No Apologies and No Regrets
Page 70
At The Lion’s Hill, Katya, as she now chose to call herself, sat on her elegant terrace facing the ocean and drinking a dry martini. Edwin Pendleton was beside her, his right arm in a sling and his feet propped up on the low, stone wall. The doctors pronounced him lucky to be alive, but he stoically described his wound as, “less than fatal.” He took a sip of scotch and leaned back in the chair, letting the warm sun shine on his handsome face.
“Edwin, has it all been worthwhile?”
The bright and introspective man sighed and said, “Saving Mrs. Beretta was. As to everything else I suppose time will have to be the judge. The world is always changing, and we have no way of knowing the future for certain.” He put a gentle hand on her arm as a tear trickled down her cheek. He'd not known a woman to sustain so much pain in her life and keep going. Even Katya's armor had to wear thin at some point. Edwin reminded himself of the pledge he had made to her dying husband.
“Think about the past week. Frank killed two men who should have been on our side. Serge and Farouk are deservedly dead, but what of their masters? Their machine is intact and growing more powerful. Are things fully out of our control?”
“Times have changed and so have the tools. Men haven’t. They are better informed and better equipped and there are those who will use that to their advantage. But, it’s no different now than it was when stone axes were invented, iron was first wrought; steel forged, or the atom split. The first to use them got the lion’s share. So it is in the new dimension of an electronic world.”
“But it’s as though we’re advancing at a rate so rapid that man is no longer able to keep up.” Katya looked at her empty martini glass and wondered if she wanted another.
“Man will always find a way. You just have to have faith and, by the way, you are talking as though you were as old as I am.”
“Edwin, no one is as old as you are.”
They laughed aloud and she poured each of them another drink.
“Cheers, my dear friend.”
“Cheers.”
In Palo Alto, Bart Zeigler was enjoying the best week of his life and it got more interesting when he awoke to find an envelope next to his pillow and the smell of Amaretto infused French toast coming from the kitchen.
He padded down the hall and found Sally hard at work at her prized Vulcan stove. She wore dangerous cutoff jeans, a tee shirt and her “intellectual” glasses. Bart’s heart sped up just looking at her.
“Morning, Einstein.”
“Good morning, Bartholomew.” It was a compromise. If she was Einstein then he was Bartholomew.
Bart sat at the counter and opened another of Sally’s big crème colored envelopes. He extracted a folded sheet of matching paper with some other sheets inside.
“What’s the occasion?”
“Read it, Bart.” The dominatrix ordered.
He unfolded the paper and found a note in Sally’s impeccable script:
I’ve always believed in the impossible and now I have him.
I love you,
Sally
PS: Enjoy!
He unfolded the other sheets and discovered a certificate of title and registration to the Ferrari California. Both were in his name. He stared at Sally, now standing next to him, in utter bewilderment.
“What?”
“Ivan gave me a deal I couldn’t refuse.”
“Ivan is dead.”
“Details.” She stuffed a piece of French toast and a couple of her fingers into his mouth.
“I can’t believe you would do this,” he mumbled licking the sweet syrup from her fingertips.
“I told you, I got a deal I couldn’t refuse. Admit it, Bartholomew, you love that car.”
“I do.” “But I can afford my own, now”, he almost said.
“Then no more argument, OK?” She took her glasses off and let her hair loose.
“OK.” Bart swept her up in his arms and kissed her in a way he'd not done before. “Einstein, I love you.” He'd felt it but held off saying the words. Now they were as natural as the morning he spontaneously kissed her neck and the night they spent wrapped in one another's arms.
“I know you do. It’s time to go to work.” Happy in a new and wonderful way Sally purred and for a long while.
An hour and a fast ride in Bart’s Ferrari later, they arrived at the office to be summoned to a meeting in the board room. Anne Fitch held forth at great length on her theory about the involvement of a third person in the Rusikov programs. Bart listened intently and Gabe seemed to buy the concept. Sally spent most of the meeting tapping relentlessly on her smart phone. None of the other three noticed as she read a message that seemed to upset her.
She remained in a trance as Gabe announced that he authorized Anne to utilize whatever resources she needed to further her study. That included Bart and Sally. Bart remained indifferent, but Sally did not. Preoccupied, she departed the office at noon leaving a note on Bart’s desk:
Bart, I’m going to LA. Just got a phone call. My Dad needs me. Sorry for the short notice. I’ll miss you and I’ll be in touch soon.
I adore you! PS: Clean linens are in the dryer.
By the following morning Bart had not heard from Sally and raced to Los Angeles where he managed to locate Ambassador Ramsay at his Santa Monica condo. Despite his uncertain health, the Ambassador convinced him he had not seen Sally in nearly a month. He gave Bart the name of his yacht, Suspicion, and its slip number at Marina Del Rey. Bart found the boat slip empty. The harbormaster told him Sally left on the sloop early that morning saying she was going to Hawaii. "Don't worry," he said, "she's made the crossing solo several times." They tried without success to raise Suspicion by radio and satellite phone and, on the third day, a passing ship found the sleek vessel adrift. Driving the Ferrari back to Palo Alto did nothing to improve Bart's mood. He kept turning the word "suspicion" over in his mind.
Olivia Walker and Senator Harry Brooke were having breakfast together in what had become her small McLean law office. Take-outs from Panera Bread Company.
Harry put a copy of LaStrada down and looked across the wide desk.
“The most recent article says, “Italian Police have failed to determine how many people perished in an explosion at the villa of financier Serge Malroff. The explosion, linked to a gas leak, is known to have claimed the lives of Mr. Malroff and his employee, Duccio Diluvia. At least one other body has been discovered, as have the personal effects of an American, Mr. Frank Beretta, of Palm Beach, Florida. Though his remains have not been positively identified, Malroff’s chef, Mary Murdoch, stated that a man matching Beretta’s description entered the villa in the moments before the explosion. An investigation into the catastrophe is on-going.”
“Indeed.” Kick nibbled on her warm muffin and continued to scan the Washington Post.
“Well, Counselor, what is your opinion?”
“The “investigation is ‘on-going’. Until it's complete I have no reason to comment.”
“Fair enough." He smiled, "and what about this?” He handed her a printout of a piece from the LA Times.
“Early yesterday a sailing yacht, “Suspicion”, was found adrift six hundred miles south southwest of Los Angeles. There was no one aboard and a search has been initiated for a possible survivor. J. Clinch Ramsay, the owner of the seventy- foot yacht, is a former ambassador and philanthropist. It is believed that his 26 year old daughter, Sarah, was making a solo crossing from Marina del Ray to Hawaii. An accomplished sailor and Stanford PhD, Ms. Ramsay left LA three days ago with a stated destination of Lahaina, Maui. Ambassador Ramsay was unavailable for comment.”
“What about it?” Kick took a sip of black tea as she looked over her reading glasses.
“We both know that she’s on the run. What do you plan to do about your niece?”
“The Office of the Legacy Counsel has no current interest in her. What do you intend to do about your granddaughter?”
&
nbsp; “Wait and observe.” He smiled knowing he'd chosen his successor wisely.
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About the Author
Roddy Wix is a self described raconteur and pathological story teller. A former investment banker, pilot, polo player, and escapee from an Ivy League education he divides his time between the mind numbing serenity of the Mid West and the mind expanding verve of San Francisco.
Suspicion
Look for Roddy Wix’s next novel, Suspicion, in the FALL of 2011
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