Disclosure

"Four-three sucks. Get it above five, or you're fired." He turned to Sanders. "You've got to encourage the troops."



Sanders looked at Cherry. "All right," he said finally. "Now what's the real problem?"



Cherry shrugged. "Nothing. I told you: fine-tuning."



"Don."



Cherry sighed. "Well, when we jumped the refresh rate, we trashed the builder module. You see, the room is being built in real time by the box. With a faster refresh off the sensors, we have to build objects much faster. Otherwise the room seems to lag behind you. You feel like you're drunk. You move your head, and the room swooshes behind you, catching up."



"And?"



"And, it makes the users throw up."



Sanders sighed. "Great."



"We had to take the walker pads apart because Teddy barfed all over everything."



"Great, Don."



"What's the matter? It's no big deal. It cleans up." Ile shook his head. "Although I do wish Teddy hadn't eaten huevos rancheros for breakfast. That was unfortunate. Little bits of tortilla everywhere in the bearings."



"You know we have a demo tomorrow for the C-W people."



"No problem. We'll be ready."



"Don, I can't have their top executives throwing up."



"Trust me," Cherry said. "We'll be ready. They're going to love it. Whatever problems this company has, the Corridor is not one of them."



"That's a promise?"



"That," Cherry said, "is a guarantee."



Sanders was back in his office by ten-twenty, and was seated at his desk when Gary Bosak came in. Bosak was a tall man in his twenties, wearing jeans, running shoes, and a Terminator T-shirt. He carried a large fold-over leather briefcase, the kind that trial attorneys used.



"You look pale," Bosak said. "But everybody in the building is pale today. It's tense as hell around here, you know that?"



"I've noticed."



"Yeah, I bet. Okay to start?"



"Sure."



"Cindy? Mr. Sanders is going to be unavailable for a few minutes."



Bosak closed the office door and locked it. Whistling cheerfully, he unplugged Sanders's desk phone, and the phone beside the couch in the corner. From there, he went to the window and closed the blinds. There was a small television in the corner; he turned it on. He snapped the latches on his briefcase, took out a small plastic box, and flipped the switch on the side. The box began to blink, and emitted a low white noise hiss. Bosak set it in the middle of Sanders's desk. Bosak never gave information until the white noise scrambler was in place, since most of what he had to say implied illegal behavior.



"I have good news for you," Bosak said. "Your boy is clean." He pulled out a manila file, opened it up, and started handing over pages. "Peter John Nealy, twenty three, DigiCom employee for sixteen months. Now working as a programmer in APG. Okay, here we go. His high school and college transcripts . . . Employment file from Data General, his last employer. All in order. Now, the recent stuff... Credit rating from TRW . . . Phone bills from his apartment . . . Phone bills for his cellular line . . . Bank statement . . . Savings account . . . Last two 1040s . . . Twelve months of credit card charges, VISA and Master . . . Travel records . . . E-mail messages inside the company, and off the Internet . . . Parking tickets . . . And this is the clincher . . . Ramada Inn in Sunnyvale, last three visits, his phone charges there, the numbers he called . . . Last three car rentals with mileage . . . Rental car cellular phone, the numbers called . . . That's everything."



"And?"



"I ran down the numbers he called. here's the breakdown. A lot of calls to Seattle Silicon, but Nealy's seeing a girl there. She's a secretary, works in sales, no conflict. He also calls his brother, a programmer at Boeing, does parallel processing stuff for wing design, no conflict. His other calls are to suppliers and code vendors, and they're all appropriate. No calls after hours. No calls to pay phones. No overseas calls. No suspicious pattern in the calls. No unexplained bank transfers, no sudden new purchases. No reason to think he's looking for a move. I'd say he's not talking to anybody you care about."



"Good," Sanders said. He glanced down at the sheets of paper, and paused. "Gary . . . Some of this stuff is from our company. Some of these reports."



"Yeah. So?"



"How'd you get them?"



Bosak grinned. "Hey. You don't ask and I don't tell you."



"How'd you get the Data General file?"



Bosak shook his head. "Isn't this why you pay me?"



"Yes it is, but-"



"Hey. You wanted a check on an employee, you got it. Your kid's clean. He's working only for you. Anything else you want to know about him?"



"No." Sanders shook his head.



"Great. I got to get some sleep." Bosak collected all the files and placed them back in his folder. "By the way, you're going to get a call from my parole officer."



"Uh-huh."



"Can I count on you?"



"Sure, Gary."



"I told him I was doing consulting for you. On telecommunications security."



"And so you are."



