River of Mirrors

From:     W. Jones, Director, Informatics Division, NATA
To:       S. Salamanca, Project Manager, NATA
Subject:  Project LETHE Request for Proposals

Sally, How’s your contractor doing on the prototype? Seems like they’re taking an awfully long time. Have they tried that real-world case yet? Results? We seriously want to put out the RFP for the next phase right away. --Bill

#

From:     S. Salamanca, Project Officer, NATA
To:       W. Jones, Director, Informatics Division, NATA
Subject:  RE: Project LETHE Request for Proposals

Bill, eOrmyx has identified a really great case to try out the system on. And they have an agent in the right place to monitor results discreetly. Slated to begin tomorrow, should have prelim results in a week or week and a half. --Sally

#

From:     W. Jones, Director, Informatics Division, NATA
To:       S. Salamanca, Project Officer, NATA
Subject:  RE: Project LETHE

Sally, Can’t wait; we’re putting out the RFP now. Speed up the prototype. Get some results so we know this whole concept isn’t just a bunch of horseshit. --Bill

#

            “What did you say your name was?”
            The young man stared at his computer screen. Without waiting for me to answer, he continued. “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, but we have no record of your appointment with Dr. Metzger for ten o’clock today.”
            “Smih,” I said. “John Smih. Unusual name, I know, maybe if you --.”
            “I’m sorry, Mr. Smith, there’s just no record of it here in the computer. But we do have a slot open today at eleven. So if you don’t mind waiting--.”
            “That’s OK; I’ll take it.”
            He clicked several keys, smiled at me. “You’re all set!”
            “Thank you.”
            “No problem!”
            I sat down, thinking that there had indeed been a problem, but I was used to that. ‘Smih’ was challenging enough, but dad and mom just had to name me ‘John.’ The inevitable convergence to ‘John Smith’ had bedeviled me all of my 35 years, aggravated by spell-checkers.
            Just after eleven I was summoned to the dentist’s chair, scraped, needled, and filled.
            “Hmm, hmm,” Dr. Metzger noised 45 minutes later. “Looks like you’re OK for another six months, Mr. Smith.”
            Back in the reception room, the assistant looked up. “Six months?” he asked.
            “Yes, OK. Early in the day, if you can.”
            He peered into the screen, pressed some keys, peered more, pressed more. Hit the escape key several times. Finally he turned to me.
            “Mr. Smith? I entered you into the system an hour ago, but now I can’t find you.”
            That’s ‘Smih’.”
            “Yes, that’s a common typo, but I checked under ‘Smih,’ too. You’re just not there!” He shook his head. “I’ll make a note in the book for now.” He searched for a pencil, finally found one, then searched for ‘the book.’ “May 15th, eight thirty?”
            “That’s fine.”
            Faintly annoyed, I went to my office at Syntera Technologies, spent the rest of the day trying to puzzle out a government request for proposals. An RFP had just come in from NATA, the National Anti-Terrorist Agency, jocularly known as ‘Not A Terrorist Anywhere,’ from their frequent inability to find any. We’d done quite a bit of work for them, all top secret stuff. Toward five p.m., I called my team in for a planning session. Sam came in first, glanced around my office without looking at me. It was pretty obvious he’d never forgiven me for being promoted ahead of him. Right now, I was sure, he was thinking how nice it would be to have my office instead of his noisy cube. Occasionally I thought of shuffling Sam off to some other department or finding some reason to get him fired, but when he got down to proposal writing he did an excellent job, so I put up with him.
