Part 12 (1/2)

Rojas looked into his eyes and was quiet for close to a full minute. The sun seemed suddenly hotter. His palms and underarms were moist with sweat. It had been mad to believe he could link himself to DeVane without losing his independence. Completely mad. He had been bought and paid for in regular installments, and was now expected to obediently jump to his master's wishes.

At last he turned to DeVane and said, ”You understand that I don't want to make promises I can't keep.”

”Nor would we want that, obviously,” DeVane said. ”All we expect is that you give it your best.”

Rojas raised his drink to his lips and drained it. The mimosa's shade had dwindled, making the heat almost intolerable. For an irrational moment he pictured himself spontaneously erupting into flames while DeVane and Kuhl looked on without expression.

”Is anything wrong, Francisco?” DeVane said. ”You seem disconcerted.”

Rojas shook his head. He heard the noisy rumble of the Beech's engine starting up, and looked out toward the head of the airstrip. The cocaderos had emptied their trucks and were moving them back onto the dirt road as the plane prepared for takeoff. His general practice of never traveling with a s.h.i.+pment aside, he almost would have preferred to be on board. He did not think his nerves could stand the company of these men much longer.

”I should be leaving,” he said. ”There are very few flights out of the country and their schedules are erratic.”

DeVane nodded, then signaled to one of his bodyguards with a wave of his fingertips. The guard nodded slightly and spoke into a handheld radio.

”Your car is on its way,” he said. ”We wouldn't want you to be stranded here.”

Rojas manufactured a smile.

”Muito obrigado, you are most kind,” he said, sickened by his own toadying subservience, and thinking with disgust that the example of the tin miners was one he had followed for some time without allowing himself to acknowledge it. you are most kind,” he said, sickened by his own toadying subservience, and thinking with disgust that the example of the tin miners was one he had followed for some time without allowing himself to acknowledge it.

Like them, he had ventured into a place where it was hot and dark, and learned all too well how to appease its G.o.ds.

SEVEN.

PALO ALTO, CALIFORNIA APRIL 18, 2001.

THE THING WAS, SHE NEVER PLAYED MUSIC BEFORE having her morning coffee, and that puzzled him. having her morning coffee, and that puzzled him.

In the veranda of his Palo Alto home after many long hours on the telephone, Roger Gordian sat with an untouched plate of scrambled eggs and toast on the table in front of him, a steaming cup of coffee near his right hand, and his cordless within fast reach of his left. Making decisions was for him an adaptive reflex, a coping mechanism that pressure only honed and energized, and he'd reacted to the news from Brazil as he would to any emergency, gathering whatever information was available, then digesting as much of it as circ.u.mstances allowed before settling upon a logical and systematic plan of action.

In this instance, the information-gathering process had kept him in his study all night. There had been a string of updates from Cody, interspersed with his own calls to advisors and political contacts, including one to a high-placed official in the Department of State, and a subsequent late-night conversation with his close friend Dan Parker, who had been the congressman from California's 14th District until his recently lost reelection bid, and was somebody whose opinion Gordian never failed to solicit in times of crisis.

With each of them pursuing intelligence about the Brazilian situation through his own respective channels, Gordian's next order of business had been to contact Charles Dorset, the top executive at NASA. The call had had two purposes. The first was to inform Dorset of events at the ISS compound before news reached him from other, unpredictable sources whose accuracy might be questionable--the media being foremost on Gordian's mind. The second involved a slew of matters relevant to the Orion Orion investigation, which Gordian was continuing to view as a separate affair for the present, although the close timing of the episodes in Florida and Brazil, and the fact that both would have damaging repercussions for the ISS program, made it impossible to avoid the possibility of some connection between them. While he was not about to jump to conclusions, he was also unwilling to push such thoughts aside. Distressful as they might be, the Machiavellian conspiracy to bring UpLink down the year before had been a costly and agonizing reminder that they were never to be ignored. investigation, which Gordian was continuing to view as a separate affair for the present, although the close timing of the episodes in Florida and Brazil, and the fact that both would have damaging repercussions for the ISS program, made it impossible to avoid the possibility of some connection between them. While he was not about to jump to conclusions, he was also unwilling to push such thoughts aside. Distressful as they might be, the Machiavellian conspiracy to bring UpLink down the year before had been a costly and agonizing reminder that they were never to be ignored.

Thus, his final call of the morning had been made to Yuri Petrov, Dorset's counterpart at the Russian s.p.a.ce Agency, through a Sword translator, its purpose having been to keep him abreast of unfolding developments and strongly advise that security around the Baikonur Cosmodrome in Kazakhstan--and other RKS complexes in his directorate--be placed on heightened alert.

