Chương 4: The System Spat Them Out

With all that paperwork circus going on, I had absolutely no time to look at what the journalist had sent me. A thick envelope with no return address. What else would you expect from a paranoid woman? Inside were fifteen folders, one for each position that interested me. I read through the night and most of the next day. And the longer I read, the clearer it became: she had done brilliantly. Every dossier was thorough. Biography, career, reason for the fall, current situation.

And, just as I had asked, there was a separate line for dreams. What each of them wanted, what kept them awake at night, how I could hook them and make them interested. At first I had regretted those three thousand dollars. Now I understood that every cent had been worth it. The interesting part was ahead: the meetings. And since I finally had a place to hold them, I did not expect any problems. I set up the office myself. I was not an architect, but at one point I had been interested in design.

More precisely, minimalism. Proper minimalism. The problem was that, right now, the word itself barely existed in any meaningful way. So choosing the furniture took some suffering, but it was worth it. A writing desk, light walnut, clean straight lines. I found it at a junk dealer's place; the man had no idea he was selling Danish modern from the fifties. I did. No carved legs, no Victorian junk people here liked to use when furnishing respectable offices. Just form and function. The drawers were empty.

Everything I needed was either in my head or on the shelf. A swivel chair on casters, upholstered in light gray wool. I had to drive halfway across the city to find something without those ridiculous padded roll-armrests. Two guest chairs opposite the desk: chrome legs, leather seats, backs at a right angle. You could sit in them, but you would not want to stay long. The wall behind me was blank. Painted white. The painter asked me three times whether I was sure I did not want wallpaper. I was sure.

All the wallpaper around here was far too loud. Let them wonder what was going on in my head while staring at nothing. The shelving unit on the right was metal, industrial, the kind used in libraries. I went to a carpenter and asked him to cover the side panels with light walnut. It looked very good: cold metal in a warm frame. A few folders with colored spines, books on economics, law, patent references, a couple of Vonnegut volumes, a legal code, the Constitution, world history.

Everything I wanted to read, and everything visitors were supposed to see. On one shelf lay a slide rule, which, to be honest, I had no idea how to use, but it would not hurt. On the desk there was only a lamp with a white shade, a telephone, and a leather-bound notebook with a fountain pen. Cleanliness and order. My neighbors in the other offices buried their desks under ashtrays, pictures of children, and vacation figurines. Their right. It annoyed me.

The only decoration was a small bronze owl on the corner of the desk. I bought it for twenty dollars in an antique shop. Yes, an owl meant wisdom and all that. But I liked it because it was ugly. Set the mood. To the left of the window stood a small sofa. I found it in a theater workshop and had it reupholstered in gray cloth. I tried to get something reasonably comfortable, for those nights when it would be easier to stay here than drag myself home for two hours of sleep.

The window itself was large, overlooking the inner courtyard. I hung blinds. Horizontal, metal. Also a rarity; curtains with tassels were in fashion now. Cold. Unusual. Anyone who walked in here would understand that the owner of the office valued order and disliked excess. And that he was strange and not entirely understandable. Exactly the impression I needed to make on the people I was about to hire. But the office was not the most important thing. Security was.

In 1975, security guards looked like the era demanded: baggy jackets, ties, sometimes uniform shirts with patches that looked almost police-issued. A typical security man of the time resembled either a doorman or a retired cop earning a little extra on the side. Intimidation factor: zero. Who was going to be afraid of some uncle in a badly fitting blazer? I wanted them afraid. After talking it over with the Sergeant, we decided to break the pattern. Well, "we" decided. I decided, and he supported it.

What was the point of being a man from the future otherwise? If I had former Marines working for me, people needed to see it. Not bluntly, not as a show, but anyone entering the office had to understand: these men would tear you apart and barely notice. Black tactical pants with pockets. Not baggy suit trousers, but proper field clothing, fitted to the body. Black polo shirts made of thick cotton, short sleeves. On the chest, neat embroidery: the Aegis shield and the word SECURITY below it.

No stupid badges on chains, no patches. Black tactical boots, polished to a shine, thick soles. A solid belt with a brass buckle, a holster on the thigh. Empty for now, the weapons license was still being processed, but the holster already did its job. I added one detail that would become standard in my time but looked new here: each of them wore a tactical watch on a wide strap. Identical, black, with a large dial. A small thing, but it created a sense of uniformity. A team. Discipline.