            Then Becky, the pricing specialist, perky and flirty. Then Ernie, secretive and morose, but a good worker, like the others.
             “RFP’s on the secure server,” I said, when they were all seated. “Just now I emailed you the proposal calendar and your assignments.”
            “I looked at the RFP,” said Sam. “They’re pretty vague about--.”
            “Yeah. Just do the best you can. This is mostly about our quals, anyway, not our tech approach.”
            “Which we won’t have,” said Ernie.
            “Right. This stuff is so secret that we won’t know for sure what we’re getting into until -- unless -- we win the contract award.”
            Becky spoke up. “Then how can I price it?”
            “Document lots of assumptions and contingencies. Write in a process for scoping us up post-award -- you know the drill. This is going to come in for 20, maybe 40 million dollars over five years. For a company our size, it’s a really big deal.” I looked at the team. “Go get ’em!”
            Becky shuffled papers in her portfolio until Sam and Ernie had left.
            “John--,” she looked at me hesitantly.
            “Forget something?”
            “I heard -- about you and Heather. I just wanted you to know that if there’s anything I can do -- anything --.”
            News travels fast. Heather had said a frosty goodbye to me only last Thursday.
            “Thanks, Becky; I’ll be OK.”
            She was about to add a thought, seemed to think better of it, then said “OK, John. Take care of yourself.” This was said with a slight but unmistakable emphasis on ‘yourself.’ She slipped out, left my door open.
            Becky had tried coming on to me before, but never this obviously. I’d wanted to take her up on the offer, but there was always that big worry: If anything went wrong, I’d be up on harassment and out the door. I enjoyed the last few breaths of her perfume.
            I went home, made myself a tuna sandwich and opened a can of tomato soup. Meretricious, my cat I called ‘Trish’ for short, smelled the tuna and of course wanted all of it. We conducted a truth-in-love struggle meeting over the last few flakes. She won.
            I remembered Heather, how we used to joke if ‘left in a huff’ meant a four-cylinder Huff, perhaps a hybrid, and what color it was. Same color as a Blue Funk, maybe? That was then. Last Thursday she really had left in a huff and everything had been just too grim for jokes. I was sad when she called me names, but I probably deserved most of them. Anyway, no more of the elaborate meals she used to fix for me; hence tuna and soup now.
            I turned on the computer and waited for it to cycle through the virus-checker. Maybe she’d sent an email about changing her mind and coming back. Or maybe about what a shit I was. That was one of the milder words she threw at me on her way out. I shrugged and said to her “I am what I am.” That led to another torrent of words from her, ending with “Can’t you ever just get mad at me, John?” I didn’t have an answer for that.
            But I needed to stop maundering and get back to the computer. I clicked on ‘Start,’ ‘Internet,’ ‘Gmail.’ The Gmail system didn’t remember me, asked me to log on. I did: johnsmih, ipass18395. ‘If you have forgotten your password, ...’ appeared on the screen. No, I hadn’t forgotten my password; it had always been ‘ipass18395.’ I tried again. No luck again. I thought to create a new email account and have messages to ‘johnsmih’ auto-forwarded to it. I wasn’t sure if that would work, considering that I couldn’t log onto ‘johnsmih’s’ account in the first place.
            Hell with it. Maybe tomorrow. For tonight, I thought I’d download a movie. Sci-fi, or sex? Flip a coin, tails it’s sex. It was heads. “Matrix” again.

