Chapter Text
Manousos gets up at six, showers, and dresses in fresh clothes for the first time in the three days since they left Albuquerque. Zosia's car is small and he used most of his allotted trunk space for his gear instead of a suitcase.
Carol is sitting at Koumba's breakfast table when he walks into the spacious, recently renovated townhome kitchen. She's still up rather than up early, and she looks like death warmed over and left to cool again. The worst part of it is that, at some point in the night, she obviously attempted to do her makeup and style her hair—effort she rarely makes these days.
"You look like shit," he says, which is what he usually says instead of good morning. It's more true and she has always respected honesty more than civility.
"Did you sleep?" she asks.
"Yes," he says, "and you can tell because I don't look like shit."
"Your clothes are wrinkled."
Their host, Koumba Diabaté, bustles in and turns the lights from the dim setting Carol had them on up to full brightness. He's wearing a tailored gray suit and maroon shirt (no tie), and he looks fresh and well-rested despite having been awake to welcome them in at two. "Good morning."
Carol winces at the sudden glare, but manages a return greeting.
"May I get you some coffee?"
"God, yes," says Carol. Manousos just nods.
As he busies himself with the stainless steel espresso machine on one of his many marble countertops, Koumba tries to make small talk. Manousos, who has never understood the point of such conversations (he was indifferent to the discomfort of the journey, does not care about the weather, and lacks anything to say about the house), stays silent and lets Carol exert herself for once.
As she's struggling, he collects his coffee and slips away to fetch his laptop. There's a large television in the living room and he needs to set it up so Carol can present their plan.
The others drift in to the living room over the next several minutes, and it's barely past seven when Carol hands out manila file folders, each filled almost to bursting with a stack of papers, photographs, and envelopes, to Laxmi, Zosia, and Helen.
"Didn't you arrange for breakfast?" Laxmi asks instead of opening her folder. She's chosen an armchair, leaving Zosia and Helen settled on a couch alongside Manousos. Manousos does not want to be next to Helen, but Zosia has positioned herself so she's closer to where Carol is standing.
"Eat later," Carol says brusquely, cutting across Koumba's apologies for not having something suitable on hand. "I need Koumba to explain something before he has to go to work."
Laxmi sniffs.
"Right," Carol says, and frowns. He realizes that the five of them make up the largest group of people she's spoken to at once since she lost her job six years ago. "Manousos?"
Manousos opens the presentation. First up is a headshot of a middle-aged white man with a full head of black hair that has been strategically dyed and styled to allow for some tasteful graying at the temples. He's not wearing a suit jacket, a choice obviously made so he could roll up his shirt sleeves and expose a pair of muscular forearms. He's topped the can-do look off with a smirk that even Manousos can recognize as cocky.
"The mark is this schmuck," Carol says. "Bradley Peyton Powell, 45. He grew up in Culpepper, went to William and Mary for undergrad, got an MBA from Duke, then came back home to join Daddy's company. He's been the CEO for five years."
"Where's dad?" Zosia asks.
"He retired and moved to Thailand. I don't need to tell you that he's not married to Brad's mom anymore. Before you ask, I think she's spending all her alimony on card games in Europe."
Manousos nods confirmation.
Helen speaks up. "Personal life?"
"The usual. He's on his second wife, has five kids between the two of them. He golfs, sails, dives, has opinions on football. Uh, American football. There's a full rundown in your file. As for his company…"
Manousos moves on to the next slide.
"It's called Trionfi. They provide contingent workforces. Basically, if you need something built, you contract with them and they send workers out to your job site. Their clients are mostly companies that get construction contracts with the federal government."
"Now. Here's where it gets interesting. The companies that have a direct relationship with the government never end up having to check their workers' paperwork to make sure that it's legal for them to work in the United States. That's Trionfi's job, and Trionfi does not do that. You follow?"
"No," Laxmi says. "This has to do with your labor laws, doesn't it?"
Carol grimaces. "Koumba?"
"Take a simplified example," Koumba says. "Say the contractor pays Trionfi fifty dollars per hour per worker. Call overhead costs—office space, training, administrative support—thirty dollars, leaving fifteen for the worker's received wage and five for profit. If you can scare a worker into not reporting the fact you're only giving him ten, you can pocket an extra five."
"And in this case," Carol goes on, "you can get away with it because you only hire people who can be jailed and deported if they complain."
"It's the perfect crime," Koumba says grimly. "It took me months to pin down what was going on."
Carol's mouth twists. "You know that if we do take this company down—"
"If?" Laxmi exclaims.
"Then you might end up losing your job. Are you okay with that?"
"I came to peace with that possibility before finding Manousos." He looks at his watch, a blueish Grand Seiko that Manousos would like to get a closer look at. "I have to leave before 270 gets too crowded—unless you need me here, in which case I will call out sick."
"No," Carol says. "I don't want you to do anything out of the ordinary this week, and I don't want you to know what exactly we're planning. You're already teetering on the edge of potential conspiracy charges, and you need plausible deniability."
"'Conspiracy charges.'" Laxmi throws up her hands. "Are you expecting to get caught? Let him stay. We need him for the party anyway, yes?"
"Manousos," Carol says without looking at Laxmi, "did you bring your dictionary?"
Of course he didn't bring his dictionary. His backpack barely had enough room for enough clean underwear. He shakes his head.
"Gee, shucks. I was hoping Laxmi could look up the word contingency. Well, never mind."
"Koumba," Helen says, "thank you. I think we'll take it from here."
Carol throws Helen a very sour look.