Her blood boiled. She loathed negotiating from a position of weakness; it was like jousting with a broken lance. Desperation begets weakness, and she had grown desperate.
“You are a persuasive man when you want to be, Zurn. When you find Foster, maybe you can try putting your persuasive powers to the test before clubbing him over the head. I think the end result would be better for all parties.”
“Nicht. Clubbing is much easier. Plus, none of the annoying American empty threats to listen to. Oh, and one more thing, from now on I deal directly with you. No more intermediaries.”
She resisted the urge to slam the phone down on the receiver. In hindsight, hiring the Zurn brothers was a terrible mistake. Partnering with unsavory actors of the underworld was a tricky business. In the devil’s bargain, the negotiated price is never the final price, and the final price is always more than you’re willing to pay. To level the playing field she needed divine intervention.
She checked her watch: 1:07 PM. A little early for scotch, but damn it, she needed a drink.
She walked over to the maple wood credenza opposite her desk, picked up a Baccarat rocks glass, and filled it one quarter full. Neat. Nicolora was a connoisseur of fine scotch, and it was he who she credited, and blamed, for indoctrinating her into this very expensive habit. She took a mouthful of the amber liquid; she let it linger on her tongue and wash over her palette before swallowing. The initial astringent bite of alcohol quickly subsided, giving way to fragrant waves of smoke, earth, and oak. She closed her eyes and exhaled.
She set the glass down and turned to leave.
It was time to pull the trigger.
Chapter Ten
AJ followed Briggs from his new lab, up a flight of stairs, and through a hallway until they reached a pair of floor-to-ceiling double doors. The doors were crafted from solid mahogany, and fitted with polished brass handles and hinges. Briggs placed his thumb on a steel plate next to one of the hinges; a green light flashed, and he pulled the rightmost door open.
Seated at the end of a long mahogany table was a man AJ knew could be none other than Robért Nicolora himself. The man was dressed in a dark, perfectly tailored suit. His hair was onyx, brushed with silver at the temples, and meticulously trimmed. His hands were folded, resting comfortably on the edge of the table. Like fictional characters brought to life, to his left sat the oaf in the Red Sox cap from the Public Garden. To his right, the siren in the flowing silk blouse. AJ blinked twice, doubting himself.
“Welcome, AJ, to the Founder’s Forum,” Nicolora said. “More importantly, welcome to The Think Tank.”
AJ wanted to answer; he should have answered. Instead he stood, stupefied by the scene in front of him. First, the bizarre recruitment by Briggs at BU. Now, a charade in the Public Garden revealed to him. Who were these people?
Briggs coughed politely. “AJ, this is Robért Nicolora,” Briggs said, nodding in the direction of the man seated at the head of the table. “He is one of the founders of this organization, and he is also the Principal Director.”
AJ took a breath and this time forced words from his mouth.
“Nice to meet you, Mr. Nicolora,” he managed.
Nicolora smiled, amused. He then gestured to the man in the baseball hat, who produced AJ’s wallet from the pocket of his jacket and set it on the polished table. Nicolora picked up the leather bill-fold, and studied it a moment. “This belongs to you, I believe,” he said and then slid the wallet across the table to AJ.
AJ caught the wallet, tipped it in the air toward Nicolora in acknowledgment, and then sheepishly slipped it into his back pants pocket. It had been over an hour since he had been pick-pocketed in the Public Garden, and he hadn’t even noticed his wallet missing. He glanced at Briggs with both hope and doubt in his eyes, but Briggs’ face offered no safe harbor. He turned again to Nicolora. “Does this mean that I failed some sort of test?”
Stifled laughter filled the room. AJ’s face flamed red.
“No, certainly not. That was just Kalen’s way of saying hello.” Nicolora’s voice was soft, reassuring. “Kalen is an RS: Physical. And to my right is Albane Mesnil. Albane is an RS: Social. She will take over orientation duties for Briggs, now that the recruitment process is complete.”
“Nice to meet both of you, officially,” AJ said, and then added, “since I suppose the Public Garden doesn’t really count.”
His response earned him a grin from Kalen, but only a mute stare from Albane.
He looked back at Nicolora. “Can I ask you a question?”
“Of course, but first, take a seat. This is not an oral exam, AJ.”
He slid into an open chair next to Briggs. “What do those titles mean? RS: Physical and RS: Social?”
“RS: Physical is our shorthand for a Physical Resource. Think of Kalen as a Navy SEAL, an illusionist, and a professional stuntman all rolled into one. RS: Social means Social Resource. What RS: Physicals do with their bodies, RS: Socials do with their minds. Albane is equal parts psychologist, linguist, actress, and human polygraph machine. In addition to Socials and Physicals, we have many other resources in the Tank: Coordinators, Legals, Medicals, Technicals, Chemicals, and the list goes on.”
“Oh, then if that’s the case, what am I? I mean, what Resource am I?”
Nicolora turned to Briggs.
“Jack, you’ve kept our young hire in the dark, I see. Like a mushroom,” he admonished playfully, and then turned back to AJ. “You are our newest RS: Bio, or Microbiology Resource. Of course, our expectations for you go way beyond the confines of microbiology.”
“What do you mean?”
“You think of yourself as a graduate student in a lab coat. Maybe even as a budding scientist. We don’t. Your achievements, your interests, and your natural skills are all elements of a picture you’ve painted in your mind — a mental self-portrait that your psyche has become quite comfortable with. The frame of that picture is a boundary. Subconsciously, it limits you. You don’t look outside the frame, because that’s just wall space, and the picture inside the frame is what is interesting to you. We don’t have these constraints. We’re going to extract the canvas from the frame, and we’re going to stretch it. We’re going to expose the edges, and start painting there too. If you let that happen, you may surprise yourself. Your self-portrait will change, become more vibrant, and more interesting. The boundaries you’ve set for yourself in your mind will suddenly be visible; they will become lines that you desire to cross.”
“What if I don’t change, or can’t change like you want me to?”
“Change is inevitable, AJ. To fight it is like carrying buckets of water back up a waterfall.”
“What, then, do you expect from me?”
“Nothing more than what you should expect from yourself. Nothing more than what we expect from every person employed in this organization. The Tank is a meritocracy. Put another way, we offer no tenure here. It is not academia. The more capable you prove yourself to be, the more responsibility and opportunity you will be given. The more meaningful your contribution to the team, the more meaningful your compensation will become. The day you stop making a meaningful contribution is the day you will find this facility closed to you.”
AJ nodded and tried to take it all in stride. Nicolora’s speech sounded more like a threat than a “welcome to the team” pep talk.
“Since you mention the facility,” AJ said, glancing behind him, “the front door of this building says The Nicolora Foundation, but you referred to this place as The Think Tank.” He looked around the room, inviting anyone to answer. “I had the impression from the local media that the Nicolora Foundation was a nonprofit trying to solve world hunger and stuff like that. From what I’ve seen today, it seems more like a covert office of the CIA. Am I being recruited by the CIA?”