When I saw the guys in their new uniforms for the first time, I whistled despite myself. It looked… impressive. They no longer looked like guards. They looked like what they were. Soldiers. Men who knew how to kill and were not embarrassed by that knowledge. One look at them, and the desire to cause trouble vanished. Tested: even couriers running in with documents unconsciously straightened up and switched to "sir." Marcus was on duty at the entrance. Six foot six, two hundred forty pounds, arms like logs.

Pure power. When visitors came in, he rose to meet them slowly, without sharp movements, and people stumbled over their words. Simply because that mountain of muscle suddenly stood very close and looked down at them. Impressive. Professional. Exactly what I wanted.

"Boss, got a minute?" Billy caught me in the hallway as I was coming back from the conference room. Seemingly by chance, but by then I already knew that nothing with this guy ever happened by chance.

"Go ahead."

"The boys and I were talking about something…" He hesitated, which was completely unlike him. Billy O'Neill, a man who could tell jokes over cooling mafia corpses, suddenly could not find the words.

"Not complaining or anything, just…"

"Billy. Straight. You know I'm always willing to listen." He exhaled and scratched the back of his red head.

"The office, boss. I mean, it's a real office. With furniture. With all those oak things on the walls. A secretary at reception, damn it. A real secretary who says, 'Good afternoon, how may I help you?' instead of 'Fuck off.'""And?"

"And we didn't think it would be like this." He leaned against the wall and crossed his arms.

"When you hired us, well, we figured you were another shady guy with money. Sarge vouched for you, sure, and the man's reputation is iron. But still, we thought: a couple of months as bodyguards, stand around looking serious until the money runs out, then we all scatter. Seen that before. Rich kid watches too many action movies, hires tough guys, plays gangster for a couple weeks, then Daddy cuts off the faucet and everyone goes home." He snorted.

"And then, bam. Licenses. Uniforms. Paycheck on the first, like it's supposed to be. An office with a sign. Aegis Security. Sounds pretty damn good." I said nothing. Waited to see where he was going.

"Eddie called his mother yesterday," Billy continued, and his voice changed slightly.

"First time in two years. Says to her: I've got a job, Mom. A normal job. Official. With papers, insurance, everything like regular people." A pause.

"She cried. Actually cried into the phone. After that he sat on the roof for an hour, smoking and saying nothing. Frank went to check on him, and Eddie almost killed him. Well, 'almost killed'… he just said 'get lost,' but with Eddie that means the same thing." Billy smirked, but his eyes stayed serious.

"Marcus went to church last week. Said he lit a candle. Didn't say what for, but I know anyway." I stayed silent. Not because I had nothing to say, but because any words would have been unnecessary.

"Thomas twitches less," Billy went on, counting on his fingers.

"Ray stopped drinking alone. Victor… Victor actually started smiling, can you imagine? Victor. I thought his face didn't bend that way." He paused.

"What are you getting at, Billy?" I finally asked.

"That…" He looked away, clearly angry at himself for being this open.

"Thanks, I guess. The guys won't say it. They're too proud. Sarge definitely won't say it; he'd swallow his tongue first. But I'll say it, because somebody has to." He looked me in the eye. Directly, without the usual grin.

"For the first time in God knows how long, we feel… needed. Not trash the country used up and threw away. Not psychos. Not bums sleeping on cardboard and eating from garbage cans. Part of something. A team. Like over there, only without…" He faltered.

"Without all the shit." A pause.

"You gave us a uniform. You gave us a paycheck, and now we can look our families in the eye again. You gave us an office where we're part of something bigger than our own sorry asses." He straightened sharply, as if ashamed of his own words. The familiar grin returned to his face, but now it looked like a mask pulled over something real.

"Anyway, forget it. Got sentimental for no damn reason. I'll go mess with Marcus, he's too serious today. Standing by the door like a statue, scaring visitors." And he left, whistling something tuneless. I watched him go and thought. Loyalty cannot be bought with money. Loyalty is earned. By seeing a human being where the rest of the world sees garbage. I smiled to myself.

In management books people would write thirty years from now, they would call this "corporate culture" or some other clever "team-building" nonsense. They would hold seminars, draw charts, invent smart-sounding terms. Consultants in expensive suits would charge thousands of dollars to lecture people on how to "engage employees" and "create values." And the essence was simple. Ridiculously simple. Treat people like human beings, and they will move mountains for you. Except… The smile slid off my face.

