Nothing to trouble him on that score; the turbos were operating well within standard limitations.
Its compressors whining and sucking in air, its wheels rumbling over the tarmac, the Learjet rolled up the centerline straight as an arrow. Gordian felt the shove of acceleration, and then the excitement that had accompanied each of the hundreds of takeoffs he'd flown over the past thirty years. He snapped his eyes to the window and quickly observed the distance markers along the runway— a feature as rare to civilian fields as it was common to military ones, and emplaced at Gordian's direction as a nod to his fighter-jock days.
Returning his attention to the EFIS, Gordian saw his virtual airspeed bug indicate that he had reached 104 knots, go-or-no-go speed. He conducted a last-minute check of the crucial displays. Everything was running smoothly, the bank of caution lights still out, his system readings A-okay. Go.
He released the stick, gripped the yoke with both hands, and rotated the jet to a seven-point-five-degree nose-up angle for liftoff. There was a slight jolt and another familiar tingle of excitement as his wheels left the pavement. His hands on the control column, Gordian increased his pitch to ten degrees and continued his ascent.
After several seconds he again looked outside to confirm what the altimeter and his own physical sensations had already told him. He had reached a positive rate of climb, the ground rapidly dwindling beneath him, the undivided blue of the sky pouring into his windshield.
His gear and flaps up, Gordian accelerated to two hundred KIAS, or over three hundred miles per hour. At a thousand feet he would very gradually trim airspeed until he attained cruising altitude.
Right now, though, it was time for an announcement to his passengers.
He switched on the cabin intercom.
"Vince, Megan, Rich, we're on our way," he said. "ETA in D. C. is nine o'clock. So make yourselves comfortable and try not to discuss business. There'll be plenty of time for that later." He reached for the "off" switch, thought about the chattery teeth Scull inevitably got when he flew, and added a few words for his benefit. "There's a bottle of Glenturret in the wet bar for anyone who wants it. Courtesy of your captain. Later, folks."
Smiling a little, feeling easier with himself than he had in weeks, Gordian cut the intercom and settled back into his pilot's chair for the trip.
In a drawing room at the Leominster country club in Southampton, Reynold Armitage was gazing out the window at the ocean. It was a drab, chill day in eastern Long Island, and the threat of rain had driven the gulls close to shore. They wheeled in erratic circles, their wings tearing ragged holes in the stationary film of mist that had settled over the beach and jetties. Distantly across the water, Armitage could see a lighted buoy twinkling bright and red.
Ensconced in the armchair opposite him, William Halpern released a long, heaving sigh. Wearing dark flannel pants and a herringbone blazer, he was a spare, white-haired man in his mid-fifties with an undershot chin and virtually neutral complexion.
"Awful outside, isn't it?" he said in a haughty Connecticut Yankee accent. "The forecast was for sunny and warm, you know."
Using his wheelchair's joystick control, Armitage swiveled around to face his host. He was feeling winded from the dampness, which exacerbated the respiratory problems associated with his condition. The mere act of breathing was a reminder of the limitations of his failing body. Yet from the way the president and chief executive of MetroBank seemed to take the bad weather as a personal affront, one would think he was the man in poor health.
"It's difficult to make predictions for the shore," Armitage said. "Don't bother yourself about it, William. I'm hardly up to a stroll on the beach, and found the ride in your corporate helicopter to be quite entertaining."
"I'm glad," Halpern said, although he still had the look of someone who had booked reservations at an exclusive restaurant and found his meal to be a cold disappointment. He glanced out the window again and then settled back, appearing resigned and vaguely disgusted, as if realizing there were no one in charge of the climate to whom he might complain. "I wanted a discreet and quiet spot for our meeting, you see."
Armitage said nothing. There were, he thought, any number of quiet places in Manhattan where they could have met with greater convenience. But even in their elevated circles a Leominster membership was a glowing symbol of status, and Halpern obviously liked to showcase it. He was also well aware of the attention being paid to Marcus Caine's grab for UpLink voting stock, and with MetroBank retaining a significant percentage of the company, wouldn't want to start rumors flying by being seen with Roger Gordian's most noted media critic.
No, there was nothing mysterious about Halpern's desire to meet where they were. The real question for Armitage was why he'd wanted to get together in the first place. And with their mannerly preliminaries out of the way, he wasn't about to kill time waiting for an answer.
"So," he said. "What gossip about the financial community can we exchange? Let's think of something blisteringly hot and in the news. Something that gets flashbulbs popping. Shall we?"
Halpern looked at him.
"There's Monolith and UpLink," Armitage said with an arid little smile. "Not to mention UpLink and Monolith."
Halpern seemed perplexed by his sarcasm. "I've sat down with some of the men on MetroBank's executive board to discuss liquidating our UpLink shares/' he said. "Prior to a formal meeting, you understand."
"And?"
"The consensus to go ahead with the sell-off hasn't materialized as I'd expected."
"Interesting," Armitage said.
"It gets more interesting," Halpern said. "As you know, I have no allegiance to Roger Gordian, and think his mission to save the world by planting a wireless telephone booth in every garden is nothing but horse crap."
"You're mixing metaphors," Armitage said. "And being a tad reductionist about his goals, wouldn't you say?"
Halpern shrugged. "Call it what you will, I am concerned with MetroBank's stake in his corporation only insofar as its profitability, or lack of same. But there are directors on the board who feel a personal loyalty to the man, and have been reluctant to part ways with UpLink despite the diminishing returns on our investment. Before yesterday, though, I'd convinced most of them that hanging tight would be an abdication of their fiduciary responsibilties."
"And what's changed that?"
"Not 'what,' but 'who,' " Halpern said. "Gordian himself phoned three senior executives. He requested they hold off on considering any offer from Marcus Caine until he's had a chance to meet with them."
Armitage wondered if he was expected to be surprised.
"A sensible preemptive move," he said. "And one with nothing behind it. As long as UpLink's value continues to deteriorate, your board is obliged to take a serious look at Marcus's bid. Money, not loyalty or misplaced faith in Roger Gordian, is what will count in the final tally."
"And Gordian has promised to address shareholder doubts about UpLink's future at his press conference tomorrow," Halpern said. "He assured the directors he would be making a major, positive announcement. And that they would, at the very least, want to reassess their options after hearing what he has to say."
This time Armitage raised his eyebrows.
"I thought his reason for going to Washington was to protest the Morrison-Fiore legislation," he said.
"So did I," Halpern said. "And I'll tell you something else. His top securities attorney caught a red-eye out to San Jose last night. Canceled all his other appointments at the last minute."
"How do you know?"
Halpern stared at him.
"I have my contacts," he said, shrugging again. "You… and Marcus… can take my word for it. Something's in the air."