Lords of Corruption Read online

  "So, who are you interviewing?" Josh asked, more to be polite than anything. He could see Cindy coming their way. Maybe to save him.

  "Just two people, actually. A guy from California and you."

  And in the end, she did save him -- arriving just before he could start to stammer. "Can I get you guys anything?"

  Josh looked at the line of glasses on the table and silently cursed himself. For very good reasons, he almost never drank. One Newcastle a week when he wasn't saving up for interview clothes. And now here he was looking like the poster child for Alcoholics Anonymous in front of a guy who had come from New York just to interview him.

  "Uh, just the check, Cindy."

  Balen held a hand out. "I got it."

  She looked at him with an expression that suggested their conversation at the bar hadn't gone all that well. "They're on the house."

  "No way," Josh said. "You don't have to do that."

  She ignored him and began writing on a napkin she'd pulled from her apron. When she was finished, she slid it into the breast pocket of his jacket. "That's the address of my new apartment and my phone number. Why don't you come over tonight and I'll make you dinner."

  If it had just been the five pints he'd consumed, he could have handled this many things coming at him at once. But the tequila had put him over the edge.

  "Uh, I don't think I'd be very good company."

  "Come anyway. You wouldn't believe the lengths I'll go to to cheer you up."

  Josh stared blankly at her as she once again walked away. Finally he turned back to Balen. "I'm sorry. What were we talking about?"

  "We were talking about our interview process."

  "That'd be the process where you sneak up on people in bars."

  Balen smiled. "We do our research from New York, narrow down our prospects, and then do a few interviews. It's kind of unusual, but it's been pretty effective, you know?"

  "Why me?"

  "Jesus, Josh. Have you looked at your resume lately? Why not you?"

  Josh chewed his lower lip for a moment, his badly impaired mind spinning things in ways he knew he'd regret. But he was fed up. It was time to get off this roller coaster and settle for something realistic. "You should just hire the guy from California, John. You're wasting both our time."

  "Yeah, but it's my time. And if you don't mind me saying so, you don't look all that busy."

  Out of the corner of his eye, he could see the line of glasses on the table and wondered why the hell Cindy hadn't taken them until he remembered wrestling with her to keep the first one.

  "So. Any interest, Josh? Can I tell you a little about the company?"

  "I guess."

  "We're a nonprofit focused on creating sustainable agricultural projects in Africa. The motto of the charity is 'Helping people who are willing to help themselves.' We've had a lot of success and done some good things for people who really needed it."

  "Africa?"

  "That's what I said. Africa."

  Josh had never even been west of Missouri. Or was Africa east? He'd never thought about it.

  "So, have you ever considered working for a charity, Josh?"

  "Not really, no."

  He regretted the words almost before they were out of his mouth. The conversation was starting to counteract the effects of the booze, and the memory of his desperation was getting the better of his cynicism.

  "Why not?"

  It was a good question that would have been complicated to answer dead sober. The truth was that it just wasn't in his culture. His people were the recipients of charity, not the providers. That was a whole other world.

  But that would be a little too much honesty. Balen had clearly done this on purpose. He could have called and set up a meeting. Hell, he could have come over before Josh had plowed through half a keg. He wanted Josh off guard. But he was going to be disappointed.

  "Honestly, I think it would be incredibly fulfilling work, John. But I've never known anyone who's worked for a charity. And business school, doesn't really push you down that path. . . ."

  "I'll bet. They tell you to graduate, make a bunch of money, buy a big house. It's the American way. But not the only way, you know?"

  Josh nodded in a manner that was calculated to look deep as Balen pulled an envelope from his pocket and held it out across the table.

  "First-class plane ticket. Flies out tomorrow morning."

  "To where?"

  The surprise must have been audible in his voice because Balen did a bad job of stifling a laugh. "Relax, kid. New York, not Congo. We'd like you to come out, meet some of our people, get the tour. You know, see what you think."

