by Rhine, Scott
When I got to the banquet room, Mare was surrounded by men with gold hotel employee jackets. One with a manager name tag waved a newspaper at her, demanding, “What do you intend to do about this?”
I snatched the paper out of his hand and scanned the headlines. Apparently, the gentleman from the Palmeri Syndicate, among others, had leaked a distorted version of my story to the papers. They had blown the case into a bomb scare involving Arab terrorists, but then claimed the Mob offered me money to buy my silence. According to the article, I was being sequestered by the Federal Witness Protection Program. “This is way out of control,” I told Mare.
“I know. I heard another rumor that you were already in the Protection Program from a previous trial, that’s why you won’t let your picture be taken,” she related. “Since eyewitness accounts about you don’t agree from one day to the next, some of the Scarabs must be decoys.”
I rubbed my left temple. “How are we going to explain this one?”
The coordinator for the event leaned into the hall way and shouted, “You’re on in three minutes, people.” Team members passed hurriedly through metal detectors and lined up at the various entrances.
“We’ve taken the liberty of composing a statement for you to sign,” said the manager. “It absolves the hotel of all wrong-doing.”
I took the five-page document he handed me and scanned it. The whole thing was worded like an affidavit and contained at least three questionable facts on the first page alone. “I can’t sign this.”
The manager mopped sweat from his brow. “Why not?”
“It says that you have absolutely no connections to the Middle East.”
“And?” he prompted impatiently. Someone above him in the hotel hierarchy must have been making his life Hell since yesterday.
“The El Greco in the lobby,” I said.
“You want it? We can make a deal,” the manager offered in hushed tones.
“No. It was given to you by a prominent Arab leader. I’ve seen several other Arab clients here as well. I can’t lie. Beside, this computer ring has nothing to do with the Middle East.”
The manager did what he was best at, he squirmed and wheedled. “You don’t know that for a fact, do you? Just disclaim any knowledge of a link between Arab terrorists and the Windsor.”
“Are you trying to get me lynched? If I go on record saying something like that, the Arab Anti-Defamation League will be all over me faster than kids on a broken piñata. Then the other leagues will get it into their heads that I’m not seen in public enough with Jewish people, overweight people, or cat lovers. No thank you,” I ranted.
“Please, we implore you. The hotel is losing money by the hour. People are canceling for the Spring already, not just in our location, but at other branches as well. This could finish us if the rumors go national by the end of the day,” the manager all but groveled.
“Look, I appreciate the service I’ve had here, and you don’t need to worry about me suing. I don’t think I can help you with your problem.”
“Two minutes,” announced the coordinator. “To spread the finalists fairly among the guests, we have assigned you seats with no more than two team members to a table. Look for your logos on this chart. See me if you have trouble finding your place card.”
Piss. I had just wasted $2000 on this meal. I turned my back on the hotel crew. “What’s for dinner, any way?” I asked Mare, hoping the meal wouldn’t be a total loss.
“Spaghetti,” she replied.
Piss on an electric fence.
Seeing my sour look, Mary Ann added, “Don’t worry, the FBI has a man making sure no one poisons the food and two others watching the waiters.”
“Mr. Hayes,” the manager begged.
“What!” I snapped. I guess meeting the press was making me more nervous than I thought, and Nigel still wasn’t back from his mission. I was counting on him to spread the news about how easy Ghedra was to pilot.
“Perhaps your lovely bride-to-be could speak on our behalf? We could pay a fee,” said the gold-jacketed sycophant.
I glanced at Mare, and she gave me a definite “No” stare.
I bent close and whispered in the manager’s ear. It occurred to me that I didn’t know the man’s name and didn’t care. “It’s not like your home office is free from taint. As a Law Enforcement professional, she couldn’t take money from a gambling organization.”
The manager switched from pleading to indignant rudeness. “We didn’t want to mention this, but the ring you purchased on your company’s expense account is not a legitimate business expense. The IRS would be very interested in this abnormality.”
Foxworthy was still out on his secret mission, so Steve stepped in. “She gets a bonus when we win. Since we’re guaranteed at least a quarter million already, he got it for her early.”
“Sign me up for that incentive plan,” Josie giggled.
I turned to Mr. Niven, the concierge who had remained silent this whole time. He still looked at me with a mixture of grudging respect and the tolerance one gives the nuvo riche. “What would you do?” I asked.
