Silicon Seduction

By M.K. Poe

Industrial espionage tests personal and national ethics, risking the unthinkable, when ex-lovers cross paths in Silicon Valley.


After graduating from Stanford in 1968 with a degree in international law, Michael Whitaker honored his fathers last wish to serve his country and lead a good and meaningful life by committing to protect proprietary technology from dangerous factions and governments. But that was before he fell for Charmaine Walker, cruel fate separated and scared them, and a French industrial secrets broker slaughtered Michaels partners from Jackson Hole to Manila.


When circuit designs that could trigger Armageddon are stolen from a secret facility, Michael is driven to to find the technology and avenge his mentors murder. Though warned of dangerous and beautiful woman sourcing the lethal commerce, he tracks the thiefs exotic accomplice from Cebu to Silicon Valley not realizing that following the package to her door may jeopardize everything that matters to himand endanger the safety of the world.

A juicy genre bending tale by a Silicon Valley insider

a smart read filled with action, romance, and espionage that readers will think about long after they close the book.

• Language: English
• Publisher: iUniverse
• Release date: Oct 13, 2011
• ISBN: 9781462052226

M.K. Poe

M. K. Poe has had a gratifying career in strategic planning and financial management with Silicon Valley public high-tech and private corporations and has co-written a movie review column for newspaper conglomerates. Poe currently writes in the vineyard country between Silicon Valley and Monterey, California.

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Copyright © 2011, 2014 by M.K. Poe.

All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used or reproduced by any means, graphic, electronic, or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, taping or by any information storage retrieval system without the written permission of the publisher except in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews.

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, names, incidents, organizations, and dialogue in this novel are either the products of the author’s imagination or are used fictitiously.

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Any people depicted in stock imagery provided by Thinkstock are models, and such images are being used for illustrative purposes only.

Certain stock imagery © Thinkstock.

Photo by Robert B. Rowlands

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5221-9 (sc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5223-3 (hc)

ISBN: 978-1-4620-5222-6 (e)

iUniverse rev. date: 01/18/2014

Contents

Acknowledgment

Prologue

Chapter 1

Chapter 2

Chapter 3

Chapter 4

Chapter 5

Chapter 6

Chapter 7

Chapter 8

Chapter 9

Chapter 10

Chapter 11

Chapter 12

Chapter 13

Chapter 14

Chapter 15

Chapter 16

Chapter 17

Chapter 18

Chapter 19

Chapter 20

Chapter 21

Chapter 22

Chapter 23

Chapter 24

Chapter 25

Chapter 26

Chapter 27

Chapter 28

Chapter 29

Chapter 30

Chapter 31

Chapter 32

Epilogue

Author Notes

Acknowledgment

Silicon Seduction became a reality because of the unwavering encouragement of Bob Varian Rowlands, the most loving, interesting, and giving life-partner.

To my mother, Audrey Lee Willets Poe, whose beautiful spirit, love, and encouragement inspires me and many—and to my wonderful loving son, friend, and counselor, Kenneth Allen Clift.

—M. K. Poe

Science is teaching man to know and reverence truth and to believe that only as far as he knows and loves it can he live worthily on earth and vindicate the dignity of his spirit.

—Moses Harvey (1820-1901)

Love knows not its own depth until the hours of separation.

—Kahlil Gibran (1883-1931)

Truth is a lifetime pursuit that changes with knowledge.

—Harry Van Meter Poe

In an era where the technological capability of government relentlessly increases… the potential for abuse is awesome…

—Excerpted: Book II, Conclusions and Recommendations Final Report, Select Committee to Study Governmental Operations with Respect to Intelligence Activities, United States Senate, (April 26, legislative day, April 14, 1976)

Prologue

Spri ng 1974

The trained observer crouching in the moonlit darkness behind rotting vegetable crates leaned out monitoring the woman’s progress down the San Francisco alley. Red oriental lanterns glowed above sunken doorways casting eerie layers in the hovering mist. Her svelte reflection moved across patches of standing water until she paused behind the peeling Chinatown facade. The light illuminated her, blushing her beige dress.

