Empyrion I: The Search for Fierra (5 page)

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Varro

The thing that bothered Treet about all this, besides the interruption of one of the best meals he had eaten in nearly three years—not counting that dinner with the uranium heiress in Baghdad eighteen months ago—the thing that needled him most was that the lavish attention he was receiving was all out of proportion with the proposed assignment. In his mind Treet had begun calling it the
supposed
assignment; he felt that uncertain about it.

Treet spooned thick white cream over the ruby berries, sliced one in half with his spoon, and slipped it into his mouth as he turned the problem over in his mind, letting out a little sigh of pleasure as the strawberry burst on his tongue. The easy answer was that, as Varro had suggested, Chairman Neviss was an extremely—no, make that
unimaginably
—powerful man who was accustomed to having his slightest whim satisfied instantly and in spades.

He wanted Treet, and Treet he would have at whatever cost. The expense did not matter; it was not a factor. Money itself had no meaning to a man like Chairman Neviss. He wanted what he wanted; the money simply made it happen. For some quirky reason—perhaps all those spoony history articles he had written over the years to finance his wanderings and keep his brain from ossifying—Treet had struck the Chairman's fancy; so here he was.

Treet ate another strawberry and, with eyes half closed in gastronomic ecstasy, decided that perhaps he was being unduly moronic not to take the Chairman's proposal at face value. Besides, here was a chance to make some money. How much money? A seriously large amount of money; a sum quite radically excessive in the extreme. More, at any rate, than he was prepared to imagine on the spur of the moment.

For the first time since being surprised in the public bath at Houston International, Treet began to relax and warm to the idea that there may be something to this enterprise after all.

He was basking in this sunny notion when he heard an inviting female voice utter in a throaty whisper, “I hope I'm not disturbing you, Mr. Treet.”

“Uh—Oh!” His eyelids flew open. “No, not at all.” The woman standing next to him bent slightly at the waist as she slid onto the edge of the empty chair to his right.

“They
are
delicious, aren't they.” She indicated the bowl of strawberries, now half full.

“An unparalleled pleasure … Miss, ah—”

“My name is Dannielle.” She held out a slim, long-fingered hand and smiled. “I always have them with a nice Pouilly-Fuisse. It's a wonderful combination.”

The girl was stunning. “I am happy to meet you, Dannielle. I much prefer a Rheinpfalz myself.”

She glanced around the table. “But you're not drinking wine tonight?”

“No, just coffee. I wanted a clear head to think.”

“Is that what you were going to do tonight? Think?” Dannielle folded her hands under her chin and gazed at him from beneath dark lashes.

Treet felt a sudden emptiness in his stomach, or a lightness in his head—he couldn't decide which. But he knew what the feeling meant. He heard himself reply, “Yes … think. That is, unless something more sociable turned up.” He made a show of looking around the room. “I don't see your table. Were you with someone?”

“No, I was alone.” She smiled languidly. “Until just a moment ago.”

“In that case I insist you join me.”

“Only if you order wine.”

“Of course.” Treet had only to look up and the
maitre d'
was there. “We'd like a bottle of Pouilly-Fuisse,” he said, and then added, “One of your best please.”

When he turned back to his unexpected companion, she had settled herself in her seat and had drawn it closer. Her perfume— something light and provocative—drifted to him, and he spent the next few moments trying to think of a suitably uncorny compliment he might pay her. Dannielle merely smiled and gazed at him with her liquid green eyes and rubbed a shapely hand up the smooth bare skin of an equally shapely arm.

“I understand you are something of a traveler,” Danielle said. “I've always wanted to travel.”

“It's what I do best,” replied Treet. “When I'm not thinking.”

“Oh, I bet there are
lots
of other things you do very well, Mr. Treet.”

“Please, my friends call me Rion.”

“Rion, then. I'm told you are a writer. What do you write?”

“History mostly. And the odd travel piece. The trouble is that the market for travel and history has all but dried up.

