The White House was steamed to the max about the entire venture, seeing it (rightly) as a Chavez propaganda ploy designed to embarrass the Administration — a goal that Caracas shared with Senator Keehan.
But there wasn't much they could do about it. It was all perfectly legal. After all, LAGO service stations sold gas in a majority of states in the United States. Irksome as Chavez was, Uncle Sam needed that Venezuelan oil, which made up ten percent of all U.S. oil imports. Any curtailment of which would wreak havoc at the pumps, and in the public opinion polls.
What Washington could do, however, was to keep a very close eye on all LAGO and Initiative doings in New Orleans.
The Administration had to move carefully here, to avoid doing anything that would allow Senator Keehan and his party to claim politically motivated persecution and kick up a corresponding media fuss about it.
Which meant that CTU had to walk softly in the matter, too.
* * *
Now, Susan Keehan said, "That's the good thing about being the head of the company. I can always put everything on hold to take a very important private meeting."
She and Raoul had moved to the bathroom, a bathroom bigger than many top-level executives' offices. He'd gone in to fix his hair, and she'd followed.
Raoul stood facing the mirror over the sink; Susan stood behind him, embracing him. He was mostly dressed, she was still naked save for a bath towel that stood pressed between her front and his back. He'd finished knotting his tie and was now brushing his hair, a more exacting operation than it might sound. The part had to be just-so. It wouldn't do to have a few strands out of place, making him look ridiculous.
She'd just showered, and even though she'd dried herself, she was still damp. Raoul didn't like her rubbing against him at such times; it mussed his shirt and slacks. Which was why she held the towel pressed between the two of them.
He reached behind himself to squeeze her naked flank.
"I celebrate our being together, I want to shout it from the rooftops."
Susan said, "Better let me work on Daddy some more first."
Raoul frowned. "He doesn't like me."
She said, "It's nothing personal, Raoul, that's just his way."
"He hates me."
"He doesn't hate you, Raoul," Susan said, sighing. "We've been over this time and again... "
"He thinks I'm not good enough to marry his daughter."
She didn't deny it. "He doesn't think anybody is good enough to marry me. He felt that way about Dale and Drew, too." Dale and Drew were her two ex-husbands.
Raoul finished brushing his hair to his exacting specifications. "My family were aristocrats in Venezuela for two hundred years before your ancestors stole their first million."
Susan nodded. "We Keehans were great thieves, reprobates, and pirates."
"'Were'?"
"Not anymore. That was in the bad old days."
"You think so, eh."
"I know it. We're revoltingly legal these days," she said.
Raoul set down the hairbrush and stepped away from the mirror and sink. Susan said, "When Daddy gets to know you better, he'll love you like I do."
"Not quite exactly like you do, I hope."
"Stop talking dirty, Raoul. You're getting me excited again."
"Me, also. Alas, much as I would like to remain in your delightful company, Susan, I have things I must do. I fear that I have already neglected my duties too much — but then, how could I resist so tender an interlude?"
The smile he gave her was dazzling. His teeth were first-rate, all white and gleaming and perfectly capped. That smile made her tingle deep down.
Outside, in the main room, near the connecting door to her outer office, was an old-fashioned writing desk. Susan sometimes used it for minor chores, such as writing thank-you notes and similar minor but not unimportant communiques. On it was a laptop and a combination phone/intercom setup.
The communicator now buzzed, sharp, insistent, annoying. Imperative.
Susan, cross, said, "Damn! They know my standing instructions are that I'm not to be disturbed when I'm in conference here with you."
Raoul said, "In conference — that's what you call it?"
She said, "That's one way of putting it."
Raoul's leer was amiable. He'd been satisfied. He'd be leaving soon, and that inclined him to be indulgent. But he was grateful for the interruption; it would help cut short his departure time. Unlike Susan, he hated long goodbyes. It was perfectly understandable; she hated to see him go. He could hardly blame her for that, of course, but her neediness could become somewhat annoying.
He'd been out of contact with his office for hours, almost all morning in fact, having shut off his cell phone earlier, as soon as he'd been alone with Susan. That closedown of communication nagged at him, a little. Colonel Paz didn't like it when Raoul was out of reach.
Too bad. He was entitled to a little downtime. After all, what could happen that the Colonel and company couldn't get along without him for a couple of hours?
The buzzer sounded again, an unpleasant sound suggestive of an insect being electrocuted by a bug zapper.
Susan reluctantly untangled herself from Raoul and crossed to the desk, long legs flashing, long, lithe golden form naked except for a towel draped across her shoulders.
She leaned forward, over the desktop. A red light flashed on the communicator. The buzzer blatted again. She grabbed the phone, cutting off the buzzer in mid-blat.
She said, "What?"
A voice on the other end said quickly, "It's me, Hal. Sorry to bother you, Susan, but this is important."
Hal Dendron was no mere hireling; he was her deputy director and manager.
Susan started to say something, paused, and started listening. Hal had the authority to override Susan's version of the DO NOT DISTURB sign and the sense to know not to abuse the privilege. He wouldn't burst in unless it was something important.
