Frank shrugged. "There are no guarantees in life," he replied. "As of yesterday, my net worth was calculated to be slightly over four billion dollars U.S. And that includes a deduction of the hundred million for the Russian purchase. I anticipate spending somewhat less than that on the launch facility.
"But if I died tomorrow, would the project continue? Maybe. But probably, the whole thing would screech to a halt while people fought over my will for the next twenty years. So no, I cannot give you any guarantees. Only my assurances that this program has become my major purpose in life. I intend to revitalize the effort to spread humanity into space, so a single catastrophe cannot mean the end of our species. In other words, I'm a nut. But I'm a rich nut.
"So, that's my pitch, gentlemen. I'll leave the briefing papers with you, and leave you to your deliberations. I know you have a lot to think about before making any recommendations to the President. My hotel suite phone number is on the last page. Thank you for your kind attention."
"So, what did you think?" he asked Susan as soon as they reached the street.
"You did wonderfully," she replied, "except for that nonsense about NASA and the U.S. government. Surely you don't believe that!"
Frank stopped walking, frowned and paused. "Susan, I'm sorry, but I do believe it. Any day now, the Russians are going to announce my investment in the Kliper/Parom project. At that moment, alarm bells will start going off in Washington and Houston. First they'll want to know why I would want to invest in a program that was, for all practical purposes, dead. Especially since I suspect they had a lot to do with its death.
"They'll start poking around, and someone at Molniya or Energia will brag about the sale of the Burans. That will really worry them, and they'll start seriously trying to find out what's going on. In less than a month, we'll be receiving visitors from NASA and maybe the CIA, who will profess a delighted interest in my project, and will expect a tour, and maybe some details. When I refuse, we'll start getting unofficial visits, via break-ins, and we'll learn that the IRS, the SEC, and half of the other departments in Washington are taking a sudden interest in me.
"When they suddenly 'discover' that I have a space program, Homeland Security will begin an investigation to see if I'm a terrorist, and the CIA will be told to assume that I am. Search warrants will be issued for all my U.S. and overseas properties, and an arrest warrant will be issued for me, and maybe even for poor David Tarrant. The media will decide we're terrorists."
Susan snorted. "Nonsense! Naturally, they'll want to make sure you're not a terrorist nut, But that won't take more than a day. And nobody will try to arrest you! That's silly!"
He shook his head. "I don't think so, Susan. I won't be going back to the U.S. again until the mission is over, one way or the other."
He paused again. "But you should, before it all starts. I shouldn't have brought you down here. We'll get you on the first plane for the States. Go on home. When the FBI comes to visit, tell them everything you know. I think you'll be all right, if you go now. Wait a week, and your name might be up there with mine and David's."
Susan looked furious. "I'm not going anywhere! You're being ridiculous. We don't do things like that in America!
Frank gave her a despairing look. "All right, Susan. You're fired. I want you on the next plane home. I won't have you being arrested for being the terrorist's girlfriend!"
Her expression cleared. "Am I? Your girlfriend? You haven't shown it."
Frank waved his hands in exasperation. "Yes. No. Damn it, I don't want them coming after you! When we get back to the hotel, I want you packed in an hour. I'll get you a ticket on the next flight to the States."
"No."
Frank started. "What?"
She looked at him calmly. "I said 'no'," she repeated. "I don't believe all this nonsense for a minute," she added, "but I have an investigation of my own to run, now, and I'm going to stick to you like glue until I solve it. I don't care if you've fired me. I have my pension from the company."
"For the moment," Frank interjected. "They'll probably make the company stop paying it."
She snorted. "I don't think you'll let me starve. But I'm staying until I get this 'girlfriend' business sorted out, one way or another!"
"Damn it, Susan, I never called you that. I'm just pretty sure the government will. And they'll come after you, too. I don't want you ending up in jail just because we care for each other!"
"Do we?" she asked, "Care for one another, I mean."
