Page 11 of Whistleblower

EDEN

I thought Agent Jeffrey Callen simply wanted to talk in the car. The FBI agents used to check in on me often before the trial against Empress was over. After the case closed, they disappeared. Unfortunately, the threats and harassment did not. They abandoned me when I needed them the most.

Therefore, I was surprised to find Callen popping in on me in the parking garage. I was even more surprised by his request to take me to a late breakfast. He insisted we drive to a quaint little diner about forty-five minutes outside of city limits.

Leaning back in the red-tufted booth of the sixties-styled diner, I stare at Callen— bewildered—as he inhales a tall stack of syrup-drenched pancakes. His aggressive chewing is making my stomach churn. I have to remind myself it’s probably a felony to reach across this booth and smack a federal agent.

“You’ve barely touched your food.” He eyes my plate, his obvious remark sounding more like a question.

Here’s what I’ve learned about agents over the past year: they turn simple statements into questions, and the questions they ask are never what they’re actually asking. At this point, I’m good at reading between the lines.

“I haven’t been doing well after the trial. I can’t find a job. I can’t even leave this city because I have no money, and my reputation would follow me across state lines anyway. I’m in severe debt from legal fees. I’m about to lose my home. I hoped the interview this morning might turn things around, but not even my old friends are able to help me. I’m stuck, and honestly, if it means I can get out of this purgatory, I’m ready to drop right down to hell.”

Slowing his chewing, Callen lifts his eyes to meet my stare.

“Oh, I’m sorry. Too much honesty?” I ask with sass before fake-coughing into my fist. “I meant I’m just not that hungry.”

He drops his fork which bounces off his plate, causing a couple of sticky droplets to land on the glass tabletop. “I can’t imagine any of this has been easy.”

“You were—”

I’m interrupted when the waitress, dressed in full costume—a pale pink zip-up dress, with a white apron—stops at our booth to refill our mugs of coffee. She flashes a sweet smile and I thank her. Even at the peak of my frustration, I make room for manners. It’s not this waitress’s fault my life is in shambles. Winking, she nods once and then retreats from the table. The minute she’s out of earshot, I continue my verbal assault.

“The FBI was supposed to see me through every step of the way. Isn’t that what you all told me?” It’s not exactly fair, Callen is a new-to-me agent. I think it was Fisher and Marks that I communicated with the most. “You guys said no matter what, you’d make sure I was taken care of. You guys called me a…” I trail off, cringing at how pathetic I sound at the moment. Taking a deep breath, I let the urge to cry calm down. “You called me a hero. You told me I did the right thing. You said I stopped a civil war, even. And now look at me. Everyone else got consequences or was able to move on, but not me. Look. At. Me. I can’t go forward, I can’t go back.”

Callen holds both palms up in surrender, and even I’m surprised by my accusing tone. “I understand, Dr. Abbott. That’s why I’m here.”

“Eden, please,” I remind him. “Why are you here?”

He pulls a pen out of his pocket, then lifts his mug and retrieves the cardboard coaster it was resting on. After scribbling something down on the outside margin of the diner’s logo, he slides the coaster over to me.

“I’m here to offer you a job. This is your starting salary. In addition, we’ll take care of corporate housing, allowance for meals, a company car”—he rolls his wrist—“etcetera.”

I balk at the number scribbled in black ink. At the moment it looks like a get-out-of-jail-free card, but I force myself to keep my composure. “What’s the job?”

Something in his expression changes. His cool demeanor slowly dissolves as he mentally scrambles for what no doubt will be a lie. “It’s something along the lines of your expertise.”

Okay, here we go.

“And what exactly do you think my expertise is?” Explaining what I do is about thirty percent of my job.

“You help keep people in line—compliant. Human resources, right?” Callen squints at me, his bushy dark eyebrows furrowing.

I shut my eyes and rub against my closed lids as I prepare myself to deliver the speech I have hundreds of times before. “I’m a consultant. I work with companies for a few months at a time. I take organizations in their adolescent phases and help them scale by focusing on human capital. My job is to study companies from the inside out and create a strategy to incentivize employees for maximum productivity. Happy employees mean minimal turnover. Turnover is expensive.”

“I agree with you there,” Callen huffs out.

“The bottom line is I work hand-in-hand with Human Resources—I train HR employees—but I’m not technically HR.”

“Potato, po-tah-to. In my opinion, you have a doctorate in goddamn common sense, and you’ve proven yourself to be upright and trustworthy.”

According to you. The founders at Empress would strongly disagree.

“Well, I don’t think organizational leadership and compliance is exactly a new concept to the FBI. What could you possibly need my help with?”

Let’s just get to the point. I have no room to be picky or choosy, plus Callen just offered me a salary that is comparable to what I was making at the peak of my career. I didn’t realize federal agencies even had that kind of budget. It’s more than enough to save my home from the bank.

“I need help with a division we call PALADIN, or what’s left of it anyway.”

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