The Emissary (9 page)

Weather was never a deterrent to Mat’s daily workout regime of running five miles every morning; his motto was “Once a Marine, always a Marine.” In fact, he usually enjoyed the cold and found running in it stimulating—within reason, which subzero temperatures were not. Still, he awoke before his alarm and got suited up and out the door by 4:30, jogging in the freezing black night: just him, clearing his head from the night before, and the plows, clearing the roads. It was his surefire way to release the adrenaline overload of all that he had to do to keep the big boys happy, to keep the hungry wolves at bay, and to hold on to his seat of power.

He got back to his suite as day was breaking. A hot shower, a bit of breakfast, and he would be on his way to the airport by 7:00. With the driver waiting outside the lobby, and his pilot on standby at the airport, he called Jamie, enlisting her into active service. Just two weeks after their encounter, he had to call her back to Houston and get her cleared with his management team before sending her out to search for buried treasure. Even though it was only a formality, it was still important.

What Mat did not need now was a Judas from the inside.

On the other side of the continent, there could not have been a more picture-perfect San Francisco morning. Jamie lounged around in her flannel pajamas, gazing out at the sun, as it broke through the cloud banks: the fog curling slowly back out over the ocean and gulls, diving the waves. From her precious bay-view bedroom window, she looked out over Fisherman’s Wharf and the incredible vista that extended beyond, as far out as the Golden Gate Bridge: a view most people only dreamed about.

A third-generation San Franciscan, she was convinced that there was nowhere on Earth more breathtakingly beautiful than this magical place: the City by the Bay. Drinking in the natural beauty and the warmth of the sun’s golden rays, Jamie snuggled up lazily under her down comforter, savoring the moment—deciding how she wanted to spend the day: hanging out down at Fisherman’s Wharf, playing tourist, or driving with her mother up the coast for a stroll … maybe a picnic … amongst the great sequoias in Muir Woods.

Unfortunately, Mat’s call interrupted her sun-filled morning reverie, breaking and entering—as out of place as a burglar in a candy shop. He apologized for calling on a Sunday, explaining how things were moving faster than he had anticipated, and that they were pushing the sail date up by a few weeks. He wanted her on the first flight out, so that she could be in Houston that same night and available the next morning for an 11:00 a.m. executive management meeting at the office. Louise would handle all the details—she merely had to confirm her availability, and all her travel arrangements would be managed from their end. He planned to introduce her to his executive directors, get her back to San Francisco the next day, and then fly her to Vancouver as quickly as possible, just as soon as the weather would permit, to join the crew of USOIL’s ship
The Deepwater
—before anybody had any time to throw a wrench into his plans.

Jamie couldn’t understand the purpose of or the sense in losing two days flying all the way out to Houston and back, just for a meeting, and she needed time to get her house in order before leaving for a whole month. She tried to persuade Mat that they could just as easily do a conference call, saving time and money for him, and a lot more wear and tear on her, especially since Vancouver was on the West Coast, just a couple hours’ flying time away.

In a tone of voice that she had not yet heard from him, a voice far more direct and authoritative than the playful Texan drawl
with which he had wooed her, he simply said, “Jamie, I need everybody on board here.” He let her know that bringing her into the project meant that he was going way out on a limb, risking his position and his credibility, and that he owed his executive directors at least an official introduction. He was consensus building, counting on Jamie’s presence and keen abilities to win over his twelve-member team of die-hard cynics and naysayers. The last thing Mat needed was someone turning traitor on him while he was sailing out into the unknown, uncharted territory, in every sense, with Jamie Hastings.

She agreed, and by 3:00 p.m. she was on a flight to Houston, more than ready to go through the motions for the white-collar boys at USOIL.

The twelve executive directors arrived early Monday morning, greeted with the usual fare of gourmet coffees and elaborate French pastries, freshly baked every morning by the company’s executive chef. USOIL spared no luxuries for its management team, and they were, admittedly, spoiled. The privilege afforded them by the company contributed to their feeling more than confident about their own job security. Every one of them had served in the company for as long as or longer than Mat himself—a company that had soared for so long under their management, until the recent slide.

But they weren’t so confident this day. They knew trouble was in the air and feared cuts could actually be on the table, mandated from the stir at the top levels of the multinational, where Mat had been dealing for weeks. That was the buzz between them, as they waited around anxiously for the meeting to begin, and for Mat to bring in the news from DC. If heads were going to fly, it was anybody’s guess as to whose was going to end up on the chopping block that day.

The men sat nervously awaiting Mat Anderson, anticipating bad news. Today the boardroom, with its huge mahogany table and the twelve chairs the men filled, felt cold as steel. Everything about the room was Mat Anderson to the finest detail: sleek, modern, and edgy enough to be just slightly intimidating when he wanted it to be, or warm and inviting when it was deserved.

And that was the way Mat liked it.

He marched through the doorway at 11:00 a.m. sharp, with military precision, looking somber and resolute. The men stood in deference. Mat walked to his seat at the head of the table and nodded to them to sit down.

“Gentlemen.” He reached ceremoniously into the lapel pocket of his jacket and placed his two cell phones, a laser pen, and two packs of Rolaids squarely on the table in front of him, and then they all sat down. His face was red hot with emotion, threatening but never exploding, yet dangerous—like a volcano ready to blow. “As you all can imagine, this here is not going to be a good news get-together,” he announced, in his decisive Texan drawl.

