Ramjet put on his concerned look. “I am aware of his problems and deeply worried. Frankly, I think it’s a combination of personal problems at home, and…well, I hate to say this, but careerwise he’s a failure.” He looked pained as Toni jotted down notes. When she didn’t respond, he felt that an explanation was called for. “Stuart is not a team player and is oblivious to the rules.” He sighed. “If he remains under investigation, I may have to act. I’m sure you understand my position.”
A little jerk of her head answered him. “How did you learn that the police were investigating him?”
Ramjet looked thoughtful. “I, ah, don’t recall. Did my secretary tell me? Sorry, I just don’t remember.”
Without commenting, she made another note. She thought for a moment. “Colonel Stuart said he told you he was interviewed by the police in my presence”—she made a show of checking her notes—“on last Wednesday, November thirteenth.” She looked at him expectantly. “Five days ago.”
“I, ah…why, yes, I believe you’re correct. He did tell me. I don’t remember when.” Ramjet was beginning to feel uncomfortable. “I’ve been very busy lately.”
“The burdens of command,” Toni replied.
He breathed in relief. She did understand. “Exactly.”
Toni asked a few more perfunctory questions and thanked him for his time. She wrote down “Lying asshole” before she closed her notebook and left.
Priestly’s fingers beat a relentless tattoo on his desk as a deep frown crossed his face. Slowly his face relaxed into a pleasant expression. It was time to trash Stuart, and he knew exactly how to do it.
Washington, D.C.
It was dark when Stuart unlocked his garage and raised the heavy wooden door. “Be careful where you step,” Jane said. He walked gingerly over the floor and slid behind the wheel of Jenny’s car. “Back straight out,” she said. “Stay in the same tracks.” Stuart did as she said and parked the car in the alley while she turned on the light. “We need a flashlight,” she called. He rummaged under the seat and found the flashlight he had stowed there.
“What are you looking for?” he asked.
“I’m not sure,” she replied. She squatted down and studied the floor. Like everything in Stuart’s life, the garage was clean and tidy as a pin. “Is that oil all from Jenny’s car?”
“I’ll clean it up,” he said.
“No. Don’t.” Her eyes squinted as she concentrated. “There,” she said, pointing to a spot in the center of the floor. “And over there,” now pointing to an area where the right front wheel would have been.
“I don’t see anything,” he said.
She took three careful steps into the garage, picked something off the floor, and then backed out in her same footprints. “Look,” she said, showing him a small, oil-covered gray lump. She wiped it clean.
“What the hell is it?”
She rolled it in her fingers. “Ouch.” She held it in the flashlight’s beam and touched a silver spur stuck in the side. “A metal sliver,” she said. She studied it. “I think it’s a fiberglass patching material, like Bondo.”
“I’ve never used Bondo in my life,” he said. “What’s it doing here?”
“Good question. Where does your landlady live?” Stuart pointed to the main apartment of the converted building. Jane walked quickly up the back steps and knocked at the door. A woman in her late seventies cracked open the door and peered out.
“Mrs. Witherspoon,” Stuart said, “this is Jane Ryan, a friend of mine.”
“Ma’am,” Jane said, “has anyone been in Mike’s garage lately—when he’s been at work?”
The old woman thought for a moment. “A man from the gas company was here about a gas leak. He said he had to look in the garage. That’s where he found the leak. Such a nice young man. He fixed it for free, you know. Spoke with a Texas accent. And in good shape physically. Said he jogged.”
“Do you remember when he was here?” Jane asked.
“Two weeks ago, something like that.”
Jane and Stuart exchanged looks. “That was before the accident,” Jane said. Stuart thanked the old lady as Jane went back to lock the garage.
“You can’t leave your car in the alley,” Mrs. Witherspoon said.
“Don’t worry,” Jane called. “We won’t.”
Stuart got into the car and waited for Jane to join him. “What now?”
“Give this to the OSI,” Jane said, “and tell them about the gas man.” She handed him the chip of Bondo. “And don’t go in the garage.”
