Disclosure

He unlocked the door and slipped behind the wheel. He looked in the rearview mirror and saw a dark silhouette in the backseat.

"Hey," Gary Bosak said.

Sanders started to turn.

"Just keep looking forward," Bosak said. "I’ll get out in a minute. Now listen carefully. They’re going to screw you tomorrow. They’re going to pin the Malaysia fiasco on you."

"I know."

"And if that doesn’t work, they’re going to hit you with employing me. Invasion of privacy. Felonious activity. All that crap. They’ve talked to my parole officer. Maybe you’ve seen him-a fat guy with a mustache?"

Sanders vaguely remembered the man walking up to the mediation center the day before. "I think so, yes. Gary, listen, I need some documents-"

"Don’t talk. There’s no time. They pulled all the documents relating to the plant off the system. Nothing’s there anymore. It’s gone. I can’t help you." They heard the sound of the ferry horn. All around them, drivers were starting their engines. "But I’m not going down for this felony crap. And you’re not, either. Take this." He reached forward, and handed Sanders an envelope.

"What’s this?"

"Summary of some work I did for another officer of your company. Garvin. You might want to fax it to him in the morning."

"Why don’t you?"

"I’m crossing the border tonight. I have a cousin in BC, I’ll stay there for a while. You can leave a message on my machine if it turns out okay."

"All right."

"Stay cool, guy. The shit’s really going to hit the fan tomorrow. Lots of changes coming."

Up ahead, the ramp went down with a metallic clang. The traffic officers were directing cars off the ferry.

"Gary. You’ve been monitoring me?"

"Yeah. Sorry about that. They told me I had to."

"Then who’s `Afriend’?"

Bosak laughed. He opened the door and got out. "I’m surprised at you, Tom. Don’t you know who your friends are?"

The cars were beginning to pull out. Sanders saw brake lights on the car ahead of him flash red, and the car began to move.

"Gary" he said, turning. But Bosak was gone.

He put the car in gear and drove off the ferry.

A the top of the driveway, he stopped to pick up his mail. There was a lot of it; he hadn’t checked the mailbox for two days. He drove down to the house and left the car outside the garage. He unlocked the front door and went in. The house seemed empty and cold. It had a lemony odor. Then he remembered that Consuela had probably cleaned up.

He went into the kitchen and set up the coffeemaker for the morning. The kitchen was clean and the children’s toys had been picked up; Consuela had definitely been there. He looked at the answering machine.

A red numeral was blinking: 14.

Sanders replayed the calls. The first was from John Levin, asking him to call, saying it was urgent. Then Sally, asking if the kids could arrange a play date. But then the rest were all hang-ups. And as he listened, they all seemed to sound exactly the same the thin hissing background static of an overseas call and then the abrupt click of disconnection. Again and again.

Someone was trying to call him.

One of the later calls was apparently placed by an operator, because a woman’s lilting voice said, "I’m sorry, there is no answer. Do you wish to leave a message?" And then a man’s voice replied, "No." And then disconnection.

Sanders played it back, listening to that "No."

He thought it sounded familiar. Foreign, but still familiar.

"No."

He listened several times but could not identify the speaker.

"No."

One time, he thought the man sounded hesitant. Or was it hurried? He couldn’t tell.

"Do you wish to leave a message?"

"No."

Finally he gave up, rewound the machine, and went upstairs to his office. He’d had no faxes. His computer screen was blank. No further help from "Afriend" tonight.

He read through the paper that Bosak had given him in the car. It was a single sheet, a memo addressed to Garvin, containing a report summary on a Cupertino employee whose name was blanked out. There was also a xerox of a check made out to NE Professional Services signed by Garvin.

It was after one when Sanders went into the bathroom and took a shower. He turned the water up hot, held his face close to the nozzle, and felt the stinging spray on his skin. With the sound of the shower roaring in his ears, he almost missed hearing the telephone ringing. He grabbed a towel and ran into the bedroom.

"Hello?"

He heard the static hiss of an overseas connection. A man’s voice said, "Mr. Sanders, please."

"This is Mr. Sanders speaking."

"Mr. Sanders, sir," the voice said, "I do not know if you will remember me. This is Mohammed Jafar."

THURSDAY

The morning was clear. Sanders took an early ferry to work and got to his office at eight. He passed the downstairs receptionist and saw a sign that said "Main Conference Room in Use." For a horrified moment he thought that he had again mistaken the time for his meeting, and hurried to look in. But it was Garvin, addressing the Conley-White executives. Garvin was speaking calmly, and the executives were nodding as they listened. Then as he watched, Garvin finished and introduced Stephanie Kaplan, who immediately launched into a financial review with slides. Garvin left the conference room, and immediately his expression turned grim as he walked down the hallway toward the espresso bar at the end of the corridor, ignoring Sanders.

Sanders was about to head upstairs when he heard Phil Blackburn say, "I really feel I have a right to protest the way this matter has been handled."