As the polite laughter died down, Carri waved his hand, calling for it to cease. Then, before anyone could bring up any other distracting matters, Gladys Beckett, his chief of office operations, moved forward and broke up the fun—playing the heavy and calling the meeting to a close—as she knew the senator wanted. After everyone filed out, he told her, "Gladys, we've got advance warning on Benton Hawkes—he should be here in about fifteen minutes."
"He's here today?" she said without shock, not thrown by the abrupt change in schedule.
"What can I tell you?" answered the senator, shrugging his shoulders. Turning up the wattage in his smile, he said, "I guess you give some guys a Nobel Prize and they figure the rules don't apply anymore." As his operations chief gave him an appropriate chuckle, Carri got serious, asking, "So, just what do we need to do?"
The senator had started his adult life on the football field, a top player for a major team, leading the way to several Super Bowl victories. It had been an important stepping-stone to a choice spot in the automotive industry. Showing he had brains to offer as well as fame, Carri had used his time there as an audition for a larger role in the world of communications financing. With his past fame, voter recognition, contacts in heavy industry, and access to both funding and the media, he had all he needed to reach the goal he had sought from the beginning—politics.
Quickly looking around the senator's inner office, the woman analyzed every aspect of its layout.
"Get your jacket off, Mick," she told him, bending over a panel on the far side of the room. "And loosen your tie." While the senator did as he was instructed, Beckett killed the air conditioning. Her fingers dancing across the control array, she pulled back the curtains covering the massive windows in Carri's office, then opened several panes at varying angles.
"Hawkes is an outdoorsman," the woman explained, lowering the overhead lights until they only complemented the natural light. "Lives on a ranch in the mountains when he's not posted out country. Best bet is to subtle him over."
"It's awful humid after last night's storm," the senator complained. Even a minute without climate control had started him sweating. He could feel drops forming along his hairline and beading at the back of his neck.
"That's why you should be unbuttoning your top button," Beckett told him. "You're a man of the people— you work hard. Get your nose in some papers and be ready to slip your jacket on when he gets here. Effect a surprised look."
"Can I roll up my sleeves?"
"Can you get them up past your elbows?" she asked, more interested in getting the paper stacks and books on Carri's sideboard in order. Her advance research had told her that Hawkes was an orderly man—impressed by straight lines, right angles.
Neatness counts, she told herself, squaring everything off.
"No," said the senator, trying to roll up his sleeves. "Must be European cut. There's not enough give."
"Then leave them down. But unbuttoned is okay."
Paying the senator no further heed, she buzzed Carri's makeup staff and then began to index through his paintings, looking for something suitable for the upcoming meeting. The office was equipped with five different acryvid screens, framed monitors meant to appear as actual paintings. She knew that simply setting them all to outdoor scenes would not fool a man as seasoned in the game as Hawkes.
She left the second largest, the ornate multiple-imaged portrait of the senator at the various stages of his way-to-the-top journey alone. Most people knew it existed, and besides, she thought, the ambassador would expect at least that much arrogance from Michael Carri.
She almost replaced the senator's personal favorite, a long rectangular shot of a naval battle from the late 1800s. It was the largest and usually was the first to go in such situations. But the override files programmed into her wrist-link accessory reminded her that Hawkes was a former military man. That painting stayed.
Anything to create a bond, she thought, realizing in the . back of her mind how difficult that task might be.
The computerized bracelet suddenly beeped—the five-minute warning.
Goddamnit, she thought. No time—hell, just let the machine do it.
Quickly, Beckett pulled out a connector line from her wrist-link. Plugging it into the control panel to Carri's office, she gave authorization to her main computer to finish tailoring the senator's office to his advantage. If the computer made some mistake or other, there was always the chance she could catch it.
She hoped so, anyway.
It was the best she could do. Time seemed to be against them, although she had no idea why. For some reason, they had to let Hawkes walk through the door on his own schedule, without hesitation.
