by Tom Clancy
Scull nodded.
“One of the ultra-biggies,” he said. “Networked with Lloyd’s of London.”
Nimec grunted and continued down to the text of the letter:
Dear Mr. Greeves,
After giving it every consideration, I must regretfully inform you that I cannot approve your request for permits to conduct an inspection of the offshore site where Messrs. Dupain and Bouchard lost their lives. Please rest assured that my judgment by no means reflects a negative conclusion about your very reputable firm but is rather a matter of having to perform my governmental duties in good conscience.
A complete review of all data surrounding the incident done in consultation with Nautel Submarine Maintenance, and specifically Captain Pierre Gunville, leaves me certain that any manned deepwater procedures would be of great physical hazard to those operating in the area, while yielding no further information that would be helpful to your agency. As you know, Captain Gunville has already completed a postaccident inspection of the site using a remote underwater vehicle, and his report is quite exhaustive.
Though I hesitate to exceed my authority knowing the disappointment this refusal of application shall cause you, it is my personal recommendation that Nautel’s findings be taken as definitive insofar as any claims of indemnity that have resulted from the grievous occurrence of 4 May. I am aware that The Fowler Group is the trusted insurance underwriter of many prominent companies doing business in Gabon, especially those involved in petroleum and mineral prospecting. These enterprises fall directly under my ministerial auspices, and I would be saddened if their relationships with you were to suffer from the impression that appropriate compensations for losses incurred during their explorations might be unduly challenged, however erroneous that notion might be.
I am enclosing a copy of Nautel’s recommendation to me and will, of course, be happy to provide any other material you may need for your records.
Yours Very Truly,
Etienne Begela
Nimec took a moment to digest everything, then looked up at Scull again.
“Gunville was lying outright at the club,” he said. “He told us Nautel didn’t conduct an accident inspection, meanwhile the truth is that it did.”
“That he did,” Scull said. “Himself. Personally.”
“He also told us nobody else wanted to check out the site, when this Fowler Group was pushing the government for permission.”
“And he helped stop them.” Scull was nodding. “I knew it, Petey. That songbird’s chirping was meant to lead us straight into the deep, dark woods. Fucking blindfolded .”
Nimec was thoughtful. He started rubbing his forehead out of habit, touched the bandage over his eye, felt the wound smart. Later, at the hospital, there would be more tests. He hoped they came with painkillers.
“What about Begela?” he said, jerking away his hand. “You think he was being straight with the insurance man about why he nixed the permit apps?”
Scull shrugged.
“Maybe yes, maybe no,” he said. “Could be he’s just a careful guy. But the thing that sticks out at me is how strong he went at Fowler. Real heavy-handed. Begela couldn’t’ve made it any clearer he’d be spreading bad word about their coverage if they didn’t back off, which to me sounds like political blackmail.”
“Agreed,” Nimec said. “That’s pretty sleazy for somebody who writes about his good conscience. Don’t know what kind of fair play laws they have in this country, but in ours, he’d have been pushing toward a serious breach.”
Scull nodded.
“Big time, Petey,” he said. “Big time.”
They rode along in silence a while. The Rover took a sharp turn and swung Nimec to one side, making him a little dizzy as he braced himself in his seat.
DeMarco flicked a glance at him in the rearview.
“Sorry, chief, almost missed our exit,” he said. “Guess I was too busy thinking about what Vince said to you a minute ago.”
Scull leaned forward over the backrest. “About what?”
DeMarco shrugged, his eyes on the road again.
“Gunville trying to lead us into the woods,” he said. “Because I have to admit, it sounds to me like there are more big bad wolves running around in them than we can count.”
“Are you going to come out and say this is the last time, or does it have to be me?”
