Chương 6
The call ended without good night.
At Whitfield Systems, Julian remained in the conference room until after midnight.
The outside lawyers arrived at nine. They advised him to surrender his company laptop and phone for imaging. He asked whether the request was mandatory. They said the board expected cooperation. He asked again whether it was mandatory.
David Feld finally said, “Julian, every time you ask that question, the answer becomes less helpful.”
Julian handed over the devices.
He had already moved his personal communications to another phone, which he kept in the inside pocket of his coat. The device was not secret in any sophisticated sense. Camille knew about it. His assistant had ordered it. Its bills went to a family office.
Still, when the lawyers collected electronics, no one asked for it.
Julian felt the smallest return of control.
He used the phone to call Camille.
She did not answer.
He called Margaux.
She answered on the fourth ring.
“Where are you?” he asked.
“At home.”
“Alone?”
“That question is beneath you.”
“I need to know who is influencing this.”
“Reality has been trying for years.”
Julian walked to the conference-room window. Across the river, Boston’s lights blurred in the dark.
“You spoke to Nora.”
“Yes.”
“What did she tell you?”
“Very little.”
“Did she mention the report?”
Margaux’s pause was almost invisible.
“What report?”
Julian looked at his reflection.
“The failed access-boundary tests.”
“You told the board those were resolved.”
“They were.”
“Then why does the report matter?”
“Because Nora has always confused development records with final conditions.”
Margaux said nothing.
Julian pressed his thumb to the edge of his watch. “Do you still have the paper she left in your study?”
“I could not find it.”
“You should keep looking.”
“Why?”
“Because incomplete technical material can be deliberately misrepresented.”
“By whom?”
He closed his eyes briefly. “You know what she is doing.”
“I know she walked into Washington carrying a folder you expected her to sign.”
“That agreement protected her.”
“It blamed her.”
“It assigned responsibility according to function.”
Margaux’s voice became very quiet. “Was it true?”
Julian opened his eyes.
“Truth is not a single file, Mother.”
“That is the sort of sentence people use when the single file is bad.”
He turned from the window. The lawyers were speaking in low voices at the far end of the room.
“The company employs eleven thousand people,” he said. “Nora is not exposing me. She is placing every one of them between herself and an argument she lost.”
“What argument?”
“She wanted to delay Mercury indefinitely.”
“Was it ready?”
“It was necessary.”
Margaux repeated the question. “Was it ready?”
Julian’s hand tightened around the phone.
“Read the report,” he said.
“I thought I couldn’t find it.”
He ended the call.
For several seconds he stood without moving. Then he scrolled through his contacts and found Camille.
He typed a message.
I need the blue notebook from the desk in Back Bay. Do not open it. Bring it to me.
He waited.
No response appeared.
He sent another.
This is urgent and concerns you too.
Camille received the messages while sitting on the kitchen floor of the Back Bay apartment.
She had changed out of the cream dress and folded it across a chair. Her suitcase remained at Whitfield Systems. The refrigerator contained mineral water, mustard, a lemon, and three small containers of yogurt Julian liked but rarely finished.
The blue notebook was in the desk drawer.
She had seen him write in it during calls, usually when he did not want an electronic record. Once, after a meeting with federal procurement officials, he had filled four pages and torn out two.
Camille had asked whether he was writing poetry.
“Risk,” he said.
“Less romantic.”
“Not always.”
She looked now toward the room where the desk stood.
Her phone lit again.
Please do not make this emotional.
Camille laughed aloud. The sound was short and ugly.
She opened the refrigerator, took out a yogurt, then returned it because the expiration date had passed. She stood in the kitchen holding the spoon.
Julian called.
She answered without speaking.
“Camille.”
“What is in the notebook?”
“It has personal information.”
“Whose?”
“Ours.”
“We don’t have an ours tonight.”
“That is exactly why I need you to be careful.”
“You mean obedient.”
“I mean careful.”
She walked into the study. The apartment was decorated to look unoccupied by anyone with ordinary needs. Pale rugs, art selected by a consultant, no photographs. The desk had only a brass lamp and a tray for keys.
Camille opened the top drawer.
The blue notebook lay beneath a packet of hotel stationery and a charger for Julian’s watch.
“What did Nora take?” she asked.
“Company records.”
“What did you ask her to sign?”
“A separation agreement.”
“Did it say she caused the Mercury problem?”
Julian did not answer immediately.
Camille sat in the desk chair. “I saw the folder on television. It was the same one you had here last week.”
“You saw a gray folder on television.”
“You told me she signed.”
“I told you we had an agreement.”
“No. You said she signed on Tuesday and cried afterward.”
The silence that followed was not long, but it contained the end of something.
Camille touched the sapphire pendant lying beside her phone. “Did you invent the crying too?”
“Nora cried frequently during the last year.”
“That isn’t what I asked.”
“You are trying to conduct a moral audit while sitting in an apartment I paid for.”
The cruelty was precise. Julian seldom lost control of his words. He selected them.
Camille looked around the immaculate room.
“You’re right,” she said.
His tone softened. “I don’t want to fight with you.”
“You’re right that you paid for it.”
“Camille—”
“So I should probably find out what else you purchased.”
She opened the notebook.
Julian’s breathing changed.
May you like
“Do not do that.”
On the first page were dates, initials, and short lines written in his narrow hand. Some were harmless reminders. Others were not.
