Free Falling Sideways by Kennedy Thomas E. Page A

Kampman is a fox. Everyone knew this was coming, but when he didn’t do anything about it, he created the illusion that everything was fine, that there was some kind of alternate plan. Well, everything was fine. From Kampman’s viewpoint. Now he has an excuse to hack away all the deadwood before he rebuilds …”
    “But you …?”
    “ I am an idiot. He’s got my whole network. It never occurred to me to wonder why he’s taken such a keen interest in my work for the past couple of years. He gave me everything I asked him for, so I gave him everything he asked me for. Now he’s got it all, and I’m superfluous. Seven years before my time.”
    “But your contract …”
    “Verbal. I made a verbal contract five years ago with Jørgen Fastholm. We had such a good relationship that I got lazy. Jørgen was not an easy guy—a CEO can’t be—but he always kept his word, and he didn’t pull this kind of crap on you.”
    “But the Academic Union would—”
    “Not a member. Like I said, I’m an idiot.” Breathwaite turned his eyes on Jaeger, who could see he wanted something, but Jaeger’s own need was stronger. “Who, who else, is—”
    “You’re safe.”
    “I’m safe?”
    Breathwaite nodded. “You’re just going to have to work a little harder. You’ll be taking over a good piece of what I do. The rest will be farmed out.” He relit his robusto, puffing vigorously, cheeks hollowing with the effort. “Kampman asked me whether you were strong enough to do the job.”
    “He did?” Despite himself, Jaeger whispered again, “He did?”
    Breathwaite nodded. “I vouched for you from the start, and I’ll do it to the bitter end.”
    Sweat was oozing down Jaeger’s back. Why was Breathwaite telling him this? Could he believe it? He had to. He did. Was it a trick? A strategy? Jaeger knew that he was not a strategic thinker, he knew that about himself. He ran on instinct and was meticulous about not being a threat to those who could hurt him. But why would Breathwaite tell him all this?
    “You’re empty,” Breathwaite said. Jaeger heard it as an accusation and raised his eyes, startled, but Breathwaite reached for the thirty-year-old, refurbished Jaeger’s glass, then his own. “So what do you think?”
    “I don’t know what to think.”
    “You must be thinking something.”
    Jaeger shook his head. “Why are you telling me this?”
    “I’ve got a favor to ask.”
    “Anything,” Jaeger blurted. “Anything I can. You always stood up for me. Without you, I wouldn’t be here.” Breathwaite had chaired the hiring committee fourteen years before that selected Jaeger out of a slush pile of over one hundred applications for his job. And had saved his arse more than once since. He would do whatever he could for Breathwaite. Within reason.
    “You’re going to need some part-time help. Someone with English. To help with some of the international portfolios. Someone who can write perfect English and who can translate and who knows Denmark and Danish, too.”
    “You don’t mean … You mean you want to work for me?”
    Breathwaite’s gaze went chill. Jaeger saw a brief flash of disdain—or did he imagine it?—before the man’s mouth opened in laughter. “No! No no no. I’m done. I would appreciate your telling Kampman you need some part-time help and suggesting, very strongly suggesting, my son for the job. My youngest. Jes. Which I will already have suggested.”

11. Martin Kampman
    With true discipline, the routine and its rhythm are internalized. Into the body. At 4:59 A.M., Kampman opened his eyes. He lay neatly on his back on his side of the bed. His right hand reached swiftly to the night table and lifted the clock down before his eyes: 4:59. He smiled at the green luminous ciphers, which confirmed what he already knew and stopped the alarm an instant before it sounded.
    His aim was one day to so perfectly incorporate time into his bloodstream and nervous system that he could live without