He said, "I've got Mylon Sears on the other line." Hal's voice was pitched low, confidential.
Susan said, "I'm listening."
"There are some men here asking about Raoul." Hal paused, adding, "Government men."
A vein started to throb in Susan's forehead. Or perhaps it had already been throbbing, but this was the first that she noticed it. Her jaw muscles flexed, her teeth clenched.
This was the onset of a too-familiar syndrome of frustration, irritation, and rage.
It was an effort for her to keep her voice level, and even then, some strain crept in.
She said, "FBI?" The FBI had distinguished themselves, in her experience, as the most persistent pain-in-the-ass component of U.S. government harassment. She called it harassment. They called it investigation.
Hal said, "Not, not them — CTU."
Susan said, "Who? Which ones are they? There's such an alphabet soup of government organizations harassing the Initiative — FBI, NSA, Homeland Security, Treasury, SEC, you name it — that I can't tell one from the other anymore."
Hal said, "CTU, Counter Terrorist Unit. It's kind of a domestic police force for the CIA." Not pausing for a breath, or letting her get a word in edgewise, he plowed forward to get his message across. "Susan, they want to talk to Raoul and they're quite insistent about it."
She stiffened. The throbbing in her temples was turning into a pounding, forerunner of a near-future splitting headache. "What does Mylon Sears say?"
"He's stalling them but he can't hold them off much longer."
Raoul crossed to her. Instinctively he walked soft-footed, minimizing his tread, so nobody outside the room — like, say, a U.S. government spy with an ear pressed to the door — could hear him. He mouthed the words, "What is it?"
Susan said, "Hal, I'll get back to you in a minute." She put him on hold.
She turned to Raoul, said low-voiced, "More of those government pests. A couple of snoopers outside who want to see you."
"I don't want to see them," he said.
Susan looked
less angry than worried. "It's not anything serious, is it, Raoul?"
"Certainly not. It's just more of the same, part of the pattern of oppression that your government routinely inflicts on all members of President Chavez's government in this country. They hate us because we're trying to help the people — the people of Venezuela and the United States."
Susan said, "It makes me ashamed of my country, Raoul."
Raoul smiled, patted her bare shoulder. "These idiots have nothing better to do than to take up my valuable time asking a lot of fool questions about plots and conspiracies that exist only inside their own heads. I have better things to attend to. Besides, this delightful interlude of ours — I wouldn't have missed it for the world, my darling — but it has put me behind schedule.
"I can't afford to lose any more time. And so, my dear, I will say farewell, and take my leave via your private exit," he concluded.
"Oh, Raoul... "
She opened to his embrace, yielding, molding herself to him. They kissed. Raoul gave it enough to be convincing, but not too much. He was eager to be away.
He had immunity, Caracas-issued documents attesting him as a member of the diplomatic corps. He could not be arrested, need not answer questions. But he had better things to do with his time than waste it sparring with more Washington stooges.
He came up for air first, breaking the clinch. Fingers reluctantly parting contact with Susan's golden, velvety flesh. He said, "We'll have dinner tonight."
They had both resolved to stay in town despite the storm, he to ride it out at the consulate, she "to show solidarity with the people of New Orleans" and because she had a first-class house in the Faubourg Marigny and a top-notch security staff to protect her.
She said, "Phone me as soon as you get clear, Raoul."
"I will do so."
A back door exit from Susan's private quarters had proved useful in the past and would do so again — in fact, now. He crossed to it, opening the door. Beyond lay a narrow passageway. He opened the door a crack and peeked into the hall. It was empty.
He turned, blew Susan a kiss. She blew one back to him. He eased into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
Now that he was in the corridor, he could hear voices coming from around the corner and deeper into the main hallway. Several voices. The rhythms were ordinary, conversational. He couldn't make out what they were saying.
He went the other way, turning left toward the tall window at the end of the hall. Before he reached that, he came to a fire door. He opened it, stepping out onto an empty stair landing. No voices or sound of ascent or descent reached him. He was alone.
He went down several flights to another landing, opened a fire door, and entered a hallway. He was now several floors below the main floor of KHF offices and Susan's private retreat.
He got on an elevator and rode it all the way down, to an underground parking garage on a sublevel of the building.
The elevator car came to a halt with a slight bump, doors sliding open. Ahead lay a square-sided corridor of white-painted concrete-block walls, some lined with pipes and cables. Raoul followed it to the underground garage.
So far, so good. He'd eluded pursuit. All that remained for him to do was get in his car, exit the garage to street level, and be on his way.
He was unarmed. He never carried a gun or a weapon. That was for the likes of Colonel Paz and his bullyboys, not for a Garros. He was insulated from that side of the business, too valuable to risk for mere vulgar gunplay and strong-arm activity.
"From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs." That was a philosophy much in favor with the new masters in Caracas. In this case, Raoul approved of the sentiment.
He headed for his car, saying to himself, "Home free."
9
THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
The offices of the Keehan Humanistics Fund occupied several upper floors of the Mega Mart building. Not the topmost floors, because the flat roof doubled as a helicopter landing pad and the KHF offices had been sited below them to buffer and muffle the chopper noise.
