"I've got to get that." She pushed him slowly back through the door, then closed it in a state of shock. There was a second knock on the front door. "Just a minute," she called out. Now she leaned against the inner door to talk with Michael, wanting him to understand. "God, Michael, I'm sorry. That was my fault. I am so sorry. Someone is supposed to have self-control and that's me and I apologize for leading you on. I'll be back."
Then she hoisted her panties, ran to the closet and found her robe, took her laundry, ran to the door, and missed the phone call. As she guessed, the nice young man came for her laundry in reply to an earlier request. Once that was taken care of, she returned to the inner door to Michael's room. The phone rang. It was Michael.
"No worries," he said. "The customs are different here. I know we are supposed to eat and have romantic talk first."
"No," she said. "We don't have to eat first. You have to know some things about me first and I have to know some things about you. But it's okay. Everything is cool. I have a robe on now and I'll tie your tie."
She figured this was like riding a horse—if you fell off, you had to get back on quick. The longer she waited, the more awkward it would become.
When she opened the door, she was determined to act as if nothing were amiss, so she reached up to take his tie and began again. Standing close, she once again had the overpowering urge to mold herself to his body, but she managed to show none of it. Nearly breathing a sigh of relief when she had completed the job, she sent him to his room, showered, then went to her closet and found herself pondering which of the few outfits would impress a man from the Amazon. Then she reminded herself that her purpose was to help protect him,
not
to impress him. She stared at herself in the mirror, wondering what she was about. She knew herself well and realized that a good portion of her brain was currently given over to female plotting that even she didn't understand. Amazing, given that Gaudet probably had people in New York who would kill her to get to Michael.
She had to get him out of New York. The only complicating factor was the journals and Michael could come back to Ithaca for those—if and when they arrived. Fortunately, Michael had revealed a goal similar to hers. Now it was time for her to seal the deal.
She called Michael and said she might be up to twenty minutes late for dinner. Then she called her on-again, off-again boyfriend in LA, thinking she might break it off. But as they talked, she considered how abrupt this was; she was excited but uncertain; then she thought of Sam's self-control. After a newsy chat she followed her habit and said, "I love you" to a boyfriend whom she no longer loved, then hung up.
It took Michael only a few minutes to put on a sport coat and tie. As he waited, he felt an acute sense of embarrassment and tried hard to get his composure so that he could pretend that what just happened never happened. Like men everywhere, he needed something to distract himself while he waited for the lady. Picking up one of his science journals, he read about a newly discovered painkiller that was one thousand times more effective than morphine and derived from one of the five hundred or so molecules that make up the deadly toxin of the cone snail. People with chronic-pain syndrome were being freed from their misery, and there were few things, other than Grady, that he could think of that were more exciting. The drug was called Ziconotide. At the moment he needed something like that, only effective in killing the sex drive, which at this point was becoming a form of pain.
Grady had encouraged him to look the part with his editor, although for him that meant his jungle clothes. He suspected that the traditional business garb was because she wanted him to blend in with the street crowd, but he didn't argue. Eventually she emerged from her room looking like the models he had seen in American magazines. She wore a black knit dress with an eye-catching plunge at the neckline. It certainly did not hide her figure. Michael was aware that deep within their brain Homo sapiens had programmed certain body ratios that were associated with fertility. Males seemed to equate this hourglass configuration with mating behavior and, in fact, found it quite inspirational in that regard. Clearly, the dress fully retained his sense of inspiration.
Just as he was about to walk out the door, the phone rang. It was Rebecca.
"Looking forward to seeing you tonight and tomorrow," she said.
"We are about ready to leave."
"I wanted to mention, a man was here looking for you today. He left you a letter, said he was a fellow scientist and that it was urgent. He asked if there was any way I could get in touch with you. I think he thought you were probably still in the Amazon, although I'm not sure about that. I told him I thought I might have a rare opportunity to get you on the phone and said no more."
"Good. My friend Grady is convincing me that we must not tell people that I am in New York. Bring the letter to dinner tonight if you have it. Did the man leave a name?"