Right now, however, his phone had gone silent, giving him a chance to poke his head out of his study and sample the morning. Dorset had promised to get back to him within the next hour with word on an especially important issue, and Gordian had delayed heading out to the office until then, wanting to be certain he was absolutely free to take the call.

He looked over his plate, s.h.i.+fted around a forkful of eggs without raising it to his mouth, then decided to wait for Ashley's return before getting started on breakfast.

He sat back, noting that his daughter Julia had fared just slightly better than himself in working up an appet.i.te. Across from him were the vestiges of her own half-eaten meal--a picked-apart blueberry m.u.f.fin and a cold and mostly full cup of coffee. Tied up in knots, she'd rushed off for her first painful meeting with a divorce attorney just as he'd stepped into the sunlight, leaving her dishes where they were, and her grayhounds in his and Ashley's care. Actually, Gordian's exclusive care at the moment, since his wife had sprung up from the table and gone into the house to put a CD into the stereo, something that he could not for the life of him recall her doing in over twenty-five years of marriage, and which was particularly baffling because of the abruptness with which she'd abandoned him, her m.u.f.fin, and her coffee to do it.

Wondering what had gotten into her, wis.h.i.+ng he could clear his mind of distractions and relax, Gordian glanced to one side of him, then the other, and frowned at the utter impossibility of it. The dogs tended to favor him at mealtime, and were flanking his chair like bookends, staring up at him with their bright, brown, pleading eyes.

He reached for a wedge of his toast, broke it in half, and gave each of the dogs a piece. As usual Jack, a brindle male and the larger of the two, sucked his down whole and went back to staring at him. Considerably more high-strung, Jill excitedly sprang onto all fours and spun in a full circle while gobbling her portion, slamming her backside into the legs of the table.

Gordian's breakfast settings rattled and bounced, coffee slos.h.i.+ng over the rim of his cup and flooding the saucer underneath it.

He released an aggravated breath.

”That's how you always get yourself in trouble, you know.”

Gordian turned, and saw Ashley reappear from inside the house to the recorded accompaniment of Fats Waller's stride piano.

”Hmmph,” he said, dabbing up the spilled coffee with a paper napkin. ”What do you mean?”

”I mean feeding the dogs off the table,” she said. ”Besides being against Julia's orders, it's sure to cause a disaster.”

He frowned.

”You know how these poor dogs were treated at the track? Before Julia got them from the placement center? They were literally running for their lives.”

”Yes, I do know, but that's not the point--” she said.

”Grayhounds are given six chances to either win, place, or show before being 'retired.' Which is generally a euphemism that means they're put down, unless the rescue people can get hold of them first.”

”Roger, that's still beside the--”

”They spend all their days penned up in something like a three-by-three-foot crate, except for when they're turned out to eat or relieve themselves. Wind up with pressure sores, swellings on their joints, bald spots from rubbing against the walls of the crates, not to mention--”

”Roger--”

”And besides, I've seen Julia break her own 'no table sc.r.a.p' rule at least a dozen times this week.”

Ashley gave him a long-suffering smile and sat in the chair to his right.

”She's their mother,” she said. ”Which makes that her prerogative.”

Gordian watched as she reached for the thermal pitcher on the table, and freshened her coffee. She was wearing an open blue denim s.h.i.+rt over a peach-colored T-s.h.i.+rt, jeans, and white tennis sneakers. The smart angular cut of her light brown hair was the latest fas.h.i.+on collaboration between herself and Adrian, her stylist, accenting her high cheekbones and sea-blue eyes in a way that seemed like nature's consummate design.

”I wouldn't feed them off the table if they didn't beg,” he said.

”And they wouldn't be begging if you didn't feed them. Or haven't you noticed that they never park themselves anywhere near me me while we're eating.” while we're eating.”

He looked back down at the dogs. They had resumed their positions on either side of his chair, Jill sitting barely at rest and s.h.i.+fting her weight from one front paw to the other, Jack staring at him in rigid and unblinking expectation, his snout tilted upward.

”It's a vicious circle,” he said.

”Or maybe just you being a pushover for any creature in need.” She picked up her m.u.f.fin and nodded her chin at his plate. ”You ought to have some of that food yourself.”

He turned toward his dish and ate without enthusiasm, still unable to muster an appet.i.te. On the stereo, Waller had launched into ”Cash for Your Trash,” his left hand swinging between octaves to lay down rhythmic ba.s.s and chord patterns, his right hand running up the scale with a bright introductory melody line.

Gordian found himself listening to the opening vocals.

”Haven't heard this one for ages,” Ashley said, waiting until midway through the song to comment.