Bosak switched off the blinking box, put it in his briefcase, and reconnected the telephones. "Always a pleasure. Do I leave the bill with you, or Cindy?"



"I'll take it. See you, Gary."



"Hey. Anytime. You need more, you know where I am."



Sanders glanced at the bill, from NE Professional Services, Inc., of Bellevue, Washington. The name was Bosak's private joke: the letters NE stood for "Necessary Evil." Ordinarily, high-tech companies employed retired police officers and private investigators to do background checks, but occasionally they used hackers like Gary Bosak, who could gain access to electronic data banks, to get information on suspect employees. The advantage of using; Bosak was that he could work quickly, often making a report in a matter of hours, or overnight. Bosak's methods were of course illegal; simply by hiring him, Sanders himself had broken a half-dozen laws. But background checks on employees were accepted as standard practice in high-tech firms, where a single document or product development plan might be worth hundreds of thousands of dollars to competitors.



And in the case of Pete Nealy, a check was particularly crucial. Nealy was developing hot new compression algorithms to pack and unpack video images onto CD-ROM laser disks. His work was vital to the new Twinkle technology. High-speed digital images coming off the disk were going to transform a sluggish technology and produce a revolution in education. But if Twinkle's algorithms became available to a competitor, then DigiCom's advantage would be greatly reduced, and that meant



The intercom buzzed. "Tom," Cindy said. "It's eleven o'clock. Time for the APG meeting. You want the agenda on your way down?"



"Not today," he said. "I think I know what we'll be talking about."



In the third-floor conference room, the Advanced Products Group was already meeting. This was a weekly meeting in which the division heads discussed problems and brought everyone up to date. It was a meeting that Sanders ordinarily led. Around the table were Don Cherry, the chief of Programming; Mark Lewyn, the temperamental head of Product Design, all in black Armani; and Mary Anne Hunter, the head of Data Telecommunications. Petite and intense, Hunter was dressed in a sweatshirt, shorts, and Nike running tights; she never ate lunch, but ordinarily went on a five-mile run after each meeting.



Lewyn was in the middle of one of his storming rages: "It's insulting to everybody in the division. I have no idea why she got this position. I don't know what her qualifications could be for a job like this, and-"



Lewyn broke off as Sanders came into the room. There was an awkward moment. Everyone was silent, glancing at him, then looking away.



"I had a feeling," Sanders said, smiling, "you'd be talking about this."



The room remained silent. "Come on," he said, as he slipped into a chair. "It's not a funeral."



Mark Lewyn cleared his throat. "I'm sorry, Tom. I think it's an outrage."



Mary Anne Hunter said, "Everybody knows it should have been you."



Lewyn said, "It's a shock to all of us, Tom."



"Yeah," Cherry said, grinning. "We've been trying like hell to get you sacked, but we never really thought it would work."



"I appreciate all this," Sanders said, "but it's Garvin's company, and he can do what he wants with it. He's been right more often than not. And I'm a big boy. Nobody ever promised me anything."



Lewyn said, "You're really okay with this?"



"Believe me. I'm fine."



"You talked with Garvin?"



"I talked with Phil."



Lewyn shook his head. "That sanctimonious asshole."



"Listen," Cherry said, "did Phil say anything about the spin-off?"



"Yes," Sanders said. "The spin-off is still happening. Eighteen months after the merger, they'll structure the IPO, and take the division public."



There were little shrugs around the table. Sanders could see they were relieved. Going public meant a lot of money to all the people sitting in the room.



"And what did Phil say about Ms. Johnson?"



"Not much. Just that she's Garvin's choice to head up the technical side."



At that moment Stephanie Kaplan, DigiCom's Chief Financial Officer, came into the room. A tall woman with prematurely gray hair and a notably silent manner, she was known as Stephanie Stealth, or the Stealth Bomberthe latter a reference to her habit of quietly killing projects she did not consider profitable enough. Kaplan was based in Cupertino, but she generally sat in once a month on the Seattle division meetings. Lately, she had been up more often.



Lewyn said, "`M'e're trying to cheer up Tom, Stephanie."



Kaplan took a seat, and gave Sanders a sympathetic smile. She didn't speak.



Lewyn said, "Did you know this Meredith Johnson appointment was coming?"



"No," Kaplan said. "It was a surprise to everybody. And not everybody's happy about it." Then, as if she had said too much, she opened her briefcase, and busied herself with her notes. As usual, she slid into the background; the others quickly ignored her.



"Well," Cherry said, "I hear Garvin's got a real thing for her. Johnson's only been with the company four years, and she hasn't been especially outstanding. But Garvin took her under his wing. Two years ago, he began moving her up, fast. For some reason, he just thinks Meredith Johnson is great.''