Frank rolled his eyes and waved his hands in impotent frustration. He hadn't had to deal with feminine logic and modes of thought since Yoli died ten years ago. He was no longer prepared for it. Finally, he just threw up his hands and stamped off toward the hotel.
Susan followed serenely in his wake, blandly ignoring the smoke figuratively streaming from his ears.
"So, now what?" Susan asked when they reached the hotel.
Frank closed his eyes, and then sighed in resignation. "We wait a few days to see what the Brazilians say. If it's 'yes', we'll probably be hopping a puddle-jumper airline or charter to Alcântara to figure out where we can lease some land, and how we can get construction started. That will take a few weeks. If they say no, then it's off to India with the same offer. Then, we'll probably go back to Russia to see about shipping the Burans and all the other junk. For one thing, an absolutely huge crane was built to load the Burans on the AN-225 aircraft.
"Actually, I think there are two of them, one at Ramenskoye and one at Baikonur. But we'll only be shipping one, I think. We'll need one here to unload the cargo pods. The point is that even disassembled, it'll be too big for the roads. We might be able to ship it by rail, but ship it where? Don't worry, we'll have a lot of work and a lot of traveling to do."
She shrugged. "I'm not worried," she said calmly. "Tell me about all these phones and cards and stuff you ordered."
He shrugged. "Secure communications. Something I picked up from newspaper reports of terrorists. Use throwaway cell phones. I think I've improved on it a bit, using throw-away sim cards, but I can't be sure, yet."
She looked exasperated. "There you go again! Who do you think you are, James Bond? I think you're being ridiculous. This is America we're talking about, not Soviet Russia."
"Haven't you noticed that the differences are disappearing? Why does America suddenly need its own KGB? Oh, they call it DHS, but it performs the same function. You should have seen the questioning I got when I crossed the border at Tijuana, not to mention the strip search and car search. All because I'm Frank Weatherly, and I chose to come back into my own country by car instead of by plane. For that matter, how come my personal property can be searched at will without a warrant? Why must you, your baggage, and even your shoes, suddenly be x-rayed before you can go see Aunt Minnie two hundred miles away? How is that different from requiring travel permits? 'Yo' Papuss, Pliss'" he mimicked in broken English.
"Oh, Frank, you're being silly. That's all for our protection. To stop terrorists."
"Really? El Al is the Israeli airline. It seems obvious that they would be a major target for Arab terrorists. But they don't check your shoes, or strip search you, or humiliate grandmothers with 'enhanced' searches. And they are the only airline that has never had a terrorist incident. The only one!"
Susan suddenly looked interested. "Really? How do they do it?"
Frank shrugged. "Ask TSA. They're part of your precious 'homeland tyranny' agency"
She frowned. "Now you sound like one of those right-wing fanatics. You never used to talk like this."
He shook his head. "No, I didn't. I love my country, and I'd die for it, if need be. I joined the Marines to protect it from foreign enemies. Now, to see it slowly destroyed from within makes me furious. The government used to look at the Bill of Rights and say, "What are we permitted to do?" Now they look at it and say, "How can we do what we want to without some court stopping us?"
He held up a hand, as if to stop himself. "Go home, Susa
n," he said in a quieter tone. "Go home now. After 9/11, the feds grabbed hundreds of Americans of middle-eastern descent. In a lot of cases, families and attorneys were never informed. Some of them were held for a year without charges ever being filed. I don't want you in jail, Susan, and I don't want to be told that you will be released if I surrender. Go home now."
She stared. "You're serious. You really think the whole U.S. government is out to get you! That's called paranoia, Frank."
He shook his head. "They're not out to get me yet. I haven't done anything to attract their attention. But once I do something that might challenge their dominance in space research, they will be."
She shook her head. "You are crazy, Frank. You need help. I should go home!" Her face fell, and tears leaked from her eyes. "But I can't," she wailed. "I think I love you!" She jumped from her chair and ran out the door crying.
Frank sat staring at the door, dumbfounded.