“People have no use for history, and why read about travel when it is so easy to do? There's no place on Earth a tourist can't get to in less than four hours these days. But tell me something, Dannielle …”

“Yes?” She leaned closer, and he caught another enchanting whiff of her scent.

“Is everyone here at Cynetics so deliriously charming to all visitors, or is it just me?”

She lowered her head and favored him with that throaty whisper once again. “Haven't you heard? It's Be Kind to Visiting Dignitaries Day—an official Cynetics holiday.”

“I was beginning to wonder. And I am a visiting dignitary I take it?”

“The only one I've seen all day.”

“How is it that you all know who I am?” The banter had gone out of his voice. He really wanted to know.

The girl was saved from having to answer by the appearance of the sommelier with a bottle of wine in his hand. Without a word he produced the bottle for Treet's inspection and began peeling the seal preparatory to uncorking. Dannielle reached over, took Treet's hand, and rose gracefully from the table.

“Steward, we'd like this sent to Mr. Treet's apartment,” she said, then tugged Treet to his feet. “We'll enjoy it all the more.” She laughed and took his arm, guiding him willingly from the restaurant.

At Treet's door he fumbled for his code key while Dannielle, having pulled his free arm around her waist, nuzzled the side of his neck. The empty, lightheaded feeling was back in force. Treet felt adrenaline pumping into him furiously as he jammed the plastic key into the lock.

They tumbled into the semidarkened room in full embrace. Dannielle's mouth found his, and she pressed herself full-length against him. Treet returned the kiss with every ounce of sincerity in him, devoting himself to it exclusively.

“Ahem.”

A polite cough from a darkened corner of the room brought Treet's head around. Still holding Dannielle, he turned partway toward the sound. A shape emerged from shadow. “Varro!”

The round-headed man stepped apologetically forward. “I
am
sorry to interrupt, Mr. Treet.”

Danielle turned and glanced at Varro, and Treet thought he saw a sign pass between them. She stepped away, saying, “I see that you two have business.”

“No,” protested Treet. “I don't—”

She planted a kiss on his cheek. “Maybe I'll see you tomorrow.”

Treet found himself staring in stunned disbelief at the closing apartment door. He turned and faced Varro unhappily. “We were going to have a drink,” he explained, and then wondered why he was explaining.

“Of course,” sniffed Varro sympathetically. “I am sorry, but something's come up. We must talk.”

“It couldn't wait until tomorrow?” Treet whined, still reeling from his loss.

“No, I am afraid it couldn't wait. Please, sit down.” Varro seated himself in the leather armchair, so Treet took the couch.

“Whatever it is, it better be good.”

“I promise you won't be bored.”

Treet drained his glass
in a gulp and poured another before plunging the bottle back into the ice bucket. The wine spread its mellow warmth through him from his stomach outward to the extremities. Varro's glass sat on the table between them, untouched.

“So, what you're telling me is that I have to make up my mind right now. In that case, the answer is no—I won't do it.” Treet swilled the Pouilly-Fuisse around in his long-stemmed glass for a moment, and then added, “Not for any amount of money.”

Varro frowned mildly—more from concern than from any apparent unhappiness. Treet noted the frown. It, like all of Varro's movements, gestures, and expressions, was finely-tuned and rehearsed. Did the man spend his spare time posing in front of his mirror in order to get such precise effects? Was each of his actions so perfectly controlled?

“I don't think you should dismiss our proposition quite so hastily, Mr. Treet. I'll admit that this probably seems a little sudden to you, and that you'd no doubt rather have some time to think things over—”

“A week or two would be nice. I could straighten out my affairs, settle some old accounts, tie up a few loose ends.”

“Then the idea of accepting our proposal is not entirely out of the question.”

Varro was one slippery negotiator, but they were now heading in the direction Treet wanted to go—toward money. “Well, not entirely out of the question, I suppose.”

