Tom Bennett stood motionless in the lobby of Pembroke Paton Associates, staring grimly at a motivational poster featuring a soaring eagle and the word "SYNERGY" in bold letters beneath it. His thick mustache twitched slightly—the only outward sign of his internal disgust.
"I've been in this building for exactly seven minutes," he noted in his leather-bound journal, "and I've already counted fourteen posters with meaningless corporate buzzwords. This does not bode well."
As Pembroke Paton's newest project manager, Tom had been tasked with assessing the firm's data integration capabilities after Sarah Patel's ambitious promise to the board. Having spent twenty years whipping chaotic IT departments into shape, Tom approached each new assignment with the methodical precision of a master craftsman and the emotional enthusiasm of a man attending his own tax audit.
"Mr. Bennett?" A cheerful voice interrupted his thoughts. "I'm Marcus, Sarah's assistant. She's running a few minutes late but asked me to get you settled."
Tom nodded once, tucking his journal into the inside pocket of his meticulously pressed tweed jacket. "I require nothing but a space to work, access to your systems documentation, and to be left entirely alone."
Marcus blinked rapidly. "Um, certainly. Would you like coffee first? Or perhaps a tour of—"
"Son," Tom interrupted, his voice deep and unwavering, "I once survived three days in the Montana wilderness with nothing but a pocket knife and my knowledge of edible fungi. I don't need a tour of your break room."
Marcus led him silently to a small conference room that would serve as Tom's base of operations. As soon as he was alone, Tom unpacked his toolkit: a vintage mechanical pencil, a stack of grid paper, a flask of whiskey he had distilled himself, and a laptop that had clearly seen better days.
"People think technology should be replaced when it's old," he muttered to himself as he booted up the scratched machine. "That's nonsense. This laptop has been with me through three ex-wives and seven corporate restructurings. It knows things."
Later that morning, Sarah burst into the room, her hair slightly disheveled and clutching what appeared to be her third coffee of the day.
"Tom! Thank you for coming on such short notice. As I mentioned on the phone, we've got a bit of a situation with our data—"
"A situation," Tom repeated flatly. "The Titanic had a situation. You have a catastrophe."
Sarah's smile faltered. "You've been here two hours."
"Two hours and seventeen minutes," Tom corrected. "And I've already identified fourteen separate data systems, none of which communicate with each other, and all of which are guarded by people who believe sharing information is equivalent to surrendering their firstborn child."
He gestured to the wall where he had already constructed an elaborate map using colored index cards, string, and what appeared to be small wooden figurines.
"What are the little wooden people?" Sarah asked.
"I whittle when I think," Tom replied, as if that explained everything. "The red string represents data flows that should exist but don't. The blue string represents redundant systems. The green figurines are the people actively preventing progress. The one with the particularly stern expression is Herbert from IT."
Sarah moved closer to examine the wooden Herbert. The resemblance was uncanny, right down to the perpetually worried eyebrows.
"In my twenty years of saving companies from their own technological incompetence," Tom continued, "I have never seen data so thoroughly imprisoned. Your Finance department treats their Excel spreadsheets like state secrets. Your Audit team has built a database that only their team can access, and according to my initial assessment, even they don't remember how it works. And your IT department believes their primary job is to say 'no' to requests in increasingly creative ways."
Sarah winced. "Is it really that bad?"
Tom took a long pause, then said, "In my professional opinion as a project manager, you have the digital equivalent of feudal territories, each with their own dictator, militia, and moat filled with crocodiles."
He pointed to a wooden figurine wearing what appeared to be a tiny crown. "This is Nigel from Finance. He has seventeen years of client data in a spreadsheet that he keeps on a USB drive in his desk drawer."
"That can't be secure," Sarah said, alarmed.
"It's not," Tom confirmed. "But Nigel believes it is because, and I quote, 'No one would ever look in my pencil cup.'"
Tom moved to another section of his map. "Over here we have Marketing. They've purchased three different analytics platforms in the past two years. None of them talk to each other. They're paying for all of them. They're using none of them."
Sarah sank into a chair. "And I just promised the board we'd have this all integrated within a year."
"You also promised them AI," Tom reminded her. "Which is like promising to paint a house that's currently on fire."
He turned back to his map. "The fundamental problem isn't technical. It's human. For instance, this figure here—" he pointed to a particularly grumpy-looking wooden man with crossed arms—"represents Richard from the Tax department. Richard has spent fifteen years building a knowledge base that only he can access. This makes Richard feel important. If his knowledge were suddenly accessible to everyone, Richard would need to find a new source of self-worth."
Sarah rubbed her temples. "So what do we do?"
Tom reached into his bag and pulled out a small metal flask. "First, we acknowledge reality." He took a small sip and offered it to Sarah, who declined with a quick shake of her head.
"Suit yourself," he said, tucking it away. "Second, we recognize that what we're dealing with isn't a data problem. It's a problem of territory, pride, and the human desire to feel irreplaceable."
He walked to the window and looked out at the London skyline. "The secret to succeeding here isn't building better technology. It's understanding why your people have built fortresses around their data in the first place."
Tom turned back to Sarah, his face as serious as a man delivering a eulogy. "I'll need to interview every department head. I'll need unfettered access to all systems. And I'll need a budget for bribes."
"Bribes?" Sarah asked, alarmed.
"Metaphorical bribes," Tom clarified. "Though in Herbert's case, actual scotch may be required."
Sarah nodded, already looking overwhelmed. "And you think you can help us get through this?"
Tom's expression didn't change, but somewhere behind his mustache might have been the faintest hint of a smile.
"Ms. Patel, I once integrated seventeen legacy systems for a government agency so secretive they wouldn't tell me what they actually did. I completed the project three weeks early and under budget. The director cried during the final presentation."
He looked back at his map of Pembroke Paton's data ecosystem. "Your organization's data hoarding makes more sense than most. People here aren't malicious—they're scared. They've built their careers on being the keepers of information. Our job is to show them that sharing doesn't diminish their value—it enhances it."
Sarah looked at him with newfound respect. "That's... surprisingly insightful, Tom."
"People are surprised when I show emotional intelligence," he replied flatly. "It's because of the mustache. It absorbs feelings."
Sarah laughed, then quickly covered her mouth when she realized he wasn't joking.
"There's one more thing," Tom said, pointing to a small wooden figurine he'd placed in the center of the map. Unlike the others, this one had no string connecting it to anything.
"Who's this?" Sarah asked.
"Emma Carter. Business analyst. Been here seven years. Everyone likes her. More importantly, everyone talks to her." Tom paused. "We need her on the team."
"Why?"
"Because when you're breaking down walls, you don't just need someone with a sledgehammer." He tapped the small figure. "You need someone who knows where the doors are hidden."
Sarah nodded, already making mental notes. "I'll set up the interviews and get you all the access you need. When can you start the full assessment?"
Tom Bennett looked at his watch—an analog timepiece that appeared to have been manufactured sometime during the Cold War.
"I started two hours and thirty-four minutes ago," he said, turning back to his map. "And I would very much like to get back to it without any further interruptions, team-building exercises, or mandatory fun of any kind."
As Sarah left, she couldn't help but smile. Tom Bennett might be the strangest project manager she'd ever hired, but for the first time since making her bold promise to the board, she felt a glimmer of hope. Not because Tom had all the answers, but because he understood the real problem: Pembroke Paton didn't have a data issue—it had a people issue.
And just maybe, the man who seemed to actively avoid people was exactly the right person to solve it.