The blonde leaned back from the lacquered archway to read the address above. Rusty hinges creaked as a swollen door scraped its uneven threshold.

She went inside, he whispered to the mic inside his lapel.

In his ear, his partner asked, Into that converted opium den?

Affirmative.

Hold.

Soggy shivering hands pressed on his earpiece for his next instructions. Static crackled in his ear.

New equipment is always risky, he thought.

He shut his eyes to concentrate on deciphering the next communication. Gravel-crunching footsteps started and then stopped.

It could be… Stay in—and get com—

Repeat, he replied. You’re breaking up.

Interference from the alley bounced unintelligible words off the van’s interior. The observer’s partner ran his fingers through his fetlock and put on headphones to listen closer.

A high-frequency squeal blasted in his ear. Recoiling, he snatched off the headset and focused on the instrumentation. Needles bounced erratically with a bias to the high end. Fingers hovered over the panel waiting for the readings to settle before attempting to communicate again. The audio screeched, pegging the analog gauges.

He lunged over the panel and kept turning dials until the ear-piercing sound decreased. Putting the headset back on, he tried again. I said it could be awhile. Stay inconspicuous and get comfortable. Get that?

No answer came from the alley.

Red optoelectric numbers changed faster than could be read. He leaned across the console flipping switches. I’m picking it up, too. Digital readouts rolled to a stop, flashing a startling number. More trusted liquid crystal displays confirmed the dire implications.

Can you hear me now? Over.

Knowing it might be too late, he shouted, Over! Over!

Silence.

The follower had become the followed—again.

Chapter 1

Leery yet determined, she descended the dimly lit stairs. An escalating percussion shocked the stale air from below with each primal beat. A throat vein pulsated as she gripped the banister tighter with each step. At the bottom landing, a red velvet drape masked what was beyond. An odd whirling sound began blending into heavier drumming. Pausing, she pulled the heavy fabric to the side.

Swathes of chaotically rotating blue and red mixed in the dark subterranean cavern. With each rotation, the lights over a vacant stage at the far end washed the bizarre place in purple. She took a few steps into the color-bathed motion where she had been summoned seeing no seats, tables or people.

Mirrored balls began spinning refracted light around the room, forcing her to ride a carousel of tilting, revolving color. Frenzied strobe lights blasted through the heaving purple, assaulting her body. When she looked up, the jerky flashes highlighted a naked woman now on stage in a feathered Mardi Gras mask and leather collar, whipping a nude man. In the next flash, another naked woman appeared, watching and writhing on the raised platform.

Her temples throbbed witnessing the dioramas of depravity. An icy paralysis dominoed down her arms, then legs. Forcing rigid limbs to move, she staggered back into a jarring pillar. Disoriented, she held on to it trying to locate the stairs between the bursts of light. Mid-flash, a white feathered mask leaned into her face. Hot hands ran over her breasts and down her legs.

She gasped and pushed off the pillar to escape, groping the darkness for velvet. Her back prickled yanking the drape open, grabbing the banister, and hurling herself up the stairs. She pushed through the sluggish door distancing the nightmare. Shrouded by eeriness, she moved farther away from the strange place sensing another. Dark and damp, the acrid smell of rotting cabbage hung in the alley’s thick air. Still, it was less repulsive than what was inside.

His kind of ultimatum, she thought of the scene obviously staged for a reason. Give me strength.

Labored breaths puffed into the cold night air as she braced against a sticky lacquered arch. She stared at the steam seeping from under doorways, drifting warmth over her ankles, calming her into rational thought. Cruel memories contrasted with those of love and responsibility.

They’ll have to endure so much—more now, than before.

A chill shook her from the past back to the rose tinted alley, a kind of color-enhanced film noir. Intrepid steps kept ahead of her haunting shadow. The echo of clicking steps became background to the memories ricocheting off the walled-in past into the ugly present.

A rustling movement nearby quickened her heels across the asphalt, digging them into hard-based splashes. At the alley’s end, she leaned against her car gulping air, gathering her wits. Thinking clearly would be the only way to get through the board meeting.

