Adrienne was on the rowing machine for the second morning in a row.
The rowing pace was fast, just like on Tuesday. Something was building up in Caplan and Briggs; not the pressure of the test, which was repressed and internal, but something routine and persistent. Maxwell did his sets and waited for the natural rest before crossing.
He placed the handle on the rack. Without looking at her, he dried his neck with a towel.
"The virtual meeting is tomorrow," she said.
Her face reflected what she had learned on the treadmill, shifting from a casual expression to a professional one. "He'll have what you need. He always does." She picked up her bag. "Whatever you find out, don't move until you know why you're moving."
"I know."
"Anyway, I'm telling you." She left without looking back.
She did her second set. He let the gym movements flow at the edge of his consciousness and thought about the next day.
Section four of Portland finished at 11:47. He reread it, not to correct mistakes, but to summarize. Four pages made it to 3:30 without missing a single digit. He filed it away, dated and timed it in the encrypted workbook, and opened section five.
Greg arrived at 12:30. It was his second visit to Maxwell's desk since the investment began. His face reflected the expression of a man who had accepted the new arrangement without difficulty, a typical change for someone who had run out of better options.
"Section four," he said.
"Done. I'll send you a draft before the end of the day."
Greg remained impassive. He glanced briefly at Maxwell's desk and then looked away. "April 9th is still firm."
"I'll send you a full draft on April 7th. Two days early."
He returned by a roundabout route.
General Practitioner's Desk Visit: Example 2. Thursday, March 29. The reversal confirmed the pattern he had already observed. Maxwell underlined the word he had already formed and moved on to section five.
Sandra Reyes entered room 242. "James has a few minutes, whenever you have them."
"That'll do for now," Maxwell said.
The afternoon west light in Hartwell's office was on as usual; an arrangement that placed the visitor's chair in a dimly lit area of the room, something Maxwell had noted months earlier as a reminder of how Hartwell liked to distribute power in his conversations.
He closed the door. He sat down.
"Things are going well with Reinhardt," Hartwell said casually. Speaking carefully. The beginning of a man who hadn't yet settled on an approach.
"Section four is complete. Greg has it until the end of the day."
"Good." Hartwell took his glasses off their cord. He placed them on the desk. Going off-script, he said, "Werner's correspondence."
"I forwarded it to the team as soon as it arrived. The thread on the shared system is complete."
"I know," he replied quickly; he was prepared. "Keep contacting me at your personal address, despite the protocol."
"It's their routing method. I can't redirect it. I can control my response, which is to forward everything immediately without exception." Maxwell looked at him intently. "And that's what I did."
It was confirmed, not by ingenuity, but because it was simply true. Every email was forwarded. Every reply was copied. Every timestamp was verifiable. He had created the documentation before Hartwell even thought to review it, which meant that reviewing it only provided confirmation that Maxwell had been transparent all along. The paper trail wasn't a defense. It was the foundation he had laid when no one had considered building anything.
Hartwell's gaze flicked to his glasses on the desk. Then to Maxwell. Back to his glasses.
"Werner's board meeting schedule," he said.
"Perfect. Greg will have the full draft by April 7th. Two days before the deadline."
The silent pause of a man searching for something easy. "You're very detail-oriented," Hartwell said. The statement carried a weight that was neither a compliment nor its opposite. Maxwell took it in stride, as he did any information that hadn't yet become substantial.
"I'll try," he said.
Hartwell put his glasses back on. "That's all. Thanks."
Maxwell returned to his desk with the same swiftness with which he moved everywhere. He opened to section five on page 251. He sent a draft of section four to Greg on page 545, copying Hartwell, leaving the subject line blank. He turned to page 548.
He received a text message in the parking lot on page 551.
Webb: Got something. See you before 5 PM Friday. Same place.
He typed: 2 PM.
Okay.
He drove to the lake. He made dinner: seared salmon with lemon-herb butter, ready in 28 minutes on level 2. He ate at the counter. The lake was following its Thursday night routine: dark, still, the Michigan shoreline in the distance like a barely visible ray of light.
He didn't try to guess what Webb had found. Guessing without data was a type of reasoning he never trusted. He would find out tomorrow at 2 PM, not before.
The system beeped 857.
[Hidden Reward Unlocked]
[Condition: 820 Consecutive Days: Zero Demonstrable Ethical Violations in Professional Conduct]
[Every Action: Documented. Justifiable. Transparent. Not a single exception.]
[Reward: 1,300 Shares: Honeywell International Inc. (NYSE: HON)]
[Price, March 29, 2012: $56.39/share]
[Total Value: $73,307]
[Taxes: Paid. Host Liability: $0.00]
[Deposit: Fidelity Account -4471]
He read it. He turned off the lamp. Outside, the lake was completely black; the shoreline of Lake Michigan had vanished, the eastern edge of the city plunged into darkness.
820 days. Two years and three months of professional conduct that could be analyzed from any angle and yielded only one result. He went to bed. He fell asleep early.