Roger Gordian paused silently over an open valise on the bed, a starched, pressed, and folded dress shirt in his hands. His wife’s question was not altogether a surprise, and he had no wish to avoid it. While Gordian had trouble sharing his innermost thoughts even with those dearest to him, the days when he’d kept them in a lockbox were long past. The sharing wasn’t always comfortable, but he did it for those he loved, and because in his heart he acknowledged it was important for him, too. With Ashley, now, especially, he tried. Their marriage had suffered too much when he hadn’t.
Sometimes, though, he still needed urging. And if Ashley had intentionally posed her question as an ultimatum to grab his attention, she’d succeeded.
Gordian put the shirt into the valise, then turned to face her. She stood over by the dresser across the room, packing items into a new luggage accessory she’d bought him in one of the designer shops down at the Stanford Shopping Center whose names he could never quite remember. No doubt, the thing was overpriced. Admittedly, it was handy and useful. He wasn’t sure what to call it . . . a deluxe travel kit, maybe. Black with two clear-plastic zipper pockets and an opaque nylon pouch below them, it was designed to look like a downscaled garment bag, hanger hook and all, when unrolled. Roll it up, buckle the strap, and the bag turned into something that resembled a cross between a standard shaving kit and SWAT fanny pack. Clever.
“Don’t you think we ought to discuss this before either us makes any declarations?” he said.
She gave him a look, her large eyes penetrating.
“We can,” she said. “But whether or not you care to admit it, we both know the way it should be.”
Gordian was quiet again. Ash’s orderliness and thoroughness were, as ever, impressive. She had laid the newfangled travel kit atop their dresser and loaded it with enough personal hygiene supplies to keep him clean and scrubbed for months if he wound up cast adrift on a remote tropical island, assuring he would make an impeccable presentation of himself when rescuers arrived . . . or the resident cannibals took him to their leader, whichever came first. Filling the upper pocket were a soap bar in a lidded plastic dish, nail clippers, cotton swabs, a deodorant stick, a scissors and tweezer set, a roller-type lint remover, a comb, a hairbrush, a toothbrush, toothpaste, toothpicks, a pack of Kleenex, and a washcloth folded into a perfect compact square. The pocket underneath held similar contents—sunblock, insect repellent, disposal razors, a styptic pencil, a small can of shaving gel, and a Ziploc bag containing smaller bottles of mouthwash, antiseptic, shampoo, and conditioner. In the open nylon pouch under the two clear pockets, Gordian could see an assortment of vitamin, aspirin, and prescription drug containers, including a vial of antimalarial tablets he had begun taking a week ago in preparation for his trip, and the nebulizer he used whenever his breathing gave him difficulty.
He watched Ashley in silence a moment longer, noticing she was holding yet another little glass bottle in one hand. On it was a homemade sticker he could tell had come out of her label maker, the word printed across it in red capitals partially covered by her fingers. In her other hand was a round, dime-size piece of aluminum foil she had cut from a sheet beside the rest of the items on the dresser.
“What have you got for me there?” he said.
“Let’s not change the subject.”
“I wasn’t trying,” he said honestly. “It’s just that I’m curious.”
Ashley shrugged.
“The bottle was a sample giveaway of moisturizing lotion,” she said. “I finished all the lotion and hung onto it.”
Gordian nodded.
“I suppose there
’s no sense throwing out good bottles,” he said.
“None,” she said. “That’s a complete waste.”
“What’ve you filled it with now?”
Ashley held it up. “See for yourself.”
Gordian glanced at the label.
“Astringent,” he said, reading it aloud.
Ashley nodded.
“There you are,” she said. “You’ll be glad to have it with you in the hot weather.”
Gordian paused. Impeccably scrubbed and unblemished.
“And the foil?” he said.
“A safety seal to replace the original one.” Ashley said. She carefully fitted it over the neck of the bottle, pressing the edges tight. “If the cap comes loose and there’s a leak, it might ruin something in your suitcase.”
Gordian gave her a look that was perhaps nine parts appreciation and one part amusement.
“That’s very thoughtful of you,” he said.
