Mr. CEO(99)

Maverick obviously does, as the giant dog wags his tail briskly. Nathan looks over at me, then back at Maverick. “You think it'd be okay if Jackson comes along?”

Maverick wags again, settling the issue. Nathan reaches over and unsnaps the long lead attached to Maverick's collar, and rubs his head. “Well, come on then. Maybe only a mile or so, then we can head back.”

Maverick goes bounding off, acting for all the world like a two-hundred-pound puppy, heading for the door. His dog out of earshot, Nathan speaks to me for the first time. “Your shoes will get muddy. And I'd appreciate it if you'd limit the unpleasant talk around Maverick. He's a big baby, but he's my baby.”

I look down and shrug. “I can get others. It's not as important as what you and I need to discuss.”

Nathan nods and takes the lead, his long legs eating up the ground. We leave the stables and head north, into the unkempt scrubland that used to be indigo fields two hundred years ago. It's now mostly fields, with a little bit of wild indigo still covering areas of the property, but most of it disappeared after later attempts to turn the fields into tobacco and then cotton before the Civil War broke out. For Maverick, the open spaces are wonderful, even as I feel the first squelch of mud underneath my foot. “So why'd you brush him before this run?”

“We start every day with a brushing, even if it's just a few minutes,” Nathan says, and I notice that he's changed into what looks like old combat boots, albeit unlaced. “Like I said, he's my baby, since I've never had children of my own. Lots of nieces and nephews, but none of my own.”

“How often do you see them?” I ask, surprised at this insight into Nathan's mind. It's like when we sat down for tea, I'm finding depths to the man that I never knew existed.

“Not often enough,” he admits. “Some of it is because I'm pretty busy working for Peter, but also... well, I'm not the sort of uncle that is exactly welcome at the family Thanksgiving table. How do you explain to a five-year-old that the richest member of the family got that way because he's put enough men in the ground to populate a small village?”

“Yet you keep doing it,” I say quietly. “I'm not accusing you, just saying.”

Nathan nods, his eyes following Maverick as the dog goes sniffing around. “Maverick! Leave that rabbit alone!” he hollers with a laugh, then sobers. “I do. It's all I've ever known, and to try and make myself out to be something more than what I am... I think the ghosts of my past would condemn me even more if I pretended to be something I'm not. But there's a part of me that would like to go back if I could, back to when I was a Green Beret. Yeah, there was a lot of killing then... but we did more than that. I can remember going into what some people call Kurdistan. We were working a black ops mission, this was when Saddam was still in power, just after the Mogadishu op that I told you about. We were supposedly there to reinforce the no-fly zone Clinton insisted on, but really we were there to help the Kurds get on their feet. I spent ninety days in that area, and never fired a shot. But what I did do was help them build three schools, and we dug two wells for villages that were struggling. I'll never forget the look in the eyes of those Kurd children when I pumped the handle, and fresh, clean water flowed out of that pipe. They thought I was Santa Claus and Allah all wrapped up in one that day. I use that image a lot when I meditate, trying to find inner peace.”

“And how much meditation will it take for you to find inner peace with what Peter just told you?” I ask. “Hours? Days?”

Nathan stops and turns to face me fully, his scarred eye wide, his right eye arched. “Peter? I think that's the first time I've ever heard you call him anything other than Pops.”

“Considering the man just told me that if I ever talk back to him again he'd have my own throat cut, I think that disqualifies him from being referred to by a fatherly name, don't you?” I ask. “But my question stands, Nathan. What are you going to do?”

Nathan turns and watches Maverick bound along. “Did you know the average Great Dane lives only six to ten years? It's why they're also called the Heartbreak Breed, because they're so affectionate, but they die so quickly. But it's also part of the reason I chose Maverick. He's already four, I've had him since he was a puppy. But I know that if I ever piss off Peter DeLaCoeur... there are other men who will do what I will not. Including dropping my corpse into the Gulf. Oh, not that I'd make it easy for them, it'd be a very expensive operation for sure. But I wouldn't want to rob an innocent dog of love and affection, or of too much of his life. You know your... that Peter would have Maverick killed first. It's a poor way to soothe my conscience, but I wouldn't be robbing Maverick of too much of his life if that happens.”