"That is exactly what we want," Yago said.
"Is it? An educated nation is not easy to control, Ambassador, and can be dangerous if their trust is violated."
"True. However, when you understand their needs, it is not difficult to keep that trust intact."
"Ah, yes. The rally cry of the Plainsmen. 'Too far, too fast, too much, no more. Our needs and only our needs.'"
"A valid cry, Holiness," said Tibor Gombocz. "In the past, we forgot the most basic tenet—just because we can doesn't mean we should. Not until our citizens are able to assimilate."
Miguel Borden spoke softly. "When progress goes out of control, revolt is a natural response. We understand that now. Our goal is steady, but balanced, advancement. For that to happen, we need the grid."
"Succinctly put, Honorable Borden," Yago said. "Without that power source, there can never be uplifting. Balanced or otherwise."
Murmured assents echoed around the table.
"Hmmm. With grids installed, your impoverished will be—uplifted as you put it. However, those beyond your national borders will be offered the same opportunities eventually. You know well how to play the politics of oppression." Munoz stared at each man in turn. His lip curled at one corner. "In fact, I would suggest that the lack of major advancement over the last fifty years or so is not a byproduct of the Plainsmen Revolt. Nor is it due to a lack of adequate power facilities or the inability to assimilate. Rather, it is a product of those politics. I would also suggest that the grid will simply be another tool for you to use in continued oppression."
Ambassador Yago flushed. Around the table, eight jaws tightened as angry mutters were suppressed.
"That is not to say we will not help, of course. How you govern your countries, or keep those nations outside your boundaries in check, is not our concern. Poor investments are. The only way your debts to each other will be paid in the time span you have allotted is to place the grid installation under the flag of the Church of Universals."
Yago inhaled sharply. His eyes narrowed thoughtfully. "You are waiving neutrality, Holiness?"
"Not at all. Think about it, gentlemen. We have no spear to throw, we promote the flag of no nation, and we have no desire to take on the doubtful joys of trade, finance, or national security. A world united is our only concern. And the souls of men," he added with a smile.
"Then why place the grid in your hands?"
"Hostility prevention. Neither the Eastern Bloc nor The Arabic Triune will sit idly by while—"
Leonid Ustinovich, General Secretary of the Danish Federation, snorted. Despite his pious demeanor, his words were harsh. "Flies on garbage heaps. They do not concern us."
Sighing, Munoz leaned back. Obviously, the man knew nothing of the Triune's deep-ocean crawlers that had penetrated the Danish waters, nor the accuracy with which they'd probed the sensors that protected the Federation's naval installations.
"Be that as it may, Secretary, they will impede progress. Under our colors, there will be no interference. Your time schedule will proceed as planned."
"A valid point, Leonid," Yago said. He studied Munoz for several seconds. At last, he said, "If we agree?"
"We need tangible collateral and we determine where and when the grid is installed."
Miguel Bordon jerked forward. "With all due respect, Holiness, if the Amazon fields aren't supplied quickly, there may not be anyone left to care whether we have power or not. Pollution has poisoned our waters and nearly destroyed our forests. Heat is devastating our lands, draining our people of hope. We need immediate relief."
Munoz lifted an eyebrow at the musical accent. "With all due respect to you, Honorable Bordon, the grid will not bring back the forests nor lower the temperature. Not this century, not the next."
"But it will help restore balance to our environment. We can plant new trees, filter the rivers, restore the farms. We can survive. With care, perhaps the children of my grandchildren will see an end to the drought, will no longer live in poverty." The dark face pleaded. "My country must have the grid first," he added stubbornly.
"Your country first?" Tall cadaver Commissioner General Tibor Gombocz, squeaked. "What was your country doing when the European Ministry fought to bring an end to this pollution problem a hundred years ago? I'll tell you what: tearing down the forests, waving equal rights placards, and screaming for us to stay out of your business while you stood in welfare lines in front of the United Nationals begging for money. That's what your country was doing." Gombocz slapped his palm down on the table top. "We also have issues to resolve. My country gets the grid first."