  Josh opened the envelope and stared down at the ticket. He'd never been on a plane before. And he sure as hell had never been to New York City.

  "Thanks, Mr. Balen. I don't know what to say. I really appreciate you giving me the opportunity."

  "You know how you can thank me, Josh?" "By doing a good job for your organization?"

  "Well, that would be nice, but no. I was hoping you could tell me how you get free beer and a hell of a lot more than a dinner invitation from that waitress."

  Josh hadn't been ready for the change in subject, and he blinked dumbly. "Uh, I had a little help on that one. We used to go out."

  Balen leaned forward over the table. "Really? My old girlfriends all hate my guts. What's your secret?"

  Josh thought about it for a moment and shrugged. "I like them."

  Chapter 2.

  It had been an unpleasant and undignified trip, but he'd finally made it.

  Josh Hagarty stood on the corner with his back pressed against the building behind him, watching people flow by. Every few seconds there would be a break in the pedestrian traffic sufficient for him to see the brownstone he'd been given the address to. And every glimpse was followed by a wave of nausea.

  He'd thrown up twice in the plane's minuscule bathroom -- a combination of anxiety, his first time flying, and a moderately bad hangover. The taxi had been worse the driver seemed to think that the only appropriate position for an accelerator pedal was completely released or pressed to the floor. But Josh had held it together. Barely.

  Josh looked down at his watch and followed the second hand on its trip around the face. When it hit the 12, he started across the street, breathing into his hand to make sure the pack of Altoids he'd purchased was doing its job.

  The door was mostly glass, with "New-Africa" etched into a stylized representation of the continent. He looked into his reflection, smoothed a few waves from his hair, and searched briefly for anything that might be stuck in his teeth.

  When he stepped through, he found an interior that was nice, but not the antique mahogany and Oriental rugs he'd daydreamed about during those endless tax-law classes. He wasn't exactly in a position to be critical, though. It was a hell of a lot more swanky than the Formica counter and cash register that might be his alternative. Besides, too much opulence would undoubtedly work against him -- amplifying the city's uncanny ability to disorient and intimidate him. He'd seen hundreds of movies set in New York, but they'd done little to prepare him for the overwhelming reality of it

  A man wearing a vaguely threadbare blue blazer pulled open the door that led from the foyer to a small reception area and smiled widely. "Josh! How was the trip?"

  "Good, thanks. No problem."

  The man pumped Josh's hand and went into a cheerful diatribe about the incompetence of airlines. A small crowd gathered as he spoke, but none of the people were what Josh had expected. No Birkenstocks or tie-dyes, and not even a hint of patchouli oil. While his was the only tie, everyone was conservatively groomed, clear-eyed, and confident. It wouldn't be that much of a stretch to think he was in a successful boutique law office on casual Friday.

  His research into NewAfrica hadn't been as fruitful as he'd hoped. Newspaper articles were surprisingly few, and the organization's website was longer on philosophy than on specifics. It was probably the worst-pre
pared he'd ever been for an interview, but so far it was going better than most. Why was a mystery.

  "So are you finished with finals?" asked a woman with a foreign accent he couldn't place.

  "I am. Day before yesterday."

  "Can we assume you aced them all?" "I think I did okay."

  The group, which had swelled to seven people, laughed politely. It was clear that they knew his history and had little doubt about his performance.

  "Did you just get in, or did you come last night?"

  "I just landed an hour or so ago."

  "First time in New York?" the man who had opened the door for him asked.

  "It is. First time."

  "Shame you couldn't have done the town a little bit. There are some amazing restaurants in this neighborhood. Don't leave without getting these cheapskates to take you to lunch."

  "I heard that."

  The group parted and let the man who'd spoken through. He was probably in his midforties, with a tan too dark to have been earned in New York and blond streaks in his hair that looked honestly sun-bleached. When they shook hands, his skin was smooth but didn't have the softness that Josh had come to associate with the city people who had interviewed him in the past.

