So he was going to Antarctica after all.
A black Mercedes was waiting for him when he went down. A dark-suited guy in black sunglasses opened the back door. Peter nodded at the guy who looked more like a CIA agent than a chauffeur.
“Well, this is very subtle,” Peter said to him.
The car joined the traffic on its way towards Miami's financial district.
Frank Miller’s office was large enough for three medium-sized families to live in comfortably.
Miller was on the phone at a smaller desk, in an outer office. He raised a finger at Peter. He finished his conversation, looked at Peter briefly before inviting him into his big office.
The carpet was so thick, Peter dug his shoes in it, just to make sure it was real Oriental. Everything in there was made of mahogany, it seemed. Miller’s desk was the size of four billiard tables, shiny with polish.
He looked like a king behind it when he sat in his high-backed chair.
“Please sit, Professor Williams.”
He flicked his wrist to dismiss the chauffeur.
“You have come to a decision?”
“Yes, I have. And I have a condition.”
“Tell me, what is it?” Miller placed the tips of his hands together on the table.
“Olivia Newton comes with me.”
Miller shrugged. He stared at Peter, waiting.
“That’s all,” Peter said.
“Good, I have conditions of mine, Professor. I will do all I have promised, and more, if you let me chose members of the team that will go with you. Of course, the journalist comes with you. What do you say?”
“Are you kidding me?”
“No, I don’t kid, Professor Williams.”
Peter’s suspicion that this man had something to hide nagged at him. He had yet to meet a really altruistic billionaire. They didn’t get to have all that wealth by giving it away. It infuriated him more that Frank Miller had some hidden agenda.
If Peter refused this new clause in the proposition, he risked losing his expedition and, of course, his own academic advancement. He pictured himself in the papers, the man who discovered Hitler’s secret lab. There was no telling what this expedition would do to his entire career. Any chance to shit on Ted Cooper and the rest of them who thought he wasn’t worth his onions.
“It’s just a simple request, Professor,” Miller persuaded.
“Okay, as long as Olivia Newton is on the team.”
Miller smacked the top of the table. “Deal.”
He rose and went around the table. “We must begin preparations then. I will put together the team right away.”
At the door, Frank Miller called him. “Professor?”
Peter turned around, some anger still in his eyes.
“I’d prefer if we keep this matter private. Of course, you would want to let Ms. Olivia Newton know about our discussion. You understand?”
“Crystal.”
Part 2
1
She was the only journalist in the group, and the only one who had been bereaved. They stared at her as though she was a rare species. The initial embarrassment of being gawked at this way had worn off after the first session in the Pundit Alcoholics Anonymous that was held in the basement of the psychology department at the University of Florida.
It had two sessions per week. They had a register and Olivia must sign in every time she came down here.
It was one of the conditions of her reengagement with the Miami Daily. Rob Cohen had emphatically told her this was all she could get.
“Well, everyone, it is sad to let you all know that Ms. Olivia is sitting here for the very last time,” said Phil, an Italian and an albino.
“Ms. Olivia is going away on vacation and won’t be back with us, hopefully, for a long time. Let’s give her a round of applause.”
A spattering of clapping rang in the basement. It was a big place. The wall was fading green and riddled with the subterranean plumbing of the building. Sometimes it smelled of the detritus from up there, at other times the place simply smelled of the members.
Today it smelled of sewer.
The circle of embattled men and women dealing with alcoholism stared at Olivia.
“Do you wanna say something to us, Olivia?”
She brushed the hair out of her face, smiled shyly, and said she’d like to in a voice as tiny as the confidence she had in AA meetings. The pretense had become so tiring and torturous.
“Yes, um, I’ve done a lot of thinking over the past two weeks since I’ve been coming here…”
And on she droned.
Ten minutes later she was in the parking lot, shielding her eyes from the sun’s glare and waiting for Tom Garcia. Tom’s Jeep rolled in. It was dusty from the ride in.
“Hop in, we don’t have much time,” Tom said.
Olivia opened a small flask and drank from it.
“How’s the healing process coming?”
Olivia raised the flask. “We are healing fast and efficiently, sir.”
Tom laughed.
“Come on, the professor is waiting. We have thirty minutes to get to the airport.”
Olivia looked in the back seat. “You got my stuff?”
“Yeah, got your stuff. Seatbelt, please.”
Olivia strapped in.
Peter Williams was waiting at the Fort Lauderdale airport. It was windy. The sun was high and the brightness was blinding. But Olivia felt good to be rid of the company-imposed AA meetings and going on, what felt like, a vacation.
Tom helped her carry her small luggage from the back of the car.
She stopped in her tracks. “What the hell is that?”
“It’s a jet, Olivia.”
“Holy Christ, I never flew in one of those before.”
Peter Williams's grinning face appeared at the door of the aircraft. He waved Olivia over. Tom ran ahead of her.
“Hey, Sheriff,” Peter greeted pleasantly.
Tom smiled. “You take care of her, okay.”
“I can take care of myself,” Olivia yelled over the howl of the wind.
The men shared amused glances.
The engines screamed to life as she went in. A guy in chauffeur clothes appeared from inside the aircraft and pulled the door shut.
Seated and belted in, Olivia breathed. “Chile, here we come.”
Olivia waved at Tom through the window.
Tom watched the aircraft take off before he got into his car and rode back to the city.
Olivia, on her part, looked out the window. She wondered what awaited them in Antarctica. All those ice and frozen packs floating on the sea. She had been reading up on the terrain.
She particularly wanted to see the animals, the polar bears, and the seals. She hoped they’d find what they were searching for and get back soon. She had sent off another email to Rob Cohen that morning, thanking him for giving her another chance.
Rob hadn’t replied. Rob wanted exclusive direction over her work out there. But she didn’t come out of everything she’d been through to lick ass again.
She was going to get her own exclusive. Whether Miami Daily wants it or not. When the story busts, she imagined she would be in the market for the highest bidder. Olivia smiled at her approaching fortune.
Hours later, Santiago pulled up before her. Through her window she could see the everlasting blue of the Pacific Ocean, the humps of the Andes hemming the city all around.
She looked at Peter. “You sure they have an airport down there?”
Peter laughed. “My thoughts too when I first saw it.”
“So you’ve been here before?”
“Yeah, once anyway,” he demurred. “It was for a South American summit on culture and textiles. The connection between what we wear and everything else about us, you know.”