#

From:     S. Salamanca, Project Officer, NATA
To:       J. Washington, Project Manager, eOrmyx, Inc.
Subject:  Project LETHE Prototype Contract Deliverable

Jamie, Now that you’re testing the prototype, keep me informed at all times. Especially if anything goes wrong. I tried to stall, but Jones put out the RFP already. If you haven’t received your copy yet, let me know right away. I know you need the follow-on, so you’ll have to work extra hard on completing the prototype successfully, and I know you will.  --Sally

#

From:     J. Washington, Project Manager, eOrmyx, Inc.
To:       S. Prakash, VP, eOrmyx, Inc.
Subject:  FWD: Project LETHE Prototype Contract Deliverable

Mr. Prakash, I’m forwarding an email from Sally Salamanca at NATA. Her butt’s on the line. So’s ours, for that matter. We started the prototype test yesterday. Robinson is well placed to let us know how it’s going. Of course our little mischief is working for us, too. I’ll email you progress on the prototype case study every few hours.

#

            The next day, back in my office, I couldn’t log on to either the secure server or the email server. I called Donald at the help desk, got the ya-ya response he always gave me. Fortunately, I’d printed the NATA RFP, so was able to work on it while waiting for Donald to show. NATA took pains to mention that they had more stringent security than either NSA or CIA, and that any company so much as whispering that they’d received a copy of the RFP would be immediately disqualified from bidding. So that’s why my team and I worked on Syntera’s proposal in windowless locked rooms with a guard outside and some kind of electronic surveillance disrupter humming busily at my side.
            My ID badge hadn’t worked that morning. Both Sam and Becky noticed my problem on their way in. They weren’t sure if they should buzz me in with them or not, security being what it was. But the guard outside the door took pity on me and let me in, which of course he really shouldn’t have.
            Having figured out the procurement calendar, what we had to deliver and when, I turned my attention to what NATA was actually up to. The RFP didn’t say much, but reading between the lines, and considering the skill-sets they required, it seemed that there was some kind of project under way to ‘virtually disappear’ suspected terrorists. A phase-1 contract for a prototype system was concluding and NATA needed someone to operate and maintain the ‘LETHE’ system, whatever it was.
            Just then Donald appeared, shooed me out of my chair, poked around the computer for a while, and said “The problem is, I can’t log you in.”
            “That’s why I called you, Donald.”
            “Just confirming it.” He shrugged. “Need to get some disks. I’ll be back.” He sauntered out, shirt-tail waving in the breeze.
            I pulled out my file of Syntera employee resumes, selected ten with more or less the experience that NATA asked for, pumped them up so they fit NATA’s requirements exactly, and scrawled a staffing chart.
            Donald returned, poked around some more, loaded a disk, ran some diagnostic programs, shrugged again.
            “John, I can’t make the system recognize you.”
            “Yeah, I still know that.”
            “As a temporary fix, I’m going to set you up with a new user name and password. You’re ‘Richard Nixon’.”
            “Don’t I get a choice? Can’t I be ‘Elvis Presley’?”
            “No, it’s already set up. And your password is ‘TRICKY.’ That’s in all-caps. It expires in five minutes. You’ll have to change it the first time you log in.”
             “OK.”
            “No problem, ‘Tricky’.” He smirked and shuffled out.

#

            I remembered just in time that Robbie had called me earlier, suggesting lunch. I signed out, dashed two blocks to the VegOut vegan restaurant where we’d agreed to meet.
            Robbie was there already. He muttered a few clichés about the weather, brought me up to date on some friends we’d both known at college, then turned to business. “So, Johnny, is your little bunch of spooks going after NATA’s Project LETHE operations contract?”
            “Robbie, Syntera isn’t full of ‘spooks;’ we just do some contract work for -- one or two agencies. Anyway, even if I were involved in that project, you know I couldn’t talk about it.”
            “Sure, sure, kiddo. Just pulling your chain. Syntera’s one of the few could do that kind of  work.”
            “Yeah,” I answered, “I suppose, although I’m not sure what kind of work it is.”
            “That puts you in a very good position to win, n’est-ce pas?” Robbie had been to Paris once. That was one of the seven things he knew how to say in French. The others were impolite ways of requesting temporary use of the female body.
            I didn’t respond.
            “You, Johnny boy -- and eOrmyx.” He saw my eyes jolt, and smiled.
            “Didn’t know that, did you, fella? The LETHE prototype -- eOrmyx has the contract for that. Desperately need the follow-on ’cause they’re out of cash and I think their letter of credit just went to the dead letter office, heh heh.”
            I found my voice. “My God, Robbie! You could be arrested just for--”
            “Speak slowly and distinctly into the carrot salad, eh? Anyway, not me, chum. I never received any classified stuff from those guys at NATA. So I’m free to spout off about the scuttlebutt I’ve picked up various places.” He looked highly pleased with himself. “Just keeping my ear to the grindstone, y’know.”
             “I can’t comment on the accuracy of--”  I said, trying not to look at the carrot salad.
            “Sure, sure. But think of my little consulting firm if you need a small-business partner for this one -- pardner.” He winked. So I owed him one. Knowing Robbie, he’d find a way to collect, sooner than later.
            The bill came. Robbie looked me straight in the eye and didn’t make a move for his wallet. I put my Visa card on the tray. Ten minutes later, the server apologetically explained to me that my card had been ‘declined’, so perhaps I had some cash--?
            I did. Robbie looked amused, then interested. “Having bank problems?” he asked, with another wink. I grimaced. “Better watch that,” he said, giving me a look that seemed to mean more than it said.
            I walked out of the restaurant confused and scared. My credit card’s no good? Maybe not just the card, but my credit rating, too. What’s happening? And what did Robbie know that he wouldn’t tell me? I remembered, too, what happened at the dentist’s office, and with my ID badge. Maybe it wasn’t all just a bunch of ‘computer errors,’ maybe -- what? I picked up the pace, and even glanced behind me like thieves do in the movies.