“Then it's really a question of time—in this case, time to make up your mind.”

“You might say that,” allowed Treet. “Call it peace of mind.”

“Yes, peace of mind. How much is your peace of mind worth to you, Mr. Treet?”

“Frankly, Varro, I don't know. I've never had to price it before. As a man of some principle, however, I'd have to say that it doesn't come cheaply.”

“No, I'm certain that it doesn't, Mr. Treet.” Varro pressed his hands together and touched his index fingers to his lips. “I want you to understand that this is as awkward for me as it is for you.”

“So you've said.” Treet doubted that anything was ever awkward for Varro.

“But let me tell you, Mr. Treet, that in tracking you down we found that your prospects are … shall we say, minimal? Isn't it true that you have been dodging bill collectors of one type or another for several years now?”

Damn the man! Varro knew about his dismal financial prospects—that would bring the price down somewhat. Treet parried the thrust as best he could. “Occupational hazard.” Treet shrugged. “Writers get behind occasionally. Slump seasons, and all that. So what?”

“What if I could guarantee that you'd never have to dodge another bill collector or suffer another slump season the rest of your life? Would that change your mind?”

“Perhaps. But I'd have to see the guarantee.” Treet swallowed another sip of wine, eyeing the bottle carefully. Should he order another one? The first had arrived almost the instant Danielle left and was now nearly empty. He dismissed the idea: negotiating the deal of a lifetime while piffled on fine wine was not exactly in his own best interest. He placed his glass on the table, saying, “Why don't you just come right out and tell me what kind of terms we're talking about here?”

“Very well.” Varro leaned forward slightly. “One million dollars in any currency you prefer. One third paid to you upon signature of a standard Cynetics service contract, one third paid to you upon completion of your assignment.”

“And the remaining third?” Treet felt like pinching himself— a million dollars! Since the Currency Revaluation Act a few years ago, a million dollars was worth something again.

“The remaining third will be placed in an interest-bearing trust account in your name, payable upon your return.”

“I see. And if for some wild reason I fail to return, you keep the money, is that it?”

“Not at all. Let's just say that it is an incentive for the swift completion of your assignment and a speedy return. In any case, you can designate a beneficiary.”

Treet stared across the antique table at Varro. Was he telling the truth? There was absolutely no way to tell; the man's face gave away nothing. Treet decided to see how far he could push it. “No,” he said softly. He let silence grow between them.

Varro only nodded. “You have another figure more to your liking, Mr. Treet?”

“Three million,” he said slowly, watching Varro carefully. He saw no flinch, not even the slightest blink at the enormity of the figure, so he continued. “Plus a million in trust.”

Varro got up from his chair and headed for the door. Treet felt panic skid crazily over him. He'd misjudged the situation and had insulted Varro by naming such a ridiculous figure; now Varro was leaving, and he'd be thrown out by security guards any minute. His mind spun as he frantically tried to think of something that would bring Varro back to the table. But before he could speak, Varro paused at the door and said, “I hope you understand, Mr. Treet, that since time is short, I have instructed the contract to be prepared.” The door opened, and a man held out a long white envelope. Varro took the envelope and came back to the table. He sat down and snapped the seal on the envelope, drawing out a pale yellow document. “I need only fill in the amount agreed upon, and—with your signature, of course—this contract is binding.” He handed the sheaf of paper to Treet.

“Ordinarily my agent would handle all this,” Treet mumbled, taking the document. For several minutes he silently scanned the contract, reading all the pertinent clauses and subclauses— especially those having to do with forfeiture of payment for breach of contract. All in all, it was a fairly simple, straightforward agreement; Treet had read far more obtuse and difficult publishing contracts. But then, he reminded himself, Chairman Neviss was not interested in actually publishing the material, merely reading it. Besides, Cynetics probably had a flock of sharp-beaked legal eagles who did nothing but slice, dice, and fricassee fools who thought they could waltz through a loophole in one of their contracts.