He recovered after a moment, and ran down the hall to Susan's suite. He knocked, but she wouldn't answer the door. Nor, he discovered, would she answer her phone, neither the suite phone nor her cellular.
He found that the suite phone would not record a message; it invited him to leave a message at the front desk.
Frank was getting irritated. His style was to grab onto a problem and attack it like a terrier until a solution revealed itself. Running away was not an action that normally occurred to him.
He was about to leave an angry message on her cell phone, when he realized that he had some thinking to do before he called her.
She had said, "I think I love you." Did that mean she wasn't sure? Or that she was afraid she loved him? Or that she loved him but wished she didn't? Like men for millenia before him, he cursed his lack of understanding of the female mind. Still, they couldn't just leave it at this. Something had to happen.
Well, all right, he thought, What do I want to happen? I've toyed with the idea of a romantic relationship with Susan before. I've always dismissed it because I didn't think it would be fair to add "boss pressure" into the equation, and all the boss/secretary stories I'd heard over the years turned my stomach.
But now, she's removed that obstacle, hasn't she? She said that she thinks she loves me, without any pressure or temptation. So now, it's just a simple question. Do I really, seriously want a romantic relationship with this woman?
He closed his eyes, and could clearly see her face, wearing one of her sunny smiles. And again, with the worried look she got when she thought he was working himself too hard.
He thought about his happy anticipation of their meeting in Chicago, and again in Brasilia; about his near-attempt to take her in his arms at Midway Airport, and his regret that he'd been unable to follow through with it. He thought about how good it had been to see her again both times, and how he'd missed her in Russia and Kazakhstan.
Yes, he decided. This wasn't just lust, or loneliness. Oh, it wasn't the same hot, urgent passion he'd felt when he proposed to Yoli, but then he wasn't twenty any more. What it was, was an intense desire to share the rest of his life with this woman; a mature realization that life without this woman had little meaning for him. After Yoli had died, he'd driven himself, working eighteen-hour days turning a small custom-computer company into a dominant force in the business computer industry. He'd made his billion, and then another, and then the board had turned on him, and fired him, with another billion dollars as a cushion.
After they'd fired him, he'd retreated into himself, now devoting twelve hours a day to his many investments, and finally running off to the Philippines when the notoriety became too much to handle. He suddenly realized that Susan had been his anchor for years, tactfully guiding him to relax, to try to learn to enjoy life again. After the firing, he now realized that losing Susan hurt more than losing his billion-dollar company. That was why he'd paid her a retainer in addition to her company salary, to provide him occasional services. It was, he now realized, a way to maintain contact with her.
Damn! He thought. I loved her even then. How could it have taken me this long to see it?
His mind made up, he again called her cell. Again, she didn't answer, but let it go to messages. At the beep he began, "Susie, running away is not a way of dealing with the problem. You know as well as I do that we need to talk this thing through. Please have dinner with me in my suite. I'll make all the arrangements, and we'll have the privacy to discuss what we have, and where it might be going, and how we're going to get it there. My chariot will arrive outside your door at say, 7:30. And, yes, I think I love you, too."
Promptly at 7:30, Susan opened her door at a knock and was confronted with Frank, in a white dinner jacket, and a room service cart, piled high with pillows and cushions and draped with satin.
Frank bowed. "Your chariot awaits, milady."
She laughed aloud. She was dressed in a black dress he'd never seen before, one with flowing lines and a low neckline. It was floor-length, but when she moved, he realized that it had a thigh-high slit in one side. He would have never connected a dress like that with the conservative Susan Andrews he knew. Or did he really know her? Her hair had also been done, in a loose, attractive style that flattered the angularity of her face. The overall effect was totally alien to the Susan he knew. But somehow, the thought that he now had the chance to get to know the real Susan, and not just the office manager, was exciting.
There was also the chance, of course, that he wouldn't like the real Susan; that the woman he loved was the conservative office lady. He got the feeling that her outfit tonight was meant as a warning that he would not be dealing with the Susan he knew, but an entirely different woman.
