III
Instead of entering the Hopkins club through the main entrance, Brian preferred using the side door off of the rear parking lot. It afforded him the option of slipping in and out of the facility, allowing him minimal contact with club members who clustered in the Grand Hall entrance. He instructed the driver to remain in the parking lot, for he only wanted to stay about an hour or so.
The idea of using a driver was still new to him. With all the appointments he had to keep regarding his current deals, mergers, and acquisitions, he found that more and more of his work was being conducted out of the back seat of a car while someone from the office took the wheel. As of late, they had been a misfit collection of young interns, assistants, or clerks trying to curry favor with the owner of the firm. Now that he had grown accustomed to the idea of being chauffeured, what he wanted was somebody more reliable than the kids who had been his most recent attendants; someone who didn't smoke in the car while he was away and didn’t listen to deplorable music at a volume OSHA would shake a finger at.
As anticipated, the side entrance was void of any guests. He climbed the rear staircase, slipped unnoticed into the bar area, and signed for a double Glen Livet eighteen-year-old, on the rocks. Scotch in hand, he walked briskly to the library to join the other Johns Hopkins Alumni for an end-of-week sojourn. The library was the last great bastion for men left in the club where they could occasionally indulge themselves in vices otherwise not tolerated. With its tall ceilings, massive windows, and oak-paneled walls, it was a formidable-looking room. But to the male alumni of Johns Hopkins University, it was a haven where, for at least a few hours each week, they were no longer CEOs, presidents, surgeons, programmers, writers, or politicians. In this room, there was no demand of their time, no responsibility to anyone, save each other.
Standing in the doorway, he looked about at all of the people in the room while taking a sip from his drink. His eyes finally fell on Dean, who was sitting in one of two overstuffed leather chairs, motioning for Brian to come and join him.
Dean rose as Brian approached and then shook his hand. "Well, Brian, it's good to see you again. I feel the only way we get to talk anymore is through email and voicemail."
"The cost of living in a modern world, I suppose. I guess that's why the founding fathers of this club, in their great wisdom and foresight, envisioned a place where men of commerce may still find an inviting place to engage in one another's excellent company outside the workplace."
"Really? And I thought it was supposed to be a place we could come to get away from our wives. Tell me, what did you bring tonight?"
Brian reached into his jacket pocket and with a flourish produced a leather pocket cigar case. Upon removing the top, he withdrew one of three cigars and then ran it slowly beneath his nose. "I'm a sucker for Dunhills and Scotch," he said as he neatly removed the tip of his cigar with a cutter that Dean handed over to him. Reaching into his pocket again, he produced his newest cigar toy in answer to Dean's cutter. With the push of a button, a small blue flame erupted from the golden lighter top, with all the heat and intensity of a jet afterburner. He rolled the cigar around in the flame, watching the soft brown tobacco char and then glow with brightly lit embers. He repeatedly drew on the cigar, surrounding himself in a soft gray cloud of smoke that gently spiraled upward.
"And tell me, Dean, is that a Davidoff in your ashtray over there?"
"But of course! I’ll smoke no other."
The two men sat back into their respective chairs and took a moment to enjoy the combination of good Scotch and great tobacco.
Emerging from his reverie, Brian turned to Dean. "What is the status with our new friend?"
"He's on board and has already announced his retirement."
"Excellent… and can he deliver?"
"He has already brought over at least half of their R&D. He should have the remainder delivered by the end of next week.”
"And what of the hard assets?"
"Still working on it. We might need a little more time for those."
"That's fine. Just remember, stealth and guile. There should be no evidence left of what we've done."
"Understood, Brian."
"Is he happy with the arrangement?"
"Ecstatic, I'd say. He sees this as a chance to clear his conscience and make some money.”
"A win-win for everybody, I'd say.”
"Yes, a win-win…” Dean was apparent in letting his thoughts and attention trail off.
"Is there something else you wanted to discuss?"
"Well, frankly, yes. Brian, I'd like to know when they're going to bring me in.”
"But you are in, dear boy. None of this could have been achieved without you.”
"Still, sometimes I can't help but feel like I'm nothing but an errand boy. I guess I just need some kind of assurance for what lies ahead of me.”
Brian drew slowly on his Dunhill as he chose his words carefully. “Dean, what you reap will be in proportion to what you have sown.”
"I think I've given quite a bit of myself.”
"Oh, you have, you have. But if its fortune and power you seek, you've come knocking at the wrong door. Profit is the least of our ambitions, my dear boy. You must understand that as a whole, our group is simply a collection of like-minded individuals who lend their talents and resources to achieve a common goal that is ultimately in somebody else’s best interest.”
"Well if it's not about money, then what is it about?”
"A true understanding of the answer to that question requires a level of commitment that you may not be ready for.”
"You talk of commitment as if I haven't done enough already. I'm the one who's sticking his neck out every time I walk into that company. I'm the one assuming all the risk. Under the circumstances, I'd say I've been quite committed.”
"Relax, Dean. You're starting to look upset. I assure you that the group will protect you and take good care of you.”
"I want more than their protection. I want to be in the group.”
“Are you a religious man, Dean?”
“What?” Dean replied, clearly showing his irritation with the question.
“Religion. Have you ever read the Bible, Dean?”
Dean sat back in his chair and let out a sigh. “A little Sunday school when I was a kid, and that’s about it, to be honest.”
