The phone rang, breaking his thoughts. He answered it automatically.
"What's up?” he said, expecting to hear Randy.
"Angus Kool?” The voice was not Randy's. Angus remembered the message waiting for him at the front desk. He felt his anger rise at the manager, who'd obviously done this on purpose. Angus hated uppity common people; they just weren't smart enough to see the big picture. Kind of like monkeys with vocal abilities.
Angus sighed. “This is he. If this is work, it had better be good."
"It's work, Mr. Kool, and it's damn good. This is Connell Kirkland."
"Hello, Mr. Kirkland.” Angus hated to use the word mister with anyone, but if there was one piece of corporate mythos he believed, it was that Kirkland was one bad mamma-jamma, someone you didn't cross unless you were ready for a serious altercation. Of course, Kirkland was used to dealing with businessmen, and that was a far cry from crossing swords with someone of Angus Kool's mental abilities.
"I just got in and was getting ready to call you,” Angus said. “What can I do for you?"
"I need you in Detroit immediately, Mr. Kool. We have a development that demands your attention."
"Immediately? But I'm on vacation."
"We have a matter of major importance to the company that needs your attention. You are booked on the 8:45 p.m. flight to Detroit out of Butte. You will be on it."
"Like hell I will. Who do you think you are? What's the company going to do, fire me? I don't think so. Whatever it is can wait. I'm busy."
"You decide that for yourself, Mr. Kool,” Connell said. “If you're not on that plane and back to work tomorrow at eight a.m., you will be in a great deal of trouble."
"Oh puh-leeze. Come on, Mr. Kirkland. No one is going to fire me and you know it. If you canned me, my considerable talents would be working for the competition inside of twenty-four hours. As a matter of fact, that sounds pretty good right now. I think I'll sharpen up my resume and see what the big world has to offer. What do you think of that, Mr. Big Stuff?"
There was a brief pause. Angus waited for Kirkland's inevitable backpedaling. Suits, after all, should keep to their own petty little affairs and not bother the intellectual elite.
"If you think you can do better than EarthCore, be my guest,” Connell said in a flat, cold voice. “But if I were you, I wouldn't underestimate the power of one's reputation."
"My reputation is flawless."
"Is it, Angus? Funny, I have a very different perspective on things. And — I'd imagine — so might anyone else who contacts me regarding your abilities. Or, for that matter, anyone else I should choose to contact on my own."
Angus sat down on the bed, his eyes narrow, his nostrils flaring. Could Kirkland really trash his rep? Could he? Kirkland was a legend in the mining community, known as a ruthless, no-holds-barred bastard when it came to acquiring sites. He was also known as a plain dealer once he had what he wanted. The most important thing, of course, was simply that he was known. He was a man with influence in the field, a man who might be able to sully even the stainless reputation of a purebred genius. No, he couldn't have that much sway in the field. People would know anything Kirkland had to say was sour grapes, they would know with but the briefest examination of the facts that Angus Kool was the greatest mind of a generation.
"Maybe I'll have to take my chances,” Angus said.
"Maybe you will, but I don't think that's in your best interest. Please don't be late tomorrow.” The connection broke and the phone filled with the dial-tone drone.
The fact that Angus didn't slam the phone down was a feat of self-control. He ran his hands through his dirty shock of coarse coppery hair. He'd been talked to, as a father might give his son a good talking to. On top of that, he'd been hung up on. The audacity was simply too much to grasp.
Who the fuck was this Kirkland, anyway? Some stupid executive who thought that an MBA was a measure of intelligence? Angus hated executives. He'd stack his three Ph.D.s up against a mountain of MBAs any day.
He'd fly home all right. He'd storm right into Barbara Yakely's office and raise holy hell. If she didn't know how her pet thug Connell Kirkland ran the business, he'd fill her in. Connell might be her favorite, but she'd surely never let anyone talk to Angus Kool that way. Never.
Chapter Seven
Angus Kool slammed open the lab door, his face a narrow-eyed visage of rage. He seemed to leave an almost-visible contrail of emotion. He'd been talked to for the second time in two days. Only this time it wasn't Mr. Big Stuff Connell Kirkland who did the talking to, it was Barbara Yakely. And her lecture made Connell's seem timid by comparison.
He'd stormed into the RenCen offices expecting Yakely to bend over backwards, and instead found out she'd be more than happy to help out with Kirkland's dirty tricks. Angus no longer had any doubt who was in charge of EarthCore. Yakely and Kirkland, in that order. Angus ranked third. A distant third.
Angus had never been second at anything in his life, let alone third. It had been all he could do to walk out of her office without screaming, to leave the building without smashing something, to get in his car and drive to the lab without suffering a burst of road rage.
He'd show them both. Sooner or later, he'd show them.
The staff watched him stomp through the lab, leaving haughty indignance in his wake. He headed straight for his office, not volunteering a word to anyone. This lab, his lab, was a place where he ruled, where he called the shots. To be summoned here, ordered around like an undergrad — it was insufferable. Angus ripped open the door to his office, intending to slam it loudly behind him.
But there, sitting on Angus's desk, was grim-faced Patrick O'Doyle. Angus froze for a moment, surprised to see the burly man in his office. O'Doyle was EarthCore's security chief and all-around badass. Rumor had it he was an ex-Green Beret. Rumor also had it he'd been a secret government sniper, and that he'd once whacked a head of state in some third-world country.
O'Doyle's piercing eyes seemed to hold little value for human life. He was big, a little shorter than Connell's six-foot-four frame but much heavier, weighing perhaps 250 pounds. His burgeoning beer belly stood as the only blemish on an otherwise thick and muscular frame. Each time O'Doyle moved, Angus saw both the twitchings of muscle and the jigglings of gut.
He looked old enough to be Angus's father. A thinning white crew cut covered a pinkish scalp. A mass of scar tissue clung to where O'Doyle's right ear should have been. He had a freshly scrubbed appearance complete with an immaculate, wrinkle-free blue uniform. He gave Angus the impression of a two-legged, thick-necked, one-eared bulldog.
"Good morning, Dr. Kool,” O'Doyle said politely.
"What the hell are you doing in my office?” Angus suspected his angry tone wasn't quite as convincing as he would have liked it to be.
O'Doyle didn't answer. Instead, he handed Angus a printout of an e-mail.
To: podoyle@earthcore.biz
From: ckirkland@earthcore.biz
Re: Priority assignment
A courier will hand-deliver a confidential report to you today. Give the report to Angus Kool. He will see the considerable potential in this report. I need him to make an immediate and thorough study of the area listed. This is his only project, everything else is on hold. I authorize you to acquire whatever he needs regarding equipment, resources, and time from existing staff. No outsiders.