He grasped her waist with both hands, and with a single motion, swept her five-foot-four, 135-pound frame onto the cushioned cart. Only a single muted grunt testified that it was a strain for him.
She looked at him with a broad but quizzical smile. "A room service cart?"
He nodded. "The desk offered me a wheelchair, but that carries too many unpleasant connotations."
She laughed aloud again, and was answered by an enthusiastic smile from Frank.
She shook her head. "You're crazy!" she said, smiling widely.
It was Frank's turn to shake his head. "Nope. When you're as rich as I am you're not crazy, you're 'eccentric'. I've been an 'eccentric billionaire recluse' for years now."
He pushed the cart the fifteen feet down the corridor to his suite, where he lifted her down and then bowed her inside.
Frank had pushed most of the furniture in the room to the walls. In the middle of the room sat a small table with a linen tablecloth and candlestick, lit by a spotlight on the ceiling. Closed draperies insured that the rest of the room was dimly lighted, creating a small, intimate oasis of light. A small stand next to the table contained a bucket with a wine bottle and the stems of two glasses protruding. Soft, "easy listening" music surrounded them from the room's built in stereo speakers.
"Wow," Susan said. "You really know how to set a scene. What do you call it, 'Early '70's seduction'? The only thing missing is the round bed with a mirror in the ceiling!"
Frank grinned. "Ah, but you haven't seen the bedroom, yet. No," he added hurriedly, "I'm kidding."
She smiled gently. "I know. You're an old-school gentleman. It's really quite quaint."
Frank winced visibly as he seated her and took his own seat. "That's a terrible thing to call a man, you know. We all want to be known as the wild, sexy, dangerous bad boy your mother warned you about."
She laughed again. "Well, I'm afraid you've totally ruined that image by acting like a sweet, considerate, nice guy." Her expression turned mischievous. "The jury's still out on the 'sexy' part, though."
"Humph," Frank grumped. "Well, be sure to let me know when the verdict is in."
"We'll see," she said primly, the calm, confident office Susan surfacing for just a moment. But as quickly as she appeared, the office Susan was gone. The real Susan just looked at him expectantly, lett
ing Frank know that the ball was in his court.
He sighed deeply. "Susan, I know you think I'm a paranoid nut, but you haven't lived in my world, and I think we have to deal with this before our relationship can move on. I'm a businessman. That means that all I really want is to be left alone to do business. Over the last thirty years or so, that has become increasingly difficult, with the government coming to view business as an enemy to be conquered and a money tree to be plucked. I didn't mean to imply that the U.S. government is corrupt, or that its agents are dishonest. They sincerely think they are keeping us rapacious billionaires from stealing the money that rightfully belongs to the poor, downtrodden workers.
A certain amount of oversight is necessary, of course. But the increasingly anti-business attitude of the government has led them to impose ridiculous requirements on business. In self-defense, business has had to adopt ways to avoid government interference. The government is forcing businesses to close every day, without once realizing that every time they do it, jobs are lost. At the moment, I have very few business investments in America, and I'm moving them out as quickly as I can. By the time the government seizes my assets in a few months, they will be very surprised to find there are none to seize."
Susan looked distressed. "But the government has to protect the people. Look at Madoff, or Enron. Everyone knows that Wall Street caused the big recession. The government has to keep them under control."
Frank shrugged. "I've had you do research for me for years. This time do it for you. I think you'll find that the big recession started during the Clinton administration as an effort to make sure that the 'poor' could find affordable housing. A couple of senators decided that the big, bad banks were refusing to loan people money because they were racist, so they pushed through a law that forced the banks to loosen their loan standards. When that didn't do everything the senators thought it should, they put pressure on the banks through Freddie Mac and Fannie Mae, and those agencies began refusing to buy mortgages from banks who weren't making enough 'sub-prime' loans.
Man's Hope Page 8