Chapter 11 - Atticus #2
The ma?tre d’ led us to a private dining room in the back. The space was intimate—one table, floor-to-ceiling wine racks, no windows. Perfect for conversations you didn’t want overheard.
Morrison took the head of the table, naturally. Castellano and Liu flanked him, leaving the four of us to face them like it was a job interview. Which, I supposed, it was.
“I took the liberty of ordering the tasting menu,” Morrison said as we settled in. “The chef here is extraordinary. Former French Laundry, if that means anything to you.”
“Everything means something,” Liu said quietly, his first words of the evening. He had this way of blinking—slow, deliberate, like a predator considering whether you were worth eating.
The first course arrived—foam that tasted like the ocean had been distilled into a single spoonful.
“Tell me, how did the four of you meet?” asked Morrison.
“Industry conference in Dubai,” Kodiak responded smoothly. “Three years ago. Bronwyn and Sarah were on a panel about defense technology innovation.”
“I was moderating,” Brenna added. “Jordan asked the most obnoxious question about procurement inefficiencies.”
“It was a good question,” Kodiak protested.
“It was a speech disguised as a question,” Emma said, touching his arm affectionately. “But he made good points.”
Morrison smiled. “And now, you’re all friends. How wonderful when business relationships become personal ones. Don’t you think, Mark?”
Liu nodded slowly with that beast-of-prey blink again. “Trust is everything in business. It’s easier to trust people you know socially.”
“Speaking of trust,” Castellano interjected, “I’m curious about your risk tolerance. The defense sector is notoriously conservative.”
“Depends on the risk,” I said. “And the reward.”
“All legitimate risks, of course,” Morrison added with a smile that suggested otherwise. “But sometimes, opportunities arise that require…creative thinking.”
“Creative how?” Brenna asked.
Morrison swirled his wine—a Burgundy that probably cost more than most people’s mortgage payments. “Well, for example, do you believe American innovation is being strangled by regulation?”
“Yes,” Emma said immediately. “We spend more time on compliance than development.”
“Exactly.” Morrison leaned forward. “Other countries don’t have these constraints. They’re advancing while we’re filling out forms.”
“But those regulations exist for a reason,” I pointed out, playing the cautious one.
“Do they?” Liu spoke up again. “Or do they exist to maintain control? To ensure that only certain people have access to certain technologies?”
“You sound like someone with experience,” Kodiak observed.
Liu’s smile was thin. “I’ve seen brilliant ideas die because the creator couldn’t navigate the bureaucracy. Technologies that could change the world, buried in classification reviews and export controls.”
“Buried is a strong word,” I said. “More like temporarily delayed for national security.”
“Temporarily?” Liu’s laugh sounded like ice cracking. “Some of these technologies have been ‘temporarily’ classified for decades. By the time they’re released, they’re obsolete.”
The main course arrived—duck that melted on my tongue, accompanied by perfectly roasted vegetables.
“Let me propose a hypothetical,” Morrison said. “Suppose someone had access to technology that was being underutilized. Locked away by excessive classification. And suppose there were buyers—legitimate businesses—who could develop that technology for peaceful purposes.”
“That would be illegal,” Brenna said flatly.
“Would it be wrong?” Morrison countered. “If the technology could benefit humanity but is instead gathering dust in a classified vault?”
“That’s a dangerous philosophical position,” I said.
“All the best positions are,” Castellano chimed in. “The safe path rarely leads to greatness.”
“Or wealth,” Liu added.
“You know what I find funny?” I said, leaning against my chair. “Everyone talks about benefiting humanity, but the checks always seem to be made out to individuals.”
Morrison laughed. “Cynical but not wrong. Altruism and profit aren’t mutually exclusive, though.”
“Tell that to my accountant,” Kodiak muttered, earning a genuine chuckle from Castellano.
Morrison studied us closely. “You all have security clearances. You understand the frustration of seeing innovation stifled by paranoia.”
“Understanding frustration and acting on it are different things,” said Emma.
“True. But at what point does inaction become complicity in stagnation?” Morrison asked. “When does following rules become an excuse for mediocrity?”
“When the mortgage comes due,” I said dryly, trying to lighten the increasingly heavy atmosphere.
“Spoken like a man with experience,” Castellano said. “The practical reality of principles meeting bills.”
The conversation continued through three more courses, each more elaborate than the last. Morrison and his associates never made an explicit offer, never said anything overtly illegal. But the subtext was clear—they were feeling us out, testing our flexibility, our frustration levels, our price.