#

From:     J. Washington, Project Manager, eOrmyx, Inc.
To:       S. Prakash, VP, eOrmyx, Inc.
Subject:  Project LETHE Prototype Contract Deliverable

Mr. Prakash, I’m happy to report that the prototype is going extremely well. I didn’t want to mention it until I was confident, but it looks like we’ll be able to ace out Syntera for the follow-on. Atch is a draft email I’m sending to Sally at NATA. Let me know if you’d like to see any changes. -- Jamie Washington

#

From:     J. Washington, Project Manager, eOrmyx, Inc.
To:       S. Salamanca, Project Officer, NATA
Subject:  Project LETHE Prototype Contract Deliverable

Sally, I’m delighted to be able to tell you that the prototype is exceeding expectations. Our systems have measured off-the-chart performance, and we have been able to confirm a large part of it. The prototype is running on only one case, and of course when we get the follow-on we’ll be doing thousands of cases concurrently, but we’ve now definitely proved the system concept. We received the RFP for the follow-on a few hours ago and are confidently preparing a response. Is it too late to make the new contract award-fee based? --Jamie

#
            Back at the office, I closed my door and pondered what Robbie had said, and what he hadn’t. Clearly, he’d wanted to give me some crucial info, while being able to deny he’d done it. Knowing Robbie’s inclination to turn everything he could into money, I concluded that he was ‘tight’ with eOrmyx but wanted to hedge his bets, just in case we won the contract instead of them. That’s why he’d given me that tip. Either way, then, he’d likely get a piece of the contract.
            But what was that comment about my ‘memory problems?’ With one of his trademark winks, at that. Was he talking about computer ‘memory?’ About my disappearance from several networks, including Syntera’s? How could he have known about that?
            Suddenly, a light dawned. I telephoned Charlie, a friend and close approximation to ultimate hacker-god, and left a message: Could he come over that evening and play geek for me? I promised him food and beer.
            In a somewhat better frame of mind, I reviewed progress with my boss, who had noticed the sudden appearance of ‘Richard Nixon’ on the company’s network, and wondered what was up. I explained the situation. She said it was highly improper, so I blamed Donald. She called Donald. I left her office. Donald stomped into my office later, pissed as hell. I smiled at him. He threatened to change my password and not tell me what it was. I threatened to report him again. Signaling defeat, he slinked away. At least, I called it ‘slinking away,’ disregarding the raised finger behind his back.