He considered my question for a moment, and then replied with perfect diction. “State that the event was not a bombing; rather, it was an attempt to sabotage the game. The men involved are now in police custody, making the hotel and the contest safe once again.”
There was still a very real danger, but Kali was probably just after me. “Okay. That I’ll sign.”
“You’re next,” shouted the coordinator.
I put on my mask, and we all walked in to the strains of “Valley of the Kings” by the Alan Parsons Project. I looked at the crowd from beneath my beak and waved. I sat next to Mare and Steve took the next table with Josie. I wasn’t able to eat spaghetti one-handed, especially with a white outfit. Luckily, I was still pretty full from the pizza. I could snack on the salad and basket of garlic bread to take the edge off. Just as I was about to take the first mouthful of cheese-covered garlic bread, Nigel stepped into the room. He gave me a mute thumbs-up on his way to his assigned seat.
I breathed a sigh of relief. The race was nearly over, and the toughest parts were behind us. With any luck, we could coast the rest of the way.
Chapter 28 – Grilling
A photo opportunity was scheduled for the ballroom next-door after the meal. By contrast to the casino night buffet, this meal was underwhelming, but at least the company was hostile. We had one fan at our table, a millionaire from Texas, complete with ten-gallon hat and spurs. The rest were sharks. Between bites, I avoided questions like “There’s a rumor that you’re a government agent.”
“Yes, there is.”
“Why do you conceal your face?”
“It’s called a costume.”
“Is your real name Ethan Hayes?”
I thought about inventing an alias or something like Eitan or Etienne that sounded similar, but settled on the cryptic “It is this week.”
I noticed that a few tables were seeded with FBI guards incognito. Was the government paying for those seats? More importantly, what was for dessert?
“How do you keep coming back from the dead?”
Mr. Beauregard, who was dressed as a Marshall from the Old West for the costume party, loaned me some of his red wine. It was smooth, fruity, and helped the questions go by faster. “Would you believe clean living? If I told you my secrets, it would spoil the fun. I’ll bet you’re the sort who would ask the illusionist where the elephant really went.”
Everyone chuckled politely, but Mare whispered, “Be less antagonistic; this is for charity.”
“Is Ms. Valencia a member of your team?”
“Not precisely. Ms. Valencia is a ... liaison to other teams, an emissary whom we all admire,” I said, trying to be diplomatic.
“Did she replace your previous two spokesmodels? Are you dating her?”
“I should say not; my fiancée would never forgive me. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to introduce Marie Antio
nette Anselm, my lovely Cleopatra.” I let her field questions while I schmoozed with the millionaire. She was a natural at it. The engagement news, now confirmed, replaced my shady past as the question topic of choice for several minutes. Even when they switched subjects to recent product announcements, she answered without skipping a beat.
“Doesn’t it bother you that two other teams are building your vehicles?”
Mary Ann smiled. “Not in the least. Ethan is flattered by the interest. DeClerk isn’t a factory; rather, it’s a research center. His labs try to focus on the future of GEV. Once it becomes the present, he moves on.”
“What did your team achieve this year?”
“We all had a great time. That was the main goal. We all took vacation time to do this. We found some ups and downs in the new designs, our own as well as a few others.” Again, the table laughed. “The next goal was to introduce DeClerk to the industry as a whole, to let them know what we have to offer, even as a small company. Interaction with other teams is essential to innovate, integrate, and learn. Lastly, we proved how easy GEV controls can be made. Did you know that Ethan, the Scarab, only piloted for half the race? Every member of our team got to participate in the event. I’ve had a little experience with high speed floaters, but never raced before. Heck, our lawyer Nigel faced GEDM single-handedly, and he flies an unarmed Volvo every day.”
With pencils, recorders, and palmtops, they absorbed every word she said. Mare went on to thank various people who had helped us in some way during the contest. The list was longer than I remembered. She had them eating out of her hand for another five minutes. Unfortunately, my reprieve didn’t last forever.
My millionaire friend, Mr. Beauregard (or JB as he preferred to be called), noticed my injured arm and commented, “Did you hurt your arm fighting those towel heads?”
I spilled wine on my lap. Luckily, Mare had put my napkin there for me, and it soaked up most of the mess. All the reporters were focused on me again. “If you’re referring to the ongoing police investigation, I can’t comment. I can say that members of TSM set a fire in the hotel in order to sabotage the game. Those people are in custody, and we’ll have to wait till after the trial to tell our side. As you may have noticed, the FBI stayed on to strengthen security and prevent future problems. I’ve been asked to direct all further questions on this matter to Field Supervisor Reynolds.”
