Page 87 of Tamed Enemy
COLE
Iwatch Kate walk around the huge empty office, trying to picture the space outfitted for the task force I’m still dreaming up. We’re on the fifth floor of a building on K Street in downtown DC. This part of town used to be the stronghold of lobbyists, all the movers and shakers who had the ear of Congress.
Those shops have all moved east now, leaving behind empty rentals like this one. A dozen metal boxes mark the floor, electrical junctions for cubicles that no longer exist. The beige carpet is stained in multiple places, and there’s been at least one massive leak beneath one of the windows. A glass-walled conference room looks out over an alley. The walls alternate between dusty rose and a dull yellow-green, colors that were last popular in the mid-1980s.
“It’s perfect,” Kate says.
I look at her as if she’s lost her mind.
She gestures to the receptionist’s nook, where the wallboard is ragged from a sign that was clumsily removed by the prior occupant. “This is exactly the type of office the government rents. Run-down, cramped, and close to a subway stop.”
Viewed from that perspective, the place isn’t half bad. Of course, for the amount I’m paying, we should be standing in the Oval Office.
Kate wanders over to the boardroom, which is separated from the main space by a wall of windows. “We need to do something with this glass. Tarasov will get his back up if he knows strangers are watching.”
“I’m ordering metal shades. The kind that rattle when you raise and lower them. If a few are bent, that’s even better.”
Behind us, the heat is getting oppressive in the main room. The ventilation system isn’t on yet, and August sunshine pries past the filthy windows.
I start taking notes on my phone. We need a front desk, and someone to play receptionist. A sign with the task force’s name, and photos of the heads of the FBI and Homeland Security. The president too.
We need to build out ten cubicles. Each one has to be outfitted like it’s been worked in for at least a year—bulletin boards, family photos, souvenir pens and snow globes, all the crap that accumulates in the real world.
The outer walls should be lined with filing cabinets because that shoutsgovernment bureaucracy,even in the twenty-first century. We need a white board to track our agency’s supposed targets.
The boardroom needs a metal table bolted to the floor, with rings to hold a prisoner’s manacles. We’ll need three bare-bones chairs, one of them with a sawed-short leg, so it always sits a little uneven. There has to be a projector and a screen, ideallybattered enough to look like someone scrounged them at a surplus store, which is probably exactly where I’ll find them.
Computers for everyone, at least three generations old. Landline phones. Trash cans that fit beneath desks and recycling bins because we heart our environment. Toilet paper for the johns, and paper towels too.
All that before we even get to people. I’ve always been better at planning a game than recruiting the team to run it. Some people think I’m difficult to work with.
“Christ,” I say, staring at the list. “There’s no way we can get all of this done.”
Before Kate can answer, the elevator chimes. The doors take too long to open, as if they need to be oiled. I start to wish I’d allowed Jacobson to wait up here, instead of banishing him to the lobby. I don’t trust whoever’s inside the cage.
But the woman who steps out wears denim cutoffs that are one inch shy of indecent. The neckband of her Washington Nationals T-shirt is ripped out, allowing the faded red fabric to slip off one shoulder. She has six earrings in one ear and a single diamond stud in the other. Her Converse All-stars are scuffed and torn; her right big toe pokes through with chipped scarlet polish. Her hair is dyed emerald-green, so bright it looks like it’s lit from within.
“Jesus, this place is a sty,” she says. “Hello Kate. What are you staring at, Cocoa Puff? Nilsson said I could find you here.”
“Nice hair,” I say dryly.
“I chose the color in honor of Kate. It’s called Irish Morning. Now, tell me everything you have planned.”
Nutmeg is ready to work.
My sister’s involvement makes it marginally easier for me to fly up to Albany on Wednesday morning. I meet Jean-Luc Fournier at the small arena where the Empire plays—the arena I will own by the end of the day.
With Jacobson and three other Sawgrass guards camped outside, Fournier and I sit in a conference room on opposite sides of a table. We’re both flanked by lawyers. Thick binders overflow with paper printouts of all key documents, including one potentially terrifying summary of all the financial risks inherent in buying a minor-league hockey team.
My attorneys have taken their jobs seriously, drafting detailed opinion letters that sternly warn me about the business losses I can expect in the next quarter, the next year, and the next five years. I appreciate the guidance. I know exactly how much I need to lose.
I sign on two dozen dotted lines.
After, there’s a press conference, where I’m introduced as the new owner of the team. From the range of questions, loyal Empire fans suspect I will immediately change the Empire’s name, colors, and home arena, along with the entire roster of players. I’m fairly certain my reassurances don’t change anyone’s mind.
Fournier takes me to dinner at Albany’s finest steakhouse—nothing like Rider’s club in Brooklyn, he says.But what can you expect, upstate?
I work my way through a bone-in ribeye like I’m setting bricks in a castle wall. By the time Fournier orders brandy, I’m desperate to be back on my plane. The entire flight home, Irun scenarios for the team, trying to maximize both short-term losses and long-term gains.