Dallas
Marsten’s lips compressed in consternation when he saw the news item on his computer. He hit the print button and buzzed his secretary. “Is Miss Ellis in?”
“I’m afraid not,” Shugy replied. “She returned from Washington quite late yesterday evening.”
A finger hit the speed dial on the phone console as he rang L.J.’s home. She answered on the fourth ring. “Good morning, Lloyd. What a lovely day.”
He recognized the tone immediately. The trip to Washington had been a roaring success, and she was on top of the world, happy and content. “You’re taking a leisurely bath, yes?”
“How did you know?”
“A lucky guess.” Marsten didn’t bother to analyze what was going on inside L.J. She was far too complex for that. He accepted her for what she was: a force of nature who could switch from pirate to saint with the speed of lightning. And when she was happy, she lit up his sky. He hated bringing her bad news and changing all that. “We do need to talk,” he said. It was his code for “We have a problem.”
A little sigh. “I did want to go shopping this morning. Can it wait?”
He didn’t want to ruin her day, but it was urgent. “This afternoon?” he asked. She agreed.
“Until then,” he said, hanging up. He drummed his fingers on his desk as he stared at the photo attached to the news clip. He was a very worried man.
Marsten handed L.J. the news clip and the photo he had taken off the Internet. She glanced at it and read part of the caption. “‘The murder victim was a known informant rumored to be working for the FBI.’” She looked puzzled. “How can an informant be ‘known’ and ‘rumored’ at the same time? Is this important?”
“We may be involved,” Marsten told her.
She arched an eyebrow. “How?”
He sat down on her couch and crossed his legs. “One of my people has successfully penetrated the group who blew up RTX. But our man hasn’t gained full acceptance, and this may be the way he proved himself.” He hated to lie to her, but it was necessary if he was to build a fence around what he was doing to protect her and RayTex.
The look on L.J.’s face was reassuring. He had not ruined her day, and she knew he was not telling her the whole truth.
“But you’re not sure,” she said.
“It’s a possibility, and the timing is right. We may want to become uninvolved. The sooner the better.”
“Why? Especially after going to all this trouble.”
Marsten became very alert. Something was on the boil behind her pretty face. But what? He cut to the heart of the matter. “Is there something I need to know?”
L.J. sat next to him and patted his hand. “Poor Lloyd. You have to take so much on faith.” She smiled at the sad look on his face. Marsten had given his soul to her years ago, and he was her man, regardless of what she did or where she took them. “We may have need of them once we start drilling for the elephant.”
He tried not to sound confused. “For what purpose?”
She suppressed a laugh at his look of total bewilderment. She was really enjoying herself. “To blow up the drilling rig. Of course, there would be plenty of warning to evacuate so no one would be hurt or killed.”
“Why would we want to do that?”
“What did the fiasco at Mukluk teach the industry?” she asked.
Marsten had no trouble following her sudden shifts. He thought for a moment, recalling the time
he’d been involved in constructing the gravel island on Alaska’s North Slope for the drilling rig. “Mukluk had a perfect seismic profile, and it still turned out to be a two-billion-dollar dry hole.” His voice grew low. “As for lessons learned, you certainly don’t want to shout before you’ve got it, and it has made the industry very cautious about costly joint ventures.”
“So how many companies would be willing to share the risk with us?”
Now Marsten was at his best. “Given the political implications and the fact we’re dealing with an unproven technique, I’d say no one.”
“So we have to go it alone,” L.J. said, “and if we repeat the Mukluk experience?”
“It will most likely bankrupt us.”
“Unless what?” she asked.
“Unless,” Marsten said, “a disaster interrupts drilling and our insurance underwriters have to pay off.”
“Of course, insurance won’t cover all of our losses,” she said.
“But it would be enough to stem the tide of bankruptcy,” Marsten added.
She made another sudden jump. “Have you ever been to Cuba?”