Lewyn said, "Is Garvin fucking her?"



"No, he just likes her."



"She must be fucking somebody."



"Wait a minute," Mary Anne Hunter said, sitting up. "What's this? If Garvin brought in some guy from Microsoft to run this division, nobody'd say he must be fucking somebody."



Cherry laughed. "It'd depend on who he was."



"I'm serious. Why is it when a woman gets a promotion, she must be fucking somebody?"



Lewyn said, "Look: if they brought in Ellen Howard from Microsoft, we wouldn't be having this conversation because we all know Ellen's very competent. We wouldn't like it, but we'd accept it. But nobody even knows Meredith Johnson. I mean, does anybody here know her?"



"Actually," Sanders said, "I know her."



There was silence.



"I used to go out with her."



Cherry laughed. "So you're the one she's fucking."



Sanders shook his head. "It was years ago."



Hunter said, "What's she like?"



"Yeah," Cherry said, grinning lasciviously. "What's she like?"



"Shut up, Don."



"Lighten up, Mary Anne."



"She worked for Novell when I knew her," Sanders said. "She was about twentyfive. Smart and ambitious."



"Smart and ambitious," Lewyn said. "That's fine. The world's full of smart and ambitious. The question is, can she run a technical division? Or have we got another Screamer Freeling on our hands?"



Two years earlier, Garvin had put a sales manager named Howard Freeling in charge of the division. The idea was to bring product development in contact with customers at an earlier point, to develop new products more in line with the emerging market. Freeling instituted focus groups, and they all spent a lot of time watching potential customers play with new products behind one-way glass.



But Freeling was completely unfamiliar with technical issues. So when confronted with a problem, he screamed. He was like a tourist in a foreign country who didn't speak the language and thought he could make the locals understand by shouting at them. Freeling's tenure at APG was a disaster. The programmers loathed him; the designers rebelled at his idea for neon-colored product boxes; the manufacturing glitches at factories in Ireland and Texas didn't get solved. Finally, when the production line in Cork went down for eleven days, Freeling flew over and screamed. The Irish managers all quit, and Garvin fired him.



"So: is that what we have? Another Screamer?"



Stephanie Kaplan cleared her throat. "I think Garvin learned his lesson. Ile wouldn't make the same mistake twice."



"So you think Meredith Johnson is up to the job?"



"I couldn't say," Kaplan replied, speaking very deliberately.



"Not much of an endorsement," Lewyn said.



"But I think she'll be better than Freeling," Kaplan said.



Lewyn snorted. "This is the Taller Than Mickey Rooney Award. N ou can still be very short and win."



"No," Kaplan said, "I think she'll be better."



Cherry said, "Better-looking, at least, from what I hear."



"Sexist," Mary Anne Hunter said.



"What: I can't say she's good-looking?"



"We're talking about her competence, not her appearance."



"Wait a minute," Cherry said. "Coming over here to this meeting, I pass the women at the espresso bar, and what are they talking about? Whether Richard Gere has better buns than Mel Gibson. They're talking about the crack in the ass, lift and separate, all that stuff. I don't see why they can talk about-"



"We're drifting afield," Sanders said.



"It doesn't matter what you guys say," Hunter said, "the fact is, this company is dominated by males; there are almost no women except Stephanie in high executive positions. I think it's great that Bob has appointed a woman to run this division, and I for one think we should support her." She looked at Sanders. "We all love you, Tom, but you know what I mean."



"Yeah, we all love you," Cherry said. "At least, we did until we got our cute new boss."



Lewyn said, "I'll support Johnsonif she's any good."



"No you won't," Hunter said. "You'll sabotage her. You'll find a reason to get rid of her."



"Wait a minute"



"No. What is this conversation really about? It's about the fact that you're all pissed off because now you have to report to a woman."



"Mary Anne . . ."



"I mean it."



Lewyn said, "I think Tom's pissed off because he didn't get the job." "I'm not pissed off," Sanders said.



"Well, I'm pissed off," Cherry said, "because Meredith used to be Tom's girlfriend, so now he has a special in with the new boss."



"Maybe." Sanders frowned.



Lewyn said, "On the other hand, maybe she hates you. All my old girlfriends hate me."



"With good reason, I hear," Cherry said, laughing.



Sanders said, "Let's get back to the agenda, shall we?"



"What agenda?"



"Twinkle."



There were groans around the table. "Not again."



"Goddamn Twinkle."



"How bad is it?" Cherry said.



"They still can't get the seek times down, and they can't solve the hinge problems. The line's running at twenty-nine percent."