She nodded, unsmiling. Then she twisted on the bottle cap, took the Ziploc from the second transparent pocket, added the astringent to the rest of its contents, and returned it to the travel kit.
“I have to go, Ash,” Gordian said after a while, nothing amused about his tone now. Her dead-serious expression had made him feel a little guilty. “I couldn’t avoid the trip to Gabon even when it was all about closing with Sedco. But now it’s become about a lot more.”
“You feel you have to make a point.”
Gordian nodded.
“A show of commitment,” he said. “The surveillance on our advance team . . . that hit-and-run on the supply convoy . . . whether or not they’re tied together, they make it vital that we move forward as planned. We can’t seem to be intimidated by anyone.”
She looked at him. “Sedco knows what’s been happening to your people in Africa?”
“Dan Parker was briefed, and he’s informed Hugh Bennett and the rest of its company officers.”
“And they’re with you on going ahead with things.”
“All the way. Especially Bennett. On Sedco’s board, he’s got the last word.”
Ashley considered that a second.
“I understand your reasons,” she said. “But what are his? From what you’ve told me, he doesn’t share your particular interest in supporting nation builders.”
Gordian thought a moment.
“King Hughie’s used to doing business in difficult environments. He would realize you can’t be effective in the region, build upon any accomplishments you’ve made, by backing down from threats,” he said. “And our joint venture aside, my guess is that he believes UpLink to be the prime target of hostile interests in Gabon, figures we’ll be the ones to bear the brunt of any escalation.” Gordian shrugged. “I also suppose it’s possible he simply won’t be deterred from staging a corporate tent show with himself as ringmaster. Probably it’s a little of this, and a little of that. I’m sure it doesn’t hurt that we’re providing extra security for everyone and footing the entire tab. In the end, though, it doesn’t make a difference. I can be concerned only with my own motivations.”
Ashley continued looking at him across the room.
“I know,” she said. “And you know better than to think I’d suggest that you cancel. But I’m not talking about now. This conversation is about our future.”
“I’ve never asked my people to do what I won’t.”
“Things have changed, Roger. Sometimes I think everyone knows and recognizes it except you,” Ashley said. “You can admit to your physical limitations, handle them, or choose to pretend they don’t exist.”
Gordian stood by the bed, his gray eyes holding on her green ones.
“I feel fine,” he said. “The doctors gave me their full consent.”
She shook her head.
“I probably know the results of your checkup better than you do. And all things considered, I’m happy with them. But they don’t mean we can erase the damage that’s been done to your body.” She sighed and leveled her voice. “Two years ago I came closer to losing you than I like to remember. But I’m not able to wish away those memories. We can’t afford the luxury. It isn’t for nothing that I packed away a nebulizer of albuterol. There’s scar tissue in your lungs. Fibrosis. You have shortness of breath sometimes—”
“Be fair. It’s generally okay unless I overexert myself. And I’ve tried hard to be careful—”
“Let me finish,” she said. “I’m not accusing you of being cavalier with your health. But you are determined. Protective. When the stakes are high for the things you care about, you tend to push yourself further than you should. Over the last few weeks, you’ve taken how many vaccines? Yellow fever, typhoid, diphtheria, hepatitis A. And I’m sure there are some that slip my mind right this instant. Any one of them can have side effects on people whose immune systems never took anything close to the blows yours did.”
“Ash, you said it yourself. It’s been two years since I got sick.”
“You didn’t just get sick,” she said. “You were almost murdered with a biological weapon, deliberately infected with a virus nobody had ever seen before. A strain grown in a laboratory by a process so sophisticated government scientists are still incredulous.” She paused and waved a hand toward the window. “Whoever created that germ, whoever tried to kill you, is still out there somewhere. We don’t talk about it much these days, I think because you know how it worries me. Maybe we should, though. It’s not a trifling detail we can ignore because it’s convenient.”
