Part 4 (2/2)

”I am to please,” she said, her voice low and throaty, eyes downcast.

I swallowed, my throat having gone dry. ”Uhh, excuse me?”

”I am to please,” she repeated, a flush spreading across her ample chest and up her long, slender neck.

”I got that. Did Mr. Astor arrange this little tete-a-tete?”

She bit her pouty lips. ”I do not-”

I shook my head. ”Sorry. Did Mr. Astor pay you?” I rubbed my thumb and forefinger together.

The girl's face lit up. ”Yes! Big dollars!”

”Oh, brother,” I said, placing the champagne back in the bucket. I started to reach for the phone to call Harlan. During our initial conversation on the ride to the hotel, I'd mentioned Julia and I were no longer an item. He'd obviously arranged this-in his own inimitable way-to help me get her out of my system, but when I neared the phone, the girl became hysterical.

”Please, do not call police!” She trembled with terror, and I felt sorry for her. To tell the truth, she was d.a.m.n attractive. But I was dog-tired and not really in the mood.

”All right, you can stay. But no hanky-panky.”

”No panky-hanky?”

”No.”

She shrugged her shoulders and began putting on her scattered clothes. On impulse, I decided to throw caution to the wind and opened the champagne, pouring a gla.s.s for each of us. It was marvelous, somehow both drier and more subtle than I would have expected from a century-old bottle of champagne.

Between the two of us, we polished it off in twenty minutes, and then we went to bed-me in the master bedroom, her in the other. An hour later, I awakened, feeling her slide into the bed, her smooth cool skin tingling my backside. A moment later she kissed my neck and reached for me.

I didn't refuse her.

The next morning, I awoke to the sun streaming in through the floor-to-ceiling windows. My bedmate was gone, as were the remnants of the champagne and caviar. For a fleeting moment I wondered if I'd dreamed the whole affair. Then I saw the condom's empty foil wrapper lying on the floor, and I caught a whiff of her perfume on the pillow next to mine.

Lavender. A curious scent for one so young.

Smiling, I glanced at the clock.

9:45.

In a little over two hours, I would be seeing the s.h.i.+p for the first time. A thrill ran through me while I showered and dressed in the one good suit I'd brought. Harlan wanted us all to look our best for the press. All the better for them to pillory us, I thought.

Downstairs, I asked the desk clerk to ring up Harlan's suite. ”Mr. Astor has already left, sir. However, he asked me to inform you his car is at your disposal.”

”Thank you,” I said, shaking my head in wonderment. If this kept up, I'd be spoiled rotten. Too nervous to eat, I left the hotel and found the Mercedes limo waiting at the curb, a cloud of exhaust pluming in the morning chill.

The uniformed chauffeur, a young Pole with a Ches.h.i.+re cat grin on his face, leaped out of the driver's seat and held open the rear door. I climbed in, and a moment later the limo sped away.

The closer we drew to the Gdansk s.h.i.+pyards, the heavier the traffic became. The chauffeur, still grinning, expertly threaded the ungainly vehicle through the streets. We finally reached the gates at 10:30. The guard, a stolid type with a shaved head and a face full of freckles, eyed the papers proffered by the chauffeur and waved us through.

Late in the last century, when Poland was still communist, the s.h.i.+pyards were state-owned-one giant monolithic operation. Now, years after going private, the yards were home to dozens of firms, all of whom competed. Harlan told me the slipways-where the s.h.i.+ps were actually constructed-were shared and had to be reserved far in advance. ”I had to pull a lot of strings to get this project ahead of all the others,” he'd said. I could only imagine it meant more money, no doubt greasing the palms of former apparatchiks who'd mastered the art of capitalistic graft in short order.

The Mercedes traveled the central road toward the water, and I noticed dozens of news vans lining both sides, their satellite dishes pointing skyward on the end of long telescoping poles. Aside from CNN, all the U.S. networks were represented, plus news organizations from nearly every major country in the world.

We came to the end of the street and turned the corner. More news vans were parked in front of the main building at the far end, and a crowd-perhaps numbering in the hundreds-choked the road, milling about in a state of nervous excitement. There appeared to be a lot of families, too, possibly those of the workers.

The black hangar enshrouding the s.h.i.+p dominated the entire length of the street on the quayside. Set out about fifty feet into the harbor, and reached by a wide concrete jetty, it looked even more monolithic than it had from the shots I'd seen on the MacBook's screen.

Smooth walls towered over three hundred and seventy-five feet in the air and stretched a thousand feet in length-enough room for both the s.h.i.+p and the overhead gantry needed to construct it. When we drove past, I saw the entire structure was mounted on rails, no doubt motorized, allowing it to unsheathe the s.h.i.+p for launching. A large flag-draped reviewing stand stood right up against it. The flags were the red-and-white swallow-tailed burgees of the now-defunct White Star Line.

The chauffeur pulled up in front of the main building and held open the door for me. I climbed out, my eyes searching for Harlan.

”Mr. Hughes?”

I turned and saw a young bespectacled woman walking toward me, her hand outstretched. ”Hi, I'm Trina McCloskey, Mr. Astor's a.s.sistant,” she said, gripping my hand firmly.

While not unattractive, she wore little makeup, and was dressed in a dark, conservative pinstriped suit, her hair pulled back from a lean triangular face. Her light brown eyes appeared to be magnified through the thick lenses of her wire-rimmed gla.s.ses.

”Nice to meet you, Trina. Where's Harlan?”

She indicated that we should start walking and led me toward the building. ”He's in a meeting with the owners of the yard. Settling accounts.”

I smiled, imagining the wide-eyed gleam in those men's eyes while they watched Harlan sign a six-hundred-million dollar check. Of course, I knew things were not done that way, but it made for an amusing image.

”Where are we going?”

”Mr. Astor requested I take you into the press room. We're almost ready to start.”

The ”press room” turned out to be a cavernous chamber painted an inst.i.tutional green, and looked to be a hastily converted cafeteria.

Row after row of folding chairs had been set up facing a raised platform at the far end of the room. In the center of the platform stood a podium bathed in television lights and bristling with a profusion of microphones. Hi-Def cameras on tripods lined both sides of the room and filled the back; and every one of the folding chairs held a member of the world's press, chattering away with his or her neighbor. The noise level gave me an instant headache.

”Can I get you anything?” Trina yelled, her voice shrill.

”How about some aspirin?”

She smiled for the first time, revealing a mouthful of capped teeth.

”I know what you mean.”

”I'll be fine, that is if I can find a place to sit.” I said.

”Your seat is at the extreme right,” she said, pointing to the makes.h.i.+ft stage and the row of chairs lined up behind the podium. No doubt these were reserved for the VIPs accompanying Harlan.

”If that's okay, I think I'll wait for Harlan.” I said, nodding to the reporters. I had no intention of being the first on the dais and have all those newshounds staring at me.

Trina seemed to understand. She returned my nod and then left the room. I found a place near the back wall behind one of the camera crews and waited. Five minutes later, the doors opened up and Harlan marched in, Trina at his elbow, followed by a retinue of about a dozen people. I suspected they were the owners of the yard and others of Harlan's staff. I followed them onto the dais and took my seat where Trina had indicated. Harlan took his place behind the podium, a self-satisfied smile curling his lips.

I reached into my pocket, pulled out my iPod touch, switched on the video mode and framed the podium in a medium shot.

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