Lewyn said, "They better send us some units."



"We should have them today."



"Okay. Table it till then?"



"It's okay with me." Sanders looked around the table. "Anybody else have a problem? Mary Anne?"



"No, we're fine. We still expect prototype card-phones off our test line within two months."



The new generation of cellular telephones were not much larger than a credit card. They folded open for use. "How's the weight?"



"The weight's now four ounces, which is not great, but okay. The problem is power. The batteries only run 180 minutes in talk mode. And the keypad sticks when you dial. But that's Mark's headache. We're on schedule with the line."



"Good." He turned to Don Cherry. "And how's the Corridor?"



Cherry sat back in his chair, beaming. He crossed his hands over his belly. "I am pleased to report," he said, "that as of half an hour ago, the Corridor is fan-fuckingtastic."



"Really?"



"That's great news."



"Nobody's throwing up?"



"Please. Ancient history."



Mark Lewyn said, "Wait a minute. Somebody threw up?"



"A vile rumor. That was then. This is now. We got the last delay bug out half an hour ago, and all functions are now fully implemented. We can take any database and convert it into a 3-D z4-bit color environment that you can navigate in real time. You can walk through any database in the world." "And it's stable?" "It's a rock." "You've tried it with naive users?" "Bulletproof." "So you're ready to demo for Conley?" "We'll blow 'em away," Cherry said. "They won't fucking believe their eyes."



Coming out of the conference room, Sanders ran into a group of Conley-White executives being taken on a tour by Bob Garvin.



Robert T. Garvin looked the way every CEO wanted to look in the pages of Fortune magazine. He was fifty-nine years old and handsome, with a craggy face and salt-and-pepper hair that always looked windblown, as if he'd just come in from a fly-fishing trip in Montana, or a weekend sailing in the San Juans. In the old days, like everyone else, he had worn jeans and denim work shirts in the office. But in recent years, he favored dark blue Caracem suits. It was one of the many changes that people in the company had noticed since the death of his daughter, three years before.



Brusque and profane in private, Garvin was all charm in public. Leading the Conley-White executives, he said, "Here on the third floor, you have our tech divisions and advanced product laboratories. Oh, Tom. Good." He threw his arm around Sanders. "Meet Tom Sanders, our division manager for advanced products. One of the brilliant young men who's made our company what it is. Tom, say hello to Ed Nichols, the CFO for Conley-White . . ."



A thin, hawk-faced man in his late fifties, Nichols carried his head tilted back, so that he seemed to be pulling away from everything, as if there were a bad smell. He looked down his nose through half-frame glasses at Sanders, regarding him with a vaguely disapproving air, and shook hands formally.



"Mr. Sanders. How do you do."



"Mr. Nichols."



". . . and John Conley, nephew of the founder, and vice president of the firm . . ."



Sanders turned to a stocky, athletic man in his late twenties. Wireframe spectacles. Armani suit. Firm handshake. Serious expression. Sanders had the impression of a wealthy and very determined man.



"Hi there, Tom."



"Hi, John."



". . . and Jim Daly, from Goldman, Sachs . . ."



A balding, thin, storklike man in a pinstripe suit. Daly seemed distracted, befuddled, and shook hands with a brief nod.



``. . . and of course, Meredith Johnson, from Cupertino."



She was more beautiful than he had remembered. And different in some subtle way. Older, of course, crow's-feet at the corners of her eyes, and faint creases in her forehead. But she stood straighter now, and she had a vibrancy, a confidence, that he associated with power. Dark blue suit, blond hair, large eyes. Those incredibly long eyelashes. He had forgotten.



"Hello, Tom, nice to see you again." A warm smile. Her perfume.



"Meredith, nice to see you."



She released his hand, and the group swept on, as Garvin led them down the hall. "Now, just ahead is the VIE Unit. You'll be seeing that work tomorrow."



Mark Lewyn came out of the conference room and said, "You met the rogues' gallery?"



"I guess so."



Lewyn watched them go. "Hard to believe those guys are going to be running this company," he said. "I did a briefing this morning, and let me tell you, they don't know anything. It's scary."



As the group reached the end of the hallway, Meredith Johnson looked back over her shoulder at Sanders. She mouthed, "I'll call you." And she smiled radiantly. Then she was gone.



Lewyn sighed. "I'd say," he said, "that you have an in with top management there, Tom."



"Maybe so."



"I just wish I knew why Garvin thinks she's so great."



Sanders said, "Well, she certainly looks great."



Lewyn turned away. "We'll see," he said. "We'll see."