#

            After work, Charlie came by my apartment. He petted Trish, stared into her eyes and pronounced her ‘preternaturally wise.’ Then the delivery arrived from Hibachi You Betcha! and we forgot about everything but food.
            After the dishes were piled in the sink, Charlie explored my computer and ran some diagnostics from a DVD-ROM he’d brought. Had a beer. Ran my virus-checker, too. Couldn’t logon as me, but couldn’t find anything wrong otherwise. I told him what Donald had tried, and he guffawed.
            “You say you’ve been ‘disappeared’ from other systems, too?”
            I told him about my Syntera server, email, dentist, and credit card problems.
             “I’m impressed, John. Let’s see -- do you allow cookies?”
            “Sure. Really have to, these days.”
            “Right. Let’s take a look at a few sites. Amazon?”
            “OK.”
            Amazon didn’t recognize me automatically, and didn’t know me when I tried to login manually. Wish list gone. Same with Netflix. And, more alarmingly, my bank, now, never heard of me or my account number.
            “What’s the verdict, Charlie?”
            Charlie looked up. “Out there in cyberspace, John, someone’s done a Trotsky on you.”
            “Non-person?”
            “All but the axe.”
            “Who? Why? How?”
            “Figure out the ‘why,’ John; then you’ll know the ‘who’. ‘How’ is, in principle, not too difficult if you’ve got unlimited megahertz and terabits to spare, and fully privileged access to the Internet, especially since there’s no other ‘John Smih’ in the world; your name is completely unique. But only the government --”
            “I think I know the ‘why,’ Charlie.”
            He frowned. “Is this something I shouldn’t know about?”
            “Probably.”
            He popped the cap on another longneck. “Let’s see. I think there’s a way to figure out who’s doing this to you -- or at least which server or network they’re using.”
            “How?”
            “My own web site’s hosted on my computer at home. Only three or four hits a day, but I know it’s spidered regularly. So -- I’ll set you up in my system with a user account and email address. And set a trace, so if your account is tampered with we can find out where the mischief’s coming from. I’ll set you up from here, but we’ll have to go to my place to observe the action. I’ve got some special tools you’ve never heard of, ‘Mr. Smih.’ ”
            He worked on my computer a little longer, then stood and put on his jacket. “Let’s go! And bring along a few more bottles of that micro-brew!”

#

            Charlie lived across town, so it took us most of an hour. He fired up his computer, got into www.charlieisafuckinggenius.com. “You’re still there,” he said. “You’ll hear a pretty little sound every time my site is accessed, so we’ll know when to check. Meantime, let’s have another beer!” We did.
            Some time later, Charlie was in the bathroom and I heard the ‘pretty little sound:’ the Dies irae from Verdi’s Manzoni Requiem, full blast from at least four very large speakers. Charlie burst out of the bathroom, pants unzipped. Tense, he ran to the computer, then relaxed.
             “Just another spider.” He settled back, finished zipping. Just then,
“Dies irae - Day of wrath!
That day
Shall all the world
In ashes lay!”
            Charlie went suddenly on high alert, turned off the sound. His hands played the keyboard like Carnegie Hall. “Aha!” he said more than once, and “You’ve gone missing!”, then a few more “Aha!”s, and a final “Gotcha!” I’d been careful not to interrupt the master’s performance, and now he swiveled his chair toward me.
             “I have the IP address of the ultimate source.” he pronounced rather pompously. “I can find out where, and who owns it, too, unless it’s some kind of shell corporation -- but even then --.” His voice faded as his fingers returned to the keys.
            A few minutes later he looked up. “You owe me a lot more than a beer, John. Those delete commands are coming from the big NATA computer complex in Maryland, but they’re being kicked off by a computer owned by some outfit called ‘eOrmyx.’ Ever heard of ‘em?”
            There was a pause while I grasped the implications. “Sure have -- and now I really do know the ‘why.’ Charlie, do they get a feedback message -- do they know that what they’re trying to do is really working?”
             “Not that I could see. That would make it too simple for someone like me to back-trace right to them.”
            “But you did it anyway.”
            “I’m a fucking genius -- didn’t you know? And there are a handful of emails here, too. They don’t mention you by name, but look like they’re about ‘the case,’ which seems to be your new title. Want to take a look?”
            “Sure.”
            “Anyway,” said Charlie as I was reading the emails, “am I going to be shot for this, or what? Isn’t hanging by your thumbs some kind of cruel and unusual punishment? Or being tossed into a pit of writhing Libertarians?”
            “I think you mean ‘libertines,’ Charlie. And that wouldn’t be so bad! -- But look: Did you cover your tracks?”
            “Pretty much. It didn’t look like they were set up to detect a trace, but could’ve had a program running I didn’t see.”
            He looked worried.
            “Charlie,” I smiled, “I think I know how to turn the tables -- and keep you out of the picture while I’m at it.”
            “You’re a prince, John Smih.”
            “And you’re a fucking genius, Charlie.”
            I went home and spent the rest of the evening developing my plan and trying to think of everything that could go wrong. Half the computer experts in the world could be ‘disappearing’ me just for their own amusement; but several people had specific reasons to do so, related to getting the NATA contract. I intended to expose the guilty party so there’d be no question that I was right.

