The Babel Conspiracy Page 7

  Mike thought of Trisha and wondered what it would be like to be married to someone like her. “I guess we both settled. But don’t kid yourself, if you had married that vet of yours, you’d be taking a solo trip to Reno within a year. No, Renee, you got what you wanted, what mattered to you—total freedom and a chance to get that small town chip off your shoulder. I was everything your tyrant father was not.”

  “He wasn’t a tyrant! He was generous and gave me everything I wanted.”

  “Yes, and kept you under his thumb. Corralled you like one of his heifers.”

  “He . . . had a reputation to maintain.”

  “For heaven sakes, Renee, he never allowed you to go more than fifty miles from the ranch! Maybe he thought this cloistered life would keep you innocent.” Mike laughed. “Guess that didn’t work out too well.”

  “Just how would you describe me, Michael?”

  “Petty, cruel . . . selfish.”

  “I see. And how would you describe yourself?”

  “Ambitious and selfish.”

  “So . . . it seems we are well suited.”

  “But are you satisfied? Don’t you want more? Something better? A child could bring love into our lives. Maybe bring us together, like a real family. It could be our last chance. Don’t you want that?”

  Something flickered across Renee’s eyes, a softness he rarely saw, and for an instant Mike knew she was considering it.

  “You’re not the only one with dreams, Michael. I have them, too. And they don’t resemble scripts from Leave it to Beaver. Besides, I’ve never asked for your love, never expected it. You can’t go changing the rules now. You want too much from me, from yourself. Maybe if we had started out better . . . maybe . . . .” She shrugged.

  “And don’t kid yourself, you’re more like Daddy than you realize. Why do you think he picked you? In your own way you want to corral me like a heifer, too; fit me into some mold you think will make you happy. But what about me? What about the things I want?” She threw her hands in the air. “I’m done. I don’t want to talk about it anymore!”

  “You never do.” He turned away. How could he explain his growing need for some warmth, warmth that would touch his life, make it glow like a well-heated coal in his later years? He was pushing forty and had begun thinking about those years. Renee had teased him, told him he was going through a premature aging crisis. He had tried to stave off that crisis by speaking of adopting a child. A son would stoke those fires, rekindle that dying coal. A son would be someone to whom he could leave his company, his legacy. “I guess one child in the house is enough,” he added dryly.

  “I assume you’re referring to me, darling. Well, I do like getting my way and love being pampered. And I’m over-indulgent with money. And . . . yes, I can be cruel. But you already knew all this before marrying me. And you’ve always dealt so beautifully with it by never dealing with it. So don’t change now.”

  When Renee brushed against him, he reached for her. “We don’t have to live like this,” he whispered, his arms encircling her. “If both of us tried harder maybe . . . .”

  She pushed him away. “I thought I made my feelings clear. I’m satisfied with things as they are. Besides, haven’t we got everything?” She slipped her arm through his and led him to the top of their grand staircase. As they descended, she leaned closer. “You’ve been prickly lately. What you need is a vacation . . . or a good fling.”

  Mike remained silent until reaching the bottom step when he barked at a passing servant to open the French patio doors. Had he been thorny of late? Yes. But how could he explain to Renee it was due to ten years of him not caring enough; ten years of her not caring enough; ten years of unstoked fires, of chilblain, of cold.

  Ten years of drafty emptiness?

  Suddenly, music came blasting from the patio. “You’ve hired a band!”

  Renee smiled demurely. Her green, cat-eyes watched him. “Darling, snap out of it. I want you at your best. There are people coming I want to impress, and I’ll not have you rude and irritable.”

  “You know how I hate dancing with all those plump, gray-haired wives,” Mike returned, bombarding her with his frustration as if the last ten years had been all her fault. “Especially tonight. I’ve business to discuss.”

  Renee leaned over and kissed him on the cheek. “You’ll survive, darling. I want my party to be a success and women love to dance. They expect to when they bother getting all dressed up.”

