The ancient lift descended very slowly as Mr. Carmichael accompanied Mr. Eggers to the training area in the basement of the Guild’s headquarters.
“I do wish Mr. Emerson would stop sending me memos criticizing our management structure.”
Mr. Eggers managed a faint smile. “I suppose that’s why we employ new blood. Keep us on our toes.”
“I know,” agreed Mr. Carmichael. “But really, is his obsession with modernizing everything really helping? ‘Chairman’ is old-fashioned, according to Mr. Emerson. I should be ‘MD.’ Or even ‘CEO.’” Mr. Carmichael shuddered. He had a great aversion to the term “CEO.” “I don’t think changing our job titles is going to make us better werewolf hunters.”
“I don’t suppose it will,” said Mr. Eggers. “But he might be right about our board of directors. Some of them do belong in the last century. Or the one before.”
There was a divide in the board of directors, which could be roughly described as traditionalists against modernizers. Mr. Carmichael was firmly on the side of the traditionalists. Had he had his way, most of the Guild’s new executives would never have been appointed. His hand had been forced by events. Mr. Carmichael had come under pressure because of the setbacks they’d suffered. They’d lost a great many hunters, including their best operative, Captain Easterly, who’d been killed in Scotland. Also dead was Albermarle, who’d been their best computer specialist. He was sorely missed, although, as Mr. Carmichael grudgingly acknowledged, the new information technology team recruited by Mr. Emerson did seem very competent. Security had improved.
The lift doors opened and they stepped out into the dark corridor that led to the training area.
“I admit Emerson’s hired some good people,” said Mr. Carmichael. “That doesn’t mean he can go around changing people’s job titles. And I still don’t like the way he tightened up on our expenses. When I became chairman there was no need to record every penny you spent at lunch.”
They halted outside a solid metal door, incongruous in the old wood-paneled hallway. Mr. Carmichael inserted his electronic pass and it slid open. They entered the small, glass-fronted room that looked out onto the training area. He greeted his eldest son, who oversaw the Guild’s training department.
“Hello, John. How are they doing?”
“Very well,” said John Carmichael. “No one has ever gone through the advanced course as quickly as Group Sixteen.” John was tall and much stockier than his father.
Group Sixteen was made up of four of their new hunters. They all had military experience, and they’d completed their basic werewolf-hunting training in record time. On their first mission they’d killed Minerva MacRinnalch. It was an auspicious start.
Mr. Carmichael turned to Mr. Eggers. “I’m still in charge of hiring field operatives. Which is the main thing, of course. You need experience for that, no matter what Mr. Emerson and his modern business practices might think.”
“Send them through again, John. I want to see how they perform. We have another target for Group Sixteen and I’d like to get them back into action as soon as possible.”