“No. By the way, are you improvising on this?”
She smiled. “Not at all.”
Later that same day Ann Silton telephoned L.J. with the news. “Have you heard?” she gushed. She didn’t wait for an answer. “The president appointed me to head the Task Force on the Environment! Can you believe it?”
“Congratulations,” L.J. replied. “But I’m not surprised. You certainly deserve it.”
“I heard what you said to the president. I can’t thank you enough.”
“All I said was that I trusted you. Which I do.”
“Oh, L.J., there’s so much I need to learn and don’t know. I’ve got to move to Washington, and I need a new wardrobe and, and—oh, the butterflies!”
L.J.’s laugh rang like summer, full of warmth and promise. “Tim, my pilot, is in St. Louis picking up an airplane. Why don’t you catch a ride back with him? I know just the thing to cure the butterflies. A little shopping!”
“Can I bring Clarissa?” L.J.’s voice turned sad. “Maybe that wouldn’t be a good idea, not now.” They talked for a few more moments arranging the flight. After hanging up, L.J. thought for a bit. Then she dialed another number.
“Clarissa,” L.J. said, “we need to talk about Ann.”
L.J. was waiting with a black Lincoln Town Car when the Sabreliner taxied into the chocks at Love Field. The sleek corporate jet seemed small compared to the other jets lined up like princesses awaiting the proper escort to a royal ball. But the Sabreliner glistened with care, and its noisy engines spoke with a lusty impertinence. In a not-so-subtle way the Sabreliner was a perfect reflection of L.J. and RayTex Oil. Her company was labeled a maverick and, thanks to L.J., was considered lean, mean, and highly maneuverable. In the oil industry L.J. and RayTex got things done, just like the Sabreliner.
The entrance door flopped open, and Tim Roxford climbed out to help Ann Silton down the steps. He smiled when L.J. gave her a hug. “You look wonderful,” L.J. said. She guided Ann to the waiting car. “We have so much to talk about.”
The ride into town was all part of the plan. “There are some wonderful boutiques here that you’ll just love,” L.J. assured her.
“I don’t think I can afford them,” Ann said.
L.J. laughed. “Who can? I’ve got a special arrangement with one in particular, and I get a big discount. Figure one-fourth of what you see on the price tag. But for heaven’s sake, don’t tell anyone.” They giggled like conspirators while L.J. opened a bottle of pink champagne. “This is considered very gauche, but I just love it. Here’s to shopping.” They toasted the venture and plotted what clothes Ann would need in Washington.
The older woman waiting for them, Elana LaBou, was anything but a normal fashion consultant. Not only was Elana beautiful and elegant, she had a rare sense of style that could find gold on a Kmart clothes rack. Even more, she was a kind person who liked her customers, as long as they were also kind and polite. More than one Dallas matron, thinking money was the common denominator that gave her the right to be a bitch, had found Elana’s services unavailable to her. One customer had threatened to buy the store just to fire Elana. But any thoughts of revenge died when she learned what it would cost to buy out Elana’s contract.
“Miss Ellis,” Elana said, genuinely glad to see her. “And you must be Miss Silton.” She extended her hand in friendship. They shook hands and sat down.
“Elana, I wish you’d call me L.J. like everyone else.”
Elana gave her a lovely smile in return. “My mother would die a thousand deaths of embarrassment if I presumed,” she said. She turned to business. “Well, Miss Silton, I think we have some little things that may work.”
“Trust her,” L.J. said, leaning back to enjoy the experience. The first model stepped out wearing a business suit, and Ann gasped. The model was her exact size with the same coloring and hair length.
Ann gazed out the restaurant’s window high above the Fort Worth skyline as they ate lunch at the Riata. “I still can’t believe the prices,” she said.
L.J. looked around to be sure they weren’t overheard. “I told Elana what you could afford. Everything you bought came off her back racks.” She dropped her voice conspiratorially. “I imagine most of them are returns. You’d be surprised how many women, even very rich ones, buy a dress for a special occasion, wear it once, and then return it afterward for a refund.”
