a dark silhouette in the backseat.

"Hey," Gary Bosak said.

Sanders started to turn.

"Just keep looking forward," Bosak said. "I'll get out in a minute. Now listen carefully. They're going to screw you tomorrow. They're going to pin the Malaysia fiasco on you."

"I know."

"And if that doesn't work, they're going to hit you with employing me. Invasion of privacy. Felonious activity. All that crap. They've talked to my parole officer. Maybe you've seen him-a fat guy with a mustache?"

Sanders vaguely remembered the man walking up to the mediation center the day before. "I think so, yes. Gary, listen, I need some documents-"

"Don't talk. There's no time. They pulled all the documents relating to the plant off the system. Nothing's there anymore. It's gone. I can't help you." They heard the sound of the ferry horn. All around them, drivers were starting their engines. "But I'm not going down for this felony crap. And you're not, either. Take this." He reached forward, and handed Sanders an envelope.

"What's this?"

"Summary of some work I did for another officer of your company. Garvin. You might want to fax it to him in the morning."

"Why don't you?"

"I'm crossing the border tonight. I have a cousin in BC, I'll stay there for a while. You can leave a message on my machine if it turns out okay."

"All right."

"Stay cool, guy. The shit's really going to hit the fan tomorrow. Lots of changes coming."

Up ahead, the ramp went down with a metallic clang. The traffic officers were directing cars off the ferry.

"Gary. You've been monitoring me?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. They told me I had to."

"Then who's `Afriend'?"

Bosak laughed. He opened the door and got out. "I'm surprised at you, Tom. Don't you know who your friends are?"

The cars were beginning to pull out. Sanders saw brake lights on the car ahead of him flash red, and the car began to move.

"Gary" he said, turning. But Bosak was gone.

He put the car in gear and drove off the ferry.

A the top of the driveway, he stopped to pick up his mail. There was a lot of it; he hadn't checked the mailbox for two days. He drove down to the house and left the car outside the garage. He unlocked the front door and went in. The house seemed empty and cold. It had a lemony odor. Then he remembered that Consuela had probably cleaned up.

He went into the kitchen and set up the coffeemaker for the morning. The kitchen was clean and the children's toys had been picked up; Consuela had definitely been there. He looked at the answering machine.

A red numeral was blinking: 14.

Sanders replayed the calls. The first was from John Levin, asking him to call, saying it was urgent. Then Sally, asking if the kids could arrange a play date. But then the rest were all hang-ups. And as he listened, they all seemed to sound exactly the same the thin hissing background static of an overseas call and then the abrupt click of disconnection. Again and again.

Someone was trying to call him.

One of the later calls was apparently placed by an operator, because a woman's lilting voice said, "I'm sorry, there is no answer. Do you wish to leave a message?" And then a man's voice replied, "No." And then disconnection.

Sanders played it back, listening to that "No."

He thought it sounded familiar. Foreign, but still familiar.

"No."

He listened several times but could not identify the speaker.

"No."

One time, he thought the man sounded hesitant. Or was it hurried? He couldn't tell.

"Do you wish to leave a message?"

"No."

Finally he gave up, rewound the machine, and went upstairs to his office. He'd had no faxes. His computer screen was blank. No further help from "Afriend" tonight.

He read through the paper that Bosak had given him in the car. It was a single sheet, a memo addressed to Garvin, containing a report summary on a Cupertino employee whose name was blanked out. There was also a xerox of a check made out to NE Professional Services signed by Garvin.

It was after one when Sanders went into the bathroom and took a shower. He turned the water up hot, held his face close to the nozzle, and felt the stinging spray on his skin. With the sound of the shower roaring in his ears, he almost missed hearing the telephone ringing. He grabbed a towel and ran into the bedroom.

"Hello?"

He heard the static hiss of an overseas connection. A man's voice said, "Mr. Sanders, please."

"This is Mr. Sanders speaking."

"Mr. Sanders, sir," the voice said, "I do not know if you will remember me. This is Mohammed Jafar."

THURSDAY

The morning was clear. Sanders took an early ferry to work and got to his office at eight. He passed the downstairs receptionist and saw a sign that said "Main Conference Room in Use." For a horrified moment he thought that he had again mistaken the time for his meeting, and hurried to look in. But it was Garvin, addressing the Conley-White executives. Garvin was speaking calmly, and the executives were nodding as they listened. Then as he watched, Garvin finished and introduced Stephanie Kaplan, who immediately launched into a financial review with slides. Garvin left the conference room, and immediately his expression turned grim as he walked down the hallway toward the espresso bar at the end of the corridor, ignoring Sanders.

Sanders was about to head upstairs when he heard Phil Blackburn say, "I really feel I have a right to protest the way this matter has been handled."

"Well, you don't," Garvin said angrily. "You don't have any rights at all."

Sanders moved forward, toward the espresso bar. From his position across the hallway, he was able to see into the bar. Blackburn and Garvin were talking by the coffee machines.