"Yes. He did. Although he wanted assurance that I would give his name to no one but you and I assured him of that. It's all quite mysterious."
"Who is he?"
"Georges Raval."
Grady took charge of the taxis. With them in the taxi were Yodo and one other. Their entourage followed in second and third taxis.
When they entered the taxi, she sat close and for a moment put her hand over his. The warmth of it traveled through his body.
"Won't it be exciting when you can get started on your work?"
"I want so bad to get back to it. And to spend some time in a new place."
"Do you know where?"
"The mountains of the Pacific Northwest, maybe. There's an almost unspoiled block of wilderness there. Well, more than one. This one's near the Salmon and Klamath rivers."
"Maybe you can satisfy Sam's concerns and get started on your work all at once," she said, and looked at him squarely for the first time since entering the taxi. "Maybe ..."
"Yes?"
"Maybe it would be good to go there soon."
"You want me to do what Sam wants."
"I want you to do what you want. But not to die trying."
Her body was next to his and her thigh was touching his for its full length and he could sense that they both wanted the same thing.
Then his cell phone rang.
"I have your journals," Dr. Lyman said.
"Oh, thank goodness. Thanks for calling. You made my evening. I'll be right back to you. Will this number work for my return call?"
"It'll work. Be here for half an hour."
"Grady, I need to talk with you now, in private."
"Sure. Driver, could you pull over for just a minute?"
They got out onto the curb and Michael drew her away from a nervous-looking Yodo.
"You have to make a choice. I'm going to be honest with you and I expect you to be honest with me."
"Okay."
"My journals are at Ithaca. I'm going alone, unless you want to come. Nobody else."
"That's crazy."
"No, it's not. Two of us won't be noticed. This looks like a president's motorcade."
"I see. We'll dress and act like nobodies and pull in driving an old Chevy. Sam will never go for it."
"It's not up to him where I'm concerned. I guess you would be different."
"Let me ask one thing. If I go with you and we get the journals, can we meet the bodyguards on the way back and then lock the journals up in a vault, except for what you need?"
Michael thought about that for a moment. He sensed he needed to give her something or he would end up going alone.
"Okay. We meet the guards halfway between New York and Ithaca."
"I'll call Sam."
Michael shook his head and chuckled. "Always Sam."
A letter had come from Gaudet. After locking the door to his office, Baptiste removed it from the envelope. The moment he had found it in his residential mailbox, he had studied it, trying to determine its authenticity. He did not note this letter on any incoming-mail log nor did he make a copy for any file:
France has its interests and I have mine. Time is running out for France if you don't want to lose the discovery of the century. Perhaps we should talk about our mutual interests.
Maybe there were times when one made a deal with the Devil. It was shocking that Benoit had communicated so easily and that Gaudet obviously believed her. There seemed to be no end to this woman's intrigue.
It was late in the afternoon, so he locked up early and left the building. With Benoit's instructions committed to memory he proceeded to a computer where he could not be traced. According to Benoit, he could send the e-mail on any day within five minutes of four o'clock in the afternoon. Walking down Boulevard Mortier and then turning onto Cros, he went for a few more blocks until he came to an Internet cafe. There were a series of work stations, at least twenty in all, and each one tied into the Internet. After paying the fee of ten Euros, he sat down and logged on to a free e-mail Web site. With little effort he opened an account under the name Sailorsea. Using that account, he drafted an e-mail to [email protected].
It seems we have some issues. How do I know that you are Devan Gaudet? How do I know that you can help me? Why would you want to?
He sent it at precisely 4:01 p.m., then sat and watched the in box for his account. At 4:14 p.m. he received this reply:
You have the confidence of Benoit Moreau or you would not be writing me. If I am not Gaudet, I am at least someone in her confidence. Yes? So do you believe her or not? Only a government-size entity can afford what the technology is worth. Because of Benoit, I am willing to work with the French. Call me at 212-555-2729 U.S.
