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“Sorry,” she whispered.
“Let’s try his son’s name. He’s always talking about him,” Dafna said.
Oren didn’t work. Gila, Menni’s wife's name, didn’t work, either.
“It will lock for five minutes at the third attempt.” Nurit bit her lower lip. “Let’s try Oren’s birthday. Only I don’t know it.”
“Please, I’m HR!” Dafna entered her personal drive on the phone and looked for the Excel sheet she kept on all employees' birthdays, including their closest relatives.
“Quick,” Nurit hissed.
“Not helping!”
There it was. Menni’s son was born on November second.
The laptop yielded to 0211.
The desktop was bare, containing only a handful of software icons and directories. Nurit recognized the correct one, which was simply called Kisharti’s books. Menni didn’t encrypt it, figuring rightly that no one would suspect a bunch of excel sheets and Salesforce reports.
After they attached their flash drive, she noticed a directory named “GTN”.
“I wonder what that is. Is it an acronym?” Dafna asked. Nurit shrugged, her eyes darting between the door and the computer.
“Who cares? This is taking forever!”
“Go Take Note? Got The Number? Goals To Next? I have to see what’s in it.”
“I don’t know what that is. I never really dealt long with this laptop. All I did was upload the real excels into this directory, and then discuss them with Menni.”
Dafna clicked on the GTN directory, which held sub directories. Each sub-directory was named after a person: Dafna, Nurit, Daniel, Gil, Erez, Motti.
The “Kisharti Books” directory was copied in full.
“We should leave,” Nurit tugged at her sleeve. “Let’s go.”
“Hang on.”
She had to know what the Dafna sub-directory held. She clicked and saw links to her LinkedIn page, web links of several articles she wrote on diversity in the workplace. Pictures of her with Ilan and their kids.
“Come on!” Nurit plucked out the USB drive. “Let’s put the computer back in its place.”
“Wait, why would he have a file on Erez? He isn’t an employee.”
“Motti isn’t, either,” Nurit pointed out.
She clicked on Erez’s directory. Much the same, but there was also a video, which she had to watch. There was a shaky quality to it, as if taken from a hidden camera. Two people in the communal kitchen—she and Erez, talking. It was Erez’s first day at Kisharti–she wore her new dress for him. Erez leaned towards her, his legs spread a little. She had her body turned to him, enveloped in his space, both engrossed in their conversation. Her cheeks heated. There was no mistaking the body language. The camera caught two people that were deeply into each other.
She remembered Menni walking in on them. He must have stopped to film them first.
“Anyone with half a brain could see that you two are obsessed with each other.” Nurit smiled.
“This is creepy. Why would he film us?”
“Menni always says he keeps intel on people that he needs. I think he is always fishing for leverage. He needed something on you. Fraternizing with the reviewer is good stuff. God, I hate this guy,” Nurit said with vehemence.
“I wonder what the Motti directory has.”
They clicked. There were two audio recordings. When they listened, they were almost identical–two past investors, who used to belong to Motti’s group but no longer joined him because of a string of poor investments and half dodgy decisions. There were links for old newspaper articles, about startups that went under.