“I hear you’re working with Bryargate Intel on a project,” Liu said during dessert—an architectural thing made of chocolate and gold leaf that looked like it should be in a museum, not on a plate.
“How did you—” I started, then stopped. “We don’t discuss client work.”
“Admirable. Discretion is valuable.” Liu exchanged glances with Morrison. “Though sometimes, being too discreet limits opportunities.”
Brenna raised a brow and looked between our three hosts. “The right opportunities find ways to present themselves anyway.”
“To opportunities, then. And to new friendships.” Morrison raised his drink.
We toasted, the crystal pinging as glasses touched.
As we prepared to leave, Morrison pulled me aside while the others gathered their coats.
“Atticus—may I call you that?—I think you and your wife could be very successful here. The West Coast rewards ambition in ways the East Coast never could.”
“We’re finding that.”
“Good. I’ll be in touch about a gathering next weekend. Something special we’re arranging. Very exclusive, very…enlightening.” His smile didn’t reach his eyes. “You and Bronwyn should join us. The Mitchells too.”
“Sounds intriguing.”
“It will be. Sometimes, the best business happens in unexpected settings. Away from the usual venues, where people can truly relax and be themselves.”
“We’re interested in the right opportunities.”
“Aren’t we all?” His smile showed too many teeth. “Aren’t we all?”
The valet had our cars waiting. Brenna and I left first.
“Holy shit,” she said once we were alone in the car. “Did Morrison just—”
“Not yet. But he’s close.” I checked the mirrors, making sure we weren’t being followed. “He’s still evaluating.”
“Liu took the bait on Bryargate.”
I smiled. “He sure did.”
Fifteen minutes later, we reconvened at the house. Emma kicked off her heels the moment she walked through the door.
“That was intense,” she said, accepting the wine Brenna offered. “Morrison’s more subtle than I expected.”
“Subtle but clear,” Kodiak agreed. “He was definitely recruiting.”
“The question is, for what exactly?” I said. “They never mentioned specific technologies or systems.”
“They don’t have to,” Brenna said. “They’re building a profile. Seeing if we’re corruptible.”
Kodiak took his pocket square out and unfolded it. “I recorded the whole thing. I’ll get it processed and sent out to the team.”
“Morrison mentioned a special gathering next weekend. He didn’t elaborate on what it was, but the four of us are invited.”
“That’s where he’ll make his pitch,” Emma predicted.
“Remember, we need enough evidence to build this case,” Brenna added. “Tonight was just foreplay.”
“Charming metaphor,” Kodiak muttered.
“Accurate, though,” Emma said. “They’re seducing us. Building trust, trying to make us feel special.”
I agreed. “Make the mark feel like they’re joining an exclusive club.”
“The question is,” said Kodiak, “how far do we let this go before we pull the trigger?”
“I’ll know when we’ve got enough that a conviction will be a no-brainer,” Brenna responded. “We need names. My gut is telling me that Morrison and his crew are middlemen. We need to know who’s really selling and who’s buying.”
“Next weekend, then,” said Emma. “That’s when we’ll find out.”
“We should brief Admiral in the morning,” I suggested. “This is moving quickly.”
“Like we said, Morrison’s under pressure. You could see it in how he was pushing,” Brenna added.
We spent another hour dissecting every word, every glance, every pause in the conversation after Kodiak loaded the video onto his laptop.
By the time Emma and Kodiak left for their hotel, we agreed we had a clear picture of Morrison’s approach and a strategy. Whatever happened next weekend, we’d be prepared.
“You okay?” I asked Brenna after they’d gone. She was staring out at the bay, wineglass in hand.
“Just thinking about how easy it would be.”
“What?”
“For someone to say yes. To take the money. To rationalize it the way Morrison does.” She turned to face me. “There are too many people willing to bend the rules as long as they make the almighty buck.”
“Bend? I think smashing them to bits is more accurate.”
“You’re right.” She smiled. “The bastards.”
I took her in my arms. “Ready for bed?”
“Yes, but first, promise me something.”
“Anything.”
“When this is over, we disappear for a while. Somewhere without Morrison, without clearances, without any of this.”
“You got it. Anywhere in particular?”
“Surprise me.”
I kissed her forehead. “Deal. But first, we nail these bastards.”
“First, we nail them,” she agreed.
As we headed upstairs, I couldn’t shake the feeling that Morrison had revealed more than he intended tonight. The pressure he was under, the urgency in his recruitment—forces beyond his control were driving his timeline.
Hopefully, we’d find everything we needed next weekend. And then we’d take the sonuvabitches down.