Well, not exactly. My back ached, and a couple of my ribs were sore, probably bruised if not broken. I was hurting, but I was also flooded with adrenaline.
Opened the door to the stairs and started down the twenty flights. Walking, not running. I was limping, and I grimaced from the pain, but I knew I’d make it just fine.
Not a problem. Easy.
Epilogue
Kurt was right, of course.
It was a girl. Nine pounds, twelve ounces. A beautiful, healthy little girl. Well, not so little. Big, in fact. She looked sort of like Jack Nicholson, with the straggly black hair and the bad comb-over. And I’d always hoped that, if we got a girl, she’d look like Kate Hepburn. Like her mom. Oh, well. Close enough.
The baby-Josephine, we named her: Josie-was so big that Kate had to deliver by C-section. So the delivery was scheduled a couple of days in advance, which was, unfortunately, plenty of notice for my brother-in-law to fly in from L.A. to join his wife and Kate and me in sharing the happy occasion.
I was so happy I barely minded having Craig there.
I had a lot on my mind anyway.
The police business took a few days to straighten out. Graham Runkel and I spent long hours at state police headquarters going over and over what had happened that night. Graham told them about how Kurt had locked him into a trunk, where he might have suffocated had I not released him, barely in time.
They wanted to know how I’d learned to make a bomb. I told them Kurt had done most of the work for me, and the rest I’d gotten online. It’s amazing what you can find on the Internet.
Now that Kurt was dead, it was fairly easy to get his Special Forces teammates to come forward and talk about what kind of person he’d been. The picture that emerged was consistent, and it wasn’t pretty. Just about every one of the cops and detectives who interviewed me said I was “lucky” I hadn’t been killed.
Lucky. Yeah, right.
Not long after Yoshi had passed on to Tokyo the information about how it was that the CEO of Entronics USA, Dick Hardy, had been able to afford his yacht and his house in Dallas, Hardy was jettisoned.
The board of directors voted unanimously to instruct their General Counsel to inform the SEC’s Enforcement Division, and that started the ball in motion. The SEC soon brought in the FBI, and then the IRS Criminal Division, and pretty soon Dick Hardy was facing what Gordy used to call a “gangbang” of civil and criminal and tax fraud charges. He put his yacht up for sale on the Robb Report just two days before the IRS seized it.
I was flown to New York to meet with our worldwide CEO, Hideo Nakamura, and about a dozen other honchos, both Japanese and American, to interview for Dick Hardy’s job. It was me versus a bunch of other internal candidates, all of them older and more experienced and much more qualified. Instead of just sitting there on the hot seat being grilled by Nakamura-san, I decided to go out on a limb and make a PowerPoint presentation to my interviewers. Hardy had told me how they all loved PowerPoint.
My presentation made a business case for shutting down Entronics headquarters in Santa Clara, selling off its valuable and overpriced Silicon Valley real estate, and moving headquarters to lovely Framingham, Massachusetts, where Entronics already had a building. All it needed was some repair work on the twentieth floor, where a blast had turned my corner office into a charred cave.
The kicker was my slide showing how Royal Meister’s Dallas offices could be sold at an immense profit. The Dallas Cowboys, see, wanted to build a new stadium, and they were willing to pay handsomely for the land.
This impressed them, I think.
I didn’t mention that I had my personal reasons. Like the fact that Kate refused to leave Cambridge. She finally had her dream house, and she’d already furnished the nursery, and she simply wasn’t moving. So either I moved to Santa Clara without my lovely wife and baby, or I turned down the job. But I wasn’t going to tell them that. That would not be good for my image as a killer.
The interviews seemed to go well, if facial expressions are any indication. I didn’t understand a word they were saying. Yoshi Tanaka sat by my side the entire time, throughout every single interview, as if he were my attorney.
In the last interview there seemed to be a really heated exchange. Yoshi spoke to Nakamura-san and another board member in rapid Japanese while I sat there smiling like a doofus. They seemed to be arguing back and forth until Yoshi said something, and they all nodded.
Finally, Yoshi turned to me and said, “Oh, please forgive me, I’m being terribly rude.”
I looked at him in astonishment. He was speaking in a plummy British accent. He sounded like Laurence Olivier or maybe Hugh Grant.
“It’s just that they keep referring to you as nonki, which I suppose I’d translate as ‘easygoing,’ and a gokurakutonbo, which is more difficult to translate. Perhaps you might say it means a ‘happy-go-lucky fellow.’ But I’m afraid neither is a compliment in Japanese. I had to explain to them that your people regard you as ruthless. They speak of you with a certain trepidation. I told them that’s what I like about you. You have that killer instinct.”
Later on, as Yoshi and I waited for the hiring committee to finish their deliberations, I blurted out, “Your English is amazing. I had no idea.”
“My English? My dear boy, you’re too kind. I did my master’s thesis at Trinity College, Cambridge, on the late novels of Henry James. Now there’s a true master of the language.”
The realization hit me then and there. Of course. How else could he get people to talk so freely in his presence?
“So when I told you all about my big idea for the PictureScreen, and you just stared blankly-”
“In stunned admiration, Jason-san. That was when I realized you were a bloody visionary. I immediately told Nakamura-san, and he insisted on meeting you in Santa Clara. But alas, it was not to be.”
In the end, I was tapped for Dick Hardy’s job, and after a few nerve-racking weeks, when Kate and I agreed not to talk about it, they also approved my suggestion to move U.S. headquarters to Framingham. And move Royal Meister’s top performers to Framingham, too-those who wanted to leave Dallas, anyway. Now Joan Tureck was working for me, and she and her partner were quite happy to be back in Boston.
So where was I?
Oh, yes. At the hospital, Craig seemed to treat me with newfound respect. He kept talking about the Entronics Invitational at Pebble Beach, what a blast he had last year when Dick Hardy had invited him to join all the celebs, how cool it was playing a few holes with Tiger Woods and Vijay Singh. I guess I was a little distracted, with our newborn baby, but it took me a while to figure out that Craig was angling for an invitation again this year. Now that I was the CEO of Entronics. Poor Craig was sucking up to me.
But I was as friendly as could be. “We’re trying to keep the head count down this year,” I said, “but I’m sure we can work something out. Just contact my assistant, Franny Barber. I’m sure we can arrange it.”
I have to say that I enjoyed that.
We all sat in Kate’s room watching Baby Josie clamp on to Kate’s boobs and suck away like a champ. Finally, she fell asleep, and the nurse came and put her in the bassinet.
I gave Kate a smooch, and said, “I’m married to the greatest woman, and I have the greatest baby, and I just feel like the luckiest man in the world.” I was almost overcome by emotion.
“I thought you said a man makes his own luck,” she said, arching her brows.
“I don’t think I believe that anymore,” I said slowly. “Sometimes the luck makes the man.”
Ethan sat in a corner of the room reading a book about great military blunders in history. This was his latest obsession. Apparently Kurt Semko’s remark about the Battle of Stalingrad had got Ethan thinking.