“I know,” said McClintock. “But Tobie-”
“Please, Colonel. I know what I saw. But you and I are probably the only two people in the country who believe I actually saw it.”
“You’re forgetting Beckham,” said McClintock quietly.
Tobie eyed him anxiously. “Will the Vice President support us on this?”
“I’m not sure I’m supporting you on this.”
“Colonel-”
He held up one hand. “All right, all right. I’ll see what I can do.”
7
Miami, Florida: Saturday 24 October 7:00 P.M. local time
A powerful monument in marble and steel, the Walker Pharmaceuticals Tower thrust up directly from the shores of Miami Bay. More than just a corporate headquarters, the tower stood as a visible testimonial to the success of the man who had built it: James Nelson Walker III. Less than two decades had passed since Walker earned his Ph.D. in chemistry from MIT, but he’d long since taken the modest drug-manufacturing business he inherited from his grandfather and turned it into one of the most powerful pharmaceutical companies in America.
He stood now beside the softly tinted glass walls of his offices at the top of the tower, his gaze on the gleaming blue waters of the bay spread out below him. Small and wiry, he was in his forty-sixth year, his tightly curled, short dark hair little touched by gray, his body kept hard and lean by a vigorous regimen of diet and exercise. He wore a meticulously tailored navy suit and hand-sewn leather shoes, and he had just closed a new deal with the Chinese that would earn him a cool hundred million in the next twelve months.
“Miss Greenwald is still waiting to see you,” said his secretary from the door.
“Tell her to come in.”
“Yes, Mr. Walker.”
“And Sherry?”
The secretary turned in silent inquiry. She was an attractive woman, intelligent and efficient and fiercely capable. As a wife or a lover, she’d make a man’s life hell. But as an executive assistant, she was priceless.
He gave her a slow smile. “Go home, and enjoy what’s left of the weekend.”
Her face relaxed. “Thank you, Mr. Walker.”
Walker stayed where he was, only shifting slightly as Judith Greenwald strode into the room. She was tall and unflatteringly slender, with straight brown hair and gaunt cheeks and an earnest expression that had etched frown lines in her high forehead. Years of exposure to the harsh sun and wind of Africa had fanned more lines into the delicate flesh beside her hazel eyes, making her look closer to forty-eight than to the thirty-eight he knew she was, for she’d been the college roommate of his ex-wife. Yet, for some reason Walker had never understood, she stubbornly refused to have any “work” done. She’d never even bothered to refashion the large beak of a nose she’d inherited-along with everything else-from her father, shipping magnate Max Greenwald. It wasn’t as if she couldn’t afford it. Her pink Chanel suit and strappy Jimmy Choo shoes cost enough to feed a good-sized village in Africa for a thousand years.
“Thank you for agreeing to see me on a Saturday like this,” she said, shaking his hand.
“I had to come in anyway. Please. Sit down.”
She settled onto one of the soft yellow leather sofas overlooking the bay and came straight to the point. “You’ve had a chance to look over our proposal?”
“Of course.” In addition to the untold millions old man Greenwald had left his daughter, he’d also funneled another fifty million or so into a charitable trust that Judith now administered. Her cause du jour was AIDS in Africa, and she had come here, today, to see Walker because Walker Pharmaceuticals had recently released a new and highly promising AIDS treatment.
She gripped her Chanel purse in both hands. “And?”
“I’m afraid what you’re asking is impossible.”
“I don’t see why. It’s not as if we’re asking Walker to give us the anti-viral drugs. Only to supply them to our operation at cost.”
Walker let out a soft laugh. “What you’re essentially asking for is a donation worth millions of dollars in lost profits.”
“Profits you wouldn’t have earned anyway.”
Walker went to where an iced pitcher of acai and pomegranate juice stood on a tray with glasses. “Juice?” he asked.
“No, thank you.”
He poured himself a glass. “It just so happens we do have a new product we’re willing to supply to your organization at cost. It’s showing promising results in the treatment of tuberculosis.”
Tuberculosis was a growing problem amongst AIDS patients in Africa. She tilted her head, her eyebrows drawing together in a frown as she stared up at him. “I take it that when you say ‘new,’ what you really mean is, ‘still under development’?”
“That’s right.”
“In other words, we pay you for the privilege of testing your drug for you. And if it turns out that it kills more people than it cures?”
“What difference would it make? They would have died anyway.”
She pushed to her feet, two unattractive splotches of color riding high on her cheekbones. “I’ll convey your generous offer to our board.”
Walker raised his glass to his lips and took a sip. “You’re sure you won’t have some juice?”
“Thank you, but no. Good evening,” she said, and swept from the room, leaving a cloying scent of haute couture and expensive French perfume and bleeding-heart-liberal hypocrisy.
Still sipping his juice, Walker went to stand again at the window, his gaze on the wind-ruffled expanse of blue water and the puffs of white clouds building on the horizon. If things went according to plan, Judith Greenwald and her kind would soon have far too many problems of their own to waste time worrying about AIDS and Africans.
The beep of his private line brought his head around. He reached for the phone. “ Walker here.”
The General’s voice was abrupt, his usual Texas drawl clipped. “I’ll be at your house by 2100 hours. There are things we need to discuss.”
Walker drained his glass. “Good news, I hope.”
“I think you’ll be pleased.”
8
Langley, Virginia: Saturday 24 October 7:15 P.M. local time
Jax was at his desk skimming through an article on submarine salvage operations when Matt stuck his head around the edge of his cubicle.
“You’re booked on the next flight to Berlin, with a connection tomorrow morning to Kaliningrad.”
Jax looked up. “Please tell me this is a lead from one of our agents.”
“Well…” Matt dropped a file folder on the desk in front of him. “I guess that depends on whether or not you consider Tobie one of our agents.”
Jax sat very still. “Let me get this straight. We’ve got a terrorist attack about to go down in this country and the DCI is sending me all the way to Russia on the strength of some remote viewing session?”
Matt tapped one finger on the top of the folder. “Look at the report on her viewing. I think you’ll find it impressive.”
Jax didn’t move.
Matt sighed and handed him another folder. “Then look at this. After we got the Colonel’s report, we checked with the National Reconnaissance Office. According to their latest satellite photos, there’s something at an old shipyard near the Vistula Lagoon in Kaliningrad that wasn’t there two days ago.”
Jax flipped through the NRO report. “Something? What do you mean, ‘something’?”
Matt scratched behind one ear. “Whatever it is, the Russians have set up camouflage nets over it. But it’s about the right size and shape.”
“About?’ Oh, that’s encouraging.”
“The Colonel’s pretty sure about this, Jax.”
When Jax still didn’t say anything, Matt sighed again and handed him a bulky envelope. “Here’s your legend.”