Louise swayed into the room carrying a stack of reports, whereupon she circled the table, distributing one to each of the participants. Her formfitting dress and the way she knew how to move in it were almost enough to distract the men, but they knew better. She was Mat’s “personal” assistant, and everyone knew what that meant. Don’t look twice—and don’t even think about touching.

He knew how to use her for strategic impact, among other things.

Mat rolled his director’s chair up closer to the table’s edge. “Let me cut right to the chase. We are in deep shit, here, gentlemen. Lost our asses out there in the Gulf, and we won’t even talk about the BP disaster—and what that has cost us all in image, in resources, and in long- and short-term profitability.” Dry-mouthed, he filled his glass from the crystal water pitcher in front of him, and took
a drink. “Hell’s bells—we’ve been out there tearing up the Pacific for more than two years now and we have got shit to show for it.”

Slowly Mat’s gaze moved around the table, squaring off with each of the men to see which of them had enough presence to look back at him, head-on. Most of them never locked eyes with him—it was too uncomfortable looking into those icy blue spheres. “We know the gold’s out there,” he said, “but for all our high-tech equipment, we are no closer to daylight on this than a hair on a possum’s ass.”

A few of the men around the table smiled, but the unmistakable lack of laughter only served to accentuate their breathless silence.

“I just don’t think y’all have any idea of the kind of pressure I got bearin’ down on my ‘special place.’ ” He unwrapped a packet of the antacid tablets, popped one into his mouth, and then another immediately after. Clearly agitated, he loosened his tie, sweating around the collar. “I’ve got these clowns on the Hill with their greasy palms all over my behind, and all I can tell them is ‘We’re getting close.’ Now how do y’all think that goes over with our, shall we call them, ‘constituents’?”

Somebody’s phone rang. Mat looked around the table, but whoever possessed the phone had managed to switch it off immediately.

“This big-shot congressman from New York says I’ve been playing horseshoes for too long, and everybody thinks that’s real funny … real funny. See, that’s what you call ‘Mat the Texas cowboy’ humor.” He slapped his fist on the table. “I am getting it from all sides. Corporate screaming about media pressure, and public interest groups making waves about the goddamn whales. Let’s face it, the Navy
is
out there blasting their big ol’ brains out. We got crazy natives and all them do-gooder environmental freaks making a lot of noise. They should know what a mess we got out there. Hell, they’re still screaming about the
Valdez
!” He stood and pointed at one of the men, seated nearly across the table. “And face
it, John, PR is doing a piss-poor job of cleaning up the mess in the meantime. I think you know what I’m saying here.”

John Galloway, the vice president of public relations, was about to respond, but Mat cut him off.

“I am telling you all loud and clear: my boys here just cannot be squeezed any further.” He sat down again. Taking time to calm himself, Mat removed his glasses and a cleaning cloth from the case and vigorously wiped the lenses before putting them on. He opened the cover of the report, peering strategically over his glasses at the men. “Let’s take a look at these figures—shall we? See page five. Pharmaceutical, General Foods, Agriculture all closing with healthy gains, and then there’s us—way down there at the bottom: USOIL—the big loser for another quarter.”

Mat Anderson, former Marine commander, didn’t do “loser.”

“We have overspent and underproduced more than any other division, and I shouldn’t have to remind you that y’all are the highest-paid, most-pampered executives in the whole damned corporation. Gentlemen, what I’m telling you all is that USOIL is seen as an extremely ineffective and costly branch of this big ol’ oak—and there are some very important people wanting to just chop it off, before it rots out the whole damn tree.”

He pushed the document away from him on the table. “I hope you get my metaphorical drift, as they say. This dog won’t hunt, my friends,” he said, shaking his head, “… this dog just will not hunt.”

The phone buzzed. It was Louise, announcing that Jamie Hastings had arrived. Mat told her to entertain her for a few more minutes until he called back. “Now, while all of you nice folk are sleeping, comfortable-like, at night, playing golf at the country club and shit like that, ol’ Mattie here is thinking overtime. ‘How the hell am I going to pull this one out?’ And I’m sitting there at two in the morning, watching TV in that hellhole, New York City, and on comes this psychic woman from San Francisco—lady by the name
of ‘Jamie Hastings.’ ” He fiddled with his pen, avoiding eye contact now, rather than seeking it. “Katie Lee was interviewing her about her work down in L.A. with the police department. Now you all know that this LAPD squad—they aren’t exactly lightweights, and yet, in many situations, they had to go and turn to a psychic for help. Seems this Jamie Hastings woman solved a bunch of unsolved crimes down there just being able to tune in and see it happening, or talking to spirits and shit … all through the ‘mind’s eye.’ ”

He stood up again, and walked over to the buffet, where he poured himself a cup of coffee, stirring in three teaspoons of sugar, slowly and methodically, keeping his back to the room. “Now that impressed me. That impressed the hell out of me. I can tell you that.” Without turning around, he added, “And here’s the good part.” He turned back to the men, staging his body language, and sat back down, sipping his coffee as he spoke. “When I finally tracked her down, which was not easy—let me tell you—this woman told me she had been traveling on and off for more than three years, working on several projects, and I got curious real fast. So I did a little sleuthing on my own, and what did I find out? It turns out she was hired by the Pakistanis to locate wells out there in the freakin’ desert, using her ‘third eye’ to find the black gold, for our friends over there. Can you dig that?”