“Dr. Wilson, I presume,” said Berman when George and Pia arrived at the level of the entrance. Berman examined George as if he were inspecting livestock. Or at least that was how George felt, dressed as he was in jeans and a comparatively dorky flannel shirt. Berman had a fixed smile on his face that looked to George more cruel than sincere.
“That’s me. Nice to meet you. Er, I bought this…” George thrust the bottle of wine in its silver gift paper toward Berman, who nodded. The men shook hands, and Berman guided him into his house, redirecting his attention toward Pia.
“You haven’t been here, Pia?”
“I have not,” she answered, recognizing his comment as a mere figure of speech. He knew full well she’d never been there. If she was hoping for sincerity, it wasn’t a good way to begin the evening. She was already surprised he’d directed his first comments to George. “It’s quite a home.”
Berman chastely touched both his cheeks against Pia’s, European style, before directing her inside the house after George.
Pia was not often impressed by material trappings, but even she could tell this was an extraordinary place. The front door opened into an atrium, whose ceiling extended up two stories to the underside of a pitched gable. Between the exposed beams was adobe-colored plaster. The living room, which was more expansive, with even higher ceilings, was spanned and crisscrossed by giant, hand-hewn beams, which Berman said came all the way from Montana.
By the time they walked into the center of the living room, Pia counted three substantial fireplaces, all ablaze with six-foot logs. The furniture was likewise oversize and upholstered in burgundy-colored leather. Ample fur throws and pillows were haphazardly but invitingly distributed. The wall without a fireplace was all glass, rising three stories to the massive central gable of the roof. Off to the side was a state-of-the-art entertainment system. Classical music hovered in the room more as a hint than as an intrusion. It was impossible to tell exactly where the sound was coming from.
Berman led them outside to the deck, which extended the entire rear of the house, commanding a view to the west of the Flathead Mountains, swathed in moonlight. Berman offered his guests seats in large wooden rockers, and a server appeared at once to take a drinks order. George saw that Berman had set down the bottle of wine he had brought in an inconspicuous place.
“You know Miss Jones already, Pia,” Berman said when Whitney appeared, as if on cue. Like Berman, she was dressed in elegant simplicity, her hair drawn back from her face and gathered in a bun without a single strand misbehaving. Her shapely and toned physique was in ample display.
George jumped up to be introduced. The deck was dimly lit but George could see how stunning this woman was. He was pleased — Berman had an impressive girlfriend.
“Miss Jones is my valued assistant. This is Dr. Wilson, who has come with Pia. I asked Miss Jones to join us to even up the numbers.”
So much for having a girlfriend, George lamented silently.
“Welcome to Boulder,” said Whitney to George. She came around and sat to George’s right; Pia and then Berman were to his left. Berman adjusted his seat closer to Pia and started talking to her. George took a deep draft of the vodka tonic that had just been brought to him. He felt he was going to need some alcohol to get through the evening.
“Thank you,” said George to Whitney, who crossed her legs, leaning into George’s space with both her person and her strong perfume. He strained to hear what Berman was talking to Pia about, but Berman was talking in low tones. Almost immediately he sensed Pia stiffen.
“So, Dr. Wilson, how do you like Los Angeles?”
In spite of his interest in what Pia and Berman were talking about, George found himself progressively pulled into conversation with Whitney Jones without a lot of effort. Her décolletage played a role, but more important from George’s perspective, she was interested in what he had to say and was interesting in return. Answering George’s numerous questions about Nano, she had reams of data at her fingertips. As absorbed as he was, George was unaware that his glass was being discreetly refilled, and was sorry when Ms. Jones excused herself to go check on the progress of dinner.
At that cue, Berman stood and walked over to the timber rail of his deck and looked out. “Not quite like Los Angeles, Dr. Wilson.”
“No, it’s not,” George said, casting a quick glance in Pia’s direction. She responded by rolling her eyes, which he had no way to interpret.
“Do you think it’s a good place to train in radiology?” Berman asked.
“The training is top notch,” George said. “But I’m not so sure the city is my cup of tea.”
“Maybe you should think about coming here to Boulder,” Berman said, still seemingly transfixed by the mountain scenery. “The University of Colorado has a superb program.”
“It’s a very attractive environment.” George looked back at Pia and silently mouthed “What?” Pia merely shook her head.
“I tried to get Pia to talk to me about her ordeal when she was kidnapped,” Berman said, before turning back to look directly at George. “She’s not interested in talking about it. I know you were involved, what can you tell me?”
As George tried to shift his mind into high gear, he realized he’d drunk more than he thought. He’d vaguely noticed that the level in his drink never went down thanks to the attentive staff, but hadn’t thought much of it. Despite his buzz, he remembered how strongly Pia felt about the kidnapping episode and how adverse she was to talking about it, even to him. He knew he had to be careful to stay in her good graces.
“I don’t know much,” George said, stumbling over his words.
“Oh, come on!” Berman said with a touch of irritation. “I can understand Pia’s reticence but not yours. Was it traumatic for you as well?”
“It was, but mostly because Pia was in physical danger.”
“I’m sure Mr. Berman doesn’t want to hear about any of that,” Pia said, speaking up for the first time.
“No, I do. I’d like to hear about the whole episode. Actually, I’m most interested in the use of polonium-210 to kill the doctors. I’d heard about that case in London like everyone else. Did they ever figure out where the stuff came from? My understanding is that polonium-210 is hard to come by.”
“It’s very difficult,” George said, thinking that it was a safe subject as far as Pia’s sensitivities were concerned. “It is involved with triggering nuclear weapons.”
“Well, I don’t know why you two are so secretive about it. It was big news out here for several days. My understanding is that you, Pia, were given full credit for uncovering the role that polonium-210 played.”
“It was the only solution that fit all the symptoms.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. I read that the deductive reasoning was brilliant in the minds of several analysts. You see, Dr. Wilson, that’s the quality of scientists we have here at Nano.”
Berman was talking as if he were recruiting Pia, which confused George, since he knew Nano already had her loyalty. Before anyone could respond, Whitney Jones announced that dinner was ready.
The dinner was predictably excellent. Berman didn’t mention the Rothman affair. Instead he took great pride in pointing out that all the food was locally sourced. He was especially loquacious about the elk tenderloin, which was the centerpiece of the dinner. Despite George’s general discomfort of being in such a foreign, elegant environment, he thought Berman was entitled to brag about the meat, which was slightly gamy, but not intensely so, and superbly tender.