“No, I’m fine. If we can find someplace to stow it in the cabin, that’ll be good.”
“Of course. Watch your step.”
Jeffrey mounted the stairs, pausing to nod to the two pilots in the cockpit who were completing their pre-flight checklists.
“Good morning,” the older one said, turning to him. “Ready to get going?”
“Absolutely.”
Jennifer directed him to a chocolate leather seat and indicated the recliner across from him for his bag. He placed it on the seat and she ran the seatbelt through the handle before buckling it.
“Just in case we hit some bumpy air. Which is unlikely. We’ll be well above the weather. Our flight plan has us at forty-three thousand feet most of the way, so it should be smooth sailing,” she assured him. “Can I get you something to drink while we’re waiting to taxi?”
“No thanks. Maybe some coffee once we’re airborne.”
“Very good, sir,” she said, and moved back to close the exterior door.
Jeffrey sank into the plush leather in wonder. He’d never flown in a private plane before, and this one oozed expensive refinement, with heavy burled walnut paneling lacquered to a high gloss, leather everything, and a state-of-the-art monitor mounted forward with a U.S. map and an icon of the plane blinking on the screen.
Ten minutes later they were in first position for takeoff, and he was pushed back into his seat by the thrust of the powerful engines as they launched down the runway and then streaked up into the sky, climbing at a seemingly impossible angle before banking over the fogbank that cloaked the bay and heading east.
The trip was everything he imagined it would be, Jennifer waiting on him as if he were a visiting dignitary, anticipating his every need. He declined the offer of a cocktail, preferring to stay sharp for his meeting that afternoon, and instead focused on catching up on work, still badly behind after his three-day sabbatical. And now, here he was, winging his way back to Washington, a city he’d only been to twice before in his life.
He’d chosen a navy blue blazer and white oxford broadcloth shirt with a conservative burgundy tie that matched his belt and shoes, which nicely complemented his khaki slacks. Once they reached their cruising altitude he took off the jacket, and Jennifer hung it in a small closet at the front of the jet. As they sliced through the sky at six hundred miles per hour he wondered silently at how much the trip cost, and figured it at somewhere around fifteen grand each way, minimum. Whoever the firm was, money was obviously the least of its concerns, which boded well for his pay scheme if he got the job.
That he was interested was a given. It would be years before he would make anything like the figures bouncing around in his head, and even with the crappy East Coast weather, it was worth relocating. And it wasn’t like he was married to San Francisco. Other than a few friends, more weekend drinking buddies than anything, he was footloose and fancy free, most of his college chums having moved away to careers either in New York or Los Angeles. And his romantic life was a shambles, so it wasn’t like he would be making a huge sacrifice.
When they landed the sky was gray. Pregnant clouds lolled over the city, threatening an imminent downpour, which matched his mood from the last time he had been there only three days before. When he negotiated the stairs to terra firma he was assaulted by a gust of icy wind that sliced through him like he was naked. He had a brief vision of nearly nude old men running to dive into a partially frozen lake, an image from a TV commercial long forgotten, and he shivered involuntarily as he walked to the terminal.
A tall, dignified Hispanic man in a black driver’s suit, replete with peaked cap, stood by the building’s double doorway, a laminated red sign with his last name on it lest Mr. Rutherford somehow miss him in the crowd of one. Jeffrey followed him to a black sedan and ensconced himself in the back seat, marveling at the white glove treatment he’d received so far. If the intention had been to impress him, it was working.
The car negotiated the weekend roads with the precision of a guided missile, and in forty-five minutes it glided to a halt in the underground parking garage of a modern building only a few minutes from the White House. The driver, who hadn’t said a word during the entire trip, shut off the engine, slid from behind the wheel, and rounded the vehicle to hold Jeffrey’s door open for him. Jeffrey shouldered his overnight bag and followed him to an elevator, studying the man’s profile as they waited for it to arrive: lean, fit, probably mid-forties, the small puckers of adolescent acne scars the only visible imperfection.
When the elevator arrived at the fourth floor, Jeffrey found himself in the granite-floored reception area of the executive search firm. A ravishing Asian woman wearing a severe business suit gave him a hundred-dollar smile from behind the reception desk.
“Mr. Rutherford? I hope your trip was pleasant?”
“Yes, thanks. Everything’s been perfect so far.”
“Good. Let me ring Mr. Anton and let him know you’ve arrived. Have a seat. Can I get you anything while you’re waiting?”
“No, I’m good. Thanks, though,” Jeffrey said, sitting on one of the tan leather couches.
The woman pressed something on an unseen console and murmured into her headset, then returned her gaze to Jeffrey, who was looking around the offices with polite interest. The furnishings looked expensive, as did the receptionist.
“Mr. Rutherford, please come this way. Mr. Anton will see you now.”
Jeffrey followed her back into a labyrinth of offices — considerably more than he would have guessed an executive placement agency needed; but then again, he had about as much experience with that animal as he did with private jets. They arrived at a koa wood door that was partially open, and the woman gave a courtesy knock and motioned for Jeffrey to enter.
A heavyset man with thick, obviously dyed hair the color of wet straw, wearing a gray pinstripe suit that cost more than Jeffrey’s car, stepped out from behind the desk, hand extended in greeting.
“Jeffrey Rutherford. The man of the hour. Welcome. Roger Anton. You can call me Roger,” he said, eyeing Jeffrey the way an eagle eyes a rabbit.
Jeffrey took his hand and shook it, noting the perfectly manicured nails and the strong but not overwhelming grip. “Pleased to meet you, Roger.”
“Sit,” Roger invited, tapping a heavy leather upholstered chair in front of his desk. “Throw your bag by the couch and take a load off.”
Jeffrey did as instructed and sat, waiting for whatever this was to begin in earnest. Roger made a token offer of a beverage, and then dived straight in, reciting the high points of Jeffrey’s mundane legal career from a file on his otherwise immaculate desk, beginning with his grade point average and finishing with his last two major assignments.
“That’s impressive. You really do your homework,” Jeffrey conceded when he’d finished.
“Yes, we do. My company specializes in well-researched assignments, and we pride ourselves on having a stellar track record of satisfied clients. We don’t invite candidates for an in-person interview unless we’re already convinced they’re what the doctor ordered. Fortunately for us both, you fit the bill to a tee. At least on paper. But there’s a lot that a file doesn’t convey, which is why I’ve moved mountains to get you here and give you the once-over before I introduce you to the client — one of the top law firms in this city.”
“Well, fire away. I’m a captive audience,” Jeffrey said with a slightly nervous smile.
The grilling lasted an hour, and Jeffrey was surprised at how well-versed on the intricacies of international corporate and banking structuring Roger was, venturing into arcane areas normally the province of highly specialized attorneys, making a few mistakes Jeffrey was sure were deliberate to test his acumen. At the end, Roger sat back, seemingly satisfied, and then fixed Jeffrey with an intense gaze, the whites of his eyes almost glowing.