She spotted Passeau and walked straight to his booth. Surprised and more than a little flattered, Passeau got to his feet as she approached.
“Mr. Passeau? I’m Kelly Eamons.”
Passeau’s welcoming smile faltered. “From the FBI office?” he asked, knowing it was a foolish question.
She sat across the table from him and lowered her voice slightly. “Special Agent Kelly Eamons,” she elaborated, with a nod. “I work with Special Agent Chavez.”
Trying to recover his aplomb, Passeau said, “You seem much too young to be an FBI agent.”
She smiled, showing perfectly straight white teeth. “Looks can be deceiving, Mr. Passeau.”
He recommended a Presidente for her. Instead she ordered a cherry Coke. Texas girl, Passeau realized.
Once the cola arrived, Eamons ignored it. “I need to get your straight-up opinion on what Dan Randolph’s told us.”
“About the crash.”
“And about the death of his chief engineer, Joseph Tenny.”
Passeau nodded.
“Well? What’s your take on it?”
He shook his head. How much of my career has depended on going along with the system, keeping quiet, staying out of the limelight? Twenty years of patient servitude, and what has it got me? A wife who has left me; two children who won’t even speak to me. A mortgage on a house I’m not allowed to enter. In five years I could take early retirement. Five years more.
Eamons leaned toward him, totally unaware of Passeau’s inner turmoil.
“I really need to know,” she said earnestly. “Even if you only—”
“I believe the spaceplane was sabotaged,” Passeau heard himself say, slightly surprised at his own words. “I have no evidence that clearly shows it, but that is my belief.”
Eamons sank back on the booth’s bench. She was no longer smiling. “I see,” she said. “Then that means there’s a chance that Tenny was murdered.”
“And that means that Astro Corporation had a spy, a saboteur, in its midst.”
“Had?”
“The man Larsen. The one who committed suicide.”
Eamons nodded, understanding. “Maybe that’s where I should start. With him.”
They talked until the barmaid came over and unceremoniously announced, “Last call. We close in fifteen minutes.”
Eamons got up and left, her original cherry Coke still untouched on the booth’s varnished table. Passeau gulped down the brandy that had been sitting before him since the FBI agent had arrived, then he rose, too, and headed for the door.
As he stepped out into the dank, humid, hot night, alive with the buzz of insects and distant groaning calls of lovesick frogs, Passeau finally made up his mind.
I will not go to the Riviera. That would be too obvious. I’ll take a vacation week and return to New Orleans. Perhaps my children will consent to let me see them. By the time I return to Matagorda, Dan’s test flight will be a fait accompli.
Back in the Astro Motel bar, the barmaid took the untouched Coke and delicate brandy glass back to the sink, thinking, A couple of big boozers they were. And he’s a lousy tipper, too.
Planning
“Venezuela?” Dan asked.
Sitting next to him at the round conference table in the corner of Dan’s cluttered office, Lynn Van Buren nodded, her smile bigger than usual because she had found what she’d been searching for.
“Venezuela,” she repeated. “We can land the bird at Caracas and we won’t even have to alter its orbital track very much.”
“It flies over Caracas?”
“Pretty close. On its second orbit.”
Dan started thinking out loud. “We could load the ground control staff and equipment onto a ship, I suppose…”
Nodding enthusiastically, Van Buren said, “Use the backup equipment and a skeleton crew. You don’t need more than three, four good people.”
“Put them on the ship and don’t tell them where we’re going,” Dan mused, warming to the idea.
“Or why.”
“That way nobody can tip off anybody outside the company about where we’re going to land the bird.”
With a laugh, Van Buren said, “We’ll sail under sealed orders.”
Dan grinned back at her. “That’ll give us tight security, all right.”
“Then it’s Venezuela, for sure.”
“Except for one point,” Dan said. “How in the name of Snow White and the Seven Dwarfs do we get permission to fly through Venezuelan airspace and land there?”
Van Buren fiddled with the strand of pearls at her throat. “That’s not an engineering problem, chief.”
“You’re right. It’s a political problem.”
“Know any good politicians, chief?” Van Buren asked. “Or is that an oxymoron?”
Asim al-Bashir returned to Houston after his meetings in Beijing and, with a nonchalant air of superiority, presented to Wendell Garrison a draft agreement with the Chinese government.
“Tricontinental will market Chinese coal in Asia,” al-Bashir summarized for the corporate head, “as far west as Pakistan and Afghanistan.”
Garrison scowled up at him. The old man wheeled his powered chair out from behind his desk and, without saying a word, led al-Bashir to the curving teak cabinet that stood at the foot of one of the ceiling-high windows. With the press of a stud on the chair’s armrest, the cabinet opened smoothly and silently, revealing three rows of bottles.
“Pick your poison,” he said grudgingly to al-Bashir. “I suppose you’ve earned yourself a drink.”
Al-Bashir took a modest thimbleful of sherry while Garrison clattered ice into a tumbler and splashed bourbon into it.
“This is gonna put us in competition with ourselves, you know,” Garrison grumbled, after they had touched glasses. “We sell a lot of oil to Pakistan.”
“It won’t affect our oil sales,” al-Bashir said. “The Pakistanis want to build new industrial capacity, and they’ll power it with Chinese coal.”
“Bought from us.”
“Indeed so.”
Garrison nodded, reluctantly. Al-Bashir did not think it necessary to tell the old man that by delivering Chinese coal to central Asian nations, more oil from Iran and other Persian Gulf fields could be sold to Europe and America. Keep the West dependent on us, al-Bashir told himself. Bind them to us so tightly that they will never be able to escape.
After his drink with Garrison, al-Bashir returned to his hotel suite, looking forward to a restful weekend. Then back to Tunisia and another meeting of The Nine. Several members of the group were showing signs of unease about his plan to use the power satellite. Time to reassure them, al-Bashir told himself.
Roberto was waiting for him at the suite. The man has a look of violence about him, al-Bashir thought. Roberto was big enough to be intimidating, but it was not his size alone that gave the impression of danger. He radiated anger. His face was always set in a tense rictus; his eyes always smoldered. He moved with the compact, controlled energy of a stalking cat. When he spoke, his voice was soft, low, almost gentle. And all the more menacing for it.
Roberto stood in the middle of the suite’s sitting room, a large, heavy-shouldered man, his arms hanging at his sides, his hands balled into fists. Al-Bashir felt small and a little frightened next to him, but he knew that Roberto would never harm him. He had recruited Roberto from San Quentin and personally vouched for him at his parole board hearing, on the recommendation of the mullah who trolled the California prison system for converts to Islam. Roberto was no Moslem. But he didn’t have to be, as far as al-Bashir was concerned. He had other qualifications.