"But this is extremely unfair," Blackburn said.

"Fuck unfair," Garvin said. "She named you as the source, you stupid asshole."

"But Bob, you told me-"

"I told you what?" Garvin said, eyes narrowing.

"You told me to handle it. To put pressure on Sanders."

"That's right, Phil. And you told me that you were going to take care of it.'



But you knew I talked to-"

"I knew you had done something," Garvin said. "But I didn't know what. Now she's named you as a source."

Blackburn hung his head. "I just think it's extremely unfair."

"Really? But what do you expect me to do? You're the fucking lawyer, Phil. You're the one always sweating about how things look. You tell me. What do I do?"

Blackburn was silent for a moment. Finally he said, "I'll get John Robinson to represent me. He can work out the settlement agreement."

"Okay, fine." Garvin nodded. "That's fine."

"But I just want to say to you, on a personal level, Bob, that I feel my treatment in this matter has been very unfair."

"Goddamn it, Phil, don't talk to me about your feelings. Your feelings are for sale. Now listen with both ears: Don't go upstairs. Don't clean out your desk. Go right to the airport. I want you on a plane in the next half hour. I want you fucking out of here, right now. Is that clear?"

"I just think you should acknowledge my contribution to the company."

"I am, you asshole," Garvin said. "Now get the fuck out of here, before I lose my temper."

Sanders turned and hurried upstairs. It was hard for him to keep from cheering. Blackburn was fired! He wondered if he should tell anybody; perhaps Cindy, he thought.

But when he got to the fourth floor, the hallways were buzzing; everyone was out of their offices, talking in the corridors. Obviously, rumors of the firing had already leaked. Sanders was not surprised that staffers were in hallways. Even though Blackburn was disliked, his firing would cause widespread uneasiness. Such a sudden change, involving a person so close to Garvin, conveyed to everyone a sense of peril. Everything was at risk.

Outside his office, Cindy said, "Tom, can you believe it? They say Garvin is going to fire Phil."

"You're kidding," Sanders said.

Cindy nodded. "Nobody knows why, but apparently it had something to do with a news crew last night. Garvin's been downstairs explaining it to the Conley-White people."

Behind him, somebody shouted, "It's on the e-mail!" The hallway was instantly deserted; everyone vanished into their offices. Sanders stepped behind his desk and clicked the e-mail icon. But it was slow coming up, probably because every employee in the building was clicking at exactly the same time.

Fernandez came in and said, "Is it true about Blackburn?" "I guess so," Sanders said. "It's just coming over the e-mail now."

FROM: ROBERT GARVIN, PRESIDENT AND CEO

TO: ALL THE DIGICOM FAMILY

IT IS WITH GREAT SADNESS AND A DEEP SENSE OF PERSONAL LOSS THAT I TODAY ANNOUNCE THE RESIGNATION OF OUR VALUED AND TRUSTED CHIEF CORPORATE COUNSEL, PHILIP A. BLACKBURN. PHIL HAS BEEN AN OUTSTANDING OFFICER OF THIS COMPANY FOR NEARLY FIFTEEN YEARS, A WONDERFUL HUMAN BEING, AND A CLOSE PERSONAL FRIEND AND ADVISOR AS WELL. I KNOW THAT LIKE ME, MANY OF YOU WILL MISS HIS WISE COUNSEL AND GOOD HUMOR PROFOUNDLY IN THE DAYS AND WEEKS TO COME. AND I AM SURE THAT YOU WILL ALL JOIN ME IN WISHING HIM THE BEST OF GOOD FORTUNE IN HIS NEW ENDEAVORS. A HEARTY THANK YOU, PHIL. AND GOOD LUCK.

THIS RESIGNATION IS EFFECTIVE IMMEDIATELY. HOWARD EBERHARDT WILL SERVE AS ACTING COUNSEL UNTIL SUCH TIME AS A NEW PERMANENT APPOINTMENT IS MADE.

ROBERT GARVIN

Fernandez said, "What does it say?" "It says, `I fired his sanctimonious ass.' " "It had to happen," Fernandez said. "Especially since he was the source on the Connie Walsh story." Sanders said, "How did you know that?" "Eleanor Vries." "She told you?" "No. But Eleanor Vries is a very cautious attorney. All those media attorneys are. The safest way to keep your job is to refuse to let things run. When in doubt, throw it out. So I had to ask myself, why did she let the Mr. Piggy story run, when it's clearly defamatory. The only possible reason is that she felt Walsh had an unusually strong source inside the company-a source that understood the legal implications. A source that, in giving the story, was in essence also saying, we won't sue if you print it. Since high-ranking corporate officers never know anything about law, it means the source could only be a high-ranking lawyer."

"Phil."

"Yes."

".Jesus."

"Does this change your plans?" Fernandez said.

Sanders had been considering that. "I don't think so," he said. "I think Garvin would have fired him later in the day, anyway."