#

            The next morning, I apologized to the guard for bothering him again to buzz me in to Syntera, but this time he looked worried. Well, if my plan worked, I wouldn’t need him to violate company policy and jeopardize our facility clearance again.
            I put my plan into operation right away. First, I called Robbie and made up a story that I was worried that I’d let slip too much about ‘that agency,’ and, like an afterthought, said “Anyway, Robbie, even if we had been going after that contract -- you know, the one you mentioned -- we aren’t, now. We’re going to no-bid it. Not to admit we ever had the RFP, of course.”
            “OK, fella, you never got anything from the agency-that-must-not-be-named, and I won’t tell the carrot salad, either!” We good-bye’d, agreeing to have lunch again some day.
            Second, I dropped in on my boss and gave her a heads-up on the plan. “John, that’s a big risk!” she said after I’d explained it. “You know Syntera can use that 40 million, not to mention keeping our staff off the bench.” I assured her I knew what I was doing. She thought for a while, reached for an Advil, made it two. “John, tell you what. If you go through with this, I promise you either a promotion or a pink slip, depending on -- you know. So think carefully. But go ahead if you’re sure.”
            Third, I called in my proposal team. Ernie, Sam, and Becky walked into my office looking relaxed, which was a good sign, and sat down.
            “It’s all done, John,” said Sam. “The whole proposal package, and formatted too.”
            “Checked against the RFP?”
            “You bet,” said Ernie, “every blur and misprint is reflected faithfully.”
            “And the pricing?”
            “Done, approved by Olivia in Finance, inserted into the business proposal,” said Becky proudly.
            “Everything’s on the secure server,” added Sam, “and I know you’ve been having problems logging on, so here’s a full copy.” He handed me a tiny flash drive.
            “OK, team, well done. Now -- I’m sorry to say there’s been a change in plan. We’re going to no-bid this one.”
            All three looked stunned.
            “But all our work! --,” sputtered Ernie.
            “Commendations all around, team. Excellent work. I’m putting all of you in for a bonus. And management knows that we didn’t pull out because of anything you did or didn’t do.”
            The three sat very still for  a minute, and then slowly got up to leave. “Becky?” I said as she was halfway out the door, “Do you have a second?”

#

From:     R. Robinson
To:       J. Washington, Project Manager, eOrmyx, Inc.
Subject:  Important info

Jamie, Breaking news: Syntera is no-bidding the NATA RFP. I am certain this info is correct. eOrmyx’ way is now clear to win the follow-on. I think you should pay me a few extra grand for this info. Seriously. I’m going to invoice you an additional $10,000, and I trust you’ll find a way to pay it. Case study continues to be very successful.

#

From:     J. Washington, Project Manager, eOrmyx, Inc.
To:       S. Salamanca, Project Officer, NATA
Subject:  Conclusion of Project LETHE Prototype

Sally, I’m attaching records of our monitoring of prototype results. As you will see, we have achieved complete success. I suggest you authorize eOrmyx to shut down this effort now, undo the deletions we performed to the extent possible, and consider contract requirements fully met. Let me know when you’ve done this, and I’ll get Accounting to send you a final invoice. Delighted to have worked with you on this, and looking forward to the system operation and maintenance award. Let me know when we can all sign and ‘be legal’. -- Jamie

