Chapter Four
Tuesday morning brought what Giles called ‘cover story boot camp’. Hour after hour of drilling on financial terminology, corporate protocols, and the painful detail of being an executive assistant.
“No, no, no,” Giles sighed after their third practice run. “You’re still reacting to everything I say. Bryan wouldn’t bristle at my requests. He’s chosen this role, excels at it.”
“Maybe because Bryan doesn’t have the misfortune to know the real you,” Bryn snapped.
“And who might that be? The person currently watching you butcher the pronunciation of ‘quarterly earnings forecast’ for the fifth time?” Giles pinched the bridge of his nose. “Can you not say it without sounding like you’re ordering at a drive-through?”
Bryn slumped in his chair. “Well, excuse me for not majoring in Corporate Buzzword Studies at Harvard Business School.”
“That’s exactly the attitude I’m talking about.” Giles began pacing. “Though I must admit, your creative interpretation of EBITDA as ‘eating burritos in the dark again’ was…memorable. I do hope that’s not a reflection of how you spend your evenings.”
“It’s not my fault the finance world runs on alphabet soup,” Bryn complained. “And there’s nothing wrong with drive-through food, it minimizes people interaction.”
“Perhaps we need to rebuild this cover identity from scratch so you can use words of one syllable.” Giles’ oozed sarcasm.
“Fuck off.” Bryn straightened. “Shall I fetch your artisanal water, sir? I hear it was hand-harvested from Antarctic glaciers by free-range penguins.”
“Better,” Giles said, straight-faced. “But perhaps dial back the sarcasm by about eighty percent. We’re aiming for devoted assistant, not passive-aggressive barista.”
Gunnar, who had just come back into the room, snorted and Bryn glared at him.
“What? That was kinda funny.”
“You’re supposed to be on my side,” Bryn protested.
“I’m on the side of whatever keeps you alive.”
“Good man.” Giles grinned, which made everything triply annoying.
“I hate my life.”
“You’d hate being dead more,” said Gunnar, stealing Bryn’s coffee cup and draining the last dregs. “Disgusting. Like being back at the precinct.”
“Right. That’s it.” Bryn pushed his chair back. “I’m going to go heist Gunnar’s Harley and ride it off a cliff. It’ll be less painful than whatever this is.”
“Touch my baby and you won’t be sitting comfortably for a week,” Gunnar said.
Emmett chose that moment to return. His eyes widened and his cheeks pinked. “How’s it going?” he asked, surveying the scene…Bryn with his head now on the table, Giles looking exasperated, and Gunnar examining the empty coffee pot with palpable disappointment.
“Oh, just peachy,” Bryn mumbled into the tabletop. “I’ve learned sixteen ways to say ‘yes sir’ without sounding sarcastic, how to spell ‘paradigm’ without autocorrect, and that Giles is Satan in an Armani suit. Actually, I already knew that last one.”
“I’m wearing Brooks Brothers today, thank you very much,” Giles corrected as if Bryn should know such an obvious fact, straightening his pristine cuffs then adjusting his gold cufflinks.
Emmett set down his laptop. “Maybe we need a different approach. Bryn, what would make this easier for you?”
“A lobotomy? Time machine? Different genetic makeup?”
“I was thinking more along the lines of incentives,” Emmett said.
Gunnar perked up. “Like those dog trainers who use treats?”
“I will end you in your sleep,” Bryn hissed.
“Look, I get it,” Giles interrupted. “You hate my guts and this isn’t your world, but we need you to blend in long enough to figure out what Salvatore Russo is up to and why.”
Bryn finally lifted his head. “Fine. But I need more coffee. And something that doesn’t involve corporate speak for at least the next hour.”
“Deal,” said Giles, glancing at his watch. “How about we work on the non-verbal cues? Like how not to look as though you want to murder your boss when he asks you to reschedule a meeting.”
“Can’t promise miracles,” Bryn replied.
Warden strolled in. “Any progress?”
“Define progress,” Giles replied. “We’ve moved from complete disaster to impending catastrophe, so…we’re heading in some kind of direction.”
“I understood the term EBITDA,” Bryn offered. “Even if my definition was…creative.”
“He’s getting there,” Gunnar translated, already heading toward the door. “I’m making a coffee run. Anyone else?”
The chorus of “God, yes” was unanimous. “And bring me my incentive,” Bryn yelled after him. “I need treats.”
As Gunnar left, Bryn sighed but picked up his flash cards.
“Let’s try once more. At least with this cover, when someone tries to kill me, I’ll be able to politely schedule their assassination attempt between your lunch meeting and the quarterly review.