A twenty past twelve, Sanders left his office on the fourth floor and headed toward the stairs to go down to the main conference room for lunch. He passed a nurse in a starched white uniform. She was looking in one office after another. "Where is he? He was just here a minute ago." She shook her head.



"Who?" Sanders said.



"The professor," she replied, blowing a strand of hair out of her eyes. "I can't leave him alone for a minute."



"What professor?" Sanders said. But by then he heard the female giggles coming from a room farther down the hall, and he already knew the answer. "Professor Dorfman?"



"Yes. Professor Dorfman," the nurse said, nodding grimly, and she headed toward the source of the giggles.



Sanders trailed after her. Max Dorfman was a German management consultant, now very elderly. At one time or another, he had been a visiting professor at every major business school in America, and he had gained a particular reputation as a guru to high-tech companies. During most of the 1980s, he had served on the board of directors of DigiCom, lending prestige to Garvin's upstart company. And during that time, he had been a mentor to Sanders. In fact, it was Dorfman who had convinced Sanders to leave Cupertino eight years earlier and take the job in Seattle.



Sanders said, "I didn't know he was still alive."



"Very much so," the nurse said.



"He must be ninety."



"Well, he doesn't act a day over eighty-five."



As they approached the room, he saw Mary Anne Hunter coming out. She had changed into a skirt and blouse, and she was smiling broadly, as if she had just left her lover. "Tom, you'll never guess who's here."



"Max," he said.



"That's right. Oh, Tom, you should see him: he's exactly the same." "I'll bet he is," Sanders said. Even from outside the room, he could smell the cigarette smoke.



The nurse said, "Now, Professor," in a severe tone, and strode into the room. Sanders looked in; it was one of the employee lounges. Max Dorfman's wheelchair was pulled up to the table in the center of the room. He was surrounded by pretty assistants. The women were making a fuss over him, and in their midst Dorfman, with his shock of white hair, was grinning happily, smoking a cigarette in a long holder.



"What's he doing here?" Sanders said.



"Garvin brought him in, to consult on the merger. Aren't you going to say hello?" Hunter said.



"Oh, Christ," Sanders said. "You know Max. He can drive you crazy." Dorfman liked to challenge conventional wisdom, but his method was indirect. He had an ironic way of speaking that was provocative and mocking at the same moment. He was fond of contradictions, and he did not hesitate to lie. If you caught him in a lie, he would immediately say, "Yes, that's true. I don't know what I was thinking of," and then resume talking in the same maddening, elliptical way. He never really said what he meant; he left it for you to put it together. His rambling sessions left executives confused and exhausted.



"But you were such friends," Hunter said, looking at him. "I'm sure he'd like you to say hello."



"He's busy now. Maybe later." Sanders looked at his watch. "Anyway, we're going to be late for lunch."



He started back down the hallway. Hunter fell into step with him, frowning. "He always got under your skin, didn't he?"



"He got under everybody's skin. It was what he did best."



She looked at him in a puzzled way, and seemed about to say more, then shrugged. "It's okay with me."



"I'm just not in the mood for one of those conversations," Sanders said. "Maybe later. But not right now." They headed down the stairs to the ground floor.



In keeping with the stripped-down functionality of modern high-tech firms, DigiCom maintained no corporate dining room. Instead, lunches and dinners were held at local restaurants, most often at the nearby 11 Terrazzo. But the need for secrecy about the merger obliged DigiCom to cater a lunch in the large, wood-paneled conference room on the ground floor. At twelve-thirty, with the principal managers of the DigiCom technical divisions, the Conley-White executives, and the Goldman, Sachs bankers all present, the room was crowded. The egalitarian ethos of the company meant that there was no assigned seating, but the principal C-W executives ended up at one side of the table near the front of the room, clustered around Garvin. The power end of the table.



Sanders took a seat farther down on the opposite side, and was surprised when Stephanie Kaplan slid into the chair to his right. Kaplan usually sat much closer to Garvin; Sanders was distinctly further down the pecking order. To Sanders's left was Bill Everts, the head of Human Resourcesa nice, slightly dull guy. As white-coated waiters served the meal, Sanders talked about fishing on Orcas Island, which was Everts's passion. As usual, Kaplan was quiet during most of the lunch, seeming to withdraw into herself.



Sanders began to feel he was neglecting her. Toward the end of the meal, he turned to her and said, "I notice you've been up here in Seattle more often the last few months, Stephanie. Is that because of the merger?"



"No." She smiled. "My son's a freshman at the university, so I like to come up because I get to see him."



"What's he studying?"



"Chemistry. He wants to go into materials chemistry. Apparently it's going to be a big field."



"I've heard that."