Mare added that all the teams, including Exotech, had helped in catching the ring, and that both GEDM and TSM were facing charges. She creatively said nothing further of content for the next three minutes. This time, the attack came from an unexpected direction.
“Mr. Hayes, what do you think of this dinner?”
Pleased that someone was throwing me an easy pitch, I stepped up to the plate. “I would have thrown a few shrimp into the marinara sauce for this price.” I thought I had scored until the follow-up question.
“I mean, how do you feel about the American Indian College Fund?”
“Well enough to give $2000 and an hour of everyone’s time.” Everyone sensed a trap here, but me. I hated when the table got quiet.
“Worth an hour? How kind,” the journalist said acidly.
My face burned. “At least in America we no longer burn their homes or kill them to mine the land. Last time I was in Brazil, the city slums were full of displaced Indians. Most of them had no running water, and the trenches outside the corrugated metal shacks were filled with human waste. At their average wage, it took six people working full time to afford a legal, one-room apartment,” I said.
“So the South American Indians are worth helping but the one here aren’t?”
It took considerable restraint to keep from shouting as I said, “Stop trying to put words in my mouth, and tell me what’s eating you, Mister.”
“Why is it that your company is the only one that didn’t pledge volunteer teachers to the fund?”
That’s what that sheet had been for. I started to waffle. “We’re pretty small right now. I’m the only one working fulltime.”
“And you wouldn’t consider teaching?”
I tried to look at my watch, but we had left it off this morning because my left wrist needed time to recuperate. Where was that dessert? No matter how I answered, I was going to get nailed. If I was going to go down, at least I was going to go down honest. “I can’t teach,” I admitted.
“Why not? You have a Masters diploma from Oxford.”
Ouch. If I admitted the diploma was fake, they had a new lead story. If I lied, they’d catch me. Mare sensed my dilemma and rescued me. “What Ethan means is that he could never teach in a traditional classroom setting. He has, however, done extensive work with apprenticeship programs. He’s much too shy to stand in front of so many strangers at once. I remember thinking he was cute the first time we met, but it took him five years to get up the nerve to ask me out. It was almost another three years before we got engaged. He’s a very private person.”
I was saved. Mare took the heat off me and redirected the questions in one swoop. However, she couldn’t resist whispering in my ear, “So private that even I didn’t know he was the Scarab until this week.”
JB and I chatted about his ranch and oil wells till dessert arrived. Then someone came back to my earlier comment on Brazil and asked my opinion on the latest financial fiasco with their President. If I came out against the billion-dollar boondoggle, I had no heart. If I came out in favor of it, I had no brain. Either way I answered, I would get painted as part of a political group I didn’t belong to. I shoveled a massive portion of pudding in my mouth to stall and looked for a way out.
Mare must have signaled the others for an emergency extraction because, the next instant, Nigel came over to the table with Steve and Josie. “The Car and Driver folks wanted to see us a few minutes early. I told them you wouldn’t mind.”
Mare made one last pass for questions before excusing us to take pictures. When we were out of earshot, I thanked Nigel for the timely assist. “She really did ask us to come early. Two agents from the FBI are already in there checking to make sure there are no hidden guns or weapons in the photo equipment.”
As we moved toward the huge double doors leading to the ballroom, I overheard Steve chatting with his sister. “Josie was telling me about this great Ski Resort not ten minutes from here, in the Cibola National Forest. I thought that after the race, we could all go there for a good time. Oh, I forgot about his arm.”
“That’s okay. You two can go without us. How did your grill session go?” she asked.
“Not bad. I told them he was the kind of guy who was smart enough to invent the paper clip just because he needed one. Nigel talked about the patents a lot, and showed them the latest invention. Because it was a collaboration, the rights will go to SimCon under the condition that they let people use it for free.”
Josie seemed less impressed. “What he didn’t tell you is that Nigel already has patents on some of the tools and clamps Scarab used to build the adjustable frame. If they give away these blueprints and it becomes the standard, DeClerk could be a household name. Is the name Scarab trademarked yet?”
Whitaker kept a tight rein, letting everyone else go ahead of me into the new room. “Oh, good news,” Nigel told me just before we got separated. “Everyone has signed up for payment by check. Kali is on the