The consequences of his manipulations are too great.

* * *

Next Day

Senator Donovan’s mind wasn’t on his aide’s status report or clearing his desk in his Washington office.

Before I go to lunch, Malcolm Ellenberg said to him, I need to update you on one more thing.

The senator glanced at the gold-plated digital clock on his credenza given to him by an appreciative constituent in the high-tech industry.

In three hours offices will open for business in the Bay Area.

The schedule’s been pulled up for the new computer and communications equipment, Ellenberg advised. After your next appointment, they’re going to be installing it in your office. He headed out the door.

Another unexpected event. Thanks for the heads-up.

He stacked committee reports into desk drawers wishing that he was packing clothes into a suitcase instead. If the good senator from Wyoming hadn’t urged him to give his next meeting priority, he would be on a well-earned vacation. After he and the nation had suffered the human trauma of the last days of Vietnam, then the Watergate scandal and Nixon’s rumors of impeachment, the ’73-’74 congressional year seemed the most turbulent since the tragic assassinations of Martin Luther King and Robert Kennedy five years ago.

Already overloaded with his High Tech Commerce Subcommittee’s concerns over unfair international competition and patent infringement, he had changed his priorities yet again this week. On Tuesday he had to go into full-court press mode, as his legislative analyst called it, when they received the thirty-two questions from the Investigations Committee tasked to uncover inefficiency, mismanagement, and corruption in government. This postelection year was like no other. Defending his in-law’s corporate campaign contributions was the last thing he needed.

The intercom buzzed as it always did before Jennifer allowed anyone in.

Senator, the Japanese Under-Minister has arrived.

Feeling like a pinball reacting to one slam after another, Donovan stood and smoothed his suit jacket preparing to greet the number-two man from the Japanese consulate. He scanned the walnut chamber and his desk deciding that the remaining unclassified files on the desktop weren’t so objectionable just as Jennifer escorted the Japanese liaison in.

The senator nodded his head with customary respect. Good morning, Mitsu-san.

My country expresses gratitude for this meeting.

Miyamoto Mitsu’s formality belied their years of friendship. They had overcome cooling relations with Japan after the private and unofficial Japan-Vietnam Trading Company’s exports to North Vietnam were discovered to be over $13 billion before the U.S. pulled out in March. Like worldwide munitions companies, the quiet and voracious dog in the fight played both sides of the Vietnam conflict to satisfy their appetite for economic gain. As importantly, the pressure was mounting from the senator’s semiconductor constituents for legislation to counter the nationally subsidized Japanese industry’s potential threat to their markets.

Senator Donovan gestured to the chair in front of his desk. Please, Mitsu-san, he said to the stiff man who had joined his friendly golf foursome only days ago.

Mitsu remained standing. It is necessary that we talk of issues that are discomforting. Mitsu looked at him in the eye to convey sincerity as his Penn State education had taught him. I hope we can speak with the candor we always have—your country to mine, and my country to yours.

That is how we serve our countries best, he replied in his official capacity as the tea he arranged was poured. Thank you, Jennifer.

After she left, the Japanese man looked at him across the imposing desk and then surveyed the office. He crossed the room and sat erectly in one of the two wing back chairs in front of the fireplace.

Donovan carried both cups to the neutral ground Mitsu felt was required. He waited for him to begin the discussion he clearly intended to lead.

Senator, my country has been put in an uncomfortable and politically difficult position. We feel this position could jeopardize the diplomatic relationship between our countries.

Mitsu’s eyes broke contact with Donovan’s and looked over his head.

Whatever this is about has heavy implications.

He placed Mitsu’s cup on the small table between them. How can I help this situation, Mitsu-san?

"Certain American high-technology secrets are being, shall we say, acquired in Japan and—more concerning, probably in dangerous countries. It is important for the United States to know that our companies are not soliciting this, nor are we paying for it."

Donovan nearly choked swallowing his tea.

Mitsu noticed. The Japanese government views this matter seriously.

