My stomach rumbles for the hundredth time and I steadfastly ignore it. It's another Tuesday at Strauss Industries. I'm sitting at my desk trying to focus on work while my stomach growls like a caged wolf.
Fucking beans. I haven't gone shopping for a while and they were the only edible thing in the fridge this morning. To distract myself, I let my mind wander.
Karen has become quite an early bird over the past week and I'm a little concerned she hasn't made her way to the office yet. It's 10.30 am. It's been a week since Karen sent me on the frantic Greenberg run. A week since my meeting with Marjorie.
Karen herself seems rather happy of late. She hasn't snapped at me or Bethany even once over the past week which is a massive change from her usual rate of 300 times a day. I think I've even caught her smiling alone in her office once or twice. Usually, she only smiles on camera. She hasn't mentioned a word of the sale but I'm reasonably certain that's the cause.
She has also grown unusually fond of Greenberg, dragging him along to meetings with her lawyers and actually referring to him by his own name in his absence instead of the usual nerd moniker. It's surprisingly refreshing.
My meeting with Marjorie explains quite a lot of Karen's behavior. Karen has finally received a serious offer for the company but that bodes ill for my mission. The Lockheed and Northrop contracts expire in four months but the new owner of Strauss Industries won't renew them.
"Why? They're the company's most profitable contracts," I remember asking.
"Defense contracts come with a lot of scrutiny. Waller isn't going to put up with that for $40 million a year."
"But that's a lot of money..."
"To you. Not to him."
"So he'll just give up a third of the company's revenue?"
"He isn't buying Strauss Industries for its revenue. I believe there's a patent he's chasing and Karen used that as leverage to offload the entire company. He gave away 200 million to that town that got ravaged by a hurricane in Louisiana last month. I don't think 40 million is going to bother him."
"You're sure that was him? The donation was anonymous. The forensic accountants trying to unmask the donor ran into a brick wall. I checked their work. I couldn't do any better."
"Any other person giving that kind of money would have the town renamed after himself, do 300 interviews about it, and probably run for president as well. There's only one man in America who would write a 200-million-dollar check and still go through the trouble of keeping it anonymous."
"So what happens when he takes over?"
"His acquisitions follow two standard patterns: he either breaks the company apart and sells it in pieces or he takes it on as a subsidiary. It all depends on the health of the company and the brightness of its future prospects."
"Do you think he'll incorporate it as a subsidiary?"
"I'm not an expert in the glass and plastics business, Elizabeth. If anyone can turn that shit heap you work for around, it's Waller. I just don't know his intentions."
"But if he sells off the company in pieces..."
"Everyone gets fired," Marjorie finished.
"Are you any closer to catching the spy?" I had deflected.
"We have narrowed down the list to one suspect. We're watching him now but we won't have any leverage if he gets fired. It all depends on Waller. If he keeps the company as a subsidiary, he'll honor the contracts even though he's unlikely to renew them. We can catch our man in the act and leverage him.
We can maintain our man's usefulness to his Chinese masters by finding him a job with another defense contractor as long as we catch and leverage him first. The overall operational integrity can be maintained as long as our man doesn't get fired some time in the next two weeks. It all depends on Aaron Waller."
"You can't just talk to this Waller guy?"
"And tell him what? That's the surest way of ensuring he won't cooperate."
"Why?"
"He's an anti-government nut. It's why we're so certain he won't renew the contracts when they run out. He likes keeping his opinions to himself but that we're sure of."
"So the operation hangs in the hands of a billionaire nutjob?"
"He's not a nutjob per se. The NSA recruited him straight out of college. He did some code-breaking but then quit after six months. Something happened there. Not everyone is cut out for our world."
"How come I've never heard of him?"
"He's very reclusive. Avoids any kind of publicity and never puts his name on things."
"So what do we do?"
"We wait."
I push the concerns out of my mind and focus on the performance reviews Karen has had me working on for the past week. A significant portion of the administrative staff at Strauss is surprisingly unproductive. Many can't even write their own job descriptions in plain sensible English. The word "synergy" is everywhere. God! I hate that word.
