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of crushing it in whistle-blower litigation cases. So basically her message – sent at 3.41 – is that I should skip this meeting . . . that I shouldn’t go near Galansky . . .
    I look around reception again.
    I could just walk out, but . . . there are surveillance cameras everywhere. If I bolt now, they’ll have footage of me behaving like a suspicious low life that could be used at some future point – in a courtroom, say, or online. Something else that’s bothering me is Kate’s use of the word ‘whistle-blower’. Even though this is exactly what I’m proposing not to become, it isn’t really how I ever thought of myself in the first place. But I suppose when I was confronting the Gideon manager at the base, or attempting to speak with Congressman Jack Gwynne, what the hell did I think I was doing?
    Sensing movement, I look up and see a man appearing from a hallway over to the left. As he passes the receptionist, he says something I don’t catch and then heads over in my direction. I stand up as he gets near. He’s mid-sixties, I’d say, medium height, burly, muscular even, and tanned. He’s wearing a suit, but not a tie. There’s something about him . . . two things, in fact. One, he doesn’t really seem like a buttoned-up corporate type. And two, he looks vaguely familiar.
    I stretch out my hand, ‘Hi. I’m Daniel Lynch.’
    We shake. His grip is firm, and fairly intense, like his smile.
    ‘How are you, Daniel? Or . . . Danny , right? I can call you Danny?’
    ‘Sure. And I’m good. I guess.’ I pause here and take a deep breath. This is uncomfortable, but better to forge ahead, I reckon, better to get right to it. ‘Look, Mr Galansky, I got a letter from you this morning, from Abe Porter actually, that . . . well, that came as something of a shock to me.’
    ‘Of course.’ He nods vigorously and places an outstretched hand on my shoulder. ‘But listen, Danny, first I owe you an apology, okay? I’m not Mr Galansky. Artie is otherwise engaged, there’s been some development in . . . I don’t know what in, some case, who knows, but he’s pretty much chained to his desk for now. You and I can talk, though, right?’ He withdraws his hand from my shoulder. ‘And you know what?’ He glances around, as though someone might be listening. ‘Frankly, I’m happy to keep legal out of this.’
    I stare at him, trying to make sense of what I’ve just heard.
    ‘Look at you,’ he says, and laughs. ‘Wondering who the hell this guy is. Well, I don’t blame you, Danny, to be honest. But let me introduce myself, okay? My name is Phil Coover.’
    I don’t recognise his name, but I do remember where I’ve seen him before. It was in Afghanistan, at the base, and probably more than once. I would have seen him around the admin offices, is my guess, or in the back of a car coming through the checkpoint, or with a visiting group of military brass. Who the fuck knows. But he radiates a confidence that you don’t forget, a looseness. People with serious skin in the game, like high-level corporate execs or four-star generals, tend to be very uptight and locked in to what they’re doing. This guy has none of that. It’s as if he thinks it really is a game.
    But clearly he’s with Gideon Logistics, even though you wouldn’t think it from the way he’s behaving. After supplying his name, for instance, he consults his watch like he’s on a golf course and says, ‘You know what? Enough of this shit, let’s go for a drink.’
    I do an internal double take.
    Because right now I’d fucking love to go for a drink, but not in these circumstances, not with this guy. Not with a possible lawsuit hanging over me.
    I look at him. ‘A drink ?’
    ‘Yeah,’ he says, ‘why not? There’s a little place across the street, it’s quiet, they have these exquisite olives. Best in the city.’
    So, before I know it, we’re riding the elevator down to the lobby. Turns out this is another thing about