  “Then you dance with them!” he snapped, and walked off.

  • • •

  In spite of her husband’s ill humor, Renee was certain this would be a great party. All the right people were coming. And she had spent the better part of two weeks preparing. The woodwork had been repainted, the rugs shampooed. She even had some “Spanish” touches added. The artesonado ceiling with elaborate boxed out squares of wood, one foot by one foot, and centers filled with grille work were new. So was the parabolic archway at the room’s main entrance.

  It was sure to impress Senator Garby who had spent several years as ambassador to Brazil before becoming a U.S. senator, and now, her party’s presidential candidate.

  She had aligned herself with the government crowd. In Everman, that consisted mainly of petty bureaucrats. Now, she had a chance to broaden her scope, to step into a grander, more important life, and the Garbys were the doorway.

  Since meeting them at a fundraiser eight weeks ago, Renee had seized every opportunity to be in their company. Her hope was to assist in his campaign, to help raise funds so he could beat his opponent, Senator Phillip Merrill, even though she found Garby’s poll numbers a bit off-putting.

  She normally backed winners.

  And though she hated to admit it, Garby was so far down in the polls that it would take a miracle for him to become the next president of the United States.

  Still, he was a useful stepping stone with his influence in Washington. And for Renee, Washington had become the Mecca of proper living, of all that was desirable. The important people of the world traveled through its gates, and for some reason she had begun envisioning herself as one of them.

  When she saw her husband standing in a group, her stomach knotted. Cattlemen! How she hated them! She had spent too many years around these rough, course types. Even her father, a rich cattle baron himself, had often embarrassed her with his poor manners and poor grammar.

  She had been furious when she learned her husband had invited some tonight, and had shouted a warning how they better not bring in any cow dung on their boots!

  But her irritation was forgotten when the doorman announced the new arrivals. As she rushed to greet them, her sling-back heels made a hollow, tapping sound all across the large, mosaic vestibule.

  “Senator and Mrs. Garby! How wonderful to see you again!”

  The tall, spindly senator made a slight bow while the fragile-looking woman beside him offered an anemic smile. “Mrs. Patterson . . . .”

  “Renee.”

  “Renee,” continued Senator Garby, “allow me to introduce you to a good friend of mine, Mr. Alexander Harner, president of Tafco Oil.”

  “Alex to my friends,” the gray-haired executive said. Until now, Renee had not noticed him nor had she noticed the delighted expression on his face as he viewed her wide, plunging V.

  “I hope you don’t mind, but I insisted that Alex accompany us here.”

  Renee eyed Harner. She viewed oil men with the same disdain as cattlemen, though there were many here tonight. But didn’t politics often necessitate doing the unpleasant? What oil men lacked in breeding, they had in money. And a trip to Mecca was expensive. “Don’t be silly, Senator. Your friends are my friends. Mr. Harner . . . Alex is welcome.”

  The tune of the Mexican Hat Dance came blaring from the patio. “Don’t you just love Spanish music?” Renee said, failing to see the sneer that pas
sed between the senator and his wife.

  She led them to a long, rectangular table covered with food. To one side were platters of lobster tails, chateaubriand, crystal bowls of caviar, oysters Rockefeller, shrimp, and dozens of salads and vegetables. To the other: tureens of gazpacho on top of a bed of ice, platters of tostadas and enrollados, steaming mounds of albondigas and empanadas, a large tongue in almond sauce, paella, pollo escabeche, and garbanzo salad.

  At Renee’s parties, food was served all night.

  “Just tell them what you want and they’ll take care of you.” Renee gestured toward the staff that stood in starched, white uniforms like plaster statues.

  The couple smiled but showed no interest in the food.

  “Perhaps a drink then,” Renee said, sullenly, then signaled to the man she had hired for the evening to attend the rolling bar. “Dewers and water, Bubba.”

  Bubba Hanagan made the drink and handed it to Renee, then looked at the others. “The usual Hanagan,” Alex Harner said. “And how’s it going?”