Baptiste went and purchased a card with one hundred minutes of long-distance talk time. He then walked his route through the Belleville church and nodded at the priest as he walked down the side of the main sanctuary. Once out of the church, and certain he wasn't being followed, he went down a back alley and took a different route than usual to the small cafe where he had previously used the phone. Unusually concerned, he passed this phone, went down the street a block and into a video place, where he browsed around before asking his daughter's friend, who worked there, if he might use the phone. As he hoped, he was shown to the back office, where he closed the door. He punched in the number on the card and then the pin number and then the overseas code for the United States followed by the number. He assumed he was calling a recently rented cell phone.
"This is Jean-Baptiste Sourriaux," he said when a man answered.
"I am 'Traveler' and I will relay your conversation with Mr. Gaudet." The man had no discernible accent and he spoke quickly, as if from a script.
"He doesn't want voiceprints, I take it."
"That is right."
"I want a meeting."
"We anticipated that. However, it will occur on our terms."
"What are those terms?"
"It will take place in an airplane. You will bring your U.S. double agent. The one working with Sam. We will tell you where to go and you will board a jet and we will leave you off at a place of our choosing. Details through Benoit."
"That will be acceptable if I can be sure of my safe return."
"That will not be possible. You will have to trust in our greed and determine that we will be richer by bringing you back safely. After all, a French security officer is of no use to us."
The Great Spirit gives the flowering plants to teach the lesser spirits the festival of new beginnings.
—Tilok proverb
The prospects of female companionship in the Arab state of Quatram were abysmal, so Gaudet imported women. He paid them fairly and found replacements readily for those he hurt more than they wanted to be hurt. Killing the biggest complainers was a program that ensured good referrals and easy replacements. None was as good as Benoit Moreau had been, and that wouldn't change. But Gaudet still sought tall and supple women who reminded him of Benoit.
New York City was another matter entirely. But he could not afford to distract himself even for a few minutes now, which was a pity because there were plenty of women.
Trotsky wore some stubble, which was unusual, and kept quiet, which was normal, waiting for Gaudet to speak.
Gaudet sipped an unsweetened double espresso.
"When all this is over, I'll need a new place. Somewhere they will never expect me—a civilized part of the world. I've had my fill of Quatram."
"Maybe a nice neighborhood in Middle America."
"I'm not into potlucks."
The phone rang and Trotsky took it.
"They want to know if they can buy more art in Spain. They are obviously tired of the smuggling business."
"The store makes money?"
"Seems to."
"Let them, but control it. And put that business on the 'keep' list."
Two or three more calls came in during the next twenty minutes.
"You are growing a small empire," Trotsky said.
"I started with nothing but my bare fists, working for shit." Gaudet took his feet off the hotel coffee table. "Let's call them."
In seconds Trotsky had the Quatram office on the line.
"Get me 'Big Mohammed,' " Gaudet said, referring to the chief of the computer men. Big Mohammed was a short, balding man named Wilbur Hogan. With a noticeable paunch, Hogan was the type who liked big silver belt buckles on his blue jeans. He was divorced and couldn't find a girlfriend in Texas, so Gaudet had hired him one. Although the first and second girls didn't take, the third seemed to be sticking around and Big Mohammed seemed content living in Quatram, for the moment.
Gaudet sipped his espresso while the chief went to find Big Mohammed. It took five minutes.
"Our clients are pushing the timetable."
"Everything seems to be pushing the timetable," Big Mohammed drawled in his dreadful Texas accent.
"Do you have the time from release to complete invasion?"
"About two hours—maybe one. Fifty million Windows-based computers and a few million VN-based computers."
"How about the FAA?"
"We will get on the network, but not through the Internet. You know the old slogan: 'Crispy on the outside, but a gooey, soft center on the inside.' Cordyceps will overload the system and bring it to a halt."
"You don't know how long?"
"If it hits the hardware like I think it will, we're talking weeks, maybe months. Weeks for sure."
"Electrical utilities?"
"Some. Rolling blackouts all over the place."
"I'm counting on the phones. Especially long-distance infrastructure."
"Again I'll predict a significant impact. It will not all be down. But Americans will be writing plenty of letters. A crimp in the e-mail."
"Railroads?"
"Down by thirty-five percent. Just a guess."
"Pipelines?"
