The Undersecretary flashed General Canning the briefest of looks. Canning leaned forward, the kind gray eyes unreadable. “What if we were to sweeten the deal a little?”
That brought Barclay around.
“Three weeks ago,” Canning went on, “an Iranian fighter pilot defected to Saudi Arabia. By the time they’d picked him up on radar and scrambled their fighters, he was right over the most important oil installation in the Middle East.”
Barclay whistled a low soundless whistle.
“Had he been hostile…” He shrugged.
Whitaker picked it up. “About four months ago, another plane—this time a cargo jet with a full crew—defected from Iran to Egypt. They not only crossed the Persian Gulf, they crossed several hundred miles of the northern edge of Saudi air space. The Saudis didn’t even know until Egypt announced the plane had landed and the crew was asking for asylum.”
“There have been other similar incidents,” Canning added.
“Needless to say,” Whitaker went on, “the Saudis are not the only ones who are worried. Take out the oil, you topple the royal family. Take out the Saudis, and the stability of the whole Middle East—not to mention the world’s energy supplies—is in jeopardy.”
They were working him like a pack of wolves bringing down a caribou. The general paused briefly. “Another deal is in the wind. A little larger deal.”
“How much larger?”
Canning spread his hands. “About two billion.”
Alex’s jaw dropped, and Whitaker nodded slowly—the stag was down. Whitaker continued, “The president is about to authorize the sale of sixty of the most sophisticated jet aircraft in the world—the F-22 Barracuda—to the kingdom of Saudi Arabia.”
“They go for around twenty-five million apiece,” Canning added. “Add in parts, support systems, additional radar…” He sat back, rolling his drink back and forth in his hands. “Because of the nature of this deal, the Saudis are willing to set aside the law that no commissions be paid on arms purchases. It could run as high as fifty or sixty million.”
Barclay could scarcely restrain himself from shouting the figures. He finally managed a shrug. “How soon?”
“Don’t misunderstand,” Whitaker said, his voice flat. “We can’t promise you the deal. We can only promise you a good shot at it.”
“What’s that supposed to mean?”
“There will be others trying to put together a package. The Saudis are pretty shrewd negotiators—they’ll take the best one. But we’ll put you on the inside track. That should give you about ten jumps on anyone else.”
“If I pull off the African deal,” Barclay said slowly.
Whitaker smiled. “But of course.”
For several long seconds, Barclay looked back and forth between the two men. Then, “I’ll need some help on this. If this is as big as you say…” He turned to Whitaker. “I have my eye on one man—in fact, he’s here tonight. But I’ll need another. Can
I tap your computer banks again?”
“Certainly. I’ll have Bates out here Monday.”
“Does that mean you’re willing to accept the risks on this other deal?” Canning asked.
Barclay looked surprised. “Risks? What risks?”
Valerie heard the garage door opening and quickly took off her apron. She stuffed it in a drawer, made one last swipe at the counter as the car door slammed, then turned as the door opened and Marc entered. He stopped, staring around the room, then he started to back out the door again.
“Sorry. I must have the wrong house.”
She laughed, pleased at his reaction. He came back in, spun around slowly. “My kitchen has a two-year supply of flour and sugar and honey on the floor. Surely this could not be the same room.”
“The boys and I had nearly as much fun cleaning it as Matt did creating it.”
He set his briefcase down. “Hey, I didn’t mean for you to do all this.” His hands came up quickly. “Not that I’m complaining, mind you.” He moved to the doorway and looked into the family room. “And you had a new carpet installed as well.”
Again she laughed with pleased merriment. “It was mostly on the surface. The honey gave us a few challenges, but the rest came up pretty easily.”
“Really, I never expected this. Thank you very much.”
“You’re welcome.”
“How’s your mother?”
“Doing very well, really. I talked to her earlier.”
“You said she’s been having pain for several days? Why didn’t she say something? Here she worked all day yesterday, came this morning and cooked breakfast for the boys while I was at my early class, and I didn’t even know she was having problems.”
“Mom didn’t want you to worry about it. She says you have enough on your mind already.”
“Thanks,” he said ruefully. “That makes me feel wonderful.”