Donovan kept his cup at his lips hoping the silence would be filled with specifics. His own committee had gotten a CIA briefing detailing the suspected illegal trafficking of proprietary technology. Unofficial sources within the French Directorate had intercepted the information and passed it on to the CIA’s elite Level 9.

"Perhaps," Mitsu continued, "these acquired devices have military purposes. If so, our own intelligence assumes American agencies are aware of this."

North American or U.S.? Donovan rearranged himself in his chair. What else is he not saying?

Please Mitsu-san, feel free to be more specific.

"Although this transferred technology may help us all bring new technology to the world faster, if exposed, it could cause much anti-Japanese sentiment."

That Mitsu came to him rather than going to organizations who handle the messy business of industrial espionage was a statement in itself. Donovan looked down for fear of being read accurately.

Mitsu seemed frustrated. "We are officially informing the United States government that we suspect protected technology is being distributed through an information broker. A very independent one. Therefore, if Japan has the secret technology to facilitate nuclear capability, we assume it is being sold to less scrupulous governments and factions."

This is a serious security problem for our countries.

Mitsu’s eyes met his. Not only for Japan and the United States, but for the balance of world power.

My committee will be interested in both our countries’ investigations.

I come to you today to personally make you aware of this.

Only avoiding a shameful high-level scandal would compel Mitsu to take on this matter personally. Although Japan desperately wanted technology, it was clear that exposing the likely source would be more politically devastating now than decades ago—on both sides of the Pacific.

Donovan turned and walked to the fireplace to hide his nervousness. Realizing that this could be construed as wanting to end the conversation, he quickly turned back.

"This is important information indeed, Mitsu-san. I officially recognize your honorable country’s difficult position in this matter."

"I am sure you, personally, would like to stop this activity as soon as possible."

Both afraid of being wounded politically in their requisite dance, each had their own reasons to keep the music playing.

I’ll do all I can through the power of my committee to get… to get to the source of this problem.

"I offer my informal assistance. However, knavery is not my business. Officially, I will remove myself from the situation."

Deceiving a deceiver is no knavery, Mitsu had once counseled, offering a Japanese proverb on the importance of truthfulness between them. Mitsu took a handkerchief out of his pocket and wiped his hands.

I appreciate your courtesy in this matter—more than ever. All efforts will be made to stop this unfortunate situation from escalating into an international issue between our countries.

Mitsu got up from his chair, bowed, and went to the door. He turned back but said nothing. When the senator nodded his understanding, Mitsu left.

Donovan paced his office regretting the past and speculating on just how much Japan and others knew. Information and power-brokering were always his winning political tools, but maintaining credibility was the only way to protect his senatorial status to use them.

While we consider when to begin, it becomes too late.

The idea of losing his power and influence after so long shook his foundation. Once a malleable young political science academic, he had told the leaders of industry and academic institutions that he represented their best hope for influencing laws and funding to make California indispensable in the global competition for economic and political power.

He had made sure to share the addictive fruits of his political success with his constituency and with foreign governments. They had all reaped great rewards. In exchange for keeping him in office, his constituents only expected him to maintain the influence needed to best serve them.

After years of demonstrating his political savvy and delivering on his promises, the Senate executed on the recommendations made by the Church and the Pike Committees. They appointed him chairman of his own committee to focus on protecting and serving the emerging high-tech industry. He had never imagined that his glorious political career, ensured by high-powered entrepreneurs and government contractors, would become such a heavy yoke.

Now the unfortunate one-month affair with the daughter of a Japanese ambassador threatened more than his career. With so much to lose, the pregnant young woman’s powerful Japanese family had sent her to secretly give birth in Europe. Dishonored for mixing thousands of years of ancestral blood, the child’s mother committed an honorable suicide the day after her fruit of shame was named Kim Kato.

Raised in a Swiss boarding school, the disowned child had no contact with them or him until four years ago. That was when his unfortunate association, inextricably linked by blood and duplicity, became impossible to ignore.

Her maternal grandparents had been angry when the French nuns discovered the child’s torrid affair, but became livid when she planned to marry the Caucasian. To punish the mixed-blood mongrel, they stopped Kim Kato’s trust fund disbursements. That was when she withdrew from her school in Geneva and came to the United States. Determined never to meet or acknowledge her existence in any way, all arrangements for her secret support were kept at arm’s length.