#

            A week later, Becky and I were lying on my apartment couch, happy and satisfied. We’d just finished some quesadillas from the Aztec Two-Step delivery van, and had gone on to doing interesting things involving muscles and skin. Trish shared the couch with us, alert to any thrashing-about that could require her to hiss in indignation and leap to the floor. The phone rang.
            “John?” It was Heather.
            “John, I just wanted you to know that I forgive you and I’m with someone else now and can you bring my stereo and my clothes from the closet over right away and the toaster?”
            “Were there any commas in that?”
            “What?”
            “Remember you called me an ‘asshole’ when you left?”
            “Yes, John, I’m really--”
            “Well, Heather, I must still be an asshole, because if you want your stuff you can just come get it yourself, or send your new boyfriend. That is, if the Salvation Army hasn’t got here first. I’m expecting them any minute.”
            Becky was listening to my side of this, and laughing. But I knew she’d come to the same place with me as Heather had, and sooner. A lot sooner.
            “Fuck you, John; you are sure as shit God’s own asshole!” She hung up.
            “So that was Heather?”
            “ ‘Was’ is right.” We curled up together again, spent more wordless time. Almost idly, she said “So, John, your problem of being ‘disappeared’ seems to be over.”
            “Yeah, I think so. My bank account’s up, ID badge is working. Got a call from the dentist asking why I hadn’t been in for my appointment, would you believe? Just a day after I told my friend Robbie we were no-bidding that contract --.”
            “It must have been really creepy, ‘you’ not existing anywhere on line.”
            “Inconvenient, for sure. You know, Lethe was one of the rivers of Hades. People desperate to forget threw themselves in.”
            “To erase all the bad things that ever happened to them, is that the idea?”
             “To stop all the reflections, all the images of them caught in all the ponds and rivers of other people’s minds. I guess the 21st century version of that would be to delete all the records of us that exist in computers all over the world.”
            “As if that would --”. Just then, the phone rang again. I picked it up.
            “Mr.-- Smih? That must be ‘Smith,’ sorry, sir. My name is Kevin Wilson, contracting officer at -- a government agency. I’m happy to tell you that Syntera has been awarded the Project LETHE operations contract. I know it’s late and I apologize for calling you at home, but we want to get to work on this right away. Could you be here 9 o’clock tomorrow morning, with someone who can sign for your company, and your proposed project manager? We’ll need to go over a few papers. Then if it’s all right with you, Mr. Smith, right after our meeting I’d like to hand you off to Sally Salamanca and her team for the technical kickoff meeting.”
            “I’d be delighted,” I said, with a grin that felt wider than my face. “See you then.”
            Becky glanced at me quizzically.
            “Who was that?”
            “NATA” I said. “Syntera just won the Project LETHE follow-on.”
            Becky looked stunned.
            “But -- but we no-bid it!”
            “I lied, Becky. You and Ernie and Sam turned it all over to me, remember? And I submitted it. Got Gene from the other building to do the copying and binding and get the dozen copies delivered, all very hush-hush.”
            “But --?” She was still stunned. I patted her bottom. She pushed my hand away. “Isn’t that good news, Becky? Team members are in line for another bonus for bringing it in.”
             “But I thought that eOrmyx --.”
            “Had the inside track? They did, but after they thought we were no-bidding, I’m sure they raised their bid price way up -- why not? They looked like the only company still in the running. Anyway, that’s what I was counting on. I’ll bet we lost the technical eval by a few points, but with our lower price, we had the highest ‘best value’ score.”
            She looked at me a little fearfully. “Why did you have to keep the team in the dark about all this? We wouldn’t have told eOrmyx.”
            “I suspected that Sam would try to sabotage me to land a job at eOrmyx. He’d sell his soul for a private office. Or that Ernie would leak -- who knows what Ernie’s thinking? Or my old pal Robbie, who’s always up to something slightly shady. Sam could have, and Ernie could have -- and Robbie Wainwright might have -- but they didn’t. But you could have, Rebecca Robinson!” I smiled broadly. “And you did -- I saw your emails.”
            “You asshole!” she said.
            “Yeah, I get that a lot. Want to leave in a huff? Or just take a hike?”