Part 17 (1/2)

Struggling to keep his temper under control, Faure had left his office and had his chauffeur drive him the three blocks through Manhattan's noise and filth to his penthouse apartment on the East River. He had given the driver the rest of the evening off, smiled his usual condescending smile at the heavily armed doorman, and gone straight to the private elevator that rose directly to his penthouse apartment.

Once safely inside, with the door locked and the phone's answering machine on, Faure took off his pearl gray homburg and flung it across the room. He stripped off his suit jacket and slammed it to the carpet, then stamped on it. He grabbed the vase by the doorway and smashed it against the wall. He went through the apartment like a one-man band of vandals, smas.h.i.+ng, tearing, breaking everything he could lay his hands on.

He spoke not a word, made no sound except for the gasping of his labored breath. Paintings came down from the walls and were torn to shreds. Chairs were overturned, kicked, pummelled. The coffee table was splintered, the bedclothes ripped.

Only his clothes closets were spared his ravages. And the bathroom. When at last he was too weak to continue, sweating and gasping for breath, Faure tore off his sodden clothes, showered, then slowly dressed in an immaculate suit of dove gray. Dressing always soothed him. He found his homburg in the litter of the living room, picked it up, dusted it off, and set it carefully on his head. Feeling almost relaxed, he rode the elevator down to the lobby and asked the concierge to call another limo for him. He had a dinner engagement with six delegates from Latin America.

”By the way,” he told the concierge, ”please send a team of people to clean up my apartment. It has been wrecked.”

And he left the astounded young man sitting at his little desk in the marble-floored lobby, open-mouthed.

After dinner, he went to the secretariat building instead of the apartment. He would sleep in the suite adjoining his office, and give the cleaning team the whole night to put his apartment back in order.

A telephone message from Ibrahim al-Ras.h.i.+d, chairman of the board of Masterson Aeros.p.a.ce Corporation, awaited him. Faure toyed with the idea of waiting until the morning to return Ras.h.i.+d's call. Then he decided not to; I will interrupt his evening, instead.

Now he looked across his office at the image of Ras.h.i.+d's somber, darkly bearded face on the flat screen wall display. It certainly looked as if Ras.h.i.+d were in a house or apartment, not an office. Faure smiled inwardly, pleased with himself.

”I am sure that I don't have to remind you,” Ras.h.i.+d was saying,'that Mrs Brudnoy is not only a leading citizen of the United States, but a very important member of the board of directors of Masterson Aeros.p.a.ce Corporation.”

”If you do not have to remind me,” Faure said testily, ”then why are you reminding me?”

”Believe me,” Ras.h.i.+d replied, ”I don't enjoy this any more than you do. But it is my duty to make certain you understand that Mrs Brudnoy is be treated with every respect.”

Faure felt his blood pressure rising again. He opened his right-hand desk drawer slightly and reached for the weighted silver b.a.l.l.s that he kept there. They were supposed to help calm him. Fondling them in his hand, he felt no relief from the frustrated anger building inside him all over again.

”I a.s.sure you, Monsieur Ras.h.i.+d, that Madame Brudnoy is not being brought back to Earth as a prisoner. She will be brought to New York to discuss the Moonbase situation with me, personally. She will be accorded every courtesy.”

Ras.h.i.+d nodded once, barely. His eyes looked bleak. ”My board of directors has instructed me to tell you that we expect Mrs Brudnoy to have full freedom of movement and a.s.sociation. She will want to go to her home in Savannah, of course-”

”Of course,” said Faure, trying to smile.

”And she will not not want to have Peacekeeper or United Nations personnel escorting her.” want to have Peacekeeper or United Nations personnel escorting her.”

Faure did not reply.

”Mrs Brudnoy is quite capable of getting herself to New York for her meeting with you. She is in no way a prisoner or a hostage.”

Studying Ras.h.i.+d's face as the man spoke, Faure realized that the chairman of Masterson Corporation's board was no more pleased with this situation than he was.

”Monsieur Ras.h.i.+d,” Faure said, relaxing slightly as he jiggled the silver spheres in his right hand, ”let us be candid with one another.”

”By all means.”

”Madame Brudnoy represents the illegal and immoral rebels of Moonbase who are defying international law. A Peacekeeper officer has been killed by them, you know.”

”I was told he was killed in an accident he himself caused,” Ras.h.i.+d replied warily.

”I am sure that is what you were told,” said Faure. ”However, the inescapable fact is that he was killed because Moonbase is resisting international law.”

Ras.h.i.+d nodded gravely.

Faure resumed, ”I am perfectly willing to treat Madame Brudnoy as an amba.s.sador plenipotentiary, and accord her diplomatic immunity.”

”Good,” said Ras.h.i.+d, tonelessly.

”But technically, she is a criminal. Just as all the leaders of Moonbase are.”

Ras.h.i.+d hesitated, pa.s.sed a hand across his neatly trimmed beard. Then he asked, ”If that is your att.i.tude, then to what avail are the negotiations going to be?”

”None,” Faure said, feeling cheerful for the first time since Lieutenant Hansen had reported the failure of the Peacekeepers' mission. ”None whatsoever.”

”I see,” said Ras.h.i.+d slowly. It seemed to Faure that he did not look displeased at all.

TOUCHDOWN PLUS 12 HOURS 26 MINUTES.

In the old days, when he'd been just a teenager, Doug had liked to come out to the rocket port and watch the s.h.i.+ps arriving or departing in the eerie silence of the Moon. He would climb up the narrow ladder to the observation bubble, a tiny dome of clear plastic, and get a worm's eye view of landings and liftoffs.

The old rocket port was a set of storage chambers now. The new port was not much bigger, and had been dug into the floor of Alphonsus more than a kilometer from the flank of Mount Yeager, where the main plaza was going to be built.

Doug drove on the spring-wheeled crawler down the long tunnel to the port, his mother and Lev Brudnoy seated behind him, the reporter at his side.

”Does the head of the base work as a taxi driver very often?” Edith asked, grinning at him.

The tunnel was long and straight and bare. Strips of fluorescent lamps lined its unfinished rock ceiling, their light making everyone's skin look sickly, almost green.

”I'm not the head of the base anymore,” Doug answered lightly. ”And around Moonbase, everybody pitches in and does what needs doing.”

”I thought you were Moonbase's director,” Edith said, her grin replaced by a puzzled frown.

”I was, but I gave it up for the duration of this crisis.”

”Then what's your t.i.tle? How do I identify you for your interview?”

Doug lifted his shoulders in a shrug. ”d.a.m.ned if I know. t.i.tles don't mean all that much around here.”

”Call him the chief administrator of Moonbase,” Joanna said, leaning forward slightly in her seat.

”Generalissimo,” Brudnoy joked.

Edith was serious. ”Chief administrator. That sounds good. And who's the director of the base? Or is there one now?”

”Jinny Anson,” Doug said. ”You'll want to interview her, too.”

”And my wife's t.i.tle is amba.s.sador plenipotentiary,” Brudnoy said, ”while my own t.i.tle is luggage handler.”

Edith fingered the minicam in her lap. ”I want to squeeze in an interview with you before you take off, Mrs Brudnoy.”