by Rob Sangster
“You think Renatus will find a cure for Moebius Syndrome using those new life forms?” Gano asked.
“Maybe, if he has enough time left. If I can get help for him from Stanford Medical School, maybe even NIH, he could win a Nobel Prize.”
“Except,” Gano said, “if he showed up to collect it, they’d put him in the slammer because of all the damage his experiments caused.”
“I’m not so sure of that.” Jack took a swallow of scotch. “Right now he knows more than anyone else about extraction of methane from methane hydrate and about the danger that extraction could start a tsunami. He could be the most important scientist in the world. I think the government will grant him amnesty. Whatever happens, Drake will continue his research into the hydrothermal vent to prove that life on Earth began there.”
“You really buy that stuff about dead chemicals getting together and producing living creatures where there’s no oxygen and no sunlight? That’s sci-fi crap,” Gano scoffed.
“We’ll find out. Renatus and Drake may change the way we think about ourselves.”
“I respect Drake,” Gano said, “but I hope he’s honest enough to feel damned guilty. Firing those torpedoes set off a string of events that almost ended in catastrophe.” He looked at the others seated at the table, a dark look in his eyes. “And he damned near got all of us killed, including his own crew.”
Jack had thought more than once how devastating Drake’s obsession with the HTV could have been. He hadn’t spoken about it, because it was over, but he would never think about Drake without remembering.
He hadn’t noticed a man approaching their table until he stopped just behind Debra. He was average in height and build, with short black hair and black-rimmed glasses. He carried a double-buckle briefcase bearing the Frye logo. Nothing distinguishing about him except for his dense black moustache whose waxed ends rose and then curled down. Somewhere inside that man, Jack thought, is a frustrated circus ringmaster.
“Pardon me, please,” the man said diffidently. “I believe you are Mr. Strider. I am chief accountant for the American subsidiary of Odyssey Properties. I have the honor of representing Mr. Alex Georgiou.” He bowed slightly and took a legal-size manila envelope from his briefcase. “I am handing you an unconditional Letter of Intent pertaining to sale of certain assets of Odyssey Properties. Mr. Georgiou is sure you will find it acceptable.”
“Yayzoos,” Gano exclaimed, fingering his own Magnum-like ’stache, “just like a speckled trout taking a mayfly out of the air.”
Jack was astonished. He’d assumed Georgiou had already found a better deal or was so shell-shocked he’d given up.
“How did you find me?” he asked, a lame question while he got his wits together.
“A woman named Mei at your law firm told me you were here.”
“Mr. Georgiou knows his rejection terminated my offer, so you’re delivering this in person to see whether you can bring it back to life, right?”
“That is a possibility, sir.”
Jack watched puzzlement and suspicion chase each other across Debra’s face. She knew who Georgiou was. Now she knew Jack had made an offer committing them to buy “certain assets.” Given their financial bind, she wouldn’t take that well. This was going to take big-time diplomacy.
“Tell Mr. Georgiou that if these documents accurately reflect my terms, I will recommend them to my partner for her consideration.”
The accountant’s shoulders dropped, and he inhaled deeply. “Thank you, Mr. Strider. Mr. Georgiou will expect your call of confirmation. Perhaps some time tomorrow morning if that’s convenient?”
The guy knew how to dance. Obviously he’d been told to get a time commitment but knew not to press.
“I’ll do better than that. Give us a few minutes alone, and I’ll discuss it with my partner right now.”
The accountant half-bowed several times and walked away.
“All right,” Debra said, “I know you have an explanation.” Her voice was cool, controlled.
I know it better be a damned good one.
“The research, technology, equipment design, and computer programs Renatus developed for Barbas are a light-year more advanced than what any competitors have. That’s what we’re buying. We’ll license them for fat fees to everyone who wants to get rich mining minerals from the seabed. It will save each licensee years and millions they’d otherwise have to spend doing their own R&D. We can even get ex-platform workers from Astoria hired to show licensees how to use the equipment.”
“But we can’t license any of Renatus’s work on extracting methane,” Debra objected.
“Not until after the process is perfected, if that ever happens. If it does, that windfall will support our practice into the next century.” Then he told her the purchase price and a guesstimate of what it would cost to set up the licensing operation.
“The business concept makes sense,” Debra said, “but we’d have to hire more people and go into a field we know next to nothing about. We can barely pay Pacific Gas & Electric to keep the lights on, and you’re saying we should borrow millions of dollars. Even if we were crazy enough to saddle ourselves with that kind of debt, who would be crazy enough to lend us the money?”
“Any major lender. This deal works because of the purchase price. Odyssey Properties is out of the business of mining minerals or methane, so that technology is worthless to Georgiou. He needs cash immediately. That’s why he’ll sell to us at one-tenth the real value. With that price, and the guarantee that we’ll get the Armstrong fee as additional collateral, we can borrow the money we’ll need for the deal, plus”—this was the key—“enough to fund our law firm at current levels until the Armstrong fee arrives.”
“We’d be betting the existence of our firm,” she said. Her face was grave.
“A good player can sit at a poker table and struggle along all night with bad cards as long as he has the guts to make a big bet if he finally has a winning hand. What do you say, partner?”
