The art of manipulation begins with convincing someone that you know something about him you’re not supposed to know.
“Can I help you?” asked the man behind the counter at Axion Partners. He was nattily dressed in a gray herringbone three-piece suit with a double Windsor knot against a spread collar. He was also clearly proud of the whole ensemble.
“Yes, you absolutely can help me,” answered the woman in the long black coat and dark sunglasses. She was towing a rectangular object, about waist high, strapped to a hand truck. It was covered by a black oversized blanket. “I believe you have an appointment with a customer who will be arriving here shortly. Her name is Dorian Laszlo.”
The man behind the counter stared at the woman, waiting for her to continue. She didn’t. After five seconds of awkward silence, he cleared his throat. “Are you asking me to confirm that?”
The art of manipulation progresses by establishing a power imbalance.
Elizabeth whipped out her badge. “Yes, that’s exactly what I’m asking.”
The man spent a little more time studying her ID from the Joint Terrorism Task Force than most others normally do, but the result was the same. Compliance. “Let me check that for you, Agent Needham,” he said, reaching for a leather-bound appointment book on a table behind him.
“I appreciate it,” said Elizabeth. “Now that you know my name, what’s yours?”
“Stuart,” he said. He opened the book, his forefinger scrolling midway down the page before stopping. “Yes. Here it is. Dorian Laszlo. Artwork packaging.”
“I’m going to guess that there’s also an asterisk or some notation for it being a rush job.” Of course this wasn’t a guess at all.
Stuart nodded. “Yes. For a premium we offer customers a pack-while-you-wait option. That’s what Ms. Laszlo specified.”
“Do you know what it is that she wants packaged?”
He glanced again at the appointment book. “Like I mentioned, it’s artwork. Beyond that I don’t know specifics.”
“I do,” said Elizabeth. “Ms. Laszlo will be asking you to box up a Claude Monet, entitled Woman by the Seine. It has an estimated value of a hundred million dollars. There’s just one problem, though.”
“What’s that?”
Elizabeth leaned in, her voice dropping to a whisper. “It’s a fake.”
Stuart blinked a few times while adjusting the vest of his three-piece suit, giving it a tug. He was processing what he’d been told, filtering it through the purest form of Darwinism. Self-preservation.
“Even if what you’re telling me is true, Agent Needham, how is that a problem for me?” he asked.
“It’s only a problem for you if you don’t help us. And when I say us, I want you to think in capital letters. Capital U, period. Capital S, period. The United States,” said Elizabeth. “You do want to help your country, don’t you?”
“Of course I’d like to help,” said Stuart. “It’s just that I don’t know what you want me to do. It’s not anything that can get me fired, is it? Or anything illegal?”
At a critical juncture, make him think that you’re taking him into your confidence.
“No. We’re the good guys, Stuart. This is about the bad guys. What I need to know, right now, is whether I can trust you. I’m not supposed to tell you what I’m about to tell you. I’m the one who could get fired. So can I trust you?”