My hands began to shake again, the treacherous bastards. I shoved them into my pockets, even though there was no one in the hallway. Responsibility. That was what it was. Heavy, pressing on the chest so hard it became difficult to breathe. These were not just employees I could fire and replace. These were people who believed. Who, for the first time in a long while, felt needed. Who called their mothers and said, "I'm okay, Mom. Finally, I'm okay."

And I was responsible for making sure that "okay" did not crumble into dust two months from now. I leaned back against the wall. Closed my eyes, stood like that for a moment, then opened them again. Looked at my hands. Still shaking, the bastards. Scared? Yes. Scared shitless. But fear was good. Fear meant you cared. That you understood the price of failure. That you would not throw decisions around left and right like a self-confident idiot. I clenched my fists. The trembling eased.

It did not disappear, but it became bearable. Of course I had wanted this. Prepared for it. Gathered a team, built a structure, calculated the risks. But planning on paper was one thing. Looking into Billy's eyes while he said "thank you," and understanding that he had trusted you completely, was another. I had no right to make a mistake. That thought brought fear with it, but after a moment I realized there was no point spiraling over it.

It was the moment after you had already pushed off and were flying downward, too late to change your mind. All that remained was to tuck properly and hope the water took you softly. I had already jumped. The only way out was to keep falling. All right. Enough lyricism and tragedy. I pushed away from the wall, straightened my jacket, ran a hand over my hair. There was work to do, not snot to chew.

First on the list was Ronald Jennings. Forty-two years old. Former partner at Sullivan & Cromwell, one of the largest law firms in New York, true Wall Street sharks. Specialization: corporate law, mergers and acquisitions. A man who had once closed deals worth hundreds of millions. Pushed out three years ago. The reason? Stern had dug everything up down to the dirty underwear. Jennings had refused to sign a legal opinion approving a deal the firm's leadership was trying to force through.

An oil company wanted to run a scheme through tax havens and a chain of shell companies in the Cayman Islands. Formally, everything was within the law. In practice, it was skating along the edge, with holes large enough for a truckload of federal charges to drive through. Jennings dug in. Said either they did it cleanly, or they did it without him. They explained that the client was important, that the firm could not afford to lose them, that he needed to be more flexible.

He replied that his license and reputation were worth more than any client. They did it without him. Officially, he left voluntarily to "focus on private practice." Unofficially, they threw him out within a week. No severance, no letters of recommendation, with an unspoken blacklist across every major firm in the city. In New York's legal world, things like that were done with one phone call: "Ron Jennings? Difficult man. Not a team player. Wouldn't recommend him." Reputational death.

For three years he scraped by in private practice. Small contracts for small businesses. Divorces, the simple kind, without serious money. Wills for retirees from Queens. Work that made a man who had once overseen the merger of two oil giants want to howl at the moon. His wife left in the second year, unable to endure the fall from Olympus into the swamp. Took their daughter and moved to her parents in Connecticut. Jennings remained alone in an apartment he could barely afford. Dream?

Stern had written: "Wants to return to the big game. To prove he was right. To get revenge, but not directly; through success. To show everyone who wrote him off that they were wrong." Perfect. That was exactly the kind of man I needed. Not corrupt. Not flexible. Principled to the point of stubbornness. Reliable and loyal. Someone who would tell me "no" if I started doing crazy shit myself. Someone who could not be bought or intimidated. And, just as importantly, someone who had something to prove. Angry. Insulted.

With fire in his eyes. This tale has been unlawfully lifted without the author's consent. Report any appearances on Amazon. He arrived exactly on time, to the minute. Good already. It meant he was serious and understood punctuality. Tall, lean, deep lines around his mouth and between his brows, the face of a man who had clenched his jaw and frowned too often. Gray at the temples, but his gaze was sharp and catching. The suit was good; I recognized the cut. Expensive once, but not new.

The elbows were slightly worn, the cuff buttons replaced with cheaper ones. His shoes were polished to a mirror shine. Marcus met him at the entrance. I watched through the half-open office door as Jennings stopped for a second at the sight of that mountain of muscle in a black uniform. Then he pulled himself together and nodded calmly, with dignity. He did not panic, did not fuss. Billy escorted him to the reception room and offered coffee. Jennings declined, brief and polite.

