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Bath, England
That Elsemere had an outstanding, effective set of internal controls was nothing short of extraordinary. This is the company willing to do anything to “appropriate” the most personal biographic and health information, routinely plunder whatever the IRS and credit reporting agencies knew about personal financial history, blow through the weak protections college and university networks erected to safeguard student educational history, and so on. Yet, if anyone—inside or outside the company—made any unauthorized use of this plunder-in-the-cloud, Elsemere wanted its due.
Elsemere obviously wasn’t averse to sharing information. They just wanted to be paid for it. Nothing was off limits. Everything had its price and revenue was Elsemere’s raison d’etre.
Elsemere didn’t collect information on just anyone. On the contrary, their databases contained electronic dossiers on the rich and famous, and during the past decade, the about-to-become rich and famous. Unlike credit bureaus who sold credit reports to lenders and retailers for $10 a piece, even less in volume, an Elsemere product started at $100K. The more promising the subject, the higher the price.
Collecting the fee was never a problem. The quality of the information and an Elsemere assessment proved to be invaluable since corporate success always depended on individuals in vital leadership positions—some with interesting frailties and vulnerabilities. Paying, say $250K, to vet an entrepreneur in whose firm a collection of VCs might invest tens of millions of dollars to avoid a complete loss of that investment was well worth the fee paid to Elsemere. A bargain even.
The internal control exception report was placed on the desktop of one of Elsemere’s senior directors and it landed with an electronic thud, if such a thing was possible. What was Joe McRory doing using Elsemere’s resources to investigate Alice Linda? Both were Elsemere researchers, albeit Linda researched other investigators. Had Linda used those resources to delve into McRory’s life and work no one would have thought it anything out of the ordinary. The reverse? Unacceptable.
Elsemere’s products were always required to be letter perfect. Not even a single error or omission was acceptable. And the company mounted a quality assurance program to ensure that each researcher left no stone unturned, so to speak, when assessing a subject. So periodically, an Elsemere researcher was selected for their own personal assessment. Alice Linda was one of the new folk in quality assurance to do the job. Linda was hired after her career came to an end in counterintelligence working for one of the federal agencies who did such things. Her reputation was first rate, if one overlooked her unorthodox methods.
The popular imagery of federal spies, based almost entirely on works of fiction, was just that: Fiction. The truth was less entertaining and impressive. Most were a field-based version of the typical government bureaucrat. On average, they did well enough to avoid public embarrassment for the federal government. Unfortunately, none of them measured up to Ian Fleming’s James Bond or other authors’ swashbuckling tales of former special forces operators who successfully transitioned from the armed forces to the federal civil service of spies. No, the truth was littered with blemishes and lacerations requiring lots of sutures, figuratively speaking.
Alice Linda’s evaluation of McRory had to take place without his knowledge. If McRory, or any Elsemere researcher, knew the company was watching their performance in real-time, then the fear was McRory would step up his game. It was known as the “Cinderella Effect.” If McRory believed the scrutiny was over, then his performance was likely to slip. All researchers, McRory included, were to be working at their absolute best at all times—not just when the leadership of Elsemere was watching.
Suddenly, Linda’s cover was blown. McRory figured out who she was and what she was doing. Linda was supposed to be much better than that. Elsemere could not afford a pattern of replacing researchers under scrutiny as well as the agent who wields the microscope. So, they both had to go.
Elsemere’s retirement policy was affectionately known among the firm’s senior directors as going to the “farm.” Like parents who euthanized a childhood pet and told the children their beloved pet had gone to the farm, the farm was a place of myth where all who went lived happily ever after. The truth was far crueler.
Elsemere assigned these contracts to former intelligence agents specializing in what the intelligence industry described as “wet work.” When the contract was fulfilled and the researcher relocated to the farm, the identity of their past research subjects and whatever they had come to learn resided only in Elsemere’s databases in the cloud. This eliminated any possibility a former researcher could blackmail Elsemere or a research subject—the ultimate in risk mitigation. Therefore, Elsemere could offer its clients a guarantee of the highest quality, and a safe, secure research portfolio.
Researchers dispatched to the farm disappeared never to be found. Their homes were emptied of all personal effects and wiped clean of all fingerprints, hair, and fibers. Workers gained access during the overnight hours dressed in clean suits with self-contained breathing apparatus, and departed in their unmarked vehicles prior to daybreak. Utility accounts were paid in full and closed. Liens and loans were paid in full. Bank balances were transferred to popular charities, and the accounts were closed. Personal property and real-estate was transferred to popular philanthropic organizations in accord with a properly signed, witnessed, and recently filed Last Will and Testament superseding any earlier document.
Finally, a death certificate was filed in a major urban area featuring a large homeless population where the remains of the deceased were cremated. The cause of death was always listed as an outcome of natural causes.
Elsemere only engaged researchers from very small families who maintained minimal personal relationships. No spouses, no children. Disappearances were seldom reported, and the few that were always led the local constabulary to nice, tidy ends.