Part 38 (1/2)
”Guaranteed.” I raised my palm.
”Well, I've got a lot of work--”
”Shall we make it for seven?” I was handing her my card, address and number thereon. ”The c.o.c.ktail hour?”
She was still glaring at Mori's office as she absently took it. ”Well .
. . all right.” She glanced back. ”Seven.”
”See you there.”
. . . Jack O'Donnell's speech, to be delivered to the Senate that Tuesday, sort of slipped to the back of my mind. Maybe it shouldn't have. After getting back to his office that afternoon he dictated about three versions before he had it the way he wanted it. Friday morning he messengered a copy down to my office, and I can tell you it was a beauty. He'd got it all, and he'd got it right.
Later Friday, however, he received a phone call from Matsuo Noda. After the usual preliminaries, saying how much he'd enjoyed their meeting, Mr. Noda confided he was calling as a personal favor to the senator, since they'd hit it off so well the previous day. Turns out he'd just been talking to the CEOs of various j.a.panese outfits scheduled to set up manufacturing operations in some of the ”rust-belt” mill towns in upstate New York. Here was the distressing development: seems they were all of a sudden taking another look at sunny Tennessee. The problem was, they were upset by the anti-j.a.panese tone a lot of New York publications were taking these days--j.a.pan bas.h.i.+ng in the Times editorial pages, things like that. Noda, however, felt all this was very shortsighted of those j.a.panese investors; and he wondered if Senator O'Donnell would like him to put in a word for the Empire State.
Pause. He hated to mention this, but people were even talking of closing certain j.a.panese-operated factories already in place, such as that big one in Elmira, Jack's hometown, and moving them south. But he thought threats such as that were very impolite and he was hoping he could find time to straighten the whole thing out.
Like I said, it would have been a h.e.l.l of a speech.
CHAPTER SIXTEEN
That Sat.u.r.day turned out to be the day when winter descended abruptly and with rare vengeance. Remember we're only talking mid-December, still a dozen full shopping days till you know what, but it could have been the depths of January. After things kicked off with what seemed a foot of snow around three, the elements really started to unload.
Everything from sleet in historic proportions to a wind-chill that would have frosted the horns off a Bexar County billy goat.
While I waited for Tam, I battened down the garden, covered the outdoor furniture, and prudently provisioned the larder with a flagon of Remy antifreeze. Ben in the meantime was lumbering around downstairs, eyeing the snow-covered garden with an air of disgruntlement. The universe had turned unacceptable, something he never greeted with equanimity. I decided to try and divert his misery by hauling him up on the long Country French dining table and combing some of the knots out of his s.h.a.g. When that merely reinforced his overall gloom, however, I called it quits, located a consoling rawhide stick for him to gnaw, and poured a brandy. It was along about then, shortly after nightfall, that Tam finally appeared.
A cab with snow chains dropped her off (she'd come directly from the office, which Noda had just shut down for the weekend), and I helped her navigate the sleet-covered steps. I got the immediate sense that her first impression of my living quarters was unchanged from the old days. In spite of all the art, armor, and antiques, the place had a poignant rootlessness about it. Boys like toys; they just get more expensive as the bank account grows. Also, since she'd been in the man game long enough to spot a divorce-rebound case a mile off, she probably had me figured from the start: part of that army of emotional paraplegics in our f.e.c.kless day and age.
After the MITI twist, however, I suppose she was ready to consult with somebody concerning the direction things were headed. I warmly invited her downstairs to the sisal-carpeted den just off the garden and dumped some logs in the fireplace. Next I pulled out a few discs--Mendelssohn seemed about right for some reason--and offered to whip up a batch of margaritas. 'Twould be, I dared to hope, a long winter's eve. Alas, she said no thanks, a club soda and lime would do fine. Looked as if I would be working barehanded, without aid of that universal socializer, distilled spirit, so I rustled up a Perrier, then poured another snifter of brandy for myself.
Since she appeared exhausted, my first suggestion was she kick off her shoes and get comfortable. No argument.
After settling in, shoes off and feet to the fire, she announced she was ready to hear what I'd come up with.
Before an awkward silence could grow, I snapped open my briefcase.
”Dr. Richardson, in keeping with the ground rule that this is a formal business meeting, let me introduce my first agenda item.” I flashed her my best smile, then pulled out the purloined page. ”This is part of the paperwork Mori seems to have brought with her. I don't understand too well what it's all about, but my first impression is that somebody has decided to do some major tinkering with your program. Take a look at this and give me an opinion.” I pa.s.sed it over.
She glanced down, then back at me. ”Are you supposed to be bringing DNI doc.u.ments home?”
That was her first reaction, swear to G.o.d.
”Look, this just accidentally got in with some of my photocopies. All it is is a list of companies. And I didn't want to talk about it there in the office.” I reached over and ran my finger down the string of firms, then to several columns of numbers off to the right. ”The question is, what are these outfits suddenly doing on DNI's buy list?”
She studied it a second, looked around the room, and said exactly nothing.
”Doesn't that seem at all strange to you?” I finally spoke up. ”As I understand the plan, you want to s.h.i.+ft more corporate funding into research in the companies you're buying into? I do have it right, don't I?”
She nodded.