He was nervous, though he tried not to show it. I saw him covertly look over the office: oak panels, brass plates, security in tactical uniforms. Trying to understand where he had ended up. I came out to meet him personally. Offered my hand.

"Mr. Jennings. Thank you for taking the time." The handshake was firm, dry, confident. His palm was hard, with calluses. Interesting. He looked at me, assessing. Then at the security. At the office. At everything around him. In his eyes was a question he had not yet voiced.

"Mr. Miller," he said. His voice was even and well-trained, the voice of a man used to speaking in court.

"I admit, your invitation surprised me. We are not acquainted."

"Not yet. But I hope to fix that. Please." I gestured toward the office. Let him go first, and noticed how instantly he scanned the space. Desk, chairs, bookshelf, owl. His gaze lingered on the Hoffman, Reynolds & Co. folders at the corner of my desk. Professional deformation of a lawyer: noticing details. He sat in the guest chair. I sat opposite him, behind the desk.

"Mr. Jennings, I'll speak plainly. I value your time and don't want to waste it on small talk." He inclined his head slightly.

"I made inquiries about you. Detailed inquiries. I know about your work at Sullivan & Cromwell. I know about your departure. And I know why it happened." His face turned to stone. His jaw tightened, and those same lines deepened.

"Then you also know," his voice cooled, "that my reputation in certain circles is… ambiguous. Some would say worthless."

"I know. That is precisely why you're here." A pause. He looked at me with distrust, wary. Waiting for the catch.

"I don't understand."

"Mr. Jennings, I need a lawyer. Not a firm with a famous name and a hundred faceless associates. A person. A specific person who will head the legal department of my company. Contracts, deals, patent law, corporate disputes, intellectual property protection. Everything connected to the law."

"You already have lawyers." He nodded toward the folders on the desk.

"Hoffman, Reynolds & Co. A solid firm." So he had noticed. Very good.

"Hoffman are external consultants. For complex issues, representation in higher courts, deals that require their reputation. But I need my own man. Inside the company. Someone who will know every paper, every contract, every comma. Someone I can call at three in the morning with a question and get an answer." I held the pause.

"Never put all your eggs in one basket. Excellent principle, don't you think?" He did not smile. But something in his gaze changed. The ice thawed a fraction.

"Why me?"

"Because you refused to sign a fake legal opinion three years ago." Silence. Long, ringing silence. He looked at me, and I could see something happening behind those intelligent, tired eyes. Distrust fighting with hope.

"Where did you learn the details?" he asked at last. His voice wavered slightly.

"The official version was different. I thought no one cared about the truth."

"It doesn't matter where. What matters is that I know. And that I need exactly this kind of person." I leaned forward, elbows on the desk.

"I need someone who will say no when no needs to be said. Even if it costs him his career. Even if pressure is applied. Even if I am the one applying pressure. I need a man with principles that cannot be bought." He leaned back in the chair. Folded his arms.

"Mr. Miller, you are a young man. No offense, but I can see you aren't even thirty. You have a handsome office and impressive security. But I know nothing about your business. Your reputation. The origin of your money."

"Fair."

"Pretty words about principles are wonderful. But I've heard pretty words before. From people who later threw me into the street."

"Also fair."

"So what can you offer? Specifically. Apart from speeches about honesty and loyalty." I took a prepared folder out of the desk drawer and placed it in front of him. He looked at it, but did not take it. Waiting for an explanation.

"Eighty thousand dollars a year base salary," I said.

"Plus performance bonuses. Full freedom to build the legal department. Hire whoever you consider necessary; I will only approve the budget. Office next to mine." He opened the folder. Read slowly, carefully, running his finger along the lines like a lawyer should when checking every word. His face remained impassive, but I noticed his fingers tremble on the third page. Eighty thousand. Three times more than he made now. And slightly more than he had earned as a partner at Sullivan & Cromwell.

"This is a generous offer," he said at last, not lifting his eyes from the papers.

"Too generous for a man with my reputation. What do you want in return?"

"Loyalty. Competence. Honesty. In that order of priority."

"That all?"

"And one more thing." He looked up.