Gordian stood there feeling her gaze on him.
“Our marriage is my proudest achievement, what I care about more than anything,” he said. “But I’ve never made you a promise I couldn’t keep, and I won’t now.”
Ashley folded her arms across her chest and gave him a little shrug.
“Then how about trying to make one you can,” she said.
Gordian watched her a while without saying anything. Then he strode across the room, came close in front of her, and put his hands on her shoulders.
“I’ll think about what you’re asking,” he said. “Give me until I come back from Africa, and you’ll have my answer. I don’t know if that does anything to make you worry less. But I want you to feel easier.”
She looked at him, then nodded, her eyes overbright.
“It’s a start, Roger,” she said. “It’s a start.”
There was soft music coming from the jukebox at Nate’s, a saloon on San Diego’s east side that was an exhausted but tenacious holdout against the pressures of neighborhood gentrification, something that also could have been said of the battered rowhouses shouldered around it on the street like allies in a neglected, fading cause.
Tom Ricci and Derek Glenn sat in a mustard-colored booth toward the back, Ricci sipping a Coke loaded with ice, Glenn drinking imported stout from the bottle and taking long hits on a Marlboro in violation of a clean air law the gray-haired barkeep had resolutely disavowed as unconstitutional, or if not that, then at least undeserving of constitutionality. The four or five other people spaced out along the bar were representative of his dwindling client base, which was almost exclusively male, black, working class, and on the far downhill side of retirement age.
“Business isn’t what it was last time I came down to see you,” Ricci said.
“Wasn’t much, even then,” Glenn said. “Notch another win for the civil boosters.”
“You sound mad,” Ricci said.
Glenn tipped the neck of his beer bottle toward Ricci.
“Sounds like, huh?” he said with a faint smile. “Now I see how you earned your reputation for being an astute son of a bitch.”
Ricci watched him take a long pull of the stout. A tall, large-framed black man in his thirties, Glenn headed the bantam security crew at UpLink’s regional offices, established in a single renovated warehouse on the Embarcadero waterfront mainly to handle administrative overflow from its Sacramento data-storage facility.
“No reason you have to
stay where you are,” Ricci said. “I could hook you up at SanJo. A command gig, worth a big pay hike. The rapid deployment team program needs somebody to pull it back together.”
A surprised look formed on Glenn’s face.
“I thought that was your baby,” he said.
“Had to put it down when I went into the field.”
“So I heard. But now you’re back, and I kind of figured you’d be picking it up again.”
Ricci shook his head.
“Decided I work better alone,” he said.
“Uh-huh.” Glenn looked at him. “It’s probably none of my business, but what’ve you been doing instead?”
Ricci shrugged.
“Catching up,” he said.
“Uh-huh.”
“Security rundowns.”
“Uh-huh.”
Ricci hesitated. He reached for his glass, rattled the ice cubes inside, but didn’t drink from it.
“And waiting,” he said. “Mostly waiting.”
“You mind me asking what for?”
“No,” Ricci said. “Just not sure I can answer.”
Glenn started to say something, appeared to reconsider, and sat listening to the music on the jukebox, a mid-tempo jazz instrumental carried along by a husky tenor sax.
“I’ve been hearing all kinds of news about Africa,” he said at length. “The hit on that supply convoy, other things besides. What the hell’s going down?”
Ricci rattled his ice cubes some more.
“Maybe it ought to be you telling me,” he said. “Since you hear so much.”
Glenn smiled thinly again. He waited.
“Truth is, I don’t know,” Ricci said. “I haven’t got all the facts yet. A lot of odd stuff’s happening over there. All kinds of questions floating around. But it’s only been a couple days, and so far nobody’s connected anything to anything else. They’re not even clear about what the attack was supposed to accomplish.”
Glenn exhaled, cigarette smoke streaming from his nose and mouth.
“I guess this makes the extravaganza aboard the oil platform a scratch,” he said.
