It was over far quicker than he thought it should be. For a time, he lay atop her, stroked and held her, basking in their shared delight. Then she nudged him off politely, and he lay beside her.
‘Wow,’ Olympia said quietly as she snuggled into the crook of his arm.
‘Likewise,’ Lourds gasped.
She ran a forefinger over his lips. ‘Why don’t you sleep for a little while and later, when you wake up, we’ll go to dinner.’
‘I may sleep through dinner.’ Lourds felt himself already fading.
‘I won’t let you. You’ll need to eat. You’re going to need your strength.’
‘Is that a threat?’ Lourds grinned.
‘It’s a promise.’
He closed his eyes and let his senses go away, but in the back of his mind, that part of him that never slept, the lizard brain that kept heart and respiration cycling, still worked on the book’s contents.
Washington Dulles International Airport
Washington D. C.
United States of America
17 March, 2010
Vicky DeAngelo was from old money, earned the old-fashioned way. Her great-great-grandfather had been infamous, the head of an organized crime family that got rich during the Prohibition era. Francis DeAngelo had dreamed of being a respectable man, though. While his contemporaries had continued to toil in illegal industries, DeAngelo had gone legit. Not only that, he’d been smart about it, and ruthless. He had battled and blackmailed his way into the ranks of the major capitalists who hung out with the Rockefellers and other captains of industry.
Francis DeAngelo had been inventive about making his money. He had sunk his criminal profits into Hollywood, radio and television. Those risky investments had proven themselves successful and he had managed to gain leverage in other businesses in the health and electronics industries. Today, the DeAngelo television network maintained a prominent presence in news and entertainment. Vicky had been friends with Webster even before his wife’s death, and it had been Vicky who had produced Vanessa Webster’s show.
The DeAngelo communications empire had also been a major player in President Waggoner’s campaigns, publicly and behind the scenes.
Vicky smoothed Webster’s coat lapel into place.
‘If my great-great-grandfather could see me now, hobnobbing with the vice-president of the United States, I know he’d be pleased,’ she said. ‘Not everyone gets to hang with the Veep.’
‘Trust me, my dear, not everyone would want to.’ Webster took her hands in his and squeezed.
She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Then they’d be fools and I don’t want to talk about them.’
Webster chuckled. ‘I’m so glad you could join me on this trip.’
Vicky gave him a knowing look. ‘The king of Saudi Arabia has just been assassinated, possibly by religious rivals, the oil trade may hang in the balance because the successor to the throne isn’t a big United States fan, and you think I would pass up a chance for a front row seat to the coming Apocalypse?’
The choice of words surprised Webster. His eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I hoped you wouldn’t.’
She smiled. ‘And here I am.’
Vicky pulled her coat a little more tightly around her.
‘Come on,’ Webster said. ‘Let’s get you out of this weather.’ He held out his arm and she took it, automatically falling into stride with him as he walked toward the jet.
Two more luxury vehicles sped along the tarmac heading for the jet as well. Overhead, an executive Bell helicopter dropped in for a landing nearby.
Vicky shaded her eyes with a hand as she looked at the new arrivals. ‘Stephen Napier and Tristan Hamilton?’
Webster nodded. Stephen Napier was CEO of Prometheus Experimental Energy Research, one of the leading alternative energy developers. Tristan Hamilton was the scion of the legendary oil wildcatter Wesley ‘Dusty’ Hamilton, the latest mogul in one of the biggest oil families in Texas.
‘Bringing in the big guns, aren’t you?’ Vicky asked.
‘The president wants me to make an impression over there,’ Webster said. ‘I aim to do that.’
The helicopter touched down effortlessly. The door opened and a young man with dreadlocks, skin the colour of good coffee with cream, a soul patch and a copper-coloured Armani suit got out. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes. He carried a slim valise and walked with innate rhythm. Bright turquoise iPod earbuds nestled in his ears.
‘Who is Mr Cool?’ Vicky asked.
‘My secret weapon,’ Webster answered.
Vicky lifted an eyebrow. ‘After all these years, you still find ways to surprise me. I felt certain I knew everyone you knew who was worth knowing.’
‘Not all my friends want to be known.’
Stephen Napier was a solid block of a man in his late forties with black hair. He worked out religiously and had a chiselled jaw line. The weightlifter’s physique camouflaged the gifted scientific mind. Napier had graduated from college at fifteen and earned dual doctorates in physical science and chemistry by the age of seventeen. He had taken out his first three million-dollar patents between graduating college and earning his PhDs.
Tristan Hamilton wore jeans, cowboy boots, a dark brown leather duster and a chocolate-coloured Stetson complete with a turquoise and silver hat band. In his late twenties, he had practically grown up dividing his time between the family ranch and the family offshore oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico.
Both Napier and Hamilton watched the newcomer with cool gazes. The young man ignored them and walked straight up to Vicky DeAngelo. He took her hand delicately and pressed his lips to the back of it as he peered over the sunglasses.
‘Ms DeAngelo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’
‘Thank you, Mr…’
He released her hand and stood straight. Up close, he was taller than he looked, six-three at least.
‘Call me Spider. All my friends do.’ His voice was musical. A hint of Jamaican ran through it, though Webster knew the man wasn’t a Jamaican by birth or upbringing.
‘And what is it you do, Spider?’ Vicky asked.
‘These days, I do whatever it is I wish to do. And I like it like that.’
‘So you like playing mysterious?’
‘I don’t play at being mysterious.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘If Vice-President Webster had wanted you to know who I was, you’d know by now. So I guess you’ll know when he gets ready for you to know.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe not.’
Napier and Hamilton joined them. The Texan towered above them, standing six feet six barefooted. The boots and the hat pushed him up over seven feet tall. He tipped that hat to Vicky.
‘Good to see you again, ma’am,’ he said.
‘Call me ma’am again and I’ll punch you in the eye,’ she threatened him.
Hamilton gave her a slow smile. ‘Honestly, I don’t think you could reach that high. You’re just a little bit of nothin’.’
Vicky smiled sweetly. ‘How would you like to be the centre of an exposé, cowboy? Maybe we’d get a few of those skeletons in your closet to rattle around.’
The easygoing grin held firm. ‘Vicky it is.’
‘Thought you’d see it my way.’ Vicky turned to Webster. ‘Are we expecting anyone else?’
‘No,’ Webster answered. ‘Not on this flight, at least. There will be others showing up in Saudi. People who have vested interests in the Middle East. But I expect you four to be the key players in this enterprise.’
Spider glanced round the group. ‘I guess this promises to be some shindig.’
That, Webster knew, was an understatement. If everything happened the way he hoped and planned, the meeting in Saudi Arabia was going to be world changing.
The only obstacle in his way was the book in the hands of Professor Thomas Lourds. But that would be taken care of soon.