As soon as the computer connection was made to the program the operations chief had prepared earlier that morning, the spectral fibers in the carpeting instantly shifted to a deep blue from Carri's preferred charcoal gray. The walls dropped a degree in vibrancy but stayed the same tone of white, as did the ceiling. The paintings remaining on the walls shifted. An old-fashioned gas-burning racer flickered out, replaced by a dark scene from a deep forest: dense, old-growth pines, the kind Beckett's research said Hawkes had on his own property.
Scanning the room, the operations chief zeroed in on several bird portraits that had been artistically enhanced and added to the program the last time the screen had been used, a retouch that had been added the year before, when Carri had entertained the Audubon Society. She had them zapped back to the clip file.
The other vids shifted, one after another. Before Beckett could give her approval, however, the makeup staff finally arrived. She grabbed her own hair specialist, along with his utility cart, before he could join the crowd around the senator, telling him, "I need a gel upsweep, no spray or pins. Old-fashioned, turn-of-the-century. Get to it—you have maybe five minutes. I need it in four."
The man set to work immediately, asking, "Gel? My God, you really do want turn-of-the-century. Who's coming to lunch? Your grandfather?"
"A man who loved his mother," the operations chief answered absently. She continued to turn in a slow circle, trying to take in all of the computer's decor decisions without moving too fast for the man rearranging her hair.
As soon as she was satisfied with the look of the room, she unplugged her wrist-link from the control panel, announcing at the same time, "I'm heading for the mahogany straight-back, Clifford."
"That's good news," answered the hairdresser. He moved as she did, not watching where he was going, concentrating only on Beckett's head. "I actually do a much better job when my work isn't spinning about."
As the woman sat down, she brought her link steadily up to eye level and keyed in a variety of commands: everything from piping in what she hoped would be the best background music for Carri's upcoming confrontation to ordering him a take-out meal from the congressional commissary—hand-held items, all easy to eat while working—a sandwich, coffee, banana . . .
No, she thought, strike banana. Hawkes is from the Northwest—make it an apple.
Turning slightly, not enough to throw off Clifford's ministrations, but just enough to allow her to rest her eyes on the senator, she thought, Ladies and gentlemen, and especially the mindless of all voting ages, may I present to you that hardworking, self-effacing, tireless, devoted man of the people, Senator Michael J. Carri. Snapshots will be five units. Please deposit your contribution in the barrel at the tent flap exit.
Beckett's eyes narrowed. Benton Hawkes had recently cost her boss plenty. The ambassador should have been returning to a class-A, red-hot poker—one to be applied long, deep, and often. Instead he was getting the kind of circus she usually put together for the head lawyer from the petroleum lobby.
What's going on, Mick? she wondered. Just what the hell could you possibly want from this guy bad enough to jump hoops when a few days ago you wanted to be dancing on his grave?
Clifford finished his ministrations forty-eight seconds early. Beckett checked herself out in his util
ity mirror while he packed up his tools.
"I like the flat streak on the side," she told him honestly. "Like I've been pushing at it all day."
"Designed to look as if you walked in with it this morning," he answered, proud of the touch.
"You're an artist," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Now get yourself and the rest of this bunch out of here."
"An artist," he answered, "nay, fair lady. I am but a humble workman, toiling in the fields. If thou art happy, then I am happy."
"Git, hair jockey," she said. Her tone was teasing, however, one that turned into a laugh as he clicked his heels and bowed with a flourish.
"And thus I take my leave."
Beckett smiled. She was lucky to have been able to pull together some of the people she had for Carri's staff. Looking over at him, she wondered again, What could he be up to? Benton Hawkes had cost the senator possible millions in future contributions, not only from Deutcher— which was not only a lost cause, but already sending checks to the opposition—but from countless others who may have had their faith shaken in Carri's ability to deliver.
And yet she watched him putting on his best poker face, preparing for . . . for . . .