“If we don’t do it,” she said, “that would be ironic. We beat Barbas, we beat the Air Force, and our firm still goes down. I say . . . we go for it.”
Jack squeezed her hand and waved the accountant back to the table.
“Call Georgiou back. The deal he turned down yesterday has changed.”
In a flash, the accountant’s expression went from smug to stunned. He didn’t say “Oh, no,” but his face did.
Jack felt sure that in the accountant’s experience, Odyssey Properties had always been the party setting the terms for a deal. He also saw surprise in Debra’s eyes. She was probably wondering if he was about to add requirements that would screw up the deal.
“But Mr. Strider, it’s very early in the morning in Athens.”
Jack ignored his objection. “There are two additional terms. First, he will end Barbas’s attempt to evict our law firm from our offices. Second, he will grant us a two-year option to buy any or all of the buildings on Pier 9 now owned by Odyssey Properties. The price will be the appraised current fair market value minus twenty percent. He will accept or reject the whole package on the phone right now. If he agrees, you will hand-deliver an unconditional written commitment to our offices. Any questions?”
The accountant looked taken aback, no doubt wondering if delivering the message would get him fired. “No questions.”
“Good. I don’t need to talk with Mr. Georgiou, so give him a call and let us know his answer before we take our offer back.”
The accountant backed away from the table, as though fearing to turn his back.
Jack had something like an out-of-body experience, looking at himself from another table, coolly laying out an ultimatum to an international oligarch. The future of the law firm hung on a knife edge either way the decision went. Yet he felt completely in his groove for the first
time in a long time.
“By God, you’re ruthless,” Gano said under his breath.
“Georgiou insulted me yesterday when he thought he held the whip.”
Debra shook her head. “Those last demands will hit him like a brick, but he’s too committed to refuse.” Then she kissed him. And kissed him again.
The drama of Georgiou’s offer to sell and Jack’s counterdemands caused an emotional letdown. They turned their attention to scotch, rum, and wine until Gano asked, “Want me to settle the score with that rattlesnake who served you with the eviction notice?”
His question was directed to Jack, but Debra spoke up.
“Simms is mine,” she said firmly. “I’m about to file a complaint against him with the Board of Governors of the California State Bar.”
“That’s a lot more gentle than I had in mind,” Gano said. “What do you have on him?”
“I already had proof of slander, harassment, and aiding theft of our confidential files to hijack our clients. Then I got the clincher.”
The server eased up to the table. Jack waved for another round. He knew from Debra’s pleased smile that she was about to deliver her punch line.
“Simms sent a man to plant listening devices—bugs—in our offices. I caught the guy in the act. Add that to the other offenses, and the Bar will put Simms on a spit and roast him. He’ll never practice law again.” She sipped her wine. “After he’s disbarred, we’ll sue him for monetary damages and file a criminal complaint. I just hope Barbas owed Sinclair & Simms a lot of money it will never collect.”
“Hold on,” Jack said. “What do you mean you ‘caught him in the act’?”
She told them.
“Way to go,” Gano said. “As the saying goes, ‘Cometh the hour, cometh the man,’ except in this case it was a woman.”
Molly shook her head in admiration. “Looking at you, I never would have thought—”
“You have no idea,” Jack said. He’d seen Debra in full karate-warrior mode in Mexico. “That bugger never had a chance.”
“Speaking of rattlesnakes,” Gano said, “does anyone know what happened to Heinz and Palinouros?”
“Sure do,” Jack said. “The Coast Guard found Palinouros abandoned about ten miles off the northern California coast. They figure that when she ran out of fuel, the crew headed for shore in lifeboats.”
“Sooner or later,” Gano said, “it may occur to Heinz that he has a beef with you. What if he shows up in San Francisco?”
Jack saw a flicker of concern in Debra’s eyes. “He hasn’t committed any crimes yet, so it’s more likely he’ll try for a job in Central America under a fake name.” He smiled. “Frankly, I’m more worried about being run into by some tourist in a rental car.” He’d already thought about Heinz being somewhere out there nursing a grudge, so he hoped he was right.
The accountant returned to the table. “Mr. Georgiou requires that you wire $1 million to Odyssey Properties immediately as a non-refundable down payment.”
“No,” Jack said.
The accountant didn’t miss a beat. “He said that if you refused, I was to tell you to go to hell”—his back stiffened and his chin went up—“but to go ahead with the transaction.”
“And?”
“He will instruct Mr. Stan Simms to drop the eviction.”
“What else?”
“He will have an option on the Pier 9 property in your office tomorrow.”
“So that’s it?”
“There was more, but I’d rather not repeat it. I’ll be in your office at nine o’clock tomorrow.”
“Actually, we’re tied up for the next couple of days. Have the signed documents there tomorrow, and we’ll give you a call when we’re ready to see you. That’s all. Goodbye.”
As the accountant walked away, waves of relief washed over Jack. Finding financing to purchase Pier 9 might be tough, but given the below-market terms, it would be feasible when they were ready. He raised his scotch, and they clinked glasses.
“Good news all around,” Debra said.
“Gano,” Jack said, “I hope you’re not heading back to Mexico right away.”