"Jesus had arrived at a point in his ministry where he was starting to reach a lot people with his ideas. What he wanted was for people to go out after him and continue to carry his message throughout the world. There was no shortage of people who wanted to do this, but what he really needed for this most important task were not people who just ‘wanted in’, but people who were absolutely committed to his ideals. He said, ‘And everyone that hath forsaken houses, or brethren, or sisters, or father, or mother, or wife, or children, or lands for my name’s sake shall receive an hundred fold and shall inherit everlasting life’. Now that is asking for real commitment to an ideal, and that is the level of commitment required for this group. We ask for more than what most men are willing to give of themselves. When all of this business has passed, I can assure you that you will you will be well taken care of, provided with both ample money and opportunity. But if you so desire and are willing to make the kind of sacrifice we require, there will be a place for you in our organization.”
"Yes, thank you, Brian… and I’m sorry for coming off so pushy. It's just that it's getting harder to cover my tracks with the corporation. When do you think they can pull me out?"
"Soon, Dean, soon. A few more pieces must be put into place before we can begin.” Brian looked at Dean across his Scotch tumbler. He could tell Dean wanted to continue with a conversation that he now considered closed.
"Not to change the subject, but do you see that gentleman over by the fireplace?" asked Brian.
"The one smoking the Cohiba?"
"Yes. I’m going to introduce you to him right now. He’s a club officer and a most interesting fellow.”
Brian waved his arm and attracted the man's attention, then beckoned for him to join them. Brian and Dean rose to their feet as he approached them.
"I am so glad to see you again, Ian,” said Brian as he reached out to take the man’s hand.
"Lynch, you're looking well.”
"Doing well, thank you. Ian, this is my good friend Dean Brennan, class of eighty-two."
"Hello, Dean. Ian, Ian Hamilton class of seventy-one. How do you do? Are you a guest or a member?"
"I did my undergrad and grad work here, but I am not a member.”
"Not a member yet,” corrected Brian, “but we’ll see if we can’t change his mind, Ian."
"And what are you into, Dean?"
"Pharmaceuticals. I'm VP in charge of sales at Medicon Inc. And yourself?"
"Ian is one of our resident spooks," Brian interrupted. “Intelligence,” he finished in a whisper.
"Must you be so dramatic, Lynch? The highest concentration of government clearances in this country is between Baltimore and Virginia. It is not a rare occurrence to find somebody around here working with or for the government.”
"He's retired NSA, Dean.”
"Which is one of the largest employers in the tri-state area. It wouldn’t surprise me in the least if there were a few of us here tonight. No, Dean, my work has never been all that interesting. Nowadays, I am nothing more than a glorified personnel manager. I work for a company called Global Tech. Are you familiar with them?"
"Why, no,” replied Dean.
"We're something of a niche business—a staffing agency for inaccessible government facilities. We provide a range of employees, from degreed professionals, right on down to custodial help, all of whom require at least some level of clearance.”
"How many people do you employ?"
"About 10,000.”
"Now that's a pretty big niche.”
"It's a big government, Dean."
"Tell me, Ian," interrupted Brian, “do I see 'Habana' written on your cigar band?"
"Yes... well… it's good to have connections, now isn’t it?”
"Anything you care to share with us?"
"No.”
"Or you will have to kill us," finished Dean.
"Or I'll lose my Cuban cigar connection.”
The three men chuckled and continued talking about mayoral elections, bills to be passed, how the Orioles would fare in the upcoming season, and the rising cost of a bushel of crabs. At length, Brian excused himself so he might make it back to the cotillion on time. He hastened his departure down the back stairs, out the side door, and into the parking lot.
From across the parking lot, he detected the faint but distinct odor of marijuana. As Brian approached his car, the driver suddenly appeared from the evening twilight and opened the rear door for him. He couldn't prove it was the boy, who was the son of an important client, but his heavy eyelids and red watery eyes betrayed his recent activities.
"Did you have a good time, Mr. Lynch?" he asked, feigning interest while holding the door open.
"Yes. Now get in and drive." Brian slid into the back seat and slammed the door. Through the closed door, he could hear the driver mumbling as he circled around the rear of the car to the driver's door.
The vehicle was a standard-sized Lincoln Town Car. It was enough that he had a driver to carry him around, but a limo would have been more than he could bear. The driver slid in behind the wheel and stared forward for a moment, then remembered to turn around and ask for a destination.
“Gibson Island, Mathew. To the yacht club. Do you know where you’re going?”
Unwilling to say anything that might jeopardize his employer’s faith in his abilities, he responded with a, “Sure, sure, Mr. Lynch. I’ve got it covered.” He turned the ignition and inadvertently introduced Brian to the CD he had been listening to earlier at its last earsplitting decibel. “Sorry, Mr. Lynch.” He fumbled with the keys, turning the engine over. The starter complained bitterly as he continued to crank an already running engine. “Oooh, sorry, Mr. Lynch.”
While on his way to the interstate, Matthew had rolled through a stop sign, stopped twice at green lights, and succeeded in getting lost while negotiating the Hopkins campus.
“Sorry, Mr. Lynch. I’m not familiar with this campus, I’m a Wharton man.”
“You’re a hazard to us both, Matthew. Pull over up here.”
“Mr. Lynch?”
“PULL OVER NOW!”
Matthew pulled the vehicle over, up onto the curb.
Brian lunged out the back door, slamming it behind him in a huff, and stormed around the trunk to the driver’s door. “Move over!”
“Sorry, Mr. Lynch.”
“There is nothing quite so dangerous in life as someone who doesn’t know that he doesn’t know.”
“Sir?”
“You’re a Wharton man, figure it out!”
Brian dropped the gear shift down into drive, rolled the front end of the car off of the curb back onto the street, and then sped off in the appropriate direction for the interstate. If the traffic were light enough, he could yet make good his commitment to Mary.
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