Lessing dozed but then awoke again. Mulder was talking about the breakin at Indoco’s Lucknow plant.
“…Even though we do have copies, the originals are precious to us as history. More importantly, the diaries contain information on our corporate structure, companies owned, stock held, interlocking boards of directors, and the like. They would be quite devastating if used as propaganda… or to create legal entanglements for us with half a dozen governments.” Mulder glanced back at Lessing and Wrench. “Unfortunately, my security men here had to dispose of the two intruders. We have no idea who they were.”
“Nothing on them since?” It was the dapper Latin American male. Mulder shook his bald head, and the man asked, “Has anyone else seen… heard… noticed… anything?”
Papers rustled. The two Americans conferred in whispers. The Arab straightened his conservative English tie, shot back his cuffs, and smiled raptly at the ceiling. The ostensible English dowager, a Mrs. E. Delacroix according to her place marker, turned to a woman behind her, a blonde, female assistant. She gestured her forward and said, “Liese, please.”
Lessing noticed her for the first time. Liese? It could be Lisa. Was that the blonde’s nickname or her real name? It might be worth the trouble to find out. She was tall, slender, late twenty-ish, pale of skin but not pasty or sallow, with a high forehead and angular cheekbones. Her hair was a darker blonde than Lessing’s: straight, smooth, shoulder length, and cut in the page-boy fashion that was popular once more. From what he could see of her pearl-grey blouse, she didn’t offer much in the bust department. Not like Jameela — guilty thought — but then Lessing had never restricted himself to the worship of the great American Cow-Goddess. Liese had long, slender legs with good ankles.
“Edouard Mestrich.” Liese nodded toward Mrs. Delacroix and held up a manila file. “Trade liaison officer for Lejeune et Fils. Tractors and farm machinery.” The company must be part of the conglomerate network Wrench had mentioned. Liese had a good voice, low and articulate, with a purring, throaty quality, but her delivery was curt and choppy. “Mestrich. Our man. Trip last month to Moscow, Leningrad, Smolensk. Held up by very unusual Soviet roadblocks, customs, special checks. Soldiers. Followed everywhere. Hard time getting out. Others report the same.”
Lessing concluded that it would be nice to teach this Liese about verbs, adjectives, and complete sentences. Business efficiency should be carried only so far!
“They changin’ leaders again?” the American gentleman drawled.
“No. Something else. Something secret. Very secret.”
“Sheee-it!” the American groaned. “What they plannin’ now!” He sounded as though the Soviets intended to discommode him personally.
“Nothing to do with us, eh?” inquired the Arab in near-unintelligible Oxonian English.
“No. None of our agents say so.”
A Sr. Arturo Delgado, by his name card, interrupted from across the table’s polished expanse. “Excuse me. Let me add here. We in Santiago do business in Vladivostok, and our representatives report similar tightening of security… suspicion, much checking. One of my salesmen reported that the Russians had arrested several foreigners: Pakistanis, maybe, or Afghans.”
“Did you find out why?” Mrs. Delacroix patted her blue-white coiffure. The dye job was beautiful. For a woman in her late seventies, she was a work of art.
“No, sehora. We tried.”
“Assembly of the Holy Qur’an? Pakhtoon People’s Front?” Her blonde girl, Liese, tapped a polished fingernail on the table for each name. “Islam International? Martyrs of Allah? All of the predominantly Moslem republics in the Soviet Union still resent Russian rule. Attempt on the Red Mullah’s life a month ago.”
“The fourth this year,” chuckled the Arab. “B lighter’s still alive.”
“Something odd in the state of Israel, too,” the unknown European male remarked. Lessing squinted but couldn’t read the man’s place marker from where he was.
“Security. Like Russia.” Liese rapped. “High tension between Israel and the U.S.S.R. since last November. Soviet raid on Baghdad. Albanian meres. Regular Red Army staging in Baku. Nerves.”
Mrs. Delacroix sniffed. If cool and efficient Liese wanted to keep her job, she must learn not to take over conversations at meetings.
The man continued: “There are some… eh… wrongnesses in Tel Aviv and Jerusalem. American Eastern Mediterranean staff arriving, and highly placed Israelis coming and going. More than the usual conferences and military movements.”
“Naughty Muslims!” the Arab intoned dryly. “Want their countries back.”
“That is not it, Mr. Abu Talib,” the European replied. “The Arabs are quiet—”
“Slaves are supposed to be quiet!”
“Please!” Mulder rapped on the table. “We’re getting side-tracked.”
“Better than halftracked!” Mr. Abu Talib pantomimed a tank rolling over his immaculate Savile Row lapels.
“Order! Order!” the second American, the woman, commanded. She had a voice like a drill sergeant. “Our plane leaves at 1900 hours.” Her name card said she was Ms. Jennifer Sims Caw. The surname struck Lessing as fittingly onomatopoetic. She was clearly not connected to the older American male with the soft, slightly Southern accent; that worthy drew away from her as though she had bad breath.
“We have several things to find out, then,” Mulder said above the ensuing hubbub. “First, who Indoco’s intruders were and what they wanted with our records and diaries. Second, whether this man Bauer… my Mr. Lessing ‘s, uh, comrade… was connected with them. Third… and much harder… discover what’s agitating the Russians. And the Israelis. And anybody else around the world. There’s something in the wind.”
They broke for lunch at noon.
At one o’clock Lessing and Wrench returned to go over the boardroom with debugging devices. They also scanned the place with a metal detector and three kinds of electronic sensors. They found nothing.
Mulder appeared at 1 :20, perspiration staining the back of his white, Bylon jacket. This, he announced, was a special, private session, and he had Wrench and Lessing check one another for bugs and concealed weapons. Then Goddard arrived with Liese, followed by three of the Latin Americans’ security men. Lessing examined each with impartial care. Liese made no objection to Lessing’s gentle, pat-down body search. She was talking in her rapid, staccato fashion with one of the beegees and affected not to notice.
The other board members and their retinues filed in and received the same treatment. Lessing and a gaunt, nervous youth who worked for Mr. Abu Talib were deputed to stand just inside the door, Wrench and two others by the windows on the north, and three more beegees along the south wall.
Lessing expected some sort of ritual. Nazis at least ought to cry “Sieg Heil” or something equally dramatic. But Mulder only fumbled with one of the slim SS diary-books and read, “Minutes of the last meeting. December 17, 2041, Jakarta, Indonesia.” There followed a list of attendees, most of whom were different from those present today. He turned a page and continued: