He didn’t answer, just kept gazing down at his bedsheets.
“I’m serious, Matt,” I said. “And I need an answer. Right here, right now. What’s it going to be?”
He looked up.
“You guys, of course,” he said.
“You promise?”
“Yes.”
“Thank you,” I said, releasing his hands, though his performance was less than entirely convincing.
Then he added: “At least until we figure out what’s going on.”
And that’s when I began to suspect this was a promise he never intended to keep.
CHAPTER 8
There were those who called Sean Plottner a narcissist.
But, seriously, if you had enough money to buy a plane—not lease it, not enter into one of those chintzy time-sharing arrangements, actually buy it—you’d name it after yourself too.
Especially a plane like this. The Gulfstream G550 had a range of 6,750 miles, which meant it could go from New York to Tokyo without refueling. Its engines could push a top speed of Mach .885, with a cruising altitude up to 51,000 feet, and it could practically land on a piece of chewing gum, which enabled it to avoid the more crowded airports.
And so, yes, he had christened this magnificent vessel the Plottner One. And whether you called him a narcissist or an egomaniac or simply vainglorious, the truth was he had been called worse. When he was in college, he was the guy everyone hated—the slacker who skipped class all semester but still got straight As. He withstood three accusations of academic dishonesty from incredulous professors, none of whom could believe the burnout had aced the final exam without cheating.
Then there was the Securities and Exchange Commission, which had equal trouble believing Plottner’s investing success was solely the product of hard work and insight.
Plottner had received four separate target letters, informing him the SEC was looking into allegedly suspicious trading activity. None of the investigations had gone anywhere. He had yet to be indicted or even charged.
And, in fact, there had been a few flops, some near misses. Maybe just enough that those investigators could convince themselves Plottner was legit.
But there hadn’t been many.
He was on his way to another potentially big score now. Having spent a few days spearfishing (ostensibly) and paying to get laid (primarily) in the Florida Keys, he was on his way to Houston to meet with a group of researchers.
And, sure, he could have just Skyped in. A lot of rich guys did. But Plottner had learned long ago that if something was important, there was no substitute for being there in person. You discovered so much about whoever you were dealing with, most of it nuanced and unspoken.
As the plane ascended and angled west, he was seated in the main cabin along with two other passengers, two people who went more or less everywhere with Plottner.
One was Plottner Investments’ director of security, Laestrygones “Lee” Michaelides, a thirtysomething former officer from the First Infantry Division of the Hellenic Army—Greece’s famed special forces unit—with an inscrutable face and a phlegmatic demeanor.
He didn’t talk much. Or at all. People who had been around him a fair amount and still had never heard him speak wondered if he suffered from selective mutism. Then again, given his measurables—six feet six, 260 pounds, 6 percent body fat—a stern glance was usually sufficient to get his point across.
The other was Plottner’s personal assistant, Theresa D’Orsi, who was battle tested in her own way, having handled Plottner’s most inane requests for twenty years. Now in her midfifties, she wore small round glasses and modeled both efficiency and discretion. At least part of this was legally mandated: her employment contract included a nuclear-powered nondisclosure agreement.
Plottner One had just cleared ten thousand feet when the plane’s satellite phone rang.
Theresa answered it and was soon approaching Plottner, cupping the phone.
“It’s Matt Bronik from Dartmouth,” she said.
Plottner nodded, accepted the phone. “Matt,” he said. “So nice to hear from you. Have you been thinking about my offer?”
“I have. A lot,” Bronik said. “It’s very, very generous. I’m sure I would have enjoyed working for you, and believe me, this was an exceedingly difficult decision. But I think, in my heart, I’m just not made for the business world. I’m an academic. And this isn’t the right time for me or my family to be leaving Dartmouth.”
“I see,” Plottner said.
And then, because he was never one to give up easily, he said, “Is there some way I might be able to make it the right time?”
“I appreciate that, but I really don’t think so. To be honest, I’ve been having a little bit of a health issue that’s forced me to step back from my research. So I’m not sure how much good I would be to you anyway.”
A health issue? Was that actually true, or was it just an excuse? Plottner was tempted to ask for details, but he wasn’t going to pry.
He could make the college-development people pry for him.
“I understand,” Plottner said.
He was tempted to double the offer, right there. Two million bucks a year. That could surely clear up a lot of health issues. Everyone had a price, right?
But, no. That wasn’t how he wanted to do this.
“Well, obviously, I’m disappointed. I think your research is very exciting, and I wanted to have the Plottner name be a part of it in some way.”
“I appreciate that. I really do.”
“And as far as I’m concerned, the offer remains open,” Plottner said. “Perhaps you’ll change your mind.”
“That’s very generous of you. Thank you.”
“All right then. I hope we part as friends?”
“Absolutely.”
“Very good, very good,” Plottner said.
And then, like an idea was already forming in his head, he added: “Perhaps we’ll talk again someday.”
Plottner hung up. For perhaps ten seconds, he sat with the phone clutched to his chest. For Plottner, this passed as crippling indecision.
Then he called out, “Theresa.”
She appeared at his side without a word.
“Tell Houston we have to cancel. We’re going to New Hampshire.”
Because there was no substitute for being there in person.
A few minutes later, as long as it took to file a new flight plan, Plottner One began gently banking north.
Maybe other people would have given up more easily.
They weren’t the sort of people who had planes named after them.
CHAPTER 9
As the end of February gave way to the beginning of March, I allowed myself a few degrees of cautious optimism about Matt, even as I continued to worry about a relapse.
There were certain viruses that, once they got inside you, never truly left. They could lie dormant and then strike at any time, couldn’t they?
We had established protocols that if he didn’t show up in certain places at certain times, people knew to start looking for him, because it meant he was slumped over somewhere. His Where’s My Phone app was activated, and he wasn’t allowed to go out of range. He had also started wearing a medical alert bracelet.