She shook her head quickly. “You know I didn’t mean it that way. To hear Mom talk, you’re more like a son to her.”
The lines around Marc’s eyes softened. “And she is much more than housekeeper to us,” he said softly. “I don’t know what we would do without her. She’s like a grandmother to the boys. They both absolutely adore her.”
“And she them.” Valerie turned to look down the hall toward the bedrooms. “And no wonder. Matt is such a delight.”
Marc hooted. “You can say that after tonight?”
She nodded. “We had a wonderful time together. And Brett. So sober and yet so sweet.”
“Well, I really appreciate you coming. I don’t know what I would have done.”
“How did you do on the test?”
He shrugged. “Who knows?”
Valerie watched his face as the smile faded and he was lost in thoughts of the class. Finally she straightened. “Well, I’d better be going.”
That pulled him back. “Look, we have some lemonade in the refrigerator—” He pulled a face. “At least we did before Matt started his hatchet job on the kitchen. Would you like a glass? You’ve earned that, at least.”
For a moment she hesitated, then smiled. “Yes, thank you.”
When they were seated at the table, Marc watched her sip from the glass. “So you’re Valerie.”
She looked up in surprise.
“Youngest in the family, graduated from Cal Poly, Pomona, majored in math and computer science. After graduation spent eighteen months in Hong Kong knocking on doors.”
While he was reciting soberly, as though to a class, she saw the amusement dancing in his eyes.
“Plays the piano,” he went on, “dabbles in watercolors, currently works as a systems analyst for a large oil firm in Denver.”
“You forgot my shoe size,” she laughed, shaking her head. “I can’t believe my mother.”
“She’s very proud of you.” He took a drink of lemonade, watching her. Mary kept a snapshot of her family in her wallet—a family shot at a cabin, the men holding fish, the women in jeans and woolen shirts. She had pointed out her youngest daughter to him, but Marc hadn’t paid much attention. He had expected her to be…what? He wasn’t sure, but certainly not this. “So when did you come out? Your mom didn’t say anything about that.”
“She didn’t know. She started having pain a week or two ago. We had a family council.” Her shoulders lifted and fell. “I’m the only one not married, and I’ve been threatening to come out anyway. All my brothers and sisters live out of state, and Mom’s getting older.”
Now it was Marc that was surprised. “So you’re moving here?”
“Moved,” she corrected. “My stuff is a few days behind me, but I got here yesterday.”
“Well, welcome to California. If you give us a little advanced warning next time, I’ll have Matt do the living room and bedrooms as well.”
She groaned. “This was sufficient, thank you!” She finished her lemonade and pushed back from the table. “Well, I’d better go. I want to stop off and see how Mom is.”
�
�How long will she be in the hospital?”
“Three days.”
“Then rest for some time, I would imagine.”
“The doctor said it would be two to three weeks until she’s really back up and at it again.”
The lines around his eyes deepened. “Well, tell her not to worry about us. I’ll see if I can get a girl from the college.”
Valerie had started toward the living room. She stopped. “Oh, no. That’s one of the reasons I came down.”
“It is?”
“Yes. Mom didn’t want to lose her job with you.”
“Well, she doesn’t have to worry about that. But I don’t expect you to have to fill in for her. I can find someone.”
Valerie smiled, faintly teasing him. “Does that mean my work is not satisfactory?”
“Are you kidding? I had planned on renting a back-hoe to clean up the kitchen. This is terrific!”
“Then it’s settled.”
“Are you sure?”
“Yes. If that’s all right.”
“All right? It’s great! Thank you.”
They moved from the kitchen to the living room. Valerie opened the door. “Well, good night. I’ll be here tomorrow in time to fix breakfast and get Matt off to his preschool.”
“Thanks.”
She opened the door, started to exit, then hesitated. “Do you mind if I ask you a question?”
“No.”
“Mom said you’re working on a Master’s of Business Administration at UCLA.”
“Yes.”
“But you teach in Near Eastern Studies at the Claremont Colleges?”
He nodded, amused. “Is that your question?”
She shrugged, suddenly embarrassed. “I was just wondering if I had gotten it straight.”
“Why is a man who has a doctorate in Near Eastern Studies working on a master’s degree in business?”
