When he reached the rear door, he did not open it. He stood beside it and looked through the open window into the front of the sedan.
"Patrick," he said pleasantly.
The driver's head turned. The face Harlan had seen on the security monitor was now three feet away from him. The eyes were lighter than the photograph had suggested—a pale and very steady gray.
"Mr. Whitfield." The voice was soft and unhurried. "Everything all right, sir?"
"Everything is fine," Harlan said. He rested one hand lightly on the frame of the open window, the way a man does when he is about to lean in and share a confidence with someone he knows. "I am sorry to keep you waiting. There has been a small situation upstairs. One of our compliance officers needs me to sign a document before I leave for the meeting. I told him five minutes; it is going to be closer to ten."
"Of course, sir."
"Have you eaten breakfast, Patrick?"
The driver hesitated, just for a beat. "I have, sir. Thank you."
"Good. Garrett is going to bring you out a coffee anyway. He gets bored when there are no cars to open doors for. Indulge him." Harlan smiled—the smile he used was the one he had perfected in thirty years of boardrooms, the smile that did not reach the corners of his eyes, but that no one ever noticed did not reach the corners of his eyes. "How long have you been with Hadley?"
"Three months, sir."
"And what did you do before?"
Another small hesitation, smaller this time; the driver was getting his rhythm back. "Private security, sir, for a family in Westchester. The contract ended."