Harstein's mention of blackmail had set Jack's mind working.
While waiting for the elevator, Jack got some hotel stationary from the front desk and penned a note, then wrote Fleur van Renssaeler on the back.
The note said: I need five minutes of your time. If I don't get it, the world (and Reverend Barnett) will find out about your sins of the flesh with Tachyon.
He considered signing it Yours in Christ, Jack Braun but decided that might be pushing things a little far.
The elevator doors opened and Jack stepped inside, surprising the hell out of two Barnett supporters of the little-blue-haired-lady variety. Jack smiled politely as he entered and pressed the button for Barnett HQ.
People waiting for the elevators did a lot of double takes as Jack stepped out, but nobody stopped him as he headed for the operations center. He walked right through the door, past a lot of young women on telephone banks, and failed to see any sign of Fleur. He grinned at the nearest worker.
"Where's the boss lady?" he said.
The girl stared. She was maybe seventeen, cute in an unformed blonde way. Her glasses slid down her nose. Her name, according to her name tag, was Beverly.
"I-" she said. "You're-"
Harstein bent close to her and said, "Go ahead. You can tell him." He smiled reassuringly.
"Ah-"
Harstein's expression was gentle. "It's really all right, Beverly," he said. "Mr. Braun's here on business, and I'm just tagging along."
Beverly pointed with a pencil. "I think Miss van Renssaeler is in her office," she said. "Two doors down. 718."
"Thank-you."
The room was beginning to buzz with alarm. People were glaring at Jack and dialing phones. He smiled at them all reassuringly, gave them a wave, and left. Harstein followed.
"I hope it's a small room," Harstein said. "You have no idea what the advent of air-conditioning has done to my power. "
Heads poked from the door as Jack strolled to 718 and knocked. He could hear televisions, and a phone ringing in the room. The phone cut off, and he heard steps coming to the door. It opened.
A silver-haired man stood there, his eyes widening in shock, then narrowing in anger. He flushed.
"Yes." Fleur's voice, on the phone. "I guess he's here. Thank you, Veronica."
"You are not welcome here," the silver-haired man said. "I'd like to see Miss van Renssaeler," Jack said.
The man tried to slam the door. Jack held it open with his hand. "Please," he said.
The door jerked open. Fleur looked at Jack from over the rims of square-cut reading glasses. Her mouth was a grim slash. Two other men stood behind her, in various uneasy postures. Televisions turned to various networks babbled along one wall.
"I don't think we have anything to talk about, Mr. Braun," she said.
"We do," Jack said. "I'd like to apologize, for a start."
"Fine, you've done that," Fleur said. She started to close the door.
"I'd like to speak to you for just a few moments."
"I'm busy. You may write for an appointment, after the convention." The door closed to a few inches, and again Jack stopped it.)ack produced the envelope from his pocket.
"Okay," he said. "Here's my appointment request. I'd like you to read it now."
He lightly tossed the envelope inside and let Fleur close the door. He looked down the corridor to see two security men walking toward him, doubtless summoned by the phone ladies. Their expressions, in the face of a man who used to throw Russian tanks off Korean mountainsides, lacked confidence.
"Uh," the nearest one said.
Jack grinned at them. "No problem, officers. I'll be leaving as soon as Miss van Renssaeler gives me an appoint_ ment."
Thev looked at each other, then decided to wait. "We were told there was a problem," one of them said. "Problem? No problem."
The guards did not seem reassured.
The door opened. "Five minutes," said Fleur. "And that's all you get." She turned to the men in the suite with her. "Reverend Pickens, Mr. Smart, Mr. Johnson, I hope you'll excuse me. Something's come up."
The men filed out past Jack, offering mixed distrust and relief. Jack stepped into the room, and Harstein followed. "Who's this man?" Fleur said. "I didn't agree to see him."
"Josh Davidson, madam." Harstein gave a stage bow, sweeping low.
"He's an old friend of the family. He's with me."
"He can wait outside."
"Madam, I will not interfere in your business," Harstein said. "An old fellow like me finds it hard to wait in cold air-conditioned corridors. I won't be any harm. Have I not a moist eye, a dry hand, a yellow cheek, a white beard, a decreasing leg, an increasing belly? I'm an object of pity. Pray do not scorn and cast me out."
Fleur looked at him. The corners of her mouth twitched in reluctant amusement.
"This is against my better judgment," she said, "but you can stay."
Fortunately, her better judgment did not prevail.
9:00 P.M.
The Jackson motion came up, was seconded, passed overwhelmingly. Harstein kissed Fleur's hand goodbye, and he and Jack made their way to the elevators.
"We may have just made a president," Jack said. He felt pleasantly drunk, as if on champagne.
Harstein just kept walking for the elevator. "Hey. We won."
"Things without all remedy should be without regard," said Harstein. "What's done is done." He looked at Jack. "And so, too, are we done. Never speak to me again, Jack, never come near me or my family. I'm warning you."
Jack's blood turned chill. "Whatever you say," he said. He let Harstein take the first elevator by himself.
Sara had the proper plastic smile molded into her face when he stepped off the People Mover with his shiny new travel bag slung over the shoulder of his leisure suit. She looped her arms around his neck and hugged him with a fervor that surprised her.
"Uncle George!" she squealed. "Oh, it's so good to see you!"
Polyakov hugged her and patted her shoulder. "Not so shrill, child. Eardrums are brittle things at my age. Why didn't you meet me at the gate?" He took her arm and steered her into the traffic streaming toward the escalators that led to the baggage carousels.
"They're not letting anybody but passengers with tickets into the boarding area. Are you sure it's safe to just come in openly like this?"
Smiling, to all appearance chattering happily to the elderly relative she'd just been reunited with, she nodded toward the security checkpoint where the passengers were filing through the metal detectors like cows through the chute for their appointment with the hammer. A pair of young men stood to one side, eyeing the crowd as discreetly as anybody that beefy could. Their suits were dark, and tight under the left armpits. A little fleshtone wire trailed from each man's ear.
He smiled. "They're looking for dangerous Russian spies trying to get out of Atlanta, not back in."
"But the airport-"
"I could have taken a bus, I grant, especially since the good doctor's friend happened to transport me to the Port Authority in New York City." At the mention of Tachyon,
Sara's face twisted briefly, as if she'd stepped on a tack. "But that would have been too slow, and anyway they're doubtless watching the bus terminals as well. Also, I detest buses."
They were on the moving stair now. "You heard what happened?" Sara asked.
"It was all over the televisions that infest the passenger waiting areas in LaGuardia-how lonely your capitalist lives must be, that you use your enormous production to surround yourselves so completely with synthetic company. An ace assassin making an attempt on the life of a potential presidential nominee, especially one as controversial and ethnic as Jackson-it's all raised quite the sensation."
That was how the police and media saw it, of course: the hunchbacked kid in leather had been trying to hit Jackson, and Dr. Tachyon had gotten in the way.
"How is it with Tachyon?" the Soviet asked.
She stumbled a little coming off the escalator. The hand that had caressed her, touched her last night as so few men had, was cooked meat and splintered bone now. The way that made her feel-the way it made her feel was something she would not confront now. Nothing matters, she told herself, but staying alive long enough to see Andi avenged.