  “Fine, Mr. Harner.” Bubba mixed a Scotch and soda.

  “Still lifting weights?”

  “Of course, sir.”

  “You know each other?” Renee asked. When Hanagan ignored her, she shot a glance at Alexander Harner.

  “Bubba used to be my body guard.”

  “Small world as they say,” Renee replied, already losing interest. And while her attention was on the senator and his wife she failed to notice the bartender slipping a piece of paper into Alexander Harner’s suit pocket.

  • • •

  “Nice party,” Trisha said, smiling at Patterson Aviation’s corpulent sales director as she smoothed the side of her silk, oriental looking dress that nearly touched the floor. Slits on both sides of the skirt reached to her knees, revealing long, shapely legs. Around her throat arched a stiff collar, and passing between her breasts, a long row of tiny silk-covered buttons. In contrast to the severity of her gown was the casual manner in which her hair was piled on her head, leaving soft, black wisps to frame the sides of her face like a picture.

  The sales director smiled broadly. “Trisha, you look wonderful!”

  He took her hands and pressed them between the chubby palms of his own. “I swear, if I weren’t a happily married man you’d be in constant danger of my advances.”

  She gave him an affectionate kiss on the cheek before he introduced her to the three cattlemen beside him.

  “My friends were just telling me how this jihad madness has affected their business. Many of their trucks have been bombed or hijacked. Between that and the energy crisis, the cost of getting their beef to market is skyrocketing. I was telling them that a good alternative would be transporting their cattle in a fleet of cargo carriers. It’s quicker. No stops on the way. Less chance of having something go wrong. All plusses to offset the added fuel cost of air transportation. In the long run, they’d save money considering their current loss of both cattle and trucks.”

  The director paused and chuckled. “Actually, Trisha, I was about to seduce them into buying our C101’s. That is, until you came and otherwise seduced us.”

  Trisha smiled at the salesman who blushed with pleasure. “I’m afraid real seduction is your department.”

  • • •

  Someone’s plump, gray-haired wife managed to drag Mike from his sales director and the three cattlemen he had invited. But he continued observing the four men while politely bobbing his head for the benefit of the matronly woman stepping on his toes. After Trisha joined the group, Mike ceased bobbing and excused himself.

  “May I have this dance, Miss Callahan?” he said, his voice low, husky. Before Trisha could respond, he pulled her out to the patio where he began leading her in what resembled a slow two-step.

  “You look good. Although I’ve seen sexier dresses on ten year olds. Still . . . you look good.” He hoped she couldn’t detect the joy he felt at seeing her.

  Trisha smiled. “How was the board meeting?”

  “Gunther wasn’t happy. He wanted more data on the NPR.”

  “So what happened?”

  “He gave in because the others went my way.”

  “They usually follow him. How did you manage it?”

  “By promising them the P2 mock-up within six months.”

  “No! How could you? What if Audra can’t come up with the new casing and we have to enlarge the shielding?”

  “I want you to join Nolan. And I want it done secretly. I’ve already purchased two hangars a hundred miles from here. It’s an isolated spot, the remnants of a private airstrip that belonged to an eccentric old geezer who always wanted to take off over the sea except that the strip wasn’t long enough. You could say the project never got off the ground.”

  “Very clever,” Trisha said sarcastically. “Okay, you have two old hangars by the ocean, is that supposed to mean something?”

  “Deuterium,” he said, as if that explained it all. And to Trisha, he knew it did.

  “So, that’s what you’ve had Nolan doing. You are clever. But are you clever enough to convince the board to finance the P2 if the casing fails?”

  “In a few weeks I’ll give the orders to tool-up.”

  “Why do you keep ignoring my questions?”

  “In the meantime you’ll start building the engineering mock-up.”

  “You can’t build an airplane like this. It’s backwards. Besides, how can you expect only a handful to accomplish such a mammoth task?”

  “I expect you to get it rolling and when the time is right, I’ll assign others. No one said it would be easy, Callahan.”