Donavan sat down at his desk compressing his head between his palms. Once, her mere existence could expose the deceptions of many and threaten lives as they knew it. Now, how she lived could threaten nations and every life in them.

Chapter 2

The San Francisco dawn illuminated a widening ribbon of ginger-gold at the marine layer’s dark underbelly. Oblivious to its beauty, she felt her insides quiver while pulling into the Memories Inc. employee lot and parking her ’56 T-Bird in her spot. She squeezed the handle of her briefcase and took a fortifying breath before getting out.

Her brisk pace slowed crossing the lobby’s marble floor when she saw the receptionist reading at her desk.

Oh, hi, Charmaine, Mandy said with a guilty shrug while putting down her textbook. I was just getting ready to go on break. I get relieved in a few minutes.

Charmaine scanned the lobby and up the stairs. No one else. Desperate for this morning to be as normal as possible she asked, How did Chiquita’s operation turn out?

Doing better. The receptionist leaned under her desk and slid a box into view. Small bulbous eyes peered out from beneath a pink crocheted blanket. She gently lifted and cradled the tiny white Chihuahua. Surgical tape banded the top of one of the dog’s legs. I couldn’t afford to keep her at the vet. Being the early shift, mostly just production folks are around, no customers. If you could look the other way…

Don’t worry about it, Mandy.

Great. I’ll take her home at noon. By the way, you were right. When I told the vet I switched my major at Davis from veterinary science, he let me watch the operation.

Being there had to be better than waiting and worrying.

Mandy nuzzled the drowsy dog’s face to hers. Yeah, and your good wishes must have helped. The tumor came out cleanly. Nonmalignant.

That’s great. She looked up to the landing at the top of the stairs.

You look pretty and professional. I like your hair up.

Thank you. Choosing what to wear had been as mindless as sweeping her long blonde hair into a twist. She glanced down noticing a dangling button on the sleeve of the too-small Chanel suit that her mother almost donated. I’ve got to go prepare.

Coffee’s in the boardroom. I took the sugar out. The apple-cinnamon tea you brought for your dad is in there.

You got my note. Thanks, Mandy. He’s borderline diabetic in addition to everything else. At least if his will-power fails, it’ll be his only sweet tasting choice.

I hid the York chocolate mints. Sometimes he’d stop by my desk twice a day. I didn’t know they were bad for him.

None of us did. Drive carefully when you leave. It’s still a little slick out there.

She scratched Chiquita behind an ear then lugged her briefcase up the stairs mentally sorting through priorities. She would spend the next hour at her desk organizing six files of requests for capital equipment into one binder. By then, her lawyer’s office would be open.

Charmaine stiffened as Thurston strutted in projecting his cavalier boardroom facade. He squinted at the manufacturing manager in the leisure suit who was leaning into a quiet side discussion among a Stanford professor emeritus and two venture capitalists from a Menlo Park firm in golf shirts and slacks. Unacknowledged, Thurston smoothed his thinning blond hair and tugged at the French cuffs protruding from his pin-striped suit sleeves as if setting an example of more appropriate dress. After circling the table and passing two empty chairs, he sat directly across from her.

She felt his glare as the lights went off for the overhead presentations. She looked to the head of the table at her father. Illuminated by the projector’s light, the chairman focused on the screen displaying the quarterly agenda while everyone else focused on The Gerald Walker. An industry icon, his tall frame and increasingly graying temples seemed fitting for a man who distinguished himself in so many ways. Anyone who mistakenly pegged and underestimated him because of his worn tennis shoes and jeans made her smile.

After the approval of the minutes, he told his board, we’ll discuss the parking lot liability issue and then the Fab proposal.

Ignoring Thurston’s presence during the meeting became impossible once he was front and center with his Employee Parking Expansion and Risk Reduction Project. She shifted in her chair as he verbosely advised the board of the aesthetic and convenience factors of acquiring more adjacent land for parking, then warned of the serious legal ramifications of not filling potholes and resurfacing the existing parking lot as a leasehold improvement.

