Silence.
Gordian was still leaning against the edge of his desk, massaging the corner of his eye with his fingertip.
"Let's back up a second," he said. "You're convinced Blackburn's in some kind of trouble?"
Nimec gave him another nod.
"And you want to go extricate him from it."
"If I can," Nimec said. "With some help."
Gordian shook his head. "It's tough for me to believe Caine's people would go so far as to harm Max. Regardless of what he might have gotten wind of."
Nimec moved his shoulders. "We can't make assumptions about how much Caine might or might not know. Or who his people are. Or what sort of people they're involved with."
Gordian placed both hands on his desk and studied them, his lips pressed together.
"It's a hell of a time for me to make this sort of decision," he said, looking up at Nimec. "I'm flying to Washington in a little while. And I've got my mind on other matters beside that."
"Caine's hostile bid," Nimec said.
"Yes."
There was another period of silence. It fell over them with a weight that was almost palpable.
"All right," Gordian said finally. "See what you can do. But if something comes up, you'd damned well better consult with me. I lost too many good men and women in Russia to tolerate anyone in this organization taking unnecessary chances."
Nimec breathed.
"Thanks," he said, rising from his chair. "I only regret not being able to join you in D. C. You'll have a crack security detail, but it's going to be a madhouse."
Remaining seated, Gordian looked at him and shrugged dismissively.
"Just be careful to watch your own back," he said. "My guess is I won't be facing anything deadlier than potshots from reporters."
Nimec offered a thin smile.
"Probably right," he said. "But somebody's got to worry."
"Marcus, what's wrong?"
"Nothing."
"Obviously something's wrong."
"Give it time. I need to relax."
Lying in bed with Caine amid the restored deco furnishings of their room at the Hotel De Anza, her face beside his on the pillow, her naked body pressed against him, Arcadia Foxworth licked her fingertip and slid her hand under the sheets, tracing a slow line of moisture down his stomach.
He lay there, tense and unresponsive.
"Tell me," she said, raising her head off the pillow. "Is there somebody else?"
"Only you," he said distractedly.
"Well…"
"Well, what?"
"There's your wife," she said. "She's one I know of, anyway."
He broke off his thoughts and looked at her.
"What's that supposed to mean?" he said. "Must you be jealous of Odeille?"
"Hardly," she said. "It isn't important what you do with her when we're not together. But when we are, I want you here. Thinking about me."
"Arcadia," he said, "let's not argue."
"I'm not arguing."
"Then let's not continue with whatever sort of conversation we're having. I've been under a great deal of pressure lately. That's all there is to it."
She looked at him, easing closer over the mattress, the bare white flesh of her breasts against his shoulder.
"Okay," she said, taking him into her hand, tightening her fingers around him beneath the sheet. "Usually, though, it's pressure that gets you going."
He lay there on his back, very still, staring past her face at the ceiling. What was he supposed to say? That his dealings with Nga had taken him over a line he'd never expected to cross? That he'd been coerced into ordering the murder of Roger Gordian — and Lord knew who else would be on that plane — and would soon have blood on his hands? Would that help her understand why he wasn't feeling especially aroused?
"Stop," he said abruptly. "It isn't happening."
"I've come two thousand miles from New York to be with you," she said.
"Nobody twisted your arm."
Her eyes widened. She pushed away from him, her hand retreating from where she'd had it, grabbing the sheet, tugging it up over her chest.
"You son of a bitch," she said.
Caine threw his legs over the side of the bed and strode naked across the room to the chair on which he'd put his clothing. He kept his back to her as he silently got dressed.
"Aren't you going to say anything?" Arcadia said. She had sat up against the headboard.
He waited until he was fully clothed before turning to answer.
"Yes," he said. "I'm thinking that you're right. I should be honest about what's bothering me. You deserve honesty."
She looked at him.
He didn't know why he said what next came out of his mouth, other than that it made him feel better, released some of his pent-up anxiety and frustration.
"You're lovely, Arcadia. First-class. But you've walked a long road from the streets of Argentina, and I like my women younger," he said. "The simple fact is that you don't excite me anymore."
Her mouth actually dropped open. She looked as if she'd been slapped.
It occurred to Caine that he might have gone further than he'd intended, that there was little chance she would ever want to see him again after this ugly scene.
Once more over the line, he thought. Yet strangely, it didn't seem to matter… although why it didn't was a question he'd have to consider later on.
"Don't bother yourself about the hotel tab, I'll take care of it," he said.
And turned from her shocked face, opened the door, and left the room.
Chapter Nineteen
"Local traffic, Learjet Two Zero Nine Tango Charlie, ready to go off Runway Two at the east end," Gordian was saying into his mike, informing any nearby multicom users of his departure. The small private airfield UpLink shared with a handful of other Silicon Valley firms had no ground radio facilities, but the nationwide advisory frequency of 122.9 was often monitored by pilots, and his practice was to broadcast his takeoff and landing intentions as a courtesy to them and a hedge against unwanted — and potentially disastrous — midair encounters.
Not that it looked as if there would be anything but smooth flying today. With a clear blue sky, high ceiling, and gentle winds, Gordian was anticipating a takeoff into ideal weather conditions. His only fillip of concern, and very slight concern at that, had come when he'd lowered his flaps while taxiing and noticed the hydraulic-pressure gauge drop off a hair more readily than normal.
This was something a less cautious pilot probably wouldn't have detected, nor found of much interest if he had, and quite understandably so. Gordian himself couldn't see any reason to worry. Though the aircraft's flaps, speed brakes, and landing gear all operated on the same hydraulic line, they would continue to respond properly, if perhaps a bit slowly, with the fluid level on the low side. Further increasing his confidence was the knowledge that his engine instrument-and-crew-alerting system — or EICAS — annunciators would flash a warning to indicate a problem with the circuit, serious or otherwise. And they had remained dark.
Still, he couldn't help but feel disappointed in Eddie, who'd inspected the plane the day before, and was usually an even bigger stickler for safety than he was… too thorough to let even a minor abnormality slip past his attention.
But later for that, he thought. As always in the moments before going airborne, Gordian could feel the sky exerting an almost physical pull. Moving the throttles forward, he concentrated on the EFIS panel in front of him, his eyes shifting between its flat-screen primary flight displays — arranged in the same "standard T" of old-fashioned analog instruments — and the bars of his ITT gauge, which measured the internal temperature of the turbofans. A hot start could lead to engine failure within seconds, making the ITT readout one to watch carefully.