Page 139 of Only the Wicked

“It is most weekends. That’s not to say that people aren’t working from home.”

Right now, he’s calm, making small talk, maybe trying to subtly emphasize that his office does important work.

Last night, after we observed Dristol and Romanovich, Quinn and Daisy aligned efforts and uncovered evidence that points to Dristol selling state secrets to Russia.

Of course, it’s not Dristol who asked to meet with me. And it’s doubtful he’d do anything without his boss’s knowledge, which means Crawford is likely in on it. Possibly using his chief of staff for execution of the sales.

Crawford could’ve requested this meeting for related reasons, or this could simply be another pitch for expanding into his home state.

“You and Sydney,” he says, then sniffs and rubs his nose.

Allergies? Perhaps discomfort.

“You seem happy.”

The elevator doors slide open, relieving me of an immediate response.

She’s listening, MacMillan. Take advantage.

“We are happy. When I met her, I wasn’t in a great place, but she’s unexpected. She’s reminded me that there’s a world outside Silicon Valley.”

The swimming hole comes to mind: the memory an elixir. Today, she’s dressed like that version of herself, although perhaps slightly more citified. I’d like to bring her back to the mountains, back to nature. I may need to buy that piece of land from my friend’s family.

“She’s a lovely woman,” Crawford says, opening the door into a small conference room. “You’re a lucky man.”

It’s curious he didn’t bring me into his office. I scan the sparse room and note a black glass bulb. Does he want our meeting on video?

His choice.

“When I met her before, like you, I wasn’t in a great place.”

I get the sense he wants to say more, but I’m not about to probe into their shared past. That’s not why I’m here.

We stand there, my hands in my trousers, fingering the silver disk to activate it since he’s clearly not going to scan for a listening device. Crawford appears slightly dazed in his brown trousers, a multi-colored striped button down, and brown leather braided belt—his version of Sunday casual.

“Anyway,” he says, blinking like he’s snapping himself out of a dream, “Have a seat. You’re probably wondering why I asked to meet with you on a Sunday.”

“The question crossed my mind.”

I sit, leaning back in the chair.

“I always make time for my valued donors. Especially ones with a product as impressive as ARGUS.”

“Thank you,” I say, wondering where the hell he’s going with this.

“It’s my understanding that you’re doing some impressive work for the Pentagon. It’s so impressive though…” He drums his fingers on the armrest, his expression pensive. “Some of my colleagues have concerns about national security. Some are saying what you have is a weapon. And, I wanted to spend some time, me and you, one on one, getting your perspective on that.”

“You’re saying that some within congress consider ARGUS to be a security risk?” I speak slowly, processing the unexpected direction of this conversation.

“From what I understand, your system combs through vast amounts of data, even images, from multiple sources and finds connections. Smarter people than me have framed it as the most advanced surveillance tool on the planet.”

“If it’s used that way, then yes.”

“And you vet your employees, right? I know I saw a file on that…”

“Yes. Absolutely. Although, our employees have limited access to query the data. We support, yes, but we aren’t the ones using the system. The client is.”

He inhales. “Right. You know, what I’m going to say I imagine won’t be news to you given you’re with Sydney.”