Chapter 23
CHAPTER
AS NASH ENTERED HIS OFFICE his phone dinged. He set his briefcase down, sat behind his desk, and looked at the text.
The president of the rival firm had had dinner with Nash shortly after the deal had closed to congratulate him.
And then he had made a very hard pitch to get Nash to jump to his company.
They would even match his salary and full benefits and bonuses for the length of his one-year noncompete.
Nash had politely declined the offer, but every year the man reached out to Nash to see if he would accept the offer, the last time barely four months ago.
So it was with deep perplexity that Nash now read in the text that the company had no interest in him working for them. No reason was given.
Nash’s plan had been to leave Sybaritic and his FBI problem behind. He could not be recruited to work for the government if he no longer was at Sybaritic. He had thought it a workable solution. But apparently not.
He texted another firm, one even more anxious to poach him as recently as two months ago. He had barely sent the text to the firm’s head of recruitment, a friend of his, before the reply came back. No interest. But at least he had tacked on, Sorry, Walt.
He immediately called the man on his personal phone. It went right to voice mail.
I have been outplayed by the FBI, it seems. They’re engaging in an advanced version of chess, and I’m stuck on tiddlywinks.
His anxiety, repressed ever since he had come up with what he had thought was a brilliant solution, now came roaring back. He used his personal phone to text Morris and ask for a conversation that night.
Morris had written back that a face-to-face was not possible, explaining that they could not be seen together in public. He would instead call Nash at nine that night.
Nine o’clock sharp, replied Nash, in an attempt to assert a little control. After he sent the message, he put his face in his hands and let out a light moan.
“Walter, are you all right?”
He glanced up to see one of his team members, Elaine Fixx, standing in his doorway. He quickly straightened and said, “Early morning. And visiting Capitol Hill is a sure recipe for frustration.”
She smiled. Fixx was hardworking, disciplined, and smart as a whip, and he felt she would be ruling this place in no time, if there was a place left to be ruled.
“I hope it was a productive trip anyway.”
“Crossing t’s and dotting i’s, so yes, it was. Anything up?”
“The OxiControls acquisition? I had a question about some of the metrics?”
“Email me and we’ll go over it this afternoon in the daily summary meeting.”
“Will do, thanks.”
After she left he closed his door and settled his face in his hands once more.
Four seconds in, hold for four, four-count exhale, hold for four. Repeat.
He had left everything he’d taken from his father’s home in the Range Rover except for the letter addressed to him.
He had placed that precisely in the center of his desk and now stared down at it.
The writing on the envelope was in his father’s hand, clearly, but a weakened one, a sick one.
He had obviously done this shortly before the end.
However, instead of opening the letter Nash slipped it inside his briefcase.
Better to read it at home, he told himself. Procrastination isn’t always a vice.
He had his meetings and answered the metric questions Fixx had.
Rhett stopped him right as he was leaving for the day. “Hey, Walt, I heard DC went okay.”
“Nothing more and nothing less than usual,” Nash replied, trying to remain calm and controlled around his boss. The problem was every time he looked at the man he saw Victoria Steers’s intimidating visage along with the images of three dead people.
“Anything new on Lombard?” he asked before he could catch himself. But it was a perfectly appropriate query. Indeed it would have seemed unusual if he hadn’t asked.
Rhett shook his head. “I don’t know if they’ll even find the poor guy’s body.”
You know they won’t, thought Nash. “Well, it’s quite a tragedy. His poor family.”
“We’ve already taken steps to see that they’re taken care of.”
How? thought Nash. Bullets to the head and body bags dumped in a landfill?
“That’s very good of the firm,” he said, now nervous that Rhett might find out he’d been shopping himself at other firms. But maybe they had been told to say nothing by the FBI unless they wanted an IRS audit for the next ten years.
When Nash drove through the gate to his community, the guard, a pudgy man in his forties named Rolf, stepped out and said, “Mr. Nash, a guy came here saying he was your father’s friend and that you asked him to meet you at your house. I let him through.”
“I gave no such permission.”
Rolf took a step back. “Oh, um…”
“What was his name?” Nash asked sharply.
Rolf said nervously, “He didn’t give a name.”
Nash was more than a little put out. Why bother having a damn gate and paying a guard if anyone could just bullshit their way in? “What did he look like?”
Rolf told him and said, “Do you know him, sir?”
Through clenched teeth Nash said, “I know him.”
“So it’s okay?”
“Oh, we’ll have to see about that.”