The main floor of the complex was the one where Susan Keehan maintained her office and adjoining suite of rooms.
The official title below her name on the brass plate mounted on her door was "Coordinator." It was a prime example of newspeak, language meant to hide and obscure rather than clarify. In other words, double talk.
According to the ideology that passed for gospel in her set, the very concept of leadership, of corporate hierarchies, titles, and chains of command, was a relic of the Neanderthal past. It was "classist," a holdover from the patriarchal hierarchy of the Bad Old Days when power was concentrated at the top, rather than the progressive, future-forward model of power sharing among equals: a pyramid rather than a circle.
She affected the title of "coordinator," the liaison between KHF and LAGO.
By any name, the reality was that she was the boss, the person in charge who called the shots. She made the decisions, and her word was final — subject, of course, to review and revision by her father, Wilmont, and her uncle, Senator Burl. They preferred not to exercise their ultimate authority openly or with a heavy hand, allowing Susan some illusion of independence.
But her key people were their people, who kept them abreast of any and all developments that might negatively impact dynastic interests.
Her office was the biggest and most luxurious, made up of a suite of rooms that included the inner sanctum that was her private retreat from executive cares and responsibilities. It had the best location, the most spectacular view, the most lavish accoutrements.
In the time-honored mode of royals and courtiers, the more important an officer of KHF, the closer that person's office was to Susan's. Proximity equals prestige. Her suite was flanked on one side by that of Hal Dendron, her top lieutenant, and on the other by that of Alma Butterworth, her executive assistant.
One area where newspeak had failed to penetrate was in the Security Division.
EXECPROTEK was a distinct and separate corporate entity that was not part of KHF.
It was placed squarely on the profit-making side of the ledger and under the direct control of Wilmont Keehan: "Daddy."
Mylon Sears was the chief of the New Orleans branch, Gene Jasper was his right hand man.
* * *
Earlier, the EXECPROTEK apparatus had managed to stall Jack Bauer and Pete Malo long enough for Raoul Garros to give them the slip.
Down on the ground-floor level, entrance to the building's main lobby was open and unhindered. Anyone could walk in, but before they could get much farther, they were halted by a long, waist-high, countertopped barrier staffed by a security squad. Those seated behind the counter wore civilian clothes, but were backed up by a team of uniformed armed guards posted discreetly (but readily available) on their flanks.
All persons who worked in the building were issued security badges with photo IDs, which they were required to show before being allowed to proceed to the elevator banks accessing the rest of the structure.
Visitors had to check in at the desk, report their business, and be cleared by the in-house parties with whom they had appointments. Only then were they issued visitors' passes and given the go-ahead to enter.
Jack Bauer and Pete Malo occupied a gray area where the lines were blurred and the ordinary rules did not apply. They were Federal agents on official business. Yet, lacking warrants or similar documents, they couldn't hard-ass their way through and barge right in.
Further complicating the mix was politics. More so than usual because of the antagonism between the Administration in Washington and the opposition party of Senator Keehan. They must be careful not to create a political fracas that the Keehan faction could exploit for propaganda purposes.
Or an international incident by leaning too hard on Raoul Garros, possessor of Venezuelan diplomatic accreditation.
Gene Jasper, second-in-
command to security chief Mylon Sears, went to the ground-floor checkpoint to personally escort Jack and Pete upward to the Olympian levels of the KHF offices. Jasper was built like a pro football player and had thick, dark hair and a mustache.
A high-speed elevator whisked the trio to the cloud-piercing heights, depositing them on the main KHF floor where top management was massed.
It was some layout. The main hall seemed about the size of the nave of Westminster Abbey. It was decorated in warm earth tones, tans, beiges, and light browns, with dark brown trim.
Opposite the elevator bank was the main reception area, behind whose oversized front desk, mounted on the wall above it, was a three-dimensional KHF logo, each letter three feet high.
Office doors ranged along the walls. Interspersed between them were imitation folkloric prints alternating with stark, black-and-white Family of Man-type portrait photographs of wrinkled, ethnic peasant women, gaggles of Third World children, and suchlike.
From wires strung high above and at right angles to the long axis of the hall were colorful banners celebrating the Hearthstone Initiative and inscribed with its motto, "Warm Homes, Warm Hearts"; also a larger-than-life-sized photo print of President Hugo Chavez shaking hands with Senator Burl Keehan.
Pete Malo struck his fist against his left breast and said, "Gets you right here, doesn't it?"
Jack Bauer said, "That's heartburn, I think."
"Must've been those hot dogs I had for lunch."
* * *
Mylon Sears came out to meet them, further delaying the inevitable face-off between the CTU agents and Susan Keehan. Sears was of medium height, with broad shoulders, a barrel chest, and thick arms. Balding, he'd cut his remaining hair close to the scalp. A horseshoe-shaped patch where hair still grew looked like a band of graphite particles adhering to his shiny scalp.
24 Declassified: 07 - Storm Force Page 16