Munoz held up his hands. "Gentlemen, gentlemen. Let me repeat. If we fund, we plan the grid placement. If we finance the venture, we require collateral." He glanced at his watch then fixed his gaze on Yago's face. "Which brings me to our tour. A research center has little to do with grid funding. This suggests you wish the Church to consider accepting the Tartarus Foundation as your guarantee against loan default. Would this be a correct conclusion?"
Yago shifted in his chair. "Not exactly, Holiness. We were thinking more along the line of an ownership percentage."
"In lieu of loan payback," clarified Tibor Gombocz.
"I—see. The percentage you had in mind?"
"Ten percent." Yago reared back in his chair, his gaze never leaving Munoz’s face.
"Uh-huh. A nice round figure, ten percent. However—"
"I think we could go to twenty, if that’s what it takes to make the deal," Miguel Borden interjected. "In addition, the Church might find products from these laboratories useful from time to time. Gratis, of course." Around the table, heads nodded.
Tibor Gombocz said, "As you know, Holiness, the Dakotan gene came from this establishment, as did the power grid. Our scientists are even now testing organic homes that will go a long way toward alleviating the pollution problem. In our opinion," he gestured round the table, "these homes will complement the grid installations as well as generate a nice profit—for both of our organizations."
"Gentlemen, I prepared a complete financial analysis of the Tartarus Foundation when I received your invitation to tour. I see two problems with your proposal. An ownership percentage means shouldering part of the financial load for Tartarus research. That would no doubt assuage populace indignation over the dollars you've been pouring into this island under the guise of national security. However, the Church does not intend to pay for your defense needs nor do we intend to subsidize your various pharmaceutical conglomerates."
"Easily remedied. Our citizens will bear those burdens even though they complain." Yago drew a smug breath. "In view of Doctor Raborman's revelations this morning, I should think ownership would be an attractive option."
"Possibly." Munoz stroked his chin in thoughtful silence, watched involuntary reactions from those he faced; smiles suppressed, sideways glances, relaxing shoulders. The Transnationals were already counting their money. Good. He let the silence build a moment longer, then said, "Doctor Raborman's disclosures may never come to pass, Ambassador. I am not a geneticist, but I know enough to understand that theory and failure do not a fact make. No, as talented as she is, Bianca Raborman is still a novice. It will be a while before she pays her way."
"The same cannot be said of Ellery Jensen, Holiness."
"We are well aware of Doctor Jensen's reputation and perhaps we can use her expertise in the future. However, you have to admit such demands would be few. It would behoove us to pay for our requests, we should think. Far less expensive than what you have in mind," he said, barely stifling a yawn. The epitome of boredom, all this diplomatic protocol. It was time to stir them up a little. He shoved back from the table, stood, and rocked gently heel-to-toe-to-heel.
"Let's cut through the bullshit, shall we? We know what has been and can be produced in these laboratories. I did not need to come here to find out. Tartarus has the potential to produce many things, but not under its current structure and not when focused on national secu
rity. Last year, you gentlemen spent $2.2 billion on military research of one kind or the other. The year before that, $1.8 billion and the year before that—" Munoz shook his head as if unable to fathom such expenditures. "And you wonder why you are on the verge of economic collapse?" He paused, glanced at first one man and then another, appraising their reaction to his remarks; their facial expressions reminded him of the mental adjustments telegraphed by Cardinal advisors when faced with the Cloister fiasco.
Cunctando regitur mundus.
"That brings me to the second problem with your percentage proposal. Despite your current propaganda strategies, aggression for the sake of aggression is not God’s way. The Church cannot and will not support any type of research that promotes militant behavior, much less make a profit from such endeavors."
Eyes widened. Lips were licked. Tics jerked. Leonid Ustinovich dabbed a handkerchief against his brow, his babyish features red with strain.
