The Associate

The Associate Page 17

When Kyle left the office late Friday afternoon, he considered his first week to be a success, though a dismal one. He billed Placid thirty hours and Barx Biomed twenty-six, and though virtually all of this valuable time would eventually mean little to either client, he wasn't paid to worry about such things. He was there to do one thing  -  bill. If he kept up the pace and managed only fifty hours a week, he would hit twenty-five hundred for the year, a high number for a first-year and one that would catch the attention of the higher-ups.

For the week, Tabor the Gunner billed fifty hours. Dale, forty-four. Tim Reynolds, forty-three.

It was amazing how consumed they were with the clock after only five days on the job.

He walked to his apartment, changed into jeans, stuffed a phone in each pocket, and headed for the ballpark. The Mets were at home against the Pirates, who were already guaranteed another losing season. With seventeen games to go, the Mets were in first place, two games ahead of the Phillies, and primed for another choke in the stretch.

Kyle had paid cash for two tickets sold by a broker recommended by a paralegal at the firm. As he made his way to Shea Stadium, he picked up his surveillance as it was picking up him.

His seat was fifteen rows behind the third-base dugout. The night was hot; the Mets were in first; the place was packed. He timed his entrance perfectly and sat down just as the first pitch was thrown in the bottom of the first. To his right was a young boy holding a baseball glove and eating ice cream. To his left was a real fan with a Mets cap, Mets jersey, blue and orange sweatbands, even goofy Mets eyeglasses. Under the cap and behind the glasses was Joey Bernardo, who had spent his entire life in Pittsburgh and hated the Mets almost as much as he hated the Phillies.

"Do not acknowledge me," Kyle said as he watched the field.

"Don't worry. Right now I hate your guts. And I hate the Mets almost as much as I hate you."

"Thanks. I like the glasses."

"Can I take them off? I can't see a damned thing."

"No."

They were talking out of the corners of their mouths, just loud enough to hear each other. Shea was alive with every pitch, and there was little chance of being overheard.

Joey took a sip of a tall beer. "Are they really following you?"

"Oh, yes. Every day, everywhere."

"Do they know that you know?"

"I don't think so."

"But why?"

"Basic espionage tradecraft."

"Of course."

"Information is crucial. The more they watch and listen, the more they know about me. If they know what I eat, drink, wear, watch, listen to, and who I talk to and hang out with and where I like to shop and browse and sneak away to, then they might one day be able to use it all to their advantage. Sounds pretty dull to you and me, but not to these guys."

More beer as Joey absorbed this.

A ball bounced off the left-field wall, scoring a run, and the crowd was on its feet. Kyle and Joey acted like all the other fans. When things had settled down, Kyle continued: "For example, I've found this wonderful little store in midtown that sells all sorts of spy gadgets. Tiny cameras, hidden mikes, phone-tapping devices, and some high-tech stuff that the military has left behind. It's run by a couple of misfits who claim to be ex-CIA, but then people who are really ex-CIA don't talk about it. I found the store online, at the office, not at the apartment, and I've been there twice when I was able to shake surveillance. I might need the store one day, but if the goons knew I had discovered the place, they would really be interested."

"This is too weird."

A lady in front of Joey turned around and offered a curious glance. They did not speak for the rest of the first inning.

"How about the report on Elaine?" Joey whispered.

"It worries me."

"So what's next?"

"I think you should go see her."

"No way."

"It's easy. Just bump into her and see what happens."

"Right! Drive to Scranton, a town I can't recall seeing in the past ten years, somehow find her, recognize her, assume she'll recognize me, then what? Have a friendly little chat about the last time we were together? Have a laugh for old times' sake? Hell, Kyle, she accused me of rape."

"Shhhh," Kyle hissed softly. The word "rape" sort of hung in the thick air, but no one reacted to it.

"Sorry," Joey whispered, and they watched the game for a long time.

A ferocious argument erupted at first base after a close call, and all fifty thousand fans had an opinion. In the roar, Kyle said, "It would be an interesting meeting. To see how she reacts. Will she talk to you? Is she bitter, angry, full of vengeance? You take the high road and say that the encounter has always troubled you, that you want to talk about it. See if she'll meet you for a drink and a serious conversation. You're not going to admit anything, you just want to see how she feels. Maybe you want closure. What's there to lose?"

"What if she recognizes me, pulls out a gun, and bam!?"

"I'll take care of Blair." Kyle managed this with a grin, though the thought of spending any more time with Joey's girl was not pleasant.

"Thanks. She's pregnant, you know. Thanks for asking."

"Why is she pregnant?"

"Basic biology. But we're both surprised."

"Congratulations, Daddy."

"Getting married is one thing, but I'm not so sure about this fatherhood business."

"I thought her career was at full throttle."

"Yep. Me too. She said she was on the pill, but I don't know."

This was not a topic Kyle wanted to explore. The more they talked, the easier conversation became, and that was not wise. "I'm going to the restroom," Kyle said.

"Bring me a beer."

"No. I don't know you, remember?"

"Come on, Kyle. You think someone here is watching you?"

"With binoculars. At least two of them. They followed me here, probably bought tickets from a scalper outside the gates, and now they're watching."

"But why?"

"Basic surveillance, Joey. I'm a valuable asset, yet they don't trust me. You should read some spy novels."

"That's your problem. Too much fiction."

Kyle took his time between innings. He visited the men's room, then bought a diet soda and peanuts. When he returned to his seat, he struck up a conversation with the kid on his right, a loyal Met fan who knew every player and all their stats. His father was in advertising, and Kyle managed to seem intrigued with that career. He cracked peanuts, scattered the hulls at his feet, and ignored Joey for a long time.

