The Negotiation
David Porter stood outside the glass doors of HemaTech’s headquarters, checking his watch for the third time in as many minutes. 11:47 PM. An unusual hour for a business meeting, but then again, everything about this story had been unusual from the start. His editor at the Wall Street Journal had questioned his sanity when he’d mentioned the late-night summons, but Porter had learned to trust his instincts over his thirty-year career in investigative journalism.
The security guard who opened the door wasn’t the same one from his previous visit. This one moved with a fluid grace that seemed incongruous with his bulky frame, and his eyes followed Porter’s own movements with an intensity that made the reporter’s skin crawl.
“Mr. Porter,” the guard said, his accent vaguely Eastern European. “You’re expected. Please follow me.”
The building somehow felt different than it had upon his first visit. There was a watchful quality to the shadows, as if the darkness itself was observing his passage. Porter had spent weeks in war zones and interviewed everyone from Fortune 500 CEOs to drug cartel commanders, but he’d rarely felt this sense of being fundamentally out of his depth.
They took the executive elevator to the top floor, emerging into a corridor Porter didn’t remember from his previous visit. The guard led him to a conference room where HemaTech’s CEO was waiting, accompanied by his two beautiful assistants, the enigmatic Chiara del Giorgio and her colleague Natalie Acherman.
“Mr. Porter,” Grahame said, rising from his seat. “Thank you for accepting my invitation.”
“My deadline is tomorrow morning, Elliott,” Porter replied, not bothering with pleasantries. “The story is already written and ready to go. If you have anything more to tell me, now would be the time.”
“Indeed.” Grahame gestured to an empty chair. “But first, I’d like you to meet someone. Someone who is able to tell you much more than I can.”
The conference room’s far door opened, and the man who entered immediately commanded the space. He wasn’t particularly tall or physically imposing, but there was something about him that arrested the eye. He wore a perfectly tailored charcoal suit that looked like it cost more than Porter’s car, and his dark eyes held depths that somehow struck him as impossibly ancient.
“Mr. Porter,” the man said, his voice carrying a slight Italian accent. “I am Lorenzo de Medici. I believe you’ve been asking questions about my organization and some of our recent investments.”
Porter’s journalistic instincts went into overdrive. Lorenzo de Medici—a name that had appeared in his research but with frustratingly little detail. Corporate records showed him as a major investor in HemaTech, but beyond that, the man was a ghost.
“Lord Medici,” Porter said, deciding to test the waters with the title he’d seen referenced in one obscure document. “Tell me, is that a legitimate title?”
Medici smiled, a expression that didn’t quite reach his eyes. “You’ve done your homework, I see. That should save us some time.” He moved to the head of the table with a grace that seemed almost choreographed. “Please, sit. We have much to discuss.”
Porter remained standing. “With respect, Mr. Medici, I’m on deadline. I have a story to file. Unless you’re prepared to provide substantive answers to my questions—”
“Of course. My apologies, Mr. Porter. In answer to your first question, yes, my title is entirely legitimate and I am entered in all the appropriate lists of the Italian nobility.”
“Well, thank you for answering that, sir. But with all due respect, Lord Medici, your family history is not one of the more important questions I have about HemaTech and the way in which you took it off the IPO calendar at the last minute.”
“I’m prepared to offer you something far more valuable than answers to the questions you’ve asked,” Medici replied smoothly. “I’m prepared to offer you answers to questions you haven’t even thought to ask yet.”
Did not see that coming, Porter thought. Better dial it back a notch. He nodded and sat down. “I’m listening.”
Medici settled into his chair, his movements deliberate and controlled. “Mr. Porter, you believe HemaTech has developed revolutionary life-extension technology. You believe my organization has invested in it in order to restrict its distribution to a small population of wealthy elites. You also believe certain people have died to keep this secret.” He paused, his dark eyes studying Porter with an intensity that was almost physical. “What if I told you that you’re substantively correct, and yet, completely wrong?”
Porter felt his pulse quicken. After weeks of investigation, hitting dead ends and stonewalls at every turn, here was someone actually acknowledging the truth of his suspicions. He pulled out his digital recorder. “May I?”
“No,” Medici said. “First, we need to establish terms of an arrangement that is mutually acceptable.”
“I don’t allow the subjects of my stories to write them.”
“Of course not. You’re a proper journalist, with the true journalistic integrity that is all too rare these days. I respect that.” Medici’s fingers steepled in front of him. “Which is why I’m not asking you to kill your story or to bowlderize it. I’m merely asking you to delay it.”
Porter’s eyes narrowed. “For how long?”
“One month.”
“One month! That’s not happening. My editor is expecting—”
“Your editor is expecting a story about corporate malfeasance and a few suspicious deaths,” Medici interrupted. “What I’m offering you is the story of your life. The story of the century. Exclusive access to our research, our scientists, our facilities. Full transparency about what HemaTech has actually achieved. All of it on the record, documented, and verifiable.”
“And what’s the catch?”
“The catch, Mr. Porter, is that this story is far larger and more complex than you imagine. Publishing what you have now would be much like describing an elephant by touching no more than its tail. No matter how well and how accurately you described what you felt, your description would be catastrophically wrong about the nature of the beast.”
“That’s an apt metaphor, Lord Medici, but I need more specifics than that.”
“I understand.” Medici was quiet for a moment, seeming to weigh his words. “All right, let me be direct. If you publish your story tomorrow, you will be correct in your various factual assertions, by and large, but entirely wrong in your conclusions. Perhaps of more concern to you is that the publication of your story at this time will trigger responses from various interested parties whose actions are out of my control.”
“Are you threatening me?”
“I am warning you of a danger about which you know nothing.” Medici’s expression grew serious. “I have no interest in harming you, Mr. Porter. In fact, I’m even willing to offer you my personal protection. But there are others—entities and organizations with different priorities and different values—who would view the publication of the version of the story you’ve written as an act that would require your immediate elimination.”
Porter felt a chill run down his spine. “You’re saying someone would kill me for publishing this story?”
“Yes.”
Out of the Shadows is available in Kindle, KU, audibook, and hardcover editions.