Perhaps I should send a memo to Dr. Templeton. ”
“Who?” Giles asked.
“No one,” Warden interjected.
Probably shouldn’t have mentioned that name. I don’t think Giles will be impressed that my biggest fan is a serial killer.
“Dr. Everard Templeton,” Giles mused, his eyes narrowing. “A gentleman with some very antisocial proclivities, if memory serves.”
That got Bryn’s attention. “You know him?”
“Not personally, but I make it my business to know about everyone who might want to kill my associates,” Giles replied. “Professional courtesy. Your hand in interrogations and court cases has inevitable consequences.”
Warden shot Giles an inscrutable look. “Perhaps we should get back to our current problem.”
“Indeed. I’ve planned something different,” Giles said. “Instead of memorizing corporate jargon, let’s focus on your observational skills.”
“Finally, something I’m good at,” Bryn declared.
“Debatable,” Giles murmured.
“The investor reception will have around fifty guests. Your job isn’t to impress them with financial acumen, it’s to watch, listen, and blend in.”
“Like a Swiss cheese plant with ears,” Bryn suggested.
“A plant that can fetch coffee and take notes,” Giles corrected.
Warden sighed. “We need to practice some scenarios. What happens when someone asks you about Giles’ latest acquisition?”
Bryn straightened and adopted a distant expression. “I’m afraid Mr. Delacourt’s calendar is quite full, but I’d be happy to schedule some time for you to discuss that with him next week.” He paused. “How was that?”
Giles looked surprised. “Not terrible.”
“I can do deflection,” Bryn said. “It’s the pretending-to-care-about-profit-margins part I struggle with.”
Gunnar returned, balancing a cardboard tray of coffee cups and a white bakery bag. “Incentives have arrived,” he announced, setting the bag in front of Bryn. “Courtesy of the staff restaurant.”
Bryn peered inside. “Chocolate croissants? You’re forgiven for the dog trainer comment.”
“I have a call pending with a business associate in Miami,” Giles said. “A real one that I’ve not been able to reschedule. Bryn can sit in, take notes, observe.”
“This feels like punishment,” Bryn grumbled, reaching for a croissant.
“Consider it immersion therapy,” Giles said. “You’ll need to recognize normal behaviors to spot abnormal ones at the reception.”
Fifteen minutes later, Bryn found himself in Giles’ makeshift ‘office’—the end of the conference table—surrounded by Emmett’s three computer monitors.
Emmett, Warden and Gunnar had made their escapes muttering various excuses, to Bryn’s disgust. Now he watched Giles transform before his eyes.
Gone was the sarcastic pain in the ass Bryn had been sparring with all morning.
In his place sat a focused executive, rapidly scanning financial reports.
“Take this down,” Giles said without looking up. “We need clarification on the Houston proposal, specifically regarding the distribution channels mentioned in section four.”
Bryn scribbled on his pad, oddly fascinated by this other version of Giles.
“Also, I want detailed information on why the San Diego factory numbers are fifteen percent below projections. Don’t let them blame it on supply chain issues again.”
“Where did you learn to do this?” Bryn asked.
Giles glanced up. “Do what?”
“This…” Bryn gestured vaguely at the setup. “The corporate shark thing. It’s like watching someone put on a mask, but from the inside out.”
The corner of Giles’ mouth twitched. “Power has its own particular thrill. You might be surprised. Working at The Facility is…pleasurable, but once my most interesting subject was taken away from me… Well, I enjoy the finer things in life, which necessitates other income streams.”
The video conference chime interrupted them, and Giles brushed non-existent lint from his shoulder. “Watch and learn. Try not to look homicidal when the CFO starts talking.”
“No promises,” Bryn whispered. For the next forty-five minutes, he observed in reluctant admiration as Giles navigated complex negotiations, switching effortlessly between authoritative demands for information and subtle flattery.
When the call ended, he leaned back in his chair with a satisfied expression.
“I’m disturbed by how good you are at this,” Bryn admitted. “It’s making me question whether you’ve been living a double life all along. I thought your main interests were science and psychology.”
“Your view of me to date has been somewhat limited by your circumstances,” Giles said. “What did you notice about the dynamics?”
Bryn tapped his pen against his notepad. “The older guy on the left, Reynolds? He’s the real decision-maker even though he barely spoke. Everyone else in the room with him checked his reaction before answering.”
Giles nodded, looking impressed. “Good. Nothing happens without his say so. What else?”
“The finance guy was lying about the production delays. His explanation changed slightly each time you circled back to it.”
“Absolutely. That’s exactly the kind of observation you’ll need at the investor reception so we can target who you touch. People betray themselves in small ways.”