What an opportunist. His exaggerated arguments stretched her father’s meaning of a considerate corporate culture and anyone’s notion of a legal liability. His proposal to have Memories buy and level the building next door for parking from limited funds would benefit only him. Engrossed in how she could expose their corporate attorney’s motivations without serious repercussions, her mind suddenly registered Henry Kelms saying clean die-shrink. Any questions, so far? he asked while removing his jacket and tossing it over a chair.

The young process engineer now at the podium hated these obligatory presentations. After the audience expressed no interest in what he had to say, he slid his damp palms down crisp khaki slacks undoubtedly purchased last night. His voice and posture gradually dropped throughout the rest of the presentation until he summarized the incontrovertible conclusions from the empirical data that she knew he had excitedly collected while sleeping in the janitor’s closet between experiments. She felt his angst as he rushed through the last slide to get back to what he considered a better use of time in the wafer fabrication area.

The board’s apathy was unfair. Every member had experienced professional torment like his while making great personal and professional sacrifices to achieve their own success. Each had been seduced by the enthralling pursuit of the phenomenal financial rewards and the adrenalin rush when leading-edge development changed humankind forever. Still, it didn’t make them any more charitable.

Henry took two fumbling tries to turn off the projector while taking unfortunate looks at the hard-edged faces in the ambient light. He took a couple of mechanical steps over to the wall and switched on the spotlight above him. She imagined that it was just as his Effective Presentations class had taught him.

He avoided connecting with eyes by bending to the security of his notes.

So, as you can see, he said with contrived vigor to underscore his main message, we need to buy the laminar flow system as soon as possible and create the clean room. We expect to decrease the particle count per million by as much as eighty percent. And, he added with too much emphasis, that PPM extrapolates to yields that should improve by ten percent at the sorting operations due to the significantly improved environment for running our more sensitive and smaller geometry processes.

She cringed at the rambling technical assessments she had warned him against.

After reading from Failure Analysis reports, he skipped over the project’s critical payback on which she had patiently coached him. When no one said a word, Henry’s pleading eyes signaled that she could bail him out anytime now. To many, the uneasy engineer was paying the dues to temper the zealousness of youth. His was the third proposal to spend a quarter million dollars or more and the impressive payback he asked her to calculate mattered.

As he put his jacket back on, she asked, Henry, why don’t you translate the yield improvement of ten percent into dollars for the board?

He seemed puzzled and shrugged. She knew why. He thought her request was unnecessary. He had already over-explained that the equipment would make a clean die shrink on critical processes possible to yield more die from wafers and improve electrical performance from E-Sort to Final Test.

He shuffled notes. The ten percent yield improvement after installing the laminar flows would amount to…

Get it together, Henry. The board’s only alternative is to approve just one proposal.

Henry, I’d like to make a couple of financial points, if you don’t mind.

The engineer’s tense expression relaxed as the male board members focused on her with placid smiles. She was unsure if it was out of polite condescension for her ability to contribute or relief from Henry’s exhaustive technical details.

The payback, using only the benefit to current processes, is less than six months, she said to the stone-faced group. Based on the last failure analysis reports and sales forecasts, the yield improvement of ten percent is conservative, averaging approximately fifty-thousand dollars a month.

The venture capitalists turned to each other.

Doing nothing is also a decision, she advised. "A costly one. The clean room benefit to manufacturing performance is critical to our proprietary product margins. Henry literally shed light on her next words by stepping over to the wall and switching the rest of them back on. Besides increasing our margins from increased yields, capacity, and technical capability, it’s an investment in quality that will increase our global position as a technical leader with our V-MOS process."

The professor exchanged consulting glances with the venture capitalists before asking, Our custom military process?

Yes. With limited resources, this is the best spent money proposed today.

Any comments? Henry weakly asked as though hoping for no response.

Max Shielding, the manufacturing manager, looked anxiously around the table. Everyone except her father avoided eye contact with him.