Joey, still half-blinded by the oversized Mets eyeglasses, suffered in silence. The Pirates were down four runs after four innings, and he was ready to leave. Kyle eventually re-shifted, and began studying the scoreboard in center field. "Any word from Baxter?" he said without moving his jaws.

"Nothing. I think they've locked him in a cave."

"I know the feeling. I've been in a dungeon all week."

"I don't want to hear it. For the money they're paying you, no complaints."

"Okay, okay. They know that he's in rehab, and they probably know where he is," Kyle said as a long fly ball was caught on the warning track.

"They?"

"The goons. Their leader told me last week that he's in rehab."

"How often do you meet with this guy?"

"Too often."

"Have you handed over any secrets?"

"Nope. I have not been compromised."

Joey sipped his beer, swallowed slowly, and with the cup in front of his mouth said, "If they know about Baxter, are they keeping tabs on me?"

"It's possible. Play it safe. Vary your movements. Be careful with all correspondence."

"Oh, this is just great."

"My apartment is full of cameras and mikes. They come and go when they wish. I don't have an alarm system, don't want one, but I know when they've been there. Everything I do in my apartment is subject to being watched and recorded. But they don't know that I know, so I give them nothing of consequence."

"So you're outsmarting these professional intelligence agents?"

"I think so."

Another long pause in the conversation as the Pirates changed pitchers again.

"What's the endgame, Kyle?"

"I don't have one. I'm taking small, safe steps. Next, we make contact with the girl and see how bad things are there."

"Pretty bad, I'd guess."

"Let's see."

Kyle reached for his vibrating pocket and yanked out the Firm-Fone. He scrolled down, found the message, and felt like cursing. "What is it?" Joey asked, trying not to look at the phone.

"It's a partner. He's got a project. Wants me at the office at seven in the morning."

"Tomorrow's Saturday, Kyle."

"Just another day at the office."

"Are these guys crazy?"

"No, just greedy."

During the seventh-inning stretch, Kyle eased out of his seat and made his way to the gates. Joey stayed until the eighth, and finally he left as his beloved Pirates were losing their ninetieth game.

JEANS WERE ALLOWED on Saturdays and Sundays. The fact that there was a dress code for the weekend, however relaxed, said much about the practice of corporate law on Wall Street.

Why were they even there?

Kyle wore jeans, as did Dale, who looked spectacular in a pair of tight ones. Tim Reynolds wore starched khakis. All three were dazed at the reality of being in a small conference room on the thirty-fourth floor at 7:00 a.m. on the second Saturday of their fledgling careers. They joined four older associates, four young men Kyle had not had the pleasure of meeting or even seeing during his first two weeks on the job. Passing introductions were made, but only because they were expected.

The partner who had called the meeting was nowhere to be seen. His name was Tobias Roland, Toby behind his back, and of all the sizzling gossip Kyle had heard so far, the worst had been about Toby. Toby stories were abundant, and very few were even remotely flattering. Yale undergrad, Columbia Law, poor kid from a rough neighborhood with a gigantic chip on his shoulder. Brilliant, ruthless, conniving, he'd made partner in only five years, primarily because he worked harder than the rest of the workaholics and never relaxed. His idea of time off was a ten-minute tryst with a secretary on the sofa in his office. Most secretaries were terrified of him, too frightened to complain or file suit. Some, though, found him sexy enough for a quick romp. For fun he berated young associates, often cursing them in the foulest of language for the smallest of infractions. He intimidated the other partners because he was smarter and always better prepared. At the age of forty-four, he was the top-producing (billing) litigator in the firm and had not lost a jury trial in eight years. Toby was in demand by the in-house lawyers of many major corporations. A year earlier, Kyle had read and clipped an article in Fortune touting the greatness of Scully & Pershing's "fanciest litigator."

When Toby beckoned, you went running, albeit with a great deal of trepidation.

In his place that morning was a senior associate named Bronson, who, as he explained without a trace of enthusiasm, was standing in for Mr. Roland, who was just down the hall working on another aspect of the lawsuit at hand. He might pop in at any moment, and this prospect kept everyone wide awake.

Their client was a major oil company that was about to be sued by a Dutch firm over some disputed reserves in the Gulf of Mexico. The lawsuit was expected to be filed in New Orleans, but Mr. Roland had decided to file a preemptive lawsuit in New York. The plan was to file it first thing Monday morning. It was an ambush, a daring tactic that could backfire, the type of risky maneuver that Toby was famous for.

After a few minutes of listening to a lawsuit described in terms reminiscent of the D-day invasion, Kyle realized that his Saturday and Sunday were shot to hell and would be spent researching jurisdictional issues in the law library. He glanced at his FirmFone, scrolled down through the e-mails, and something caught his eye. At 7:30 on a Saturday morning, the firm was sending an e-mail to all lawyers announcing the resignation of Gavin Meade, a fourth-year associate in litigation. No details. No comments. Nothing but a quiet and quick exit.

Everybody has secrets, Bennie said. How did he do it? Perhaps an anonymous package mailed to someone in Human Resources. Affidavits, police records, the works. Poor Meade, ten years removed from his crime and hustling through the grind at $400,000 a year, when suddenly he gets a summons to a meeting with closed doors.

Bronson was rattling on about being the hub of a wooden wheel, with spokes running down and out to the seven associates below him, and several running upward to Mr. Roland and the other litigation partners. At the hub, he, Bronson, would direct traffic between the big boys and the rookies. He would organize the work, supervise the research, and handle correspondence with the partners. Everything crossed his desk.

Time was crucial. If word leaked, the Dutch firm and its lawyers might do all sorts of evil things. The nation's oil supply hung in the balance, perhaps even Western civilization.

Off they went to the library.