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March 2014
Max
Maria Alvarez stands in front of the antique oak desk that takes up half the space in my corner office and shifts from foot to foot. Petite, with dark, shoulder-length brown hair, she resembles Little Red Riding Hood confronting the Big Bad Wolf. Amused, I give her my best wolfish expression. I’ve suggested twice that the new PR director at Global Security Unlimited sit down, but she insists on standing, hands clasped in front of her, gnawing bright red lipstick off her lower lip. Although just shy of thirty, she appears younger. Anyone passing my office would think I’m the headmaster, and she an errant student.
When I glance up from the media release she wants me to approve, her face is scrunched with tension. I recheck the draft and pencil in the changes. The announcement of the roll out for our banking software is fine but a little wordy.
I catch her eye, lean over, and hand the sheet back to her. “Here you go, Maria. I made a few changes but nothing major. Just make sure the division name, CyberSec, is spelled correctly. The three mentions are all different.”
She flushes to the roots of her hair. “I’m so sorry.”
Waving off the apology, I tell her, “Just fix the few things I’ve marked and you can shoot it off to the distribution list.”
She skims the sheet, frown lines on her forehead, her lips pinched. When she finishes, the corners of her mouth lift into a small smile.
I smile back. “You’re doing a great job.”
“Thanks, Mr. Grant. Oh, sorry, Dr. Grant.“ Her face is bright red.
“Max. Just Max.” I throw her a farewell wave as she turns toward the open doorway.
After she leaves, I peek out the window of my fourth-floor office in the Rookery, tapping my fingers on the arm of my chair as rain streams down the side of the building. The deluge sounds like a waterfall against the imitation Romanesque stone façade and drowns out the usual honking of taxis and the scream of sirens from the street.
A stab of disappointment makes me wince. Cress sent me an email earlier to tell me it was too wet, so she wasn’t going to write at Toni’s Patisserie today. Instead of a tête-à-tête withla mia stellinaI’ll have to make do with another cuppa from the company lounge.
My favorite picture of the two of us sits front and center on the wide sill of the window. I run my finger down her face as if I could touch her. It was taken last year at a British consulate reception at Chicago’s legendary Palmer House, before the evening turned violent. Cress is gorgeous in the black lace gown that was ruined when she was shot outside the hotel by a vengeful sociopath. The David Yurman earrings and necklace I bought her for that evening are the only pieces that survived.
I shake my head, turn back to the computer sitting on a credenza perpendicular to my desk and pull up my diary. The April drop date for our roll out, marked in red, pulses out from one of the multiple screens crowded on the surface. I rub my thumb across my chin.
Don’t worry, Max. We’ll be ready.Jarvis’ assurance echoes over and over. I want to believe him. It’s his baby, after all, but my gut hurts on the regular. Another screen is nothing but emails updating projects and requests.
Turning away, I cast my eye over the in and out boxes, printouts, and half-empty teacups littering the desktop. I clatter together the crockery, pouring all the bits of scummy, cold liquid into one large cup. I really need to take these back to the kitchen instead of letting them pile up. Not really fair on my assistant to assume she’ll clear up the mess.
Kyril, our mail room courier comes in and dumps a dirty white hotel envelope with the name of a hotel in Konya, Turkey, on my desk. No sender’s name, covered with foreign stamps, all taped up, handwritten address with just my last name, and Rookery Building Chicago with no street address. The postmark, Istanbul, is already a month old. My heart sinks as I think about the last time I was in Istanbul. Ten years ago. Right away I can tell its trouble.
“Wash your fucking hands, Kyril! And tell Elena to call 911.” His frightened eyes regard me like a stoat caught in headlamps. “Go, Kyril. Hands, then the call. Now.”
He slowly backs away from my desk toward the doorway. When he reaches the opening, he gives me a panicked glance, then turns and runs.
I pull my leather driving gloves out of my overcoat pocket, slide the envelope onto a piece of printer paper, and walk down to our small conference room, placing it carefully on the table.
Almost immediately a brisk Anglo-Turkish voice calls out from the doorway. “Hey, Max. Got a minute?”
Metin Hazan leans against the doorframe, a manila folder in one hand. I wave her in. At six-foot-two, she’s tall enough to look me in the eye. Even at fifty-four, her athletic physique is stunning since she runs every day. I know a little about Turkish culture, and after years of burning curiosity, I asked her a few years ago why her parents gave her a masculine name.
“They wanted a son.” Her voice was flat, and remnants of resentment marred her face. “Unfulfilled desire. They had three daughters and gave us all male names.”
Now I summon a smile. “What brings the Senior Operations VP to our little corner, Metin? You hardly ever slum around over here.”
She focuses on the envelope but is careful not to touch it. “What do we have here?”
“Good question. Suspicious envelope. I was just planning to lock this room until the police get here.”
We leave the envelope and walk back to my office to wait.
Once we sit down, her smile shifts to a frown. “I know you and Cress are leaving for Europe soon.”
“We have that meeting with the bankers in London about adopting our software. They insisted they wanted to meet in person. Then Cress and I have a week in Scotland for my dad’s birthday, Cress’ awards dinner in Paris, and her historical fiction conference in Venice.” I smile thinly.