  "I'm Stephen Trent. I ride herd over this rabble."

  "It's nice to meet you, Mr. Trent. I really appreciate you inviting me up here."

  "Stephen. And I appreciate you taking the time to talk to a little charity like us. We know you must have big-money offers coming in from all over the country, but I think we might be able to offer you something unique."

  The crowd quietly scattered before any further introductions could be made, and Trent led Josh through a narrow hallway toward the back of the building. The walls were lined with photographs of happy Africans in agricultural settings -- sometimes working, sometimes posed with their arms around each other, sometimes in large groups with Trent's relatively pale face hovering near the center. The last picture before they entered the door at the back depicted Trent shaking hands with a sturdy African man in a military uniform. President Umboto Mtiti, Josh knew from last night's African charity cram session.

  "Have a seat," Trent said, pointing to a comfortable-looking leather chair. Josh did as he was told, and Trent took the chair next to him instead of going behind the imposing desk that dominated the room. "I assume you've done some research on us?"

  "I have, but there wasn't much time, so I wouldn't say I'm an expert."

  Trent nodded. "We're a small, focused charity, and we like it that way. Our donors are sophisticated enough to understand that Africa is too complicated a place to fix with strategies that can be summed up in a sound bite. How much do you know about foreign aid, Josh?"

  "Only what I've read. I don't have any direct experience."

  Trent didn't seem concerned. "Foreign governments and aid agencies have been pouring money and people into Africa for decades. And if you criticize them, they'll hit you with a bunch of excuses: This or that project didn't work out because of this or that extenuating circumstance. It's ridiculous if you think about it. Do you know why?"

  "I'm afraid I don't."

  "Of course you don't. Why would you? It's because there's always an extenuating circumstance. And if there's always an extenuating circumstance . . ." He paused, obviously wanting Josh to finish the thought.

  "Then it's not an extenuating circumstance?"

  "Exactly!" Trent slapped the arm of his chair loudly. "Let me give you a piece of advice, Josh. If you ever become a millionaire and someone comes to you looking for aid money for Africa, ask them to take you on a tour of their projects."

  Josh tried to appear thoughtful, but mostly he was thankful that Trent was content to do most of the talking.

  "But when you get there," Trent continued, warming up to his subject, "tell them you only want to see projects that are at least ten years old. Then watch them scramble."

  "But the newspaper articles I could find on NewAfrica have been pretty complimentary," Josh said. "They say you've been pretty effective."

  "Yes! But it's because we're different. Some people think we're hard-asses, but if we think a project isn't going to be productive in the long term, we won't touch it."

  "And other agencies will?"

  "Hell, yes. Look, don't get me wrong. They all have good intentions. But after they've hired a bunch of people, put infrastructure in place, and started a donation campaign built around this project or that, it gets pretty hard to just pull the plug."

  "Everyone would be out of a job," Josh said. "And they'd have to tell the donors that their money had been wasted."

  "Precisely." Trent leaned back in his chair and examined Josh for a moment. "Have you ever been involved in charity work?"

  It was a question that Trent almost certainly already knew the answer to. Josh had thought about it from every possible angle, but he had nothing to work with. He'd never even been in the Boy Scouts.

  "I haven't, Stephen. But I've been around it. I grew up in a pretty poor area of the South."

  Trent nodded but didn't immediately respond. "Okay, then. Let me ask you this.. Have you ever been the recipient of charity?"

  With his ritual of meticulous preparation, Josh had never been surprised by an interview question, and that left him with no canned reaction when it finally happened. He felt his mouth tighten, and he ran his tongue slowly over his teeth, trying to decide if he should be pissed off and what he should say.

  "You don't have to answer that if you don't want, Josh."

  "No, it's okay. The answer is yes. I have."

  Trent jabbed a finger in his direction. "You see? That's a unique perspective that no one here -- not me, not anyone -- has. It's the kind of diversity that I believe can help make this organization even more effective. I mean, in a way, you're the model of what we want for the Africans. You started poor and disadvantaged, and you overcame that."