Now he had really flustered her. “Well, yes. It is a little curious. But I didn’t mean to pry.”
The amusement in his eyes slowly died. “That’s what the dean of the college wants to know,” he said slowly. “I wish I could think of a clever answer.”
Chapter Three
The man at the computer keyboard let his fingers drop and started to type rapidly. Alex Barclay watched him idly. He hardly fit the typical image of the computer expert. With his blond wavy hair and tanned features, he looked more like a naval cadet or the captain of the Yale University rowing team.
Lines of data began to flow across the terminal screen, and Alex started to watch what was coming up on the screen.
PROFILE SERRCH COMPLETED TOTRL PROFILES SERRCHED: 82 PROFILES MRRKED AND SAVED: 9 DO YOU WISH COMPLETE FILES ON THOSE PROFILED? Y/N
Without looking up for affirmation, the man hit the Y key, then leaned back. “This will take a few minutes. It has to go back to the original database and add complete files on each man.”
Benjamin Bates stood, drew heavily on his cigarette, then stubbed it out in an overflowing ash tray. He was an oak of a man—short, thick, facial features like weathered bark. He stretched, limbering up his body. They had been at it for over three hours, Barclay leaning over the man at the keyboard, reading each profile quickly as the computer spewed out the data feed, Bates alternately smoking and dozing in the corner.
Barclay ran his fingers through his hair and turned to Bates. “Just exactly how big is that data base you tap?”
Bates smiled. This was part of the ritual. Four times Barclay had asked Russell Whitaker of the State Department for help. Four times Whitaker had sent Benjamin Bates. Every time Barclay had asked that same question, Bates had given the same response, “We left out Idaho. That helped.”
Alex laughed softly and let it drop. In fact, he didn’t even know if Bates was from the State Department or some other agency. He just always came with some bright-eyed assistant whom he never bothered to introduce, a terminal, a phone modem, and access to a data base that always left Alex feeling slightly uneasy. He leaned over and picked up the phone.
“Jackie, is lunch ready?” He listened for a moment, then, “Good. I’ll be out and help you.” He hung up and exited the room.
The man at the keyboard rubbed his eyes, then moved his fingers up to massage his temples. Bates watched for a moment, then grinned. “If Jackie brings lunch in, that’ll rest your eyes.”
The even white teeth flashed. “Hey, isn’t she something?”
“And every bit as sharp as she looks. Barclay calls her his executive secretary. But I’ve watched them operate. I think she’s more like a partner.”
“On or off the job?”
Bates pulled out another cigarette, retrieved a lighter from a crumpled coat pocket and lit it thoughtfully. “I’ve wondered that myself,” he said finally, “but according to Whitaker, it’s strictly on the job. He says Barclay takes great pride in playing it straight with his wife.”
“Who is this Barclay, anyway?” the man demanded of his boss. “I can’t believe the way he races through the data. He’s got each individual marked or rejected while I’m still reading the stuff.”
Bates just shook his head. “The uncanny thing is yet to come. Just watch him. Sight unseen, he seems to have a sixth sense about who will work out for him.”
“Work out for what?”
There was the slightest shrug. “Depends which project he’s putting together. Whenever he’s starting on a major project, he goes on a hunt for help. Sometimes he gets him through his own means. Other times, if it has to do with a government project, he searches our data base.”
“Why does he need help? I thought you said that he and Jackie ran this whole operation.”
“They do. Oh, there’s the hired help—warehousemen, drivers, custodial staff, that kind of thing. But no other executives. Just Alex and Jackie—and temporary help as needed.”
“Like this Derek Parkin who picked us up at the airport last night?”
“Yeah. He’s brand-new from what Alex said. Hired him away from some law firm.” Bates drew out a crumpled pack of cigarettes, extracted one, and lit it. He drew deeply, then blew the smoke at the ceiling. “This must be some project. To my knowledge Alex has never brought on more than one new man before.”
“Why doesn’t he use the same men over again?”
Bates looked surprised. “Oh, they never survive.”
The other visibly started, which brought a laugh from Bates.
“No, I don’t mean that. Though one did end up in an Indonesian prison with his knuckles broken.”
