“He said you weren’t ready. And he was right.”
“Who in the hell are you to decide whether I can do a security job or not?” I make it clear with the way my eyes check him out that this pasty, overweight, pompous overachiever is the last person qualified to judge me.
“He called it, Drew.”
“I want to hear it from him.”
Beady eyes, narrow and angry, meet mine. “This isn’t personal,” Marshall says in a monotone. “The fact that you can’t understand that confirms that firing you is the right choice, Foster. That’s how the game works.”
“Protecting Lindsay isn’t a game.”
“I never said that. But the presidential race is a game – a game of strategy. You don’t fit in. Not with your personal vendetta against one of the key players.”
“Key players? Blaine’s a key player?”
“He’s more important as a strategic piece than you are. Consider yourself lucky Harry’s found a way to still use Paulson.”
“I don’t give a shit about that, Marshall. This isn’t about billable security hours or money or friendship. The stakes are higher!”
“That’s right. They are. A presidency is at stake here, and we’re not going to let you compromise that because you had some kind of argument years ago with Blaine Maisri over a woman,” Marshall snaps back, going for the jugular. A bitter smile makes his lips twitch.
The fucker is enjoying this.
I am thunderstruck.
I’ve seriously underestimated him.
“A what?”
“Blaine told me all about it. He dated Lindsay. So did you. You’ve become unhinged since she came back. You aren’t thinking straight.”
Harry’s watching us carefully, though I can tell his attention is split. He knows this is bullshit. I calculate quickly.
One of two pieces of information is true:
1) Marshall is on Blaine’s side and somehow Harry doesn’t realize it 2) Marshall has been kept out of the loop on all the details from four years ago.
Both can’t be true.
And both are dangerous as hell.
If I have to pick one, though, number two is easier to deal with.
Number one is the choice I’m most worried about.
I ignore Marshall and turn to Harry. “You know the truth about Blaine Maisri, Harry. Is this really your final decision?”
His look doesn’t waver. Unlike Marshall, he doesn’t avoid my eyes. “Already been made. Mark Paulson will call you shortly. Hand over all your codes, passwords, everything, to be changed over to new. Stay away, Drew. Stay far away. It’s about press coverage and appearance.” Harry grabs my arm and pulls me aside. He’s not rough. In fact, the move is smooth, like he knows he can touch me this way.
I yank my arm out of his grasp.
He needs to know he can’t.
Harry gives Marshall a look. The guy leaves the room, shaking his head, on his phone before the doorknob clicks with a finality that feels like a guillotine blade.
“I mean it, Drew. Don’t come near her. No covert mission. No unauthorized security on her. I’ll consider that stalking and have you prosecuted,” Harry insists.
“How well do you know Marshall?”
The question catches him off guard. “What?”
“How well do you know him?” I stare at the back of the door.
“Since college days. We were in the same fraternity.” His eyes narrow. “Why? Do you know something about him I need to know?”
This is why Harry has gotten as far as he has. A lesser man would become angry and defensive with my question. Not Harry.
He’s all matter-of-fact
“No, but this doesn’t make sense.”
“You’re clearly upset, and I understand -- ”
“No. Harry. This. Doesn’t. Make. Sense. My guys cleared the security angle. No one had a reason to take that picture in that exact moment.”
He rolls his eyes. “So you did plan this.”
“Yes.” Might as well admit it. What do I have to lose? “And that makes the picture in the newspaper more troubling. Marshall’s the one who came to you with it?”
“He’s my reputation management specialist. He’s the one who would.”
“Fine. But how close is he to Blaine’s camp? For God’s sake, Harry, you know that story about Blaine dating Lindsay is bullshit.”
“He took her to a dance when they were in high school, Drew. We have photos somewhere in an album at home. So does Blaine.”
I trawl my memory. I was a senior the year Lindsay was a freshman. We weren’t dating yet. “You’re basing my alleged stalker status on that pretense? That bullshit?”
“It doesn’t take much, Drew,” he says sadly, surprising me. The guy is cool as can be, always in a logical frame of mind, ever calculating. “It’s all about appearance.”
“You appear to be easy to manipulate, Harry. Marshall’s playing you.”
“You think he’s a plant?” I expect him to be angry, but he gets to the point.
“Don’t know. Getting rid of me makes sense on the surface,” I say, conceding the point. “Now that it’s all public and you’re worried about appearances. Your team can spin this.”