Max’s dejection saddened her. Semiconductor managers unable to continually reduce costs and increase product performance didn’t last long. Upwardly mobile people were always waiting for an opportunity to provide new fabrication alchemy and receive the prestige and bonuses beyond most people’s dreams.

Max cleared his throat. I think it’s a no-brainer, especially if the yield improvement is conservative.

Well, Thurston said, if we get that much more product from the improved yields, as Charmaine suggests, we should be able to lay off ten percent of manufacturing. That will save even more money.

Max’s mouth hung open in disbelief. Two quarters ago, the glib attorney had argued that the new contracts for the growing electronic game and computer markets required not only hiring production headcount but also legal staff. He got them.

Thurston’s callousness incensed her. Laying off even one person isn’t warranted. The efficiencies and yield gains will result in more new product availability and the high quality our customers entrust us to deliver. We’ll gain incremental business.

Since you’re the person responsible for managing the company’s fiscal condition, I’m sure that preserving capital is important to you, Thurston said sarcastically, looking around the table for approval.

Experience has taught me that it’s trust that matters.

I agree to Henry’s proposal, her father stated, heading off any further discussion. "The higher yields on the new processes will mean more production volume, Thurston."

Henry collapsed his pointer, stuffed it into his crowded plastic pocket guard, and scooped up his files.

Excellent work in coordinating the Failure Analysis guys with your Development Engineering and the Fab team. You’ve brought us a proposal to improve profits and ensure the company’s long-term growth.

Several members of the committee bobbed their heads up and down in safe agreement as Henry left.

As for the parking lot proposal, her father said, I’d like to put it on the next agenda for more discussion. All those in favor of Henry’s clean-room proposal to purchase and install the laminar flow system, raise your hands. Thurston’s jaw bulged. His hand was the last to rise. Unless there is any more discussion, I’ll assume we can call this meeting adjourned.

The esteemed gathering of entrepreneurial investors and retired academics clustered into off-the-record discussion groups as they moved toward the door. A venture capitalist mentioned the name Zanty to Max Shielding causing Thurston to flip around scowling and listening.

If his father were still alive, she thought, he’d have better solutions than firing people.

Lacking his father’s interpersonal skills and technical knowledge to gain credibility, Thurston relied on political maneuvering, honing in on those ill-equipped to challenge legal precedent. Intimidation and control were his tools in shrewdly gathering power and wealth to score in his game of life.

My dear Iron Butterfly, he seethed, quoting a staff member’s nickname for her, we need to talk.

Seated too close to ignore the contempt he fired at her, she said, Talk? No, Thurston.

To thank you… for your generous support.

The snake coils, ready to strike.

She suddenly noticed the absence of background chatter.

Charmaine, tell me, Thurston sneered, sending the stale smell of last night’s alcohol in her face, what else do you have up your sleeve to dazzle the board with?

Why do you care what I have up my sleeve? Are you trying to force my hand?

Let’s not do this, he said in a falsely conciliatory tone. You know I care about your interests in my own way.

Respond, don’t react. She fought off calling him a pathetic unscrupulous deviate. If it suits your purpose. She picked up her bulky binder to leave.

In one swift motion, he leaned across the table and grasped her wrist.

Don’t let him see you squirm, she thought, unwilling to give satisfaction to the vile being who had manipulated her life and fouled the air she breathed. He wants me gone, total control, and so much more.

"Don’t be so self-righteous with me, Ms. Walker. Besides, my interests are your interests, or they should be—especially now."

Why ‘especially now? She felt a sense of foreboding. What could your self-serving interests possibly have to do with me? Lascivious scenes flashed. Especially, now.

You may be quite surprised, he taunted with a malicious squint that pulled her into an undertow of dread.

Your demented display in Chinatown last night may not get you the result you expect, she said, pretending his gripping fingers didn’t hurt.

His silence could be only intentional and strategic. His fingers unfurled. You were there? he asked, feigning surprise.

She eyed the empty hall and started for the door. He beat her to it, gating the doorway with his arm.

Remember, Charmaine, there are many sides to any situation. I will prevail.