"You want money, we want tangibles. We will provide what you ask. In return, you will deed Tartarus to the Church."
A gasp escaped each man at the table.
"Wait a damn minute, Munoz." Thomas Yago lost his diplomacy. "Three-hundred-fifty million dollars won't—"
"I don't believe I mentioned that sum," Munoz said. "We are prepared to pay all debts owed to The United Americas by these represented countries—some $7.6 billion as I recall. We will build the grid. Each of you may continue to make requests for help with your . . . ah . . . environmental projects. But Tartarus is the price you pay."
Around the table, mouths gaped.
Munoz again looked at his watch. "The time is late and I wish to clarify something with Doctor Raborman before the night is over. Does the Tartarus Foundation belong to the Church of Universals or do you want to look elsewhere for your money?" He read the greed in the flushed faces, the nearly invisible signals that flashed around the room.
"What’s the catch?" Yago asked.
"Payment will have to be in cash."
"Cash!?"
"This is problematic?"
"Not at all. No, cash is—" The ambassador glanced around the table. All heads nodded in unison. "Cash is fine."
"I'll bid you gentlemen good evening then." At the door, Munoz paused. "One more thing: should any part of our agreement be discussed with anyone outside this room, rest assured that there will not only be no grids built, but it will be a long time before financial relief for your respective countries is forthcoming from Church coffers. Perhaps never." He stepped into the corridor. As the door swung slowly closed, the strident tones of Thomas Yago echoed from the room, followed by Miguel Borden’s lilting voice.
"I'll give him one thing, for a goddamned Pope, he's got balls. We'll have to watch him."
"That comment about propaganda—do you think he's been talking to George?"
"A fishing trip. Nothing more," Yago said. "However, better safe than sorry. I think it's time to tell GK his services are—"
The door shut, locking in the voice sounds. Striding toward Bianca's laboratory, Munoz chuckled silently to himself. Watch all you want gentlemen. Once your signatures are affixed to Our agreement, We'll own Tartarus and the grid. You'll have no recourse but to follow where We lead. He shook his head. It was hard to believe that men of such intelligence could act so foolishly.
Chapter 14
George
Half listening to the faint sound of Cathy's voice coming from the back of the house, George dragged an ornate game box down off the top shelf of his display cabinet. Probably one of her rich bitch friends soliciting another donation, he thought. They always needed money for one cause or another. For a change, he had welcomed the sound of the ringing phone. She had started nagging the minute he walked through the door: get showered, get dressed, we're late. Never a word about his day. Didn't even ask about his physical. Not that he would have told her, anyway. That asshole doctor didn't know what he was talking about. Showed how much she cared, though. Ever since they'd moved to San Francisco, she'd had plenty of time for everybody else, but no time for good old George. "Shit! Why should she?" he muttered. "I'm only her fucking husband."
Gently, he removed items from the box and set up a miniature battlefield. He twisted the tiny carved figure of Napoleon back and forth between his thumb and forefinger, remembering. During the long days of her illness, he and his mother had spent hours together with the Waterloo pieces, analyzing old strategies and devising new ones for the famous battles that Bonaparte had fought across Continental Europe and Russia. Those exercises had served him well when he started Kayman Media. His mother had inherited the game from her father and had told him many times that the day would come when the pieces would pass to him. On the morning of his eighth birthday, she brought the set to his room. So thin and pale, she was, so bright the eyes that gazed into his. "I love you, son," she said as she placed the ornate game box on his bed. "This belongs to you now." Four days later she was dead.
George fought the stinging tears that threatened to overflow. Somfbitch. There were dozens of battlefields in his collection. Why had he brought this one out? Especially tonight. He set "the Little Corporal" onto the board and studied the Russian troop positions. Deep down in that secret part of himself, he knew why he had chosen this one; he wanted his mother's comforting hand.