And there are way too many assistants. Practically all mid-level executives and their deputies have one. This makes me wonder about my own job security in the transition. Maybe I'll just get fired and go back to reading shell company financials all day at Raskin and Welch.
"Elizabeth?" It's Bethany standing over my desk.
"Yes?"
"I need to get away for 30 minutes. I forgot my cousin's birthday cake. Can you cover for me with Ms. Strauss-Klein if she comes in before I return?"
"Where should I tell her you are?"
"The server room."
"Doing what? Blowing the IT guys?" I regret that as soon as I say it but Bethany surprises me by giggling.
"Yea. That's exactly what she will ask. It's a stupid excuse," she concedes.
Trying to be conciliatory, I suggest, "I'll just tell her you have a period emergency."
"That's actually pretty good." Bethany is practically gushing. She bends down, places her hands on my shoulders, and kisses me on both cheeks, muttering thanks before leaving. I just sit there staring at empty space, basking in the glow and warmth of the kisses. I miss being held and kissed tenderly. It's been too long.
Ralph. The thought of him used to fill me with a red rage. Not anymore. Well, maybe a little. My feelings about him have become mixed of late. Part of me misses him. The other part wants to kill him and mount his head on a spike outside my door. My stomach rumbles again.
The fart I have been holding in has had quite the buildup. Seeing as there's nobody else around, I decide to let it rip. It sounds like a revving engine and comes out so forcefully I feel my ass cheeks vibrate on the chair. It lasts for what feels like an hour even though I know the time is shorter in reality.
I feel a second smaller fart peeping at the exit so I let it out as well. It hisses quietly and pleasantly tickles my asshole as it makes its way out. The two mingle. It's a stinker! I hate ass bombs as much as the next person but I've always enjoyed the smell of my own farts.
I don't really know if that's weird or not because I'm too scared to Google it. I don't want the agency finding stuff like that in my search history. There are precautions I can use to ensure my complete anonymity online but going through such a bother for the sole purpose of googling whether liking your own farts is weird just confirms an insanity diagnosis.
God knows what the CIA already has on me. I don't want to give them material for an insanity argument that they can use to discredit me after brainwashing me into assassinating the president.
I'm leisurely marinating in my stink with a smile on my face when the door opens. Oh shit! It's not Bethany. The self-satisfied smile leaves my face entirely. I've never seen this guy before but I'm pretty sure he walked right out of one of my fantasies. He's at least 6' 4" and he's holding the door for Karen. Black suit, white shirt, no tie. His face looks sculpted from granite and I make eye contact just in time to see him frown as he sniffs the air.
I feel my palms, armpits, and underboobs moistening all at once. The ass crack I had been so proud of just a few seconds prior is also filling up with nervous sweat. I breathe in deeply in an attempt to calm myself down but all I inhale is the fart in the air and by God, it stinks. I'm pretty sure Karen and the new guy can smell it too.
I'm trembling with embarrassment. I pray for a heart attack, a sniper's bullet, an earthquake, a bomb, anything. I just want to die. But nothing of the sort happens. Instead, they make it straight for my desk.
A crowd of suits comes in behind the new guy and Karen. Six suits. I've seen five of them before. I've taken them on two factory tours. All except the last guy. He brings up the rear.
Almost as tall as the first guy with Karen. He's the only one who has buttoned up his jacket. He walks a little back from the rest and sweeps the room with his eyes. I bet even his tie is a clip-on. He's either the security guy or the one sent to kill me. Too bad I always leave my Glock in my car when I come up to the office.
I notice the bulges under his armpits and on his right hip. Three pistols and almost certainly a derringer or mouse gun in an ankle holster plus a rifle in the car. God, it's nice to be a man. You could strap six guns to your body, put on a normal suit and go out into the world.
A woman carrying that many guns would have to wear a bulky overcoat and everyone you meet will think you're a flasher. A handbag is our only discreet gun-toting option. Men's clothes even come with real pockets for stashing all those spare magazines just in case they get into a firefight.