"I need a man who will tear out a throat for his principles. And for his team. I need someone who will protect the company as if it were his own." He gave a skeptical, tired snort.

"Such people are useful to no one, Mr. Miller. Trust my experience. Corporations want flexible people. Convenient people. Those who will sign anything and avoid unnecessary questions."

"Corporations, perhaps. I don't." I leaned back in my chair.

"Mr. Jennings, I am building a company that will grow. Quickly. And the faster it grows, the more people will appear who want to take it, cheat it, sue it. I need someone who will stand between them and me. Someone who cannot be frightened and cannot be bought." A pause.

"He may not know much at the start. May not know how to do much. Though that hardly applies to you, but still. Loyalty to principles and to the company is not something you can teach. It is either there, or it is not." He watched me for a long time. Then closed the folder and set it on the desk.

"And if the company doesn't grow? If in a year you close up shop?"

"Then you will receive a year of excellent salary, experience running a legal department, and a line on your résumé. Either way, better than divorces and wills for retirees." He winced. I had hit a sore spot.

"Where does this confidence in growth come from?" Good question. The right one. How do you explain to a man that you know the future without looking insane? And how do you gently add that there is a nontrivial chance of burning out completely? You don't. Which means you leave things unsaid. Leaving things unsaid beautifully is not exactly lying.

"I have access to certain information," I said, choosing the words carefully.

"Insights from people who know markets from the inside. My own data analysis system: statistics, trends, patterns. Call it analytics. Or intuition. Or luck." His eyes narrowed.

"Insider trading is illegal, Mr. Miller."

"Insider trading in stocks, yes. Understanding which technologies will be in demand five years from now is not. I don't play the stock market. I invest in ideas."

"And these ideas…"

"For now, trade secret. But I can tell you one thing: I have already earned enough on my intuition to sit across from you in this office, pay security, and offer you eighty thousand a year." He was silent. Thinking. I could almost see the gears turning in his head. Weighing risks, evaluating chances, calculating options. A typical lawyer, and a smart man.

"Suppose," he said at last.

"Suppose I agree. What guarantees do I have that in a year the company won't go bankrupt and I won't end up on the street again, only this time with the reputation of a man who tied himself to a dubious venture?"

"None." He blinked.

"Excuse me?"

"No guarantees." I spread my hands.

"Business is business. It can work out, it can take off, or it can fail. I can't promise you that everything will succeed. No one can." A pause.

"But I can promise you a fair game. Transparency. Respect. And a chance, a real chance, to show everyone what you're worth. Only this time, on your own terms." He looked at me for a long time. A very long time. Then, for the first time in the entire conversation, he smiled. Crookedly, without joy, but he smiled.

"You're insane, Mr. Miller."

"Possibly. But it's the insane who change the world. Normal people are too busy fitting into the one that already exists." A pause.

"When do I start?" Jennings was the first. Not the last. Over the next three weeks, I held fourteen meetings. Not all ended in success. Three refused outright, two asked for time to think and never called back. One I sent away myself: too many questions, too little willingness to work. But seven said yes. Seven people. A skeleton on which meat could be grown. Margaret Chen, financial analyst, forty-one years old.

Former employee of Goldman Sachs, one of the few women who had broken into an analytics department in years when Wall Street was considered an exclusively male club. I probably do not need to explain how legendary an achievement that was. Her story was a classic corporate tragedy. In 1972, she prepared a report on the risks of investing in a major construction project. Detailed, with numbers, with forecasts. Management buried the report: the client was too important, the commissions too large.

A year and a half later, the project went bankrupt, and investors lost millions. Margaret had been right. And that was exactly why she was fired. They explained that she had not presented the information in the proper manner and at the right time, which meant she was responsible for the catastrophe. Divorced. No children. Lives alone in a small apartment on the Upper West Side. Obsessed with numbers. Stern wrote that Chen could sit over tables for hours, forgetting to eat and sleep.

At the interview, she looked at me over the rim of thin glasses, attentive, assessing, without a trace of servility. Persuading her was incredibly difficult. She demanded tables, precise data, ironclad arguments. I had nothing of the sort. I managed to attract her with only one thing: the promise to solve her personal problem. For that, special thanks to Stern.

"Mr. Miller, I don't know how to tell people what they want to hear. Only what the numbers show."

