Michaelson tried to read the signs, but when he saw the cameraman moving to get him in the picture, he hurried past. No use lending the protestors a bit of credibility rubbed off from the recent press conference.
Minutes later, after passing the Treasury Building, he turned right and spotted the George Washington hotel. The traffic abated on the side street, but the cacophony of automobiles still reflected off the stone buildings and surrounded him. Once inside the stately hotel, Michaelson inhaled deeply of the air-conditioned, clammy air and felt the tenseness loosen, his shoulders relax.
His heart fluttered from the exertion of the mile walk — this just wasn’t worth it. He’d overdone it today, first by taking the stairs, and now a damned sprint in the sticky heat. He’d had enough, and he could certainly afford the luxury to lounge back. No more cutting corners. Maybe he could join a health club, or maybe he should just soak in the jacuzzi. Maybe with Amber.
Inside his room, Michaelson turned up the air conditioner, hung up his jacket, and flicked on the television. He searched the channels, but was on the wrong side of the hour to catch any response from today’s IVI announcement, even from CNN. He thought about calling Lesserec and the team back at Livermore to get their reaction, but decided against it. He wanted to give them time to cool down. He’d walked the tightrope on this Virtual Inspectors project for too long.
Right now all he wanted was to relax and savor the moment. He had scored his points for today; he would deal with transitioning the Lab’s work when he flew back to Livermore. Even putting up with Lesserec’s self-importance and constant questions wouldn’t be too bad, since T Program would be getting a new leader anyway, once Michaelson took the reins of the much larger International Verification Initiative. And the new T Program leader sure as hell wasn’t going to be Gary Lesserec.
He laughed at the image of José Aragon trying to explain to Lesserec why the red-headed kid couldn’t be appointed group leader. All that could wait until tomorrow. Tonight, he’d invite Amber to dinner, perhaps a nice French restaurant… according to his schedule this wasn’t an opera night, so the Le Rivage might not be crowded—
His cellular phone rang. He thought about ignoring it, but not many people had his number, so the caller must have a good reason for bothering him. Probably someone wanting to congratulate him about the IVI. Michaelson grumbled and padded across the suite to his jacket. He dug the phone out of his suit pocket and flipped it open.
“Hal — this is Diana.”
“Diana.” Oh shit. He lowered himself to the chair with a sigh, trying to keep his voice bright and happy. Years ago Diana Unteling had worked as his executive assistant at the Laser Implosion Fusion Facility. Even back in the old days on the Russian disarmament team, she’d had an uncanny knack of catching up to him when he didn’t want to be bothered. He’d found her prescience and attentiveness to be unbearably sexy before. But it was getting old, as were they both. Amber was so… young and energetic.
“Hal, I thought you were going to call me,” Diana said.
“Sorry. Things have been hectic. I… forgot. You saw the press conference?”
Silence. “I’m at the office. Can we meet tonight? I’m free for dinner, and afterward. My husband’s working late to arrange one of his Coalition retreats. He won’t notice.”
“Sorry, Diana. I’m heading back to Livermore — the Lab’s going ape over the IVI announcement.”
“You can’t stay? Not even for a few hours?” she said sourly.
Michaelson leaned forward, breathing into the telephone. “You know I can’t. Things are moving fast. I… I’ll see you next time I’m out on the East Coast.”
“Hal… we need to talk, and this would be a very good time.” Silence again, tinged with desperation. This was really turning him off. Michaelson waited. He knew she wanted him to ask, but he maintained his silence.
Finally she said, “The Secretary’s offered me a political appointment, the Assistant Secretary position, and I need to ensure we’ve got our story straight. They’re going to ask me questions about Livermore, the time we were on the disarmament team. You know how they dig into everything.” She hesitated. “You could take a later flight and we could meet in Crystal City, the Sheraton—”
So the rumor's true that she may be in line for a top job at DOE, Michaelson thought. How quickly things change. He shook his head.
“Look, I’m in a car now, on my way to Dulles airport. I’m expected to get in late tonight.” He ran a hand through his steel-gray hair, trying to think, to give her a good enough excuse. “Listen, make up whatever story you want me to follow, and I’ll go by it. The committee’s probably going to ask me those same questions when I come up for confirmation as head of IVI. We’ve got plenty of time. I’ll be back within the week. I’ve just got too many loose ends back at Livermore to tie up right now.”
She settled into silence over the phone. Hal imagined her twisting up her face, as if in a battle with herself about what to say next. She’d be kneading a hand against her cheek, and her dark eyebrows arched up against her short gray-blond bangs.
“Don’t give me the brush-off, Hal,” she finally said. “This is important.”
“So is this,” he said softly. “I’ll call before I come out next time. Promise.”
“You know how to reach me.” Her words sounded bitter, and the phone clicked off.
Michaelson folded the phone and took several deep breaths. Diana’s political appointment threw a new light over things. Right now he needed some time to think, to decompress.
No telling what would come out in the confirmation hearings. He knew the horror stories of the congressional staff digging up skeletons from the deepest closets, and senators ranting on for hours about some trumped-up fantasy. But in the land of images and egos, he knew it was only the impression that counted, not the substance. VR had made him a master at that.
He wasted no more time before he picked up the phone again, punched up his electronic rolodex to find the name AMBER followed by a phone number. He entered her number, and when a soft voice answered, he said, “This is Hal.”
Ten minutes later, his face washed and suit jacket back on, Michaelson headed out the door to catch a taxi and meet his dinner date.
CHAPTER 8
The tinny HOLD music on the phone was meant to be soothing, but it had exactly the opposite effect on Diana Unteling. She tapped away at the computer keyboard on her desk as she listened, counting the seconds. She recognized the insipid music: an acid rock piece three decades old, deconvoluted and recomposed with a bouncy beat. It made her want to cringe.
While on hold, Diana put the time to good use, tapping away on the Department of Energy’s e-mail system, zipping off messages tagged URGENT to her staff. Others worked into the evening hours, but the offices around her had fallen quiet for the night. Having sent her assistant home late before calling Michaelson, Diana was on her own, delegating tasks.
After years of practice, she found that parceling out the paperwork for a two-day trip took little time, but it demanded intense consideration. When assigning one of her staff members the job of tackling important agenda items, she couldn’t make a bad call. Luckily, she had a lot of good people to depend on.