What drove him was neither ego nor a desire for greater wealth, but a belief that this system could truly make a difference in the lives of millions, perhaps billions of people, bringing communications services and technology to every spot on earth. In his eyes, rapid access to information was a weapon. He had returned from Vietnam with a firm commitment to do what he could to stand up to totalitarian governments and oppressive regimes. And he had seen firsthand how no such government could stand in the face of freedom of communication.
To achieve his goal, however, he needed the support of the governments of a dozen or more key countries. He needed them to assign radio frequencies to his company; he needed them to give him access to their space programs to provide for the scores of low-earth-orbit satellite launches that NASA simply couldn’t handle; and he needed them to allow him to build ground stations in countries scattered all across the planet, to link into his satellite network and feed signals into existing land lines.
He also needed Dan Parker. Again. Of course. Since 1997, Dan had been guiding him through the regulatory tangle that had accompanied the evolution of handheld satellite communications. More recently, he’d been keeping tabs on events in Congress that could affect Gordian’s plans to have his Russian ground station operational by the end of the year.
Now, sitting across from Dan at the Washington Palm on Nineteenth Street, Gordian took a drink of his beer and glanced up at the sports and political cartoons covering the walls. Stirring his martini to melt the ice cubes, Dan looked impatient for their food to arrive. Gordian couldn’t remember him ever not being impatient when he was expecting his food.
They were at their regular corner table beneath an affectionate caricature of Tiger Woods. A decade ago, when they’d started having their monthly lunches here, the drawing in that spot had been of O.J. Simpson. Then that had come down and one of Marv Albert had taken its place. Then Albert was removed and Woods had gone up.
“Tiger,” Gordian mused aloud. “An all-American legend.”
“Let’s keep our fingers crossed he stays up there,” Parker said.
“He goes, who’ll be left?”
Dan shook his head. “Secretariat, maybe.”
“Maybe,” Gordian said.
They waited some more. The people around them were mostly political staffers, reporters, and lobbyists, with a sprinkling of tourists hoping to catch a glimpse of someone important. So far Gordian hadn’t noticed any stargazers looking in his direction. He wondered idly if he was having a bad hair day.
“So,” he said, “how about you tell me about Delacroix’s latest isolationist rants.”
Dan eyed someone eating a corned beef sandwich at the next table.
“I want my food,” he said.
“I know,” Gordian said. “I was hoping to take your mind off it.”
Dan shrugged.
“From what I hear from my colleagues in the Senate, Delacroix’s been pressing the themes you’d expect. Talking about the cost of an aid commitment to Russia, pointing out — correctly, I should mention — that the bill for our peacekeeping mission in Bosnia has wound up being five times higher than the early projections. And that the Russian parliament and banking system are largely controlled by organized crime, which means a percentage of any loans we extend will probably be skimmed by corrupt officials.”
Gordian took another drink of beer. “What else?”
“He’s claiming the President’s offer amounts to appeasement… the argument being that he’s trying to buy concessions in the next round of START and nuclear testban talks with candy, rather than score points through hardball negotiations.”
Gordian spotted a waiter moving toward them with a serving tray balanced on his arm.
“Our sirloins are here,” he said.
“Thank God,” Dan said, and snapped open his napkin. “How long we been waiting?”
Gordian checked his watch. “A whopping ten minutes.”
They sat in silence as their plates were set in front of them and the waiter zipped off.
Dan reached for his silverware and attacked his steak.
“Gooood,” he growled, mimicking Boris Karloff in Bride of Frankenstein.
Gordian started on his own lunch, giving Dan a chance to come up for air before resuming their conversation.
“You’ve given me Delacroix’s publicly stated objections to the proposal,” he said. “What about his underlying, politically opportunistic ones?”
Dan looked at him and chewed a slice of meat.
“Nice to know you think so lowly of your elected officials.”
“Present company excepted,” Gordian said.
“You remember when Delacroix led the push for social services reductions a few years ago?” Dan asked.
“Hard to forget,” Gordian said. “Didn’t he spear a giant stuffed pig on the Senate floor or something?”
“Actually, that happened during a more recent session. And it was a piñata.” Dan worked at the steak with his knife and fork. “His prop for the cutback debate was a giant mechanical mouth.”
“At least he consistently thinks big.”
Dan grinned. “The point is, nobody’s forgotten his stance, which was considered bullish and hard-hearted even by conservatives. And now he’s afraid it’ll look bad if he keeps quiet about millions of dollars’ worth of food and financial aid going to foreigners… Russians, no less.”
Gordian shook his head. “The two issues aren’t related. Even if we want to ignore the critical nature of the emergency—”
“Which is being questioned…”
“It still boils down to a matter of strategic importance for our country,” Gordian said.
Dan drained his martini and signaled for another one. “Look, I don’t like having to defend the Louisiana pit bull. But try to imagine what Delacroix’s political opponents will make of his going along with the aid program. The very same people who are in favor of it will accuse him of hypocrisy, and remind the public that he’s the guy who wanted school lunches taken away from American kids.”
Gordian was silent again. He looked down at his plate. Ever since Ashley had instructed their personal chef to omit the red meat from their meals — he couldn’t quite recall if it was the saturated fat content, carcinogenic antibiotics, or steroidal growth additives that bothered her — his steak lunches at the Palm had taken on a rebellious air, become a respite, even an escape, from the healthful monotony of tossed greens and seafood and grilled chicken breast. And to enhance this forbidden pleasure, to experience it in all its cholesterol-soaked fullness, he had gone from having his steaks served medium-rare to a bare, dripping step from raw. Once a month, he broke free of all dietary shackles to become a wolf, a carnivorous alpha male, sinking his fangs into bloody flesh after a successful hunt.
Today, however, he hadn’t been able to muster much of an appetite. His steak looked so neglected he almost wanted to give it an apology.
“A couple of people from my Russian team were in Kaliningrad the other day,” he said. “You remember Vince Scull? I introduced him to you a while back.”