"That is exactly what I need from you." She would build financial models, control cash flows, and predict problems before they became disasters. Victor Salazar, patent attorney, fifty-four years old. Twenty years in the profession, the last ten as a partner in a respected firm specializing in intellectual property. His dismissal story was almost a joke. Salazar represented a small company in a patent dispute.

The opposing side turned out to be a large corporation which, by coincidence, was also a client of his firm, only paying ten times more. When the senior partners hinted that he should "find a compromise," Salazar instead won the case. Brilliantly, and by a crushing margin. The small client received justice. The big client left the firm. And Salazar received a termination notice and a black mark in the professional community. Short, stocky, with thick graying mustaches and a bulldog's grip.

He knew patent law like the back of his hand: every loophole, every precedent, every procedural nuance. I managed to persuade him only by hinting at the strategic course the company would take, and that idea seemed very promising to him. He would head Aegis Patents. He had an excellent connection with Jennings; they had known each other since university and respected one another. Two stubborn professionals who would cover the company's legal flanks. Eleanor Grant, former real estate manager, fifty-three.

Widow, two adult children living their own lives. For twenty-five years she worked in commercial real estate. Managed building portfolios, negotiated with tenants, knew every office center in Manhattan by name. Fired three years ago for refusing to participate in a scheme to raise rent artificially and force out unwanted tenants.

"They wanted me to throw a family business into the street," she told me.

"A business that had worked in that building for thirty years. All to make room for a chain store. I said no."

"And?"

"And a week later I was packing my things." An elegant woman with gray hair gathered into a neat knot and eyes that had seen too much dirt. During the interview, at my request, she studied the lease agreement and shook her head.

"You could have gotten better terms, Mr. Miller. Would you like me to renegotiate?"

"I would." She introduced me to such nuances of real estate law that I became afraid. Very afraid. I was lucky I had handled the deal through professional lawyers.

"Most beginners try to save money and pay for it for years." She would head Aegis Properties. Harold Prescott, personnel specialist, forty-seven years old. Former HR director at a large manufacturing company. His story differed from the others. Prescott had not been fired for his principles. He left on his own, after management ordered him to carry out mass layoffs before Christmas to improve quarterly figures.

Three hundred people were supposed to lose their jobs a week before the holidays, not because the company was losing money, but because shareholders wanted pretty numbers in the report. Prescott refused. Wrote his resignation and left.

"I understand that business is business," he explained to me. A heavyset man with a kind face and an unexpectedly hard gaze.

"Sometimes people have to be fired. But there is a difference between necessity and greed. I'm willing to do the first. Not the second." He would be responsible for recruitment across all Aegis divisions. Finding the right people, checking them, training them. Building teams. Howard Rutman, economist, sixty-one years old. This was my biggest catch. Professor at Columbia University. Former professor, to be precise. One of the best macroeconomists of his generation.

Author of three books, dozens of articles, consultant to the Federal Reserve. A man who could predict economic cycles with frightening accuracy. He had been pushed out of the university two years ago. Officially, for "methodological disagreements with the department." Unofficially, for publicly criticizing the economic policy of the Nixon administration, calling it "a recipe for catastrophe that will strike every American wallet." After Watergate, his words proved prophetic.

Inflation, stagnation, the oil crisis: everything he had warned about happened almost to the month. But by then he was already persona non grata. And not only in academic circles. Criticizing the ruling political party is a big mistake at any time. Criticizing it publicly, from the podium of a prestigious university, and then turning out to be right? That is an unforgivable mistake. People do not forgive that. People remember it. Now, anyone who hired that old man automatically landed on an unofficial blacklist.

Doors closed, contracts fell through, partners grew nervous. I did not care. First, I did not yet have doors that could close. Second, the old man was too valuable a specialist to throw away because of political games. Third, who said I was going to advertise his appearance in my company? And fourth, I did not even have to persuade him. Howard Rutman turned out to be one of those people who could not sit idle. Two years of forced idleness were worse than prison for him. He wanted to work.

Wanted his knowledge to be useful, not gather dust in his head while he slowly went insane from being unwanted. A lean old man with piercing blue eyes and enormous gray mustaches.

"Young man," he said, studying my office with poorly hidden skepticism, "I spent forty years studying economics. I advised the Federal Reserve. Predicted three recessions. Wrote books cited at Harvard and Yale." A pause.