“And Elana lets them get away with it?”
“She lets them think they get away with it. They end up paying in other ways. We benefit because Elana refuses to sell returns as new and gives her friends discounts. That’s why all the labels are gone. Elana is such a dear.”
“I hadn’t noticed about the labels.” L.J. reached across the table and touched her hand. “Ann, I can’t tell you how much I enjoyed today, but I’m afraid we can’t do it again.” Ann looked at her in shock. “Once you’re officially appointed to head the task force,” L.J. continued, “you’ll have to be very careful about who you associate with. Many of your old friends, like Clarissa and me, are politically unacceptable. Your enemies will say we’re influencing you.”
“But I don’t have any enemies—” She stopped, her mouth open. “The videotape.”
L.J. nodded sadly. “I don’t think you have to worry about that. Anyway, I hope I’ve taken care of it. But that doesn’t mean the bastards won’t try again. You must be careful.”
“What did you do?”
“Don’t ask,” L.J. replied. Their hands joined for a moment. “We can still be friends, but for now it’ll have to be at a distance. Don’t be afraid to make decisions that will be unpopular. Above all else, do the right thing. I’ll be disappointed if you don’t. Whatever you do, don’t sell out to anyone. And that includes me.”
Ann’s eye’s glistened with tears. “You’re the best friend I could possibly ask for.”
L.J. had her friend at court.
14
Dallas
L.J. was in her office talking on the telephone when Marsten joined her. She mouthed the name “Elana” to indicate the caller. “I know. The change is astounding. Ann is so grateful for what you did.” She listened for a few moments. “Please, this must remain between you and me. She has no idea what it really cost.” Another pause. “Just charge my account with the difference.” L.J.’s face lit up with pleasure. “Elana, I can’t thank you enough. It was a very sweet thing you did for a very special person.” She broke the connection.
“What exactly did you do?” Marsten asked.
“I told Elana to charge Ann only fifteen percent of the price, and I picked up the balance.”
“Poor Miss Silton,” Marsten said. “First the videotape, now accepting gifts. I take it you’ll burn her if you have to.”
L.J. sighed. “I don’t want to. But the stakes are so high.”
“I’m under the impression,”
Marsten said, “that you like the woman.”
“I do,” L.J. confessed. “She’s a bright and kind person who cares about people and doing the right thing. I know it’s a new world, and RayTex has to change. That’s not a problem, as long as we’re allowed to do so in a reasonable manner. But I will not allow them to do to us what they did to the tobacco companies.” She took a deep breath as Marsten smiled gently at her. “I’m preaching to the choir again, aren’t I?” He nodded, still smiling. “Well, then,” she said, changing the subject, “is your trip all arranged?”
“I leave tomorrow,” he replied, “and arrive in Havana Friday afternoon. I should be back next Wednesday. Entering Cuba is no problem, since I travel under a British passport.”
“I thought you were a naturalized U.S. citizen.”
“I am. I maintain dual citizenship. In this case, I leave the U.S. with my American passport and then travel to Cuba under my British passport. All very legal.” He filled in the details. “I’m entering Cuba through Cancún, Mexico, with all the American tourists who think they’re being so wicked.” He shook his head. “How naïve. Don’t they know the CIA tracks Americans going in?”
“Probably not,” she replied. “Americans don’t really understand heads-on-heads intelligence. Just stick to your cover story that you’re on the Hemingway trail.”
“Which is true,” Marsten said. He was a Hemingway collector and had a library of first editions and memorabilia. “I’ve always wanted to visit his home and old haunts.”
“Where are you staying in Havana?”
“In a pensión that caters to the more affluent tourist. ARA will arrange contact.” He looked worried. “There is always the possibility that…” He didn’t finish the sentence, as the memory of Eritrea loomed large. He forced his fears back into their walled niches. “ARA assures me they’re the legitimate article.”
The Trojan Sea Page 17