Feeling trapped, she pushed with all her weight against his arm.

Get out of my way and get out of my life!

Breaking free, she catapulted into the hall, rebalancing while striding toward her office.

She bolted through the door and heaved the crammed binder onto her desk. Landing against the corner, it fell and broke open spreading months of accumulated financial analyses across the floor. She dropped into the high-backed Herculon chair behind her desk. Closing her eyes, she rubbed the tightness at her temples. If she revealed what she knew, it would be like grabbing a venomous snake by the tail. If she didn’t, many could be victims of his poison.

When she opened her eyes, Jim Bolger stood in the doorway.

Smells like a mix of Charlie perfume and rotting plants in here, her financial analyst bantered in his typical rapid-fire way. How long has it been since you changed the water in that vase? I’ve seen green water in here before but never dead flowers in brown muck.

Jim’s knack for making her laugh at herself usually worked, but he had barged in on life-changing thoughts.

Good meeting, Charmaine? He smiled broadly as if encouraging hers.

Laboring to be congenial, she finally said, Thanks for the clean-room cost improvement analysis you left on my desk last night. Your timing was immaculate.

Speaking of that, Laura Peters, the girl from that semiconductor industry magazine, wants to interview you before her deadline. ‘Wants to talk about the Teradyne tester versus the Sentry and yield improvements on devices for military applications.

"The girl?"

Young woman, Jim corrected. He lifted the binder off the floor, snapped the rings shut, and handed it to her. And I have invoices for you to sign. He retrieved and perused each page before stacking them on her desk by project into piles sequenced by date.

Thurston’s new assistant brought me the Kato and Associates invoices. He stuck ‘hot’ notes on each one as if I might ignore them otherwise. Thank you very much, Mr. Carl Benning, he sarcastically interjected. He’s no spitfire like Elizabeth was, but we know why she quit. At least Carl’s safe and on the ball. You know, I can’t figure him out. He rolled his eyes as if conjuring up thoughts regarding Benning. He’s a little old to be in the Student Experience Program. He probably hit mid-life crisis and decided to go back for his master’s. I’d bet he’s comfortable already on real estate equity or he never would’ve applied to be Thurston’s administrative support. Proactive, if not pushy. He wanted the signed invoices back to Thurston, like, right now.

She tried to ignore Jim’s commentaries, even if the information he provided in idle conversation had helped explain more than one office dynamic. He dramatically arched a reach over her desk to remove the offending vase of dead flowers and slimy water.

Whew. He made an exaggerated pucker. Let’s get this out of here.

Thanks, Jim. She rotated her chair to gaze out over the city that centered her.

Don’t thank me too quickly. I’ve booked a full schedule for you and I’ll be back with those invoices, he said, scampering out the door.

The absence of Jim’s positive energy returned her to the disturbing encounter with Thurston. As her lawyer warned, his attempt at intimidation was just the beginning. Potentially dire consequences made her course so risky.

So many unanswered questions. She threw her head back taking a deep tension-relieving breath.

Bad day? Thurston stood just inside her door with his arms folded across his chest. She did not respond. Don’t fuck with me, Charmaine. You should know by now, I’m always prepared for any eventuality. He looked at her over his shoulder while sauntering away.

A few minutes later, her hurried steps clicked down the hall while passing framed pastel computer-aided designs of circuitry masquerading as geometric modern art.

Jim scurried from his cubicle to catch up. Our mainframe seems to have a mind of its own again. Will you be back to sign those invoices?

After passing the open door to the Production Control area, a scheduling supervisor poked her head out.

Charmaine, can you meet with me and Max on the shipping forecast at three?

No, she said, hearing her own abruptness.

Whoa, the scheduler uttered.

Still on the move, Jim pointed back. Do you want me to schedule that for first thing in the morning?

Jim kept following as she headed down the stairs. As they crossed the lobby, he asked with exasperation, Will you be back for your two o’clock?

No, I won’t, she blurted in a gruff tone she didn’t recognize. Please reschedule, Jim.

As she opened the glass front door, the busy sounds of the traffic bounced off the