"Don't know. Not sure how tech-dependent they are. But don't worry. The stock markets are gonna crash, no doubt about it."
"Have we any chance of getting command and control?"
"Nothing's changed there. They'll still have full military capability, except to the extent that domestic chaos cripples it."
Gaudet hung up without another word and turned to Trotsky. "Make sure our investors aren't the only ones with put options. I want plenty, and well disguised."
"I've been buying for weeks." Trotsky seemed offended.
Gaudet didn't respond to that comment. He checked his watch. "How long?"
"They're strolling. How long we don't know."
"I want to watch the bastard die."
"I think that is a bad idea."
"I don't give a shit."
"Remote revenge is underrated." Trotsky smiled again. Twice in a day. "Think of it as a private jubilation of the imagination."
* * *
Grady called Sam, determined that she would go alone with Michael to get the journals and equally determined that she would put up a fight as necessary. There was no way Sam would agree and the odds of convincing him had to be near zero. In order to make the call, she walked down the street because she wasn't going to argue with Sam in front of Michael. They weren't far from the middle of Manhattan and there were plenty of people on the street. She supposed the thing that bothered her the most was that if he said no, she wouldn't go. The cabbie didn't seem to mind stopping as long as he had his meter running.
"Sam, we have to talk about something."
"I can always tell when you're loaded for bear." Grady tapped her foot for a moment and didn't say anything. It pissed her off that he had already put her in a neat, little box. It was the rebellious-brat-employee box.
"I want to go very low profile with Michael and pick up his journals. It's either that or he goes alone."
"You think it's a good idea?"
"It's better that I go than nobody goes. He needs a guide in this country. Surely, you've noticed that."
"If you want to, go ahead. Tell Yodo what you want."
"I want to pick them up halfway between Manhattan and Ithaca. Somewhere remote. And then I want Michael to lock the journals away in a vault when we get back."
"Good plan. Jill can arrange for the vault."
"Anything else?" she asked, unable to believe his response.
"Make a copy of the 1998 journal and courier it to the office. Jill can provide the courier. Also make copies of all the journals and have them locked somewhere else, where only Michael can get them. Jill could probably help you with that as well."
"Sam, are you feeling okay?"
"You're grown-up now. And that means I have to be willing to let you die."
Grady froze up when he said that. "You never said anything like that before."
"I respect you and, I think, to a certain degree you can act like a real contract agent. I'm not always going to be there to yank your butt from the jaws of defeat."
"This is one hell of a cold fatherly talk." Then she laughed because she didn't know what else to do.
" 'Treat every failure as a new beginning.' My mother said that. I believe in you."
Grady walked back down the sidewalk, feeling frightened . .. and proud.
"If we hurry, we can be back in time for lunch tomorrow," she said to Michael.
"I already called Rebecca and told her the meeting would have to be put off—maybe for a few days. She was very disappointed, but I have to make it up to her by taking her hiking in the California mountains. That woman is a negotiator."
Yodo came walking toward them. Obviously, he had already talked to Sam.
"Good luck." He held out his hand and Grady shook it.
"What'll you be, a pallbearer?" Grady smiled.
Sam and Anna walked along the edge of Central Park toward the Plaza Hotel. Tonight he had a blond handlebar mustache and blond hair with eyebrows to match and wore a beret. Anna wore a Snoopy hat complete with earflaps. Looking at her, a person would never think celebrity. The driver of a horse-drawn carriage shivered in the autumn cold and snubbed his cigarette under a Red Wing boot. Sam could tell that Anna wanted to take a ride through the city. The horse pawed the pavement, maybe bored, maybe pissed off. Since the horse's ears were forward, Sam banked on bored and ready to go.
"Take us on a thirty-minute round," Sam said.
In the carriage was a heavy blanket. Sam pulled it over them. He wanted to think, and it didn't surprise him that Anna knew his mood. Under the blanket she put her hand on his arm and looked off at the people and shops as they rode down Fifth Avenue. Sam knew he was at a crossroads in his life. There were decisions made at forty-two that could not be made at sixty-two. There were choices a man could regret, some irreversible, and he didn't want to make one of those.
