The Hadrian Memorandum - Allan Folsom [58]
“Several days?” Marten protested as they walked through the darkened front room to take refuge in the back bedroom.
“I’m doing my best to get us out of this mess. It’s not easy. It may take a little time.” Anne turned on a small bedside lamp. Its warm glow was welcome against the dark of the rest of the apartment, purposely kept that way to avoid drawing attention from the alley below. “You might even say thank you, for God’s sake.”
Marten’s reply was slow. “Thank you,” he said finally, then walked off down the hall to stand in the doorway to the front room and stare silently into it, alone with his thoughts.
“You’re welcome,” she said after him, then opened her purse and took out a designer T-shirt and started to undress. She took off her jacket and jeans, then her shirt and bra, folding them all neatly and setting them in a pile on top of the chest of drawers. She’d just pulled on the T-shirt when she felt a presence and turned to find him standing in the doorway looking at her.
“What the hell’s going on?” he said quietly. “Whose place is this? Who are you?”
“I’m tired. I want to sleep,” she said.
“Yeah, well I’m tired, too.”
“Please, not now.”
She was starting past him for the bathroom when he put an arm out and stopped her. “You’ve got ten seconds to answer my questions. You don’t, I’m walking out. I’ll take my chances with the police.” His eyes were fierce and unrelenting, his mind clearly made up.
She stared back at him. “What do you want me to tell you?”
“About the company. About you. All of it.”
“I wouldn’t know where to start.”
“Try the beginning.”
She watched him a beat longer, then relented. “Alright.” She went back to the bed and sat down cross-legged on it, still dressed only in the T-shirt and panties, the nipples of her breasts protruding smartly through the shirt’s soft cotton. If it was provocative, she didn’t seem to care.
“My father owned Striker Oil. He bought it when it was a small oil services company in West Texas in the 1970s. My mother died when I was thirteen. I was an only child. He raised me himself. Took me all over the world with him while he tried to build the business, which meant anywhere there was oil or oil companies who needed management or exploration services. We nearly went under more than once. Then it caught hold. He took Striker public and did very well. I went to college in Texas and then into business. I got married and divorced. Shortly afterward my father had a stroke and put me on Striker’s board of directors because he knew I would protect the company and because I knew more about it than anybody but him. Then he had a second stroke, and I left my job to take care of him. I stayed with him for four years until he died.” Suddenly she stopped. “Boring, isn’t it? Why the hell don’t we just leave it at that?”
Marten leaned back against the doorjamb. “What happened to the company then?”
She watched him for a long moment. He wanted to know everything and wasn’t about to back down until he had it. If she was going to keep him with her, she had no choice but to continue.
“The people he brought in to run it, namely Sy Wirth and his hand-picked executives, got Wirth elected chairman and chief executive, bought back its shares, and took it private, getting rid of most of the board in the process. Afterward Wirth started developing friendships in Washington, which is how he hooked up with Hadrian to protect our oil field businesses around the world. Then Iraq happened, and he and Hadrian were right there. Almost from the start they were manipulating State Department contracts, hiring all kinds of subcontractors, double billing, using creative bookkeeping, all of it in a way that was almost impossible to track. I didn’t like it and said so. The only reason they kept me on the board was because of my father’s reputation with our employees and suppliers and other companies we did business with. I could yell to the horizon about what they were doing,