  “I don’t expect easy. But how about sensible?”

  “Was it sensible when you came to me two years ago begging me for a chance to build the first fusion powered aircraft?”

  “I didn’t beg.”

  “Oh . . . then what do you call groveling on all fours?”

  “Exaggeration,” Trisha returned, and the pair laughed.

  “By the way, what happened to your date?” The sudden realization that Trisha was alone pleased him.

  “Something came up. At the last minute Daniel called from the hospital telling me there was an emergency and he couldn’t get away. He’s a doctor. Things like this happen.”

  “You were stood up.”

  “No I wasn’t.”

  Mike grinned. “Don’t worry, Callahan, you won’t end up an old maid. You still have a few good years left.”

  “You’re ridiculous.”

  “I want you at Gibs Town in three days. Your room is booked at a local hotel; although we’ll be working such long hours you won’t get much chance to use it.”

  “You made no mention that you’d be there.”

  “Didn’t I?”

  “No. Is . . . this . . . wise? I mean . . . you shouldn’t start anything until after we’ve developed the casting. This could jeopardize your company.”

  He noticed the faint flush on her face. He had unbalanced her, hit a nerve. He’d have to think about what that meant. Maybe it was a good thing. For him. “Look, I know a lot is riding on this. So, what I need is for you to tell me you’re with me.”

  Trisha narrowed her eyes. “You already know that. But you’re not going to turn me into a yes-man. This approach is crazy and you know it. But I’ll work the skin right off my fingers trying to make it succeed.”

  His hands traveled down the hollow of her back as the music stopped. “Maybe you can try being a yes-man just once?”

  Trisha pulled away. “I think that’s what the big bad wolf said to one of the little pigs before he ate him.”

  The broad chest shook with laughter, and even after Trisha left him amid the Mariachi band and lamp posts strung with red and orange streamers, she could still hear it.

  • • •


  “Trisha! Trisha, how divine you look.”

  The engineer turned toward the silky voice.

  “Thank you, Renee.”

  “Marvelous dress, dear. So cute with all those little buttons down the front.”

  Everyone’s eyes went to Trisha’s high buttoned collar and then to Renee’s plunging V. Senator and Mrs. Garby appeared embarrassed, while Alexander Harner seemed delighted.

  “Isn’t it terrible about those two British school teachers?” Senator Garby said hurriedly, as though trying to change the subject. “You know . . . the two British teachers on vacation in Cyprus who were brutally murdered this morning? Kamal’s crowd, or rather one wing of his group, took responsibility. Ever since he declared war on western educators for teaching ‘lies’ about Muslims and Islam in their schools, his followers have been killing any they can get their hands on.”

  “Violence and terrorism . . . that’s all you ever hear about anymore. I can’t bear all this cruelty,” Mrs. Garby said, looking wide-eyed and troubled. “When will it stop?”

  “As long as it’s big business, never,” returned the barrel-chested Harner.

  “Big business? What do you mean?” Renee said, sipping her Dewers.

  Harner smiled. “It’s well known that Arab oil countries have been financing terrorist groups for years. Sunni countries like Saudi Arabia have funded al-Qaeda, Hamas, the Muslim Brotherhood and even ISIS, while predominately shia countries like Iran and Iraq funded groups like Hezbollah. But now the lines are blurring—‘the enemy of my enemy is my friend’ thing.

  “In addition, armed men extract money by force from their own people, like the Palestinians, for example, and even those in refugee camps. Didn’t Libya’s ex-president, Gaddafi, take six percent from the pay of Palestinian exiles working in that land to help subsidize jihad?”

  Senator Garby nodded. “True. It’s estimated that last year’s combined income of Fatah and Hamas surpassed that of the nation of Jordan. Terrorist revenues are in the billions. They’re so rich they even act like multinational companies and make legal investments via the world stock exchanges. And now that oil is over two hundred fifty dollars a barrel, they’re getting even richer.”