“Those rockets they use,” Kinsky said. “Solid fuel boosters. Their exhaust gases are toxic, for chrissake. Aluminum perchloride or something. We can’t park our cars within a mile of the launchpad because the exhaust peels the paint off.”
“Wow! This is dynamite. We’ve got to get this information out on the Net, got to organize protests, rallies, the whole nine yards:”
Kinsky felt a pang of guilt at having betrayed Dan. What the hell, he told himself. This geek would come after Dan anyway, with me or without me. I’ve got to look out for numero uno.
Which reminded him. “You mentioned a consultant’s fee when we talked on the phone.”
Chatham immediately sobered. “That’s right. I have a cashier’s check for a thousand dollars right here in my pocket. All I have to do is fill in your name as the recipient.”
“We talked about a lot more than one thousand.”
“This is just the first installment, my friend. There’ll be more, plenty more. I think you’re going to be very valuable to us, helping to orchestrate the protests that’ll bring this satellite project to a screeching halt.”
“I’m heading out of the country,” Kinsky said.
“May I ask why?”
Thinking of his ex-wife and her lawyer, and even more of Roberto and the shadowy figures he must be working for, Kinsky replied merely, “Personal reasons.”
“But you can stay in touch through e-mail, can’t you?”
“Can you set up an account for me? With a new user name. I don’t want to be traced.”
“Sure,” Chatham said easily. “No problem.”
“And you can wire-transfer my money.”
“Sure,” he repeated. “Anywhere you want.”
Al-Bashir was tempted to reveal his scheme to Garrison. The crusty old scoundrel would appreciate the beauty of it, and he might even agree to killing the president of the United States. Garrison had complained about “that jerkoff in the White House” often enough.
But he resisted the temptation. Garrison was an American, and even though he had always run the multinational Tricontinental Oil Corporation with the totally unsentimental attitude of a man who puts profits above all else, some shred of national loyalty still might make him balk at the scheme al-Bashir was unfolding.
So I must be clever enough to do what needs to be done without stirring up his opposition. He’s still smarting from the realization that I’m the real power in the corporation, and he’s working hard to win key members of the board away from me. My best path is to make him a party to the scheme without revealing the entire scheme to him. I want him either on my side or neutralized, not actively opposing me.
The old man hardly ever left the tower in downtown Houston that housed Tricontinental’s corporate offices. Garrison kept an apartment on the floor below his own penthouse offices, a spacious suite comfortably furnished with all the latest gadgetry and a handful of servants. Al-Bashir felt quite pleased that Garrison had invited him to his living quarters for a quiet little dinner, rather than to his office for a more impersonal meeting.
This is a sign that he’s beginning to accept the situation, al-Bashir told himself, at least a little. He wants to show off his lifestyle to me. All to the good.
The apartment was even more sumptuous than al-Bashir had expected. A young, broad-shouldered butler in a traditional dark suit was waiting for him when the doors to the private elevator smoothly slid open. Al-Bashir found himself in a Texas-sized living room, thickly carpeted, the two farthest walls completely glassed so that he could see the garish majesty of Houston’s skyscraper towers, just beginning to light up in the twilight glow that still lingered on the distant horizon. These furnishings and decorations are tasteful—even elegant, al-Bashir thought as the butler led him to the bar of black marble.
Despite the room’s size, it seemed comfortable, livable, not like some of the homes al-Bashir had seen, which looked to him more like furniture store showrooms than homes where people actually spent their lives.
Without being asked, the butler poured al-Bashir a tall glass of tea. He sipped at it, appreciating the trace of mint he tasted. Above the bar, he saw, was a larger-than-life painting of a fleshy nude woman.
“Rubens,” came Garrison’s voice from behind him. Al-Bashir turned and saw the old man wheeling up noiselessly across the plush carpet.
“It’s an original, of course.” Garrison waved an arm. “They’re all originals. Cost a mint, each of ’em. Rafael. Pair of Monet haystacks. That etching over there is by Rembrandt.”
“They’re magnificent,” al-Bashir said.
“Yep. Nice to look at now and then, make you realize what it’s all about. Got a mural by Da Vinci on the ceiling over my bed.” He cackled evilly. “That one’s just a reproduction, though. But it impresses the women.”
Al-Bashir smiled down at him. His own home, outside Tunis, had no images on its walls. That was not permitted. But there were many women.
As Garrison led him through the opulent apartment, pointing out artworks as he rolled his powered chair across the plush carpeting, al-Bashir began to understand why the old man had invited him to his home. He’s showing me what he’s accumulated over all these years. He’s begging me not to take all this away from him. Al-Bashir smiled tolerantly down at the wizened cripple and thought, You can keep it all, Garrison. All except the power.
Dinner was served by the butler, who was the only servant in sight. Garrison sat at the head of the long dining room table, al-Bashir on his right. The old man’s wheelchair was a shade lower than the other high-backed chairs; it made Garrison look almost like a child seated at a table too high for him. He ignored that, though, as they ate delicately seasoned veal and talked about business. At last Garrison asked, “Randolph still givin’ you the runaround?”
Al-Bashir made a smile. “It’s a delicate situation, almost to the point of amusement.”
“Nothing amusin’ about a billion and a half bucks,” Garrison muttered.
“I’m beginning to think that perhaps my approach to Randolph has been wrong.”
“Whattaya mean?”
With a rueful little pout, al-Bashir said, “The man seems pathologically unable to make a decision on selling part of his company to us.”
“His funeral, then. He needs the money, he sells. Otherwise he can piss in his pants for all I care.”
“I would agree, except for one thing.”
“Yamagata?”
Al-Bashir dipped his chin in acknowledgment. This old man is no fool, he reminded himself. You must treat him with respect. He’s quite capable of ambushing you if you’re not careful.
“I don’t want to see the Japs get their paws on that power satellite any more’n you do,” Garrison said, holding a forkful of veal poised between the platter and his mouth. “I want ‘em buyin’ our oil, not pullin’ in energy from outer space.”
“This man Scanwell is a factor, too.” al-Bashir said.
Garrison snorted.
“Do you know him? Personally, I mean?”
“I knew him,” the old man replied. “Before he fixed his eyes on the White House and started all this energy independence bullshit.”
“He apparently has allied himself with Randolph.”
“Yep. And he won’t come within ten miles of me. I’m the big, bad oil industry.”
“Scanwell could be trouble if he’s elected.”
Strangely, Garrison smiled. A sly, knowing smile. “Let him get himself elected. Once he’s in the White House we’ll show him who the real players are in this business.”
Al-Bashir felt genuinely surprised. “You believe you can contain him?”
“Son, we’ll control him. Same way we’ve controlled all the other presidents.”