He looked up when his wife entered the room. A faint prickling sensation teased the roof of his mouth as he breathed in the musky fragrance of JeTu, her favorite perfume. Her pale skin gleamed paler still against the dark color of her mink coat. Her gaze was thoughtful as she pulled on her gloves, and tucked her purse beneath her arm. She pointed at the game board.
"Why did you drag that out when you know we're leaving? Honestly, George."
"I don't see Trevor ready to go."
"He's getting his coat. Now hurry, or we'll be late."
George rose and strolled across the room toward the coat closet. He didn't care if they were late or not. These holiday parties bored him. "Who wants to get into my pocket this time?"
"The phone? No donation. That was Doctor Dryden."
George spun around. "Why's Dryden calling you?"
"Because I asked him to—I wanted to hear from him how your physical went."
"Why the hell didn't you ask me?"
"Would you have told me?"
George could feel the flush traveling up his neck. In his ears, he once more heard the physician's harsh words. "There's nothing wrong with you, George," he'd said. "At least not physically. It's your feeling of inadequacy, of being insecure in your relationship with Cathy that's causing your problem, and it's being compounded by your drinking." What followed was a thirty minute lecture and the recommendation to see a marriage counselor.
When he saw Cathy's hands move in her characteristic wave of finality, he realized she was still talking to him. George stared at his wife, hardly believing what he was hearing. If anyone was insecure in this house and needed a head-shrink, it wasn't him, by God. It was her.
"If you'd put a little enthusiasm into the screwing, maybe I could get it up and keep it up. Did you ever think about that?" He could hear his voice rising in pitch.
"Keep your voice down. Trevor doesn't need to be privy to this conversation."
"Trevor, Trevor, Trevor. If it isn't your money-hungry charities, it's him. That's all you ever think about. He isn't the one putting the goddamned caviar on your plate. I am."
"Our son isn't the issue here, George. You are." Her voice was cool and distant. "If you won't listen to me, at least pay attention to your own physician—get some help. Doctor Dryden knows what he's doing, and he says there's nothing physically wrong with you."
"Easy enough for him to say. He doesn't have the limp dick. Did he have any words of wisdom for your problem? Ever since we moved to San Francisco, you've been freezing me out. Who're you playing tootsie with—Berkstan? Or is it impolite of me to ask?" He was screaming now.
He heard the slap before he felt it. "You fucking b
itch. You goddamned fucking bitch."
"Please, George, no more. You are destroying us and destroying Trevor."
George vaguely realized his son had entered the room and stood white-faced near the game table. But he couldn't stop hurling the terrible, hurting words. Once it started—his frustration, his anger, his fear—it seemed to flow from an inexhaustible source.
"You're like all the rest," he shouted. "Think you're too good for a man who wasn't born with gold plated balls." He kicked the brocade chair and sent it spinning across the long room. It slammed against the game table—generals and privates and small green trees flew across the floor. "My battlefield," he bellowed. "Look what you made me do to my battlefield!" With a snarl of rage, he curled his hand into a tight fist and drew his arm back.
Trevor leaped forward, his own fist clenched, and Cathy winced. "No," she cried. "He's your father." Grabbing the young man's hand, she ran out the door and down the broad, marble steps. George followed her into the drizzly cold. He watched his son climb into the passenger seat and buckle his belt; watched his wife hurry to the driver's side and yank open the door.
"Happy holidays, George." Tears streamed down Cathy’s face as she slipped behind the wheel of the new racing-green Jaguar.
"You'll be back," he screamed at the vanishing tail lights. "You like the good life too much. You'll be back."
Inside the house, he knelt down and gathered up the scattered pieces of the Battle of Waterloo. She'd come back. She always had before and she would this time.
She had to. She was his wife.
He replaced the game box on the top shelf of the cabinet. As he locked the glass doors, he could hear the phone ringing. A smile tugged at his mouth. It didn't take her long, he thought.
"Cathy, I'm sorry . . . oh, Ambassador Yago. I thought you were my wife. What can I do for you, Sir?"
Shadows in the House With Twelve Rooms Page 11