The new guy makes it to my desk in all of three strides, interrupting my observation. There is no doubt that he is in charge. He must be the new boss. The man who had just bought Strauss Industries. I recall his details from Marjorie's dossier. Aaron Waller. 6ft 4in, 190 pounds, 34 years old, and unmarried. Chairman of Esme Laboratories.
According to the dossier, his father recently drowned in a fishing accident. Marjorie also thinks he's moving back to Houston from Palo Alto to be with his widowed mother. Aside from that, the dossier was rather sparse. There wasn't even a photograph but Marjorie said I would know him when I saw him but this wasn't what I was expecting.
I'm drawn to his Adam's apple for some reason. It's also my way of avoiding eye contact while still maintaining his veneer of confidence. The smell of the fart still lingers in the air so I'm supremely uncomfortable with his presence. This has to be the worst first impression in history.
"This is Elizabeth Heaton, my assistant. She's an Accounting major with a minor in Art History. She's quite competent when she isn't farting." Karen says by way of apology.
Did you have to mention it? I stare at my desk for lack of anything else to do. Rage and embarrassment make for a weird combo. I resolve to never eat beans again for as long as I live.
"Where is Bethany?" Karen is addressing me this time.
"Server room," I manage to blurt out. Period emergency sounds like a bad choice with so many men here. Karen looks like she's going to say something but thinks better of it.
"Bethany is my other assistant..." Karen explains as they make for her office.
Bethany arrives soon after. The only silver lining is that she missed the moment of my greatest embarrassment. "That took you more than 30 minutes," I vent.
"Sorry. There was a queue at the baker's and then I took a wrong turn on the way back," she tries to explain. I want to bitch at her for no reason but decide to restrain myself. I'm an undercover agent after all. It wouldn't do for me to make more enemies than I necessarily needed.
"It's ok. Karen is back. Did you get your cousin's cake?" I try to be as charming as I possibly can under the circumstances.
"Well, the baker charged me extra but promised to have it ready by this evening," Bethany sounds relieved. "Stewart's party is at that hip new bar on Long Street, the Dixie Dive. Do you want to come?" she's gushing.
"Ok," I agree. I haven't had a social life for years and I don't normally turn down party invitations because I don't receive that many to begin with. Too late, I realize. Bethany's full name is Bethany Hill. I ran into a Stewart Hill last week but I figured Hill is a common surname and didn't think much about it.
I decide to probe a little further just to be sure. "Bethany, what does Stewart do?"
"He's a psychiatrist at St Mark's. Why?"
Well, fuck me. "I just wanted to know what to get him."
"Don't worry about it, Elizabeth. You don't need to get Stewart a present."
"No. I insist. It's his birthday. Attending his party without a present would be rude."
"Ok," she gives up weakly.
I think up of a perfect present to charm Stewart given our limited history but I don't want to give him something he already has so I have to wait until my lunch break to do some sleuthing.
Karen takes this moment to summon us into her office. Bethany is a little jittery. Karen rarely summons both of us at once. I know what this is all about but I can't tell Bethany how I found out so I hold my tongue.
Aaron Waller is seated on a couch flanked by his army of suits.
"This is Mr. Aaron Waller of Esme Laboratories," Karen starts. She seems rather joyful even by her recent standards. "Esme Labs has just purchased Strauss Industries. Mr. Waller is your new boss."
Bethany gasps. I almost forget to play along and reprimand myself for that oversight. "Are we getting fired?" she sounds worried.
"No," Aaron Waller speaks up for the first time. His voice is like a rumbling waterfall. So deep that it has its own echo. It's surprisingly commanding and soothing at the same time. "You will stay on with your current contracts. There will be some reassignments but nobody is getting fired." I could listen to this man talk forever. And Marjorie is gonna catch her spy. She'll be so happy to read my report tonight.
"What about the other employees? Should I call a staff meeting," Bethany is relieved, smiling and trembling at the same time.
"A staff meeting?" Aaron sounds amused. "God no. We have computers. Send them a memo about the acquisition and tell them they have the rest of the day off. Let's start tomorrow morning."
Just like that, we're dismissed. "Isn't he cute?" Bethany giggles as soon as we're out of earshot.