"You sound confident."

"Yeah. I got some ammunition last night. And I hope more today."

Cindy came in and said, "Are you expecting something from KL? A big file?"

"Yes."

"This one's been coming in since 7 a.m. It must be a monster." She put a DAT cartridge on his desk. It was exactly like the DAT cartridge that had recorded his video link with Arthur Kahn.

Fernandez looked at him. He shrugged.

At eight-thirty, he transmitted Bosak's memo to Garvin's private fax machine. Then he asked Cindy to make copies of all the faxes that Mohammed Jafar had sent him the previous night. Sanders had been up most of the night, reading the material that Jafar had sent him. And it made interesting reading.

Jafar of course was not ill; he had never been ill. That had been a little story that Kahn had contrived with Meredith.

He pushed the DAT videocassette into the machine, and turned to Fernandez.

"You going to explain?" she said.

"I hope it'll be self-explanatory," Sanders said.

On the monitor, the following appeared:

5 SECONDS TO DIRECT VIDEO LINKUP: DC/M-DC/C

SEN: A. KAHN

REC: M. JOHNSON

On the screen, he saw Kahn at the factory, and then a moment later the screen split and he saw Meredith at her office in Cupertino.

"What is this?" Fernandez said.

"A recorded video communication. From last Sunday."

"I thought the communications were all erased."

"They were, here. But there was still a record in KL. A friend of mine sent it to me."

On the screen, Arthur Kahn coughed. "Uh, Meredith. I'm a little concerned."

"Don't be," Meredith said.

"But we still aren't able to manufacture to specs. We have to replace the air handlers, at the very least. Put in better ones."

"Not now."

"But we have to, Meredith."

"Not yet."

"But those handlers are inadequate, Meredith. We both thought they'd be okay, but they aren't."

"Never mind."

Kahn was sweating. He rubbed his chin nervously. "It's only a matter of time before Tom figures it out, Meredith. He's not stupid, you know."

"He'll be distracted."

"So you say."

"And besides, he's going to quit."

Kahn looked startled. "He is? I don't think he-"

"Trust me. He'll quit. He's going to hate working for me."

Sitting in Sanders's office, Fernandez leaned forward, staring at the screen. She said, "No shit."

Kahn said, "Why will he hate it?"

Meredith said, "Believe me. He will. Tom Sanders will be out in my first forty-eight hours."

"But how can you be sure-"

"What choice does he have? Tom and I have a history. Everybody in the company knows that. If any problem comes up, nobody will believe him. He's smart enough to understand that. If he ever wants to work again, he'll have no choice but to take whatever settlement he's offered and leave."

Kahn nodded, wiping the sweat from his cheek. "And then we say Sanders made the changes at the plant? He'll deny that he did."

"He won't even know. Remember. He'll be gone by then, Arthur."

"And if he isn't?"

"Trust me. He'll be gone. He's married, has a family. He'll go."

"But if he calls me about the production line-"

"Just evade it, Arthur. Be mystified. You can do that, I'm sure. Now, who else does Sanders talk to there?"

"The foreman, sometimes. Jafar. Jafar knows everything, of course. And he's one of those honest sorts. I'm afraid if-"

"Make him take a vacation."

"He just took one."

"Make him take another one, Arthur. I only need a week here."

"Jesus," Kahn said. "I'm not sure-"

She cut in: "Arthur."

"Yes, Meredith."

"This is the time when a new vice president counts favors that will be repaid in the future."

"Yes, Meredith."

"That's all."

The screen went blank. There were white streaking video lines, and then the screen was dark.

"Pretty cut and dried," Fernandez said.

Sanders nodded. "Meredith didn't think the changes would matter, because she didn't know anything about production. She was just cutting costs. But she knew that the changes at the plant would eventually be traced back to her, so she thought she had a way to get rid of me, to make me quit the company. And then she would be able to blame me for the problems at the plant."

"And Kahn went along with it."

Sanders nodded.

"And they got rid of Jafar."

Sanders nodded. "Kahn told Jafar to go visit his cousin in Johore for a week to get out of town. To make it impossible for me to reach Jafar. But he never thought that Jafar would call me." He glanced at his watch. "Now, where is it?"

"What?"

On the screen, there was a series of tones, and they saw a handsome, dark skinned newscaster at a desk, facing a camera and speaking rapidly in a foreign language.

"What's this?" Fernandez said.

"The Channel Three evening news, from last December." Sanders got up and pushed a button on the tape machine. The cassette popped out.

"What does it show?"

Cindy came back from the copying machine with wide eyes. She carried a dozen stacks of paper, each neatly clipped. "What're you going to do with this?"

"Don't worry about it," he said.

"But this is outrageous, Tom. What she's done."

"I know," he said.

"Everybody is talking," she said. "The word is that the merger is off."

"We'll see," Sanders said.

With Cindy's help, he began arranging the piles of paper in identical manila folders.

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