She turned back to him, smiling, innocent-faced. “Just to see you. They said they didn’t think you’d mind.”
Something that he couldn’t immediately identify registered with Shepherd, and then he remembered the arranged signal in the act to tell him to start the barbecue. “Shit!” he said, “I gotta put the food on.”
“They said it was important.”
Briefly Shepherd looked between the house and the concluding magic show. “You’ll have to take over; hamburgers to the right, ribs to the left. Coals are cooler on the left, for when things cook through. Don’t forget to keep brushing the sauce on.”
He hurried across the expansive patio, threading his way between the umbrellaed furniture. He’d been careful; bloody careful. They couldn’t hang anything on him.
Two men were standing in the panoramic room, the one that extended practically the rear width of the house and looked out over the pool and the ocean beyond. They turned as he entered, one young, full-haired, the other older, balding but trying to disguise it by combing what was left forward. Both wore Californian lightweight suits and ties, and Shepherd looked down at his King Coal apron and felt foolish. Self-consciously he took it off and threw it over the nearest chair and said, “What’s this all about?”
The elder man moved, coming forward and offering his shield. “Hoover,” he said. “U.S. Customs. My colleague here is Morrison, Federal Bureau of Investigation.”
The younger man offered his identification and Shepherd glanced briefly at the wallet, not knowing what he was expected to confirm. Mother of Christ! he thought, looking up again.
“We’ve been admiring your house while we waited,” said Morrison. “It’s fantastic, absolutely fantastic.”
Shepherd realized that the younger man had an eye defect, the left one skewed outward. Don’t panic, Shepherd thought; nothing to panic about. Hear them out first. He said. “Thank you. I designed most of it myself.”
“You’re a lucky man,” said the Customs investigator.
“You come here to admire my house?” Shepherd demanded. It was important to strike the balance, stay calm but not take any shit, not yet. He supposed he should suggest they sit, offer them a drink, but he did neither.
“You carry a few government contracts?” Hoover said. “High-security electronic stuff?”
“Yes,” Shepherd said cautiously.
“Your corporation is highly regarded,” Morrison said.
“I like to think so,” Shepherd replied.
“You know the reason for the COCOM regulations, Mr. Shepherd?” asked Hoover.
“To prevent restricted, dual-use hi-tech material and development going to proscribed countries, usually communist,” replied Shepherd. What the fuck was it? He kept a personal handle on orders that might be questionable and was sure there hadn’t been one.
Hoover smiled and nodded, patronizing. “And you observe the Export Controls List?”
“I keep right up to date with it,” Shepherd said.
“You know anyone named Pierre Belac?”
“No, I don’t know anyone named Pierre Belac. Should I?” They were serving shit. Who the fuck was Pierre Belac?
“No, Mr. Shepherd, you definitely shouldn’t know him,” Hoover said.
The floor-to-ceiling windows were double-glazed, so there was no sound, but Shepherd could see the kids clamoring around Sheree for food. She was looking anxiously toward the house, seeking assistance. He yelled out toward the kitchen, “Maria! Go out and help Mrs. Shepherd, will you?”
Morrison smiled in the direction of the patio. “Looks like a great party. My boy was eight, two weeks ago. Took them all to Disneyland.”
“Why don’t we sit down?” Shepherd suggested. “You guys like a drink? Anything?”
Speaking for both of them, Morrison said, “Nothing.”
“Couldn’t we be a little more direct about all this?” Shepherd asked. The air-conditioning was on high and he felt cold, dressed as he was.
“Pierre Belac’s an arms dealer operating out of Brussels,” Hoover disclosed. “Very big. Gets things they shouldn’t have for people and countries who shouldn’t have them. Sneaky as helclass="underline" false passports, stuff like that. We’ve been trying to pin him for years. Come close but never close enough.”
“What’s this got to do with me?” He was clear, Shepherd thought hopefully. There was nothing in his books or records connected with anyone called Pierre Belac.
“You make the VAX 11/78?” Morrison said. “Your biggest defense contract at the moment, in fact?”
“You know I do.”
“What would you say if I told you that Pierre Belac, a leading illegal arms dealer, was buying a VAX 11/78 from your corporation to supply a communist regime?” Morrison demanded.
Shepherd actually started up from his chair but was scarcely conscious of doing so, eyes bulging with anger. “Bullshit!” he said vehemently. “I keep a handle on everything that goes on in my company—” He broke off, stabbing his own chest with his forefinger. “Me! Personally! And particularly defense contracts. I don’t deal with companies I don’t know, and I don’t deal with mysterious intermediaries. Your contract buyers know that, for Christ’s sake! That’s why I am a government supplier!”
Both men stared, unmoved by the outrage. Hoover said, “You familiar with a Swedish company called Epetric?”
“Yes,” he said. He was dry-throated and the confirmation came out badly, as if he had something to hide. Slowly he sat back in his chair.
Hoover stood up, however, coming over to him with a briefcase Shepherd had not noticed until that moment. From it the Customs investigator took a duplicate order sheet. Shepherd looked, although it was not necessary.
“A confirmed and acknowledged order for a VAX 11/78, from Epetric, Inc. of Stockholm,” Hoover said, even more unnecessarily. “That is your signature, isn’t it, Mr. Shepherd?”
“Epetric is a bona fide company, incorporated in Sweden,” Shepherd said, with pedantic formality. “There is no legal restriction against my doing business with such a company: Sweden, incidentally, is not one of the countries that are signatory to the agreement observed by the Coordinating Committee for Multilateral Export Controls. My contract is with Epetric, not with anyone named Pierre Belac.”
A silence developed in the room as chilling as the air-conditioning, and Shepherd wondered if they expected him to say more. He couldn’t, because there was nothing more to say. How deeply had they already investigated him? He’d tried to calculate how many deals he’d taken to the very edge, and perhaps sometimes over it. Enough, he knew. More than enough to be struck off the Pentagon list. But at the moment he was still ahead. Which is where he had to stay.
“We know that Pierre Belac placed that Epetric order through a shell company in Switzerland,” Hoover said.
“Your advantage, not mine,” Shepherd said. “My dealings thus far are absolutely and completely legitimate. This evidence? You could make it available to me?”
“You want proof?”
The resolution would be very simple, Shepherd realized, the relief flooding through him. He said. “My lawyers will, because inevitably there will be a breach-of-contract suit.”
Hoover frowned. “I’m afraid I don’t quite follow here.”
Shepherd said, “I don’t really see that we have a problem. No problem at all. The Epetric order is less than a third filled. I’ll throw it back at them tomorrow, and that will be the end of it.”
“The kids are in the pool,” Morrison said. “Is it heated?”
Shepherd glanced through the window, then hack at the Bureau agent, frowning. “Of course it’s heated.”
“Great house,” Morrison said, echoing his initial admiration.
“What the hell’s going on!” Shepherd demanded. Easy! he warned himself. Take it easv!