"Who?" I feign ignorance.
"You know… Mr. Waller."
"He's OK," I lie.
"What?" Bethany looks at me like I'd just slapped her. "Are you blind?"
Oh. I'm not. "He's OK Bethany. I'm not in the habit of fawning over pretty boys. He could be gay." That's not true. His dossier said he was straight. But she doesn't know that.
"Why don't you send out the memo. I'm going downstairs," I excuse myself.
The phone will be ringing off the hook and staffers will start streaming in once news of the acquisition gets out. I want to be as far away as possible. I get my things and leave. As I drive out I check the specials of Ziggy's Deli. They are written in white chalk. I'm actually relieved. I think I know why but I stubbornly suppress the reason from my mind.
I park a block away from St. Mark's Hospital, put on a blonde wig, wide-brimmed hat, and sunglasses then walk the rest of the way. I don't want to run into Stewart and have him recognize me or my Camry.
I make for the doctors' parking lot. I thought Stewart's blue BMW would be easy to spot but apparently, half of St Mark's doctors drive blue BMWs. I can't be certain if the last digit of his license plate was a zero on an eight so I decide to wing it. It takes me a couple of minutes but I find it. I check the windshield and give myself a thumbs up.
The Dixie Dive is packed. The music is upbeat and patrons are dancing in various stages of drunkenness. I have to look around for a while before I spot a "Happy Birthday Stewart" banner at the far end.
I'm almost there when Bethany embraces me. "Elizabeth, you made it!" How is she always so happy? Perhaps not living a lie has its benefits.
"Of course. Where is the birthday boy?"
"Come." She takes me by the hand and leads me through the crowded bar. I see Stewart before he sees me. Black slacks, a brown sports coat with elbow patches, a white shirt, and a green tie. He dresses better than me.
He sees us just as we approach. I enjoy the transformation of his face. First, it's puzzlement, then recognition, and finally fear. He sits up very straight as we approach.
"Stewart, this is Elizabeth. We work together," Bethany says by way of introduction. I expect the fearful look to leave his face but it only intensifies.
"Since when?" he manages to croak.
"Since I started at Strauss. What's wrong with you? There's Uncle Ricky. I'll go fetch him." With that, Bethany leaves us. I want to bail out Stewart but I'm enjoying myself too much. I take the barstool next to him and maintain eye contact as I sit down. I wait for him to speak first.
"So… you work with Bethany?" he starts awkwardly.
I decide not to torture him anymore. "Yea. She's got a very sunny disposition. This was quite the coincidence. I only found out this morning and by then I had already accepted the invitation. I couldn't back out. I hope there are no hard feelings from last time?"
"No hard feelings. It's alright," He loosens up.
"I got you something," I say as I hand him the little gift-wrapped box. He puts it aside.
"Open it." I want to see his reaction.
"Nah… I'll do that later," he tries to protest.
"I insist. Come on. Open it"
He complies and unwraps the package slowly. The smile that lights up his face is everything I wished for, "A dashcam!"
"The next time someone flips you off in traffic you'll have video evidence," I tell him. He laughs at this.
"Thank you, Liz."
"I prefer Elizabeth." Father used to call me Liz. And Lizzie. And Princess.
"Is there some history there?" He's too curious. Shut it down.
"Talking about my childhood with a psychiatrist in a bar doesn't strike me as a very fun idea."
"Haha! You're funny." My charm seems to be working on Stewart. Or maybe he's just buttering you up, my inner voice says. I've never been good at recognizing flattery.
"Are you flattering me, doctor?"
"No… no... It's just a... An observation."
"How old are you now, birthday boy?"
"29."
Bethany and Uncle Ricky arrive and Ricky leads everyone in a raucous birthday song. It's honestly more of a drunken chant but nobody seems to mind.
Despite my earlier misgivings, I have a really good time. I talk to Stewart for most of the night and excuse myself at around eleven before I get too drunk. I have attachment issues and alcohol has a way of intensifying them.
I see a man climbing out of my window when I stumble into the kitchen. He vanishes into the darkness before I can give chase.