The blue eyes widened, which only added to Bates’s amusement. He took another heavy draw on his cigarette. “No,” he went on, “it’s not like that. Barclay just burns them out. By the time he finishes with them, they’re either too frustrated or too disillusioned or too exhausted—” He paused. “Or too scared. Alexander Barclay goes at hired help like sixteen linebackers at a rookie quarterback.”
“Scared? Scared of what?”
Again there was an enigmatic shrug. “The world of the arms dealer—even the legitimate arms dealer—has its ups and downs.”
“Like what?”
But before Bates could answer, the door pushed open, and Jacqueline Ashby pushed in a cart carrying white sacks emblazoned with a bright yellow sun and the words CASA DEL SOL RESTAURANT. Both men watched her appreciatively. Barclay paid her well, and she obviously spent a goodly portion of it on clothes. The white skirt and navy blue blazer were accented with a soft, red and blue plaid blouse with a white bow at the neck. It was elegantly understated and complimented the slenderness of her figure. Cool green eyes, looking out from under eyebrows as black as her hair, held a faint touch of amusement, as though accepting the unspoken praise being directed at her as part of her due.
Barclay followed close behind her, carrying a tray of Coke and Seven-Up and glasses filled with ice. With swift efficiency, Jackie had napkins and the food spread out across the desk.
For a few moments they were all occupied w
ith getting their food and drinks sorted out, then Alex turned to Bate’s assistant. “Okay, let’s get started. I’ve asked Jackie to stay.”
It was not a request, and Bates nodded almost imperceptibly as the other man shot him a startled look. Barclay and Jackie noted both reactions without expression. “Bring up number six,” Barclay went on.
“Number six?”
“Yeah. His name was Jeppson.”
The computer operator took a huge bite of a chimichanga and a quick swig of drink, then banged out the commands quickly. All three of the others inched their chairs closer so they could watch as the data started to fill the screen.
PROFILE: MRRC RLLEN JEPPSON
RGE: THIRTY-TWO
RDDRESS: 717 E. BRIDGEPORT RVE., CLRREMONT, CRLIFORNIR
OCCUPRTIONRL PROFILE: MISSIONRRY SERVICE IN URUGURY/PRRRGURY, THE CHURCH OF JESUS CHRIST OF LATTER-DAY SAINTS (72-73); TEACHING RSSISTANT, U OF U (74-75); PERCE CORPS, EGYPT ROD SUOAN (75-76); ASSISTANT PROFESSOR, GEORGETOWN UNIVERSITY (80-82); ASSOCIATE PROFESSOR, CLAREMONT COLLEGES (82-PRESENT)
EDUCRTION: BR, POLITICAL SCIENCE, UNIVERSITY OF UTAH (75) MR, MIOOLE ERSTERN STUDIES, UNIVERSITY OF UTAH (77) PHD, NERR EASTERN STUDIES, UC BERKELEY (80) CURRENTLY ENROLLED, MBA, UCLR GRRDUATE SCHOOL OVERALL GPR: 3.92
LRNGURGES: ARABIC (FLUENT), SPANISH (FLUENT), HEBREW (CONVERSANT), PARSI (CONVERSRNT)
PERSONAL: MARRIED LYNETTE THOMPSON (78); WIFE KILLED IN AUTO ACCIDENT (83); TWO SONS, BRETT MARC, B, RND MATTHEW DRVID, 4. INTERESTS/HOBBIES: WRITING, SKIING, WATER SKING. NO RECORD OF RRRESTS. NO KNOWN DETRIMENTRL HRBITS. CREDIT RRTING 1R. KNOWN DEBTS, RBOUT $12,000. ACTIVE CHURCH ATTENDER. MEMBER CLRREMONT KIWRNIS CLUB
“Well, well,” Barclay said as the lines finally stopped coming up.
“Not bad,” Jackie agreed. “Ph.D. in Near Eastern Studies. Fluent in Arabic. Not bad at all.”
“And working on an M.B.A. at UCLA,” Barclay said. “That’s an unexpected dash of frosting on the cake.”
Gerald N. Lund 4-In-1 Fiction eBook Bundle Page 60