What, you devious bastard? What in hell is going on here? So important you're willing to let Hawkes off the hook—so secret you don't trust me to know about it?
She examined the touch-up job the crew had done on Carri. The normally pale senator now had a nice, out-doorsy tan, perfect down to the bit of burn they had blushed into his bald spot. Staring at the thin patch, she thought, They can grow hair on a billiard ball these days, and yet you let yours thin because you don't want to be thought of as affected. Every move you make is politically motivated, Mick. I sure wish I knew what was motivating you this time.
Knowing how much their present act would gall Carri, how much it must be galling him already, Beckett thought, Hawkes, when I think about the kind of payback he must have in store for you, I could almost feel sorry for you.
Suddenly, her wrist-link beeped again—the thirty-second warning. As she shut down the electronics in the gold-and-jewel-encrusted accessory, she fingered the expensive gift and smiled to herself. Then she took a deep breath and whispered softly, "Almost."
3
HAWKES WALKED DOWN THE MARBLE-AND-WOOD-corridor, wondering if it were at all possible to catch someone off guard who was as savvy and enduring in the game as Michael Carri. The ambassador had no doubt the senator knew when his plane had arrived, when he had gotten up in the morning, when he had caught his cab . . . He certainly knows when I entered the building.
So, he asked himself, if he knows you're here, then why hasn't anyone stopped you from going in? You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow. After what we cost him, you know he has to have some kind of special humiliation all choreographed for us. The good Senator Carri isn't the kind of man that lets revenge slip by that easily.
Who says he's letting it slip by? another voice in his head asked, one to which Hawkes usually listened.
"Well, yes," Hawkes whispered to himself, his smile growing grim, "there's a thought."
The ambassador kept his pace even. Not politic to let anyone see him moving too slow or too fast. It was an old trick—one learned in the military, and reinforced by the corps. Never dawdle, never run. Both looked bad, showing either a lack of preparation or nerve. Neither was good—for the careers of officers or diplomats.
Of course, there's not much career left to worry about now, Benton. You made sure of that.
Hawkes ordered his carping inner voice to be silent. He had done what he had done—what his conscience dictated had to be done—and that was it. There had been no other choice. He simply could not allow a corporation—not even a corporation with its own embassies—to steal millions of acres of private land.
Anyway, what did it matter? It was done. He had won the fight for the Australians. Now, ironically, he had to return home to fight the same kind of fight for himself.
Nothing ever changes, does it?
A great many things in the world were uncertain, but of that one small point, the ambassador had little doubt.
Arriving at the outer office to Senator Carri's chambers, Hawkes unconsciously straightened his tie and ran a hand through his hair, then opened the door and went inside. He found Carri's chief of operations giving orders to the aide presiding over the reception desk.
He noted her hairstyle, gently upswept, gelled in place. It took him back to the past for a moment—made him feel old, comfortable—and strengthened his resolve. Walking up behind her, he said,
"Hello, Gladys. I like your hair."
The woman turned around, feigning annoyance at the interruption until she could pretend to be surprised at who it was, and then feign covering up her initial pretense.
"Ambassador Hawkes . . . ah, my—you weren't scheduled to be here until tomorrow. I mean . . . oh, please, sir, don't take that the wrong way. I'm sure the senator will be pleased to see you, it's just . . ."
"Don't apologize," he told her. "You're not the one who stepped in anything. I got in early. Didn't see any reason not to let Mick have the fun of throwing me out and telling me to come back when I was supposed to."
"Ambassador . . . really . . ."
"Please, don't try to spare me," said Hawkes, a touch of humor smoothing his tone. "I'm a big boy. I like to at least try to be responsible for my actions. I'll take what I earned." The ambassador tilted his head and then, with a twinkle in his eye, added, "Unless, of course, he's planning to have me killed or something. You could spare me that."