  "I would hope that I could bring something useful to NewAfrica, Stephen. But I'm not sure I have any secrets."

  Trent grinned. "I'm having a hard time reading you, Josh. You seem a little reticent. Is it because of the way we snuck up on you or because you wouldn't take a job with a charity if someone put a gun to your head?"

  Another surprise question, though it shouldn't have been. He'd been playing this interview like a politician, figuring that the less he said, the less could be held against him. But what else could he do? He sure as hell wasn't the rich goody-two-shoes that he imagined charities went for. He wasn't looking for adventure before returning to the country club and going to work for Daddy's company. He didn't need to find himself, and frankly, he'd always been so concerned with his own family that he'd never had time to worry about anyone else's.

  "That brings up an interesting point, Stephen. How exactly did you find me?"

  "To be perfectly honest, I don't really know. Something to do with Internet databases and search parameters. I tell a company that specializes in these kinds of things all the unusual qualities we're looking for, and on the rare occasion that we find someone who has those qualities, we pursue them."

  "Unusual how?"

  "Maybe 'unique' would have been a better word. Look, I won't lie to you. The realities of Africa can be a little harsh. We need people who are smart and driven, but also people who have some experience with the real world. People who are tougher than average. But most of all, we're looking for people who have common sense, because that can get lost pretty quickly in the foreign aid business." He paused for a moment, obviously considering something. "What I'm trying to say is that when you're faced with some of the things Africa can throw at you, it's easy to lose yourself in your ideology. We fight against that. You see, we look at this as a business, Josh. Our product is projects -- agricultural, medical, economic whatever. We want to manufacture a product for our customers that's effective, durable, and cheap."

  "Your customers being poor Africans."

  "Right. I know it's a strange philosoph
y, but we find that it works. You've got an MBA, so you understand how a business should run, you come from a poor, broken family, so you know what people need. You're an athlete and a hunter, so you're not soft. And you've achieved things on your own, so you understand what it takes to better yourself. That's what we need on the ground."

  Josh felt his eyebrows rise, and it didn't go unnoticed.

  "We know a few personal details about you, Josh. We're not trying to pry, but we also don't want to hire someone who is going to be over their head ten minutes after they land. We ask a lot, frankly."

  Trent had misinterpreted Josh's surprise. It was less that he knew those few personal details than that he had missed a number of others. Or had he? Maybe he didn't care. Or was this a test of Josh's honesty?

  "So this is a position outside the country?" Josh said, deciding to let it go. He could always lean on plausible deniability if the shit hit the fan later.

  "Yup. You'd be knee-deep in the African mud." Trent's mouth widened into another prizewinning smile. "Well, it's really not that bad, but it's not the Upper East Side, either."

  Josh nodded slowly. Africa. How many miles away was that? About the same distance as the moon, as far as he was concerned. For a million dollars, he doubted he could name five countries on the whole continent.

  "Look, Josh, I know you're probably looking at a hedge-fund job or something, but I can tell you from personal experience that you should consider this. It's a different challenge every day, you have a lot of autonomy, you're not chained to a desk, and at the end of the day someone's life is better because of you."

  Chapter 3.

  Stephen Trent sat down behind his desk but immediately stood again. A quick glance at the clock confirmed that he had less than a minute. Aleksei Fedorov had told him nine P. M., and he was never late. Never.

  Trent took a deep breath and brushed at the imaginary wrinkles in his shirt, a nervous tic that was impossible to resist but entirely pointless. Fedorov didn't care about anything that didn't involve making money, holding on to money, and keeping money and the power it implied from his enemies.

  The lights in the hall were off, and Trent walked through the gloom taking deep, calming breaths, finally stopping in the lobby where he could watch the front door. The second hand on the receptionist's desk was almost thirty seconds past the hour when the sound of a key sliding into the lock became audible over the hum of traffic outside.