“He’s out on bail.”
“Great.” Dan studied April’s face for a moment, thinking, If she’s scared, she sure doesn’t look it. “So where is Len now?”
“I don’t know. Probably on a plane going someplace far from here.”
“He’s that scared, huh?”
“He was petrified.”
“What about you? Should we get you some protection?”
April hesitated. “I don’t think Roberto… well, maybe.” She shuddered.
“Okay,” Dan said, with a grimace. “Get O’Connell from security on the phone for me. And I need to talk to Gerry Adair this morning.”
She nodded. “Anything else?”
Dan hesitated a moment, then said, “If Len’s really gone, I’ll need somebody to handle public relations around here.”
“I can call up a few headhunters—”
“Nope. Can’t afford ’em.” Dan pointed a finger at her like a pistol and said, “You can handle P.R.”
“Me?” She looked shocked.
“You. If Len could do it, you can. You’re a lot brighter than he is.”
“But I don’t know anything about it!” April protested.
Spreading his hands, Dan said, “It’s simple. When reporters ask you for information, you give ’em our canned answers. Len has a file full of prerecorded statements. If you get a question that’s not already covered, I’ll help you write a response.”
“But—”
“When we want to issue a news release, you’ve got Len’s files, all his contacts, names, affiliations, phone numbers, e-mail addresses. Nothing to it.”
April looked dubious.
“You can do it, kid. P.R. is based on contacts, and Len built up a pretty good list.”
“There must be more to it than that,” April said.
“Nope,” said Dan. “I’ll even give you a raise. A small one.”
She laughed. “Well, I’ll try. But I don’t know about this.”
“You’ll be fine. Start a whole new career path for you.”
She shook her head warily, but stopped protesting. “All right,” she said slowly. “Is there anything else?”
Dan shook his head. “Not unless you can find me a billion dollars someplace. And figure out how I can keep the wolves from the door.”
“You mean creditors?”
“I was thinking of Tricontinental and Yamagata, but, yeah, we owe a lot of people a lot of money, don’t we?” Despite himself, Dan laughed.
“Speaking of those particular wolves,” April said, rising from her chair, “you have calls waiting since Friday from Mr. Yamagata and Mr. al-Bashir.”
“Terrific,” said Dan.
None the worse for the hours he’d spent at the Calhoun County sheriff’s station, Roberto reported for work at the limo service’s garage Monday morning. His only assignment was to pick up Asim al-Bashir, arriving just before noon at Houston International Airport.
The head dispatcher, a crusty old African American, eyed Roberto suspiciously. Shaking his head, he said, “You must be some kinda special, this A-rab guy pays to have you sittin’ ’round all mornin’ just so’s he can have you drive him in from the airport. He won’t take nobody else.”
Roberto’s only reply was a grunt.
“What you doin’ with that A-rab, make him want you so bad?”
Roberto thought about lifting the shriveled old man off his feet and shaking him like a dried-out gourd, but the dispatcher had the sour courage that comes with age. He knew he was going to die soon, anyway, so he wasn’t afraid of much. Besides, the other drivers hanging around would jump in, and Roberto couldn’t afford to get himself in trouble with the cops again while this B&E rap was hanging over his head in Calhoun County.
With a glimmer of a teasing grin, the dispatcher said, “I hear them A-rabs a bunch of fags. This A-rab romancin’ you, Roberto, my man?”
Roberto snatched the clipboard out of the old man’s hand and snapped it in two, then wordlessly handed the broken pieces back to the stunned dispatcher and walked away.
Washington, D.C.
An unmarked sedan carried Jane from Ronald Reagan National Airport to her apartment building off Dupont Circle, near Connecticut Avenue and Embassy Row.
Being a United States Senator has certain prerogatives. A member of that exclusive, one-hundred-member club can phone the director of Central Intelligence from her private plane on a Sunday evening and get the man to leave his dinner table to answer your call. A U.S. Senator can phone the director of the FBI and ask her to cooperate as fully as possible with the CIA in an investigation of the Astro Corporation’s spaceplane crash.
But as she dressed for her working day on Capitol Hill in her tastefully luxurious apartment, Jane realized how quiet the place was, how empty and lonely. Her swirling thoughts kept coming back to Dan, his vigor, his passion, his drive. It was never quiet around Dan, never predictable or routine. Even the thing that had driven them apart, his insane zeal for creating this power satellite, was magnificent, bigger than life. And now it’s brought us back together, at least for a moment.
It can’t be, Jane thought as she rode the empty elevator down to the garage where her car and driver waited for her, barely hearing the muted music whispering from the speaker in the ceiling. Dan and I simply can’t be together. I can’t hurt Morgan like that. It would destroy him if I asked for a divorce. It would ruin his chances for the White House.
It had all been planned so cleverly, so completely. Once Morgan had won the party’s nomination they would announce their marriage, even go through a formal ceremony. Tremendous publicity. And she would be at his side through the whole grueling campaign. Every minute. Every step of the way to the White House.
I couldn’t leave him once he’s president, Jane thought. No one’s divorced a president. Not even after he’s left office. As her sedan took her to the Senate Office Building, Jane smiled bleakly to herself. But if ever a First Lady does divorce a president, it would be over Dan Randolph.
Tell me what happened,” al-Bashir snapped, once Roberto pulled the limo away from the airport terminal.
Grudgingly, Roberto explained the fiasco with Kinsky and April.
“Randolph’s secretary?” al-Bashir asked. “She was there? She saw you?”
“Yeah,” Roberto said, glancing at the Arab’s round, brown face in his rearview mirror. “She’s a piece, man.”
Al-Bashir glared at him. “And you say the FBI was involved?”
“Some Chicano, big guy, he came in while they were questionin’ me. Talked to me in Spanish, big deal.”
The FBI, al-Bashir mused. This could be serious.
“And what of your contact, this man Kinsky?”
Roberto shrugged his heavy shoulders. “Dunno. From the looks of him, though, he’s runnin’ fast. Might be halfway to China by now.”
How typical of a cowardly Jew, al-Bashir thought. For several moments he remained silent, thinking swiftly while Roberto maneuvered the gleaming white limousine through the crowded freeway traffic.
I’ll have to get rid of this oaf, he told himself. I’ll get the Tricontinental personnel people to find a job for him back in California. Tricontinental has a rehabilitation program; they’ll be happy to add him to their list of good deeds. I can’t afford to have him near me; he’s too blunt an instrument for what needs to be done now. Besides, he thought, I can infiltrate Astro Corporation myself now, and Dan Randolph will welcome me with open arms. Perhaps his secretary will, too. The thought made al-Bashir smile happily.
“Are you ready to fly the oh-two bird?” Dan asked.
Gerry Adair turned toward him. Then he grinned. “Is the Pope Catholic?”
They were standing side by side in Hangar B, where Niles Muhamed was sternly directing his crew as they carefully—tenderly, Dan realized—hoisted the spaceplane off the flatbed that it had been tied to and deposited it safely on the hangar’s concrete floor. The air rang with Muhamed’s deep-throated shouts and warnings. He even drowned out the electrical whine of the overhead crane.