"And I do not want that knowledge to vanish into oblivion because of the excessive vindictiveness of certain people in Washington."

"I understand you perfectly, Professor."

"I am obliged to warn you," he folded his hands on his knees, "I am a controversial figure. Some opportunities will close to you simply because my name appears in your records."

"I know."

"And that does not stop you?"

"I need your knowledge. Your ability to see what others miss." I held his gaze.

"For that, I am willing to take certain risks. There is no success without risk. I believe you wrote something like that in your second book?" He raised an eyebrow. He had not expected me to read it.

"If we remove numerous nuances and particulars, then yes, that is the gist." He inclined his head slightly, looking at me with new interest.

"Your desire to prepare gives me some hope for the younger generation. I confess, I expected yet another self-confident youth who believes money can replace knowledge."

"I always do my homework, Professor. It's the only advantage one can obtain for free." He gave a short approving grunt.

"Well then, Mr. Miller. Provide me with the materials for study. We shall see what you are working with." Rutman would become my strategic advisor. He would help me understand macroeconomic trends, predict crises, find opportunities. Yes, I knew the future. But Marvel butterflies had already flown through this world, and the consequences were unpredictable. I needed someone who could read the economy of this world. See patterns I might miss. Warn me about shit that had never happened in my history.

James Corrigan, sales specialist, thirty-eight. An Irishman with a charming smile and a reputation as a man who could sell sand in a desert. Former regional sales director at a large pharmaceutical company. Fifteen years in the industry, spotless record, sales records three years in a row. A man competitors tried to poach with double salaries. And then principles outweighed the desire to earn. It happens. Rarely, but it happens. Fired for refusing to promote a drug. A very questionable drug, I should say.

"They wanted me to convince doctors to prescribe medicine that was killing patients," he said during the interview. His voice was even, but I saw the knuckles whiten as his hand tightened into a fist.

"Not immediately. Not obviously. Side effects were blamed on the underlying condition. But I saw the data. I know how to read between the lines."

"And what did you do?"

"I went to management. Said the clinical trial data was insufficient. Said more research was needed. Said we were risking people's lives and the company's reputation."

"Did they listen?" He smiled crookedly.

"They said interpreting medical data was not my concern. My concern was selling. Thinking would be done by those paid to think."

"And you left?"

"Didn't have time. They fired me first." He shrugged.

"Companies don't need people who have access to research and call it bad. Especially if those people are persuasive enough to sow doubts in others." Red-haired, freckled, with an easy manner. The kind of person you believe from the first word: open face, direct gaze, firm handshake. The perfect salesman. And that was exactly why they were so afraid to keep him in the company after he started asking inconvenient questions.

"Mr. Miller, I can sell. That is my talent. It's what I was born for." He paused.

"But, as it turned out, not every product. There are things I cannot promote, even if my career depends on it. For most companies, that is a problem."

"If I ask you to lie, leave the same day. No explanations, no notice. And tell everyone what a bastard I am." He laughed, sincerely, from the heart.

"Deal." Corrigan would head commercial operations. When we had something to sell, and that would happen soon, he would know how to bring it to market. Anna-Maria Kozlowski, process engineer, thirty-five. The only woman on my technical staff and the only person I found not through Stern. Salazar recommended her. They had crossed paths in a patent dispute where Kozlowski served as an expert. Polish by origin, emigrated with her parents in 1956.

A brilliant engineering mind, three patents for her own inventions, and an absolute inability to play corporate games.

"I was fired from General Electric," she said directly.

"Because I told the department head his project was technically incompetent. In front of everyone. At a management meeting."

"Were you right?"

"Of course. The project was closed a year later after writing off three million in losses."

"So what was the problem?"

"Mr. Miller," she looked at me with a faint smirk, "corporations do not forgive those who prove smarter than their superiors. Even when the superiors later admit it." Kozlowski would head Aegis Labs, the research division. When I had ideas that needed to be turned into working prototypes, she would be the person who made it happen. Seven people. And all of them were alike in one thing: the system had spat them out, and they wanted to prove the system had been wrong. Resentful? Yes, absolutely. Bitter?

Some of them, perhaps. Dangerous in their principles? Definitely. But I was not planning to play dirty anyway. I simply had no need for it. And those were exactly the people who worked best. They had something to prove. Something to fight for. And they would never betray the man who gave them a second chance.