Gladys Beckett's smile jumped nervously, her eyes blinking at the same time. Hawkes noticed, wondering exactly what the sudden agitation in her face boded. She instantly covered with a clever rejoinder, but at the same moment let Hawkes know that he was in for something. Deciding to do some fishing, he asked, "So, just how deep in did I step?"
"Ambassador, I'm just a poor working girl," answered Beckett, stepping back toward the senator's office. "He doesn't tell me anything except what he wants and when he wants it." With her hand to the senator's door, she indexed Carri's confidential lock code for access, adding, "Let me find out if he can see you now." Then she turned toward the opening door and moved inside, saying, "You'll never guess who's here."
Hawkes listened to the lilt in her voice. Something was wrong. It was a slight thing, but he had been in the game too long not to notice. The operations chief was good, he granted her that much. But he was being gamed, and he knew it. Benton Hawkes might not have liked Michael Carri, but he had enough respect for the senator to know that the man had not survived and prospered in Washington, D.C., for more than two decades by being lax or stupid.
You're being set up, his dark inner voice told him. Carri knows you're here. He knows. There's no way he doesn't. Watch your step—you're in someone's crosshairs.
The door opened again. The senator stepped through, shrugging his jacket on, extending his hand at the same time.
"Benton Hawkes! Just the man I've been waiting for."
The ambassador took the hand, almost caught off guard. He had expected Beckett to come back and usher him to a chair. He had expected Carri to be facing a wall, standing, so that he could turn and attack a sitting target. Hawkes took the senator's hand and shook it. He gave Carri a greeting as noncommittal as the senator's, then followed him into the office. Taking the seat offered, he waited while Carri hurried himself back behind his desk.
The senator rustled through his papers, clearing away what seemed to be a mountain of paperwork.
"Look at all this," he said absently as he worked at restoring the desktop to its former order. "I remember my grandfather telling me that people thought computers were going to do away with all this, 'The paperless society'— that's what they called it—what we were supposed to have." Carri sighed convincingly, then waved his hands about him, adding, "But look at all this."
"Well, no one's come up with anything chea
per," Hawkes offered, waiting for the bell so the first round could begin. Before Carri could answer him, Beckett buzzed, letting the senator know his lunch had arrived. She ushered in the staged "working-through" snack, setting it off on the sideboard.
"I apologize for this," said Carri, indicating the prop lunch. "No time to get out these days. Too much to do. Which makes me ask"—the senator notched a growl into his voice, moving into the character Hawkes had expected—"just exactly what are you doing here already? You weren't supposed to be here until tomorrow."
"Well, I . . ." The ambassador waved his hands. His mind was racing, trying to catch whatever angle was being thrown at him.
He recognized Carri's ploy . . . could see that everything about the man's attitude was being engineered to guide him somewhere into something. . . .
But where? And what? What's going on here? Hawkes wondered. Just what the hell am I missing?
Finally, deciding to risk simply going with the truth, he said, "I thought it was such a wonderful day . . . why not drop in on my old friend Mick Carri. We could catch up on old times. I could tell you why I threw a moat around Australia, you could tell me I was finished in government service . . . you know. Fun stuff."
"Ben. Ben." The senator reached down into his lower ranges for a suitably hurt tone. "What? You want to get right down to . . . all of that?"
"Unless you need that extra day to sharpen some kind of retributional tools . . ."
"Ben, for God's sake . . ." Carri did his best to appear flustered, even embarrassed, covering the raging anger that burned within him convincingly. "Is this your opinion of me? That the only thing that counts is some dollar-studded bottom line?'' Putting up his hands in an attempt to look frustrated and possibly hurt, he said, "All right, you want to get into it—fine." The senator pushed himself back in his chair, giving himself more room. Rubbing at his face, he said, "Let's get down to business. Did you cost me something? Oh, yes, quite a lot. Deutcher's already backing my opponent in the next election. What a surprise, right?"
Man O' War Page 3
