carry, and then they started the walk back up the hill.
December 9, 2012, 6:13 P.M.
“Certainly not our finest hour, Alan.”
In the eight years of his drawing a paycheck from Arthur Van Camp, he could not recall ever seeing the man angry, and with fluctuating markets, changes in global dynamics, and the numerous situations that arose when managing a company employing more than twenty thousand people, ample opportunity for an extreme emotional response often presented itself.
Perhaps, though, Canfield had simply overlooked the man’s anger. For while Van Camp didn’t raise his voice, Canfield could sense the anger seething below the surface. He would have preferred shouting or insults or even the Akbal carving thrown at him rather than the disgust Van Camp exuded.
“The fortunate thing is that it’s next to impossible for anyone to trace this back to us,” Canfield offered, knowing the inadequacy of the response. What had just happened in Ethiopia had forced Van Camp to expend resources to do something he seldom did: keep something out of the news.
“We have in-house resources available for this kind of thing,” Van Camp said. “Not only did you select an outside vendor, you chose one you have ties with.” Something must have struck him as humorous, because he released a small chuckle. “You trampled all over the company Conflict of Interest policy.”
Canfield felt the corner of his lip curl. He considered a joke under these circumstances a positive sign. Even so, the proper response remained the penitent one.
“The team was otherwise engaged, sir,” Canfield said, although he knew his boss was aware of that. Hitting Hickson Petroleum had made a noticeable impact in the market—noticeable if one knew how to look at it. “Even had I considered postponing the mission until the team was available, my thought was that using them on foreign soil was a bad move. They don’t know the language or the terrain. And then there are the logistics of getting them in and out without setting off an alarm bell somewhere.” He paused, releasing a deep sigh of his own. “Matt is—was—exceptional at this sort of thing. I thought he could handle it.”
“And now you have a dead friend, as well as a former business associate who will likely disappear like smoke. I assume he’s cleaned out the account.”
Canfield nodded.
“A tactical error, Alan,” Van Camp said. “That’s not like you.”
Van Camp drew in a breath and released it slowly. When he settled back in his chair, Canfield knew a good portion of the man’s anger had dissipated. He knew how his boss operated: Van Camp looked at the entire body of work; he never made a rash decision. Simply put, Canfield bore the lion’s share of responsibility for the current state of Project: Night House. Van Camp would not overlook that.
“You’re right, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Van Camp drummed his fingers on the desk, appraising his vice-president of Business Development, who sat stoically staring back at him.
“I should hope not,” he said. “The question now is, what are we going to do about your rogue employee? Dabir, is it?”
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do,” Canfield admitted. “As it is, he has no idea who I am, who he’s been working for. All he knows is that I tried to terminate our contract. With the money we’ve paid him—and what he cleaned out of the account—it’s unlikely we’ll hear from him again. So my suggestion is to leave him be.” At Van Camp’s frown he added, “Our only other option is to start turning over rocks in Ethiopia, Djibouti, Eritrea, and who knows where else. Doing that will draw a lot more attention than if we were to just let him be.”
It was the logical choice—the only choice really—and his boss could appreciate that.
“Very well,” Van Camp said. “Let’s consider the Ethiopian operation closed. Perhaps we’ve spread ourselves too thin anyway.”
Canfield didn’t answer,
December 9, 2012, 6:13 P.M.
“Certainly not our finest hour, Alan.”
In the eight years of his drawing a paycheck from Arthur Van Camp, he could not recall ever seeing the man angry, and with fluctuating markets, changes in global dynamics, and the numerous situations that arose when managing a company employing more than twenty thousand people, ample opportunity for an extreme emotional response often presented itself.
Perhaps, though, Canfield had simply overlooked the man’s anger. For while Van Camp didn’t raise his voice, Canfield could sense the anger seething below the surface. He would have preferred shouting or insults or even the Akbal carving thrown at him rather than the disgust Van Camp exuded.
“The fortunate thing is that it’s next to impossible for anyone to trace this back to us,” Canfield offered, knowing the inadequacy of the response. What had just happened in Ethiopia had forced Van Camp to expend resources to do something he seldom did: keep something out of the news.
“We have in-house resources available for this kind of thing,” Van Camp said. “Not only did you select an outside vendor, you chose one you have ties with.” Something must have struck him as humorous, because he released a small chuckle. “You trampled all over the company Conflict of Interest policy.”
Canfield felt the corner of his lip curl. He considered a joke under these circumstances a positive sign. Even so, the proper response remained the penitent one.
“The team was otherwise engaged, sir,” Canfield said, although he knew his boss was aware of that. Hitting Hickson Petroleum had made a noticeable impact in the market—noticeable if one knew how to look at it. “Even had I considered postponing the mission until the team was available, my thought was that using them on foreign soil was a bad move. They don’t know the language or the terrain. And then there are the logistics of getting them in and out without setting off an alarm bell somewhere.” He paused, releasing a deep sigh of his own. “Matt is—was—exceptional at this sort of thing. I thought he could handle it.”
“And now you have a dead friend, as well as a former business associate who will likely disappear like smoke. I assume he’s cleaned out the account.”
Canfield nodded.
“A tactical error, Alan,” Van Camp said. “That’s not like you.”
Van Camp drew in a breath and released it slowly. When he settled back in his chair, Canfield knew a good portion of the man’s anger had dissipated. He knew how his boss operated: Van Camp looked at the entire body of work; he never made a rash decision. Simply put, Canfield bore the lion’s share of responsibility for the current state of Project: Night House. Van Camp would not overlook that.
“You’re right, sir. It won’t happen again.”
Van Camp drummed his fingers on the desk, appraising his vice-president of Business Development, who sat stoically staring back at him.
“I should hope not,” he said. “The question now is, what are we going to do about your rogue employee? Dabir, is it?”
“I’m not sure there’s much we can do,” Canfield admitted. “As it is, he has no idea who I am, who he’s been working for. All he knows is that I tried to terminate our contract. With the money we’ve paid him—and what he cleaned out of the account—it’s unlikely we’ll hear from him again. So my suggestion is to leave him be.” At Van Camp’s frown he added, “Our only other option is to start turning over rocks in Ethiopia, Djibouti, Eritrea, and who knows where else. Doing that will draw a lot more attention than if we were to just let him be.”
It was the logical choice—the only choice really—and his boss could appreciate that.
“Very well,” Van Camp said. “Let’s consider the Ethiopian operation closed. Perhaps we’ve spread ourselves too thin anyway.”
Canfield didn’t answer,
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