Gano cleared his throat. “Funny you’d say that. I asked Molly to come with me to Divisadero, but she couldn’t quite see it as paradise.”
“That’s an understatement,” Molly said. “So I invited him to come to Astoria with me. You won’t believe what he did, started talking about helping me get my tavern back on its feet and lending a hand around town.” She gave him an indignant look.
“Yeah, well, she rattled my cage pretty good. Fact is, Molly and I are going to be a couple.” He beamed and rested his hand on her shoulder. His mithril wristband gleamed in the sun.
“The big question,” Debra said, “is whether Molly has any idea what a wild man you are.”
“Of course she doesn’t. If she did, she’d fly away like a nightingale.”
“Nothing I can’t handle,” Molly said. “By the way, I fired my bartender. Seems he and his pals had ganged up on a couple of friends of mine. I told him he’d be better off in some other state.”
Half-listening to Debra trying to draw Gano out about his relationship with Molly, Jack thought about his own relationship with Debra. In the past, he’d been satisfied with sequential relationships. None had been shallow, but none had made him consider a long-term future together either. His feelings for Debra were very different.
In Mexico, they’d fought side by side. She’d had his back more than once and taken the lead when needed. After they returned to San Francisco, he thought inviting her to be his partner in the firm implied a level of commitment on his part that went beyond the practice of law. He’d assumed she understood that, but he’d never spelled it out. Gee, wonder why.
She was exceptionally smart, beautiful, a wonderful lover, and an ideal law partner who called him out when she thought he was wrong and supported him the rest of the time. He had no trouble listing all the great things she brought to their relationship, but what did he bring? He started to make a mental list and then had an insight. That was the wrong question. The right questions were: what did she want from him, and could he give that to her? He didn’t have a clue.
He had to figure out what she needed. Oh my God, that might even mean asking her. Then he’d have to do his best to meet those needs. Petros Barbas was one of many men who had tried to tempt her away and failed, but there were more snakes in the grass. Or Debra might walk away, if she wasn’t getting what she wanted. He was ready to confess that he adored her and show her that she was his highest priority.
That made him blink. He took a deep swallow of Glenora.
He’d ask her to go back to Tikal with him for a do-over. This time she wouldn’t need to stalk away in frustration. And he wouldn’t need to risk his life being stupid and hanging off the face of a cliff. But was he kidding himself? Could he put his commitment in words? Maybe he was so hooked on his self-protective image that he couldn’t change. Could he really bare his feelings to her, or were his old ruts too deep? As long as he kept his feelings inside his head, he felt safe.
He noticed that Debra, Gano, and Molly had stopped talking and were staring at him. He met Debra’s eyes and swallowed hard.
She gave him a quizzical look and said, “What?”
“Nothing.”
Just then, their attention was diverted into Belvedere Cove. “Look there,” she said, pointing at a red plane with a white horizontal stripe taxiing in the water toward them. “It’s that seaplane—I mean amphibian—we saw a while ago. Pretty fancy way to come to Sam’s for dinner.”
“It’s not bringing anyone to Sam’s for dinner,” Jack said. “It’s picking up a very lucky couple to take them on a romantic trip.”
“How do you know that?” Debra asked. “Do you kno
w them?”
“We are them,” he said with a big grin.
“You wonderful man.”
He stood and retrieved a carry-on bag from between his chair and the railing. “I have everything we need.” He looked at Gano. “Tell the manager my sailboat will be tied up at his pier for a few days. And, by the way, for the only time since I met you, I’m sticking you with the bill.”
TWO DAYS AFTER Gano paid the bill at Sam’s Anchor Café, a U.S. surveillance satellite was tracking a convoy of vessels that had left Korean waters four days earlier and headed east. Intelligence analysts had concluded that the lead ship was a petroleum drill ship, very large but otherwise not remarkable. Three ships trailing in its wake looked like standard commercial support vessels, except that each carried a cylindrical object about thirty feet long tied down under a tarp on its aft deck.
Lieutenant Terry Ross, watching a monitor in El Dorado, Kansas, asked the analyst next to him, “What do you think is under those tarps?”
Major Rocky de Villiers had done this job for twelve years and was far past giving a damn. “Jet skis for all I know. As long as they aren’t nuclear-tipped missiles, which they aren’t, I don’t give a rat’s ass.”
Ross shrugged. “On its present heading, the convoy will enter U.S. territorial waters in eight hours heading toward Oregon.”
“Won’t happen. They’ll stop short of U.S. waters. Then they’ll drill, baby, drill.”
“I wonder if they got that Notice to Mariners about the big-ass drilling platform that burned and collapsed out there. Sure wouldn’t want to collide with that baby in the middle of the night.”
THE SAME SURVEILLANCE satellite had also been reporting data on the USS Hopper (DDG-70), a high-tech guided missile destroyer out of Pearl Harbor. At the end of her trans-Pacific voyage she would pass under the Golden Gate Bridge, water cannons blasting, to participate in a Parade of Ships culminating in a ceremony at St. Francis Yacht Club. It was a bullshit assignment resented by her captain, a hard-shelled mustang named Banfield.