He thought about his grandfather and a talk they once had. Sam had been trying to decide about a young woman in his neighborhood who wanted to go away to college, but she had become so infatuated with Sam that she was losing her will to leave home. Sam wanted her to stay because he wanted to hang out with her, but at the same time he believed that for her own sake she should leave and go to school and get a career. It was a struggle.
"I want to tell you a story," he said to Anna. "A story my grandfather told to me."
"Shoot."
"It may be a little corny." Sam grinned.
"Corny is good when you're pregnant. You have to make your thinking more basic."
"Back before my grandfather's time, the Tiloks had a very old chief. One tooth left in his head just before he died. Black Hawk. Called himself Jones to the whites. Grandfather had a painting of him and talked about how he kept the tribe from violence."
"I suppose the tooth part is apropos of nothing but a lack of dentistry," Anna joked.
Sam loved her sense of humor.
"So, Black Hawk was confronted with a choice of two men to be his successor. One was Charles Curtis, the other Andrew Wiley. Wiley had many enemies. He was arrogant and contentious, but also strong and impressive, and men followed him. Nobody could beat him in wrestling. Curtis was a good planner; he could read and write and he helped the widows. And he understood growing crops. He never talked of gaming revenge on the whites—unlike Wiley, who doted on the fantasy.
"Black Hawk needed to choose one of the two men. If he chose Wiley, the young men would be happy, at least most of them. There were a few young men, those more educated in the white man's ways, who wanted Curtis and would have nothing of Wiley. These men tended to live off the reservation. In his heart Black Hawk knew that for the future, living with the white man and abiding by his laws, Curtis was the best choice for the people. But on his deathbed the chief wanted also to please the young men.
"Black Hawk devised a test question to determine the best man for the job: 'Suppose the white man's government came to the village and wanted to buy a piece of the reservation for very little money. Suppose the money was so little and the land was so great that the tribe might not survive, so that the white man was stealing our future. Suppose there were two ideas. One idea was for the chief to starve himself and to tell the white man's newspaper of the injustice. The other was for the strongest braves to take a hostage, a powerful white man in the government who was known to be traveling in the area. What would you do?'
"Wiley was quick to answer: 'The men would sneak out at night and at daybreak, in the gray of the morning, they would take the government man and blindfold him so that he could not recognize them; then they would hide him in the mountains, where no one could find him. They would offer next to negotiate for their land and say nothing of the government man or his whereabouts. If they could not change the mind of the white men in the negotiation, they would at least kill their hostage and they would take more government men in the night and kill them as well, and they would have some retribution for their loss.'
"This answer pleased the young men.
"Curtis gave his answer 'I would go out alone in the night. I would sneak up to the government man's house. If possible, even on the threshold or even inside. At first light I would show myself. I would ask to speak with the government man in front of the man who writes newspapers. I would tell him that I had come to prevent violence and to stop an injustice. I would tell him that I would take no food until the matter was resolved so that the Tiloks could survive.'
"Wiley scoffed, or so the story goes. He says: 'But they would ignore you and laugh or even put you in chains and then the people would be without a leader.'
"Curtis argued: 'That is where you are wrong. If they put me in chains or even killed me, the people would have a greater leader. Because a leader is a man who shows the way. You cannot kill the white men and go unpunished and it is foolish to try.'
"Wiley figured he had him. Turning to the crowd, he said: 'So you would give up without a fight.'
"And this was Curtis's answer: 'But that is only me,' he said. 'If they killed me, or put me in chains or merely ignored me and ignored my plea, the village could make a new plan. Perhaps another man could come and another. I would trade my life for a chance to buy peace for the people and I would teach others to do the same.'
"Wiley's view of the world was essentially that the chief must survive because he viewed the tribe as an extension of himself and saw himself as at the center of value. Curtis, on the other hand, saw himself as only one man and saw that there might be good in giving himself for something greater than himself. He saw value in other places. 'Every person has a Wiley and a Curtis inside them,' Grandfather said. 'They are always with us.' Regarding that girlfriend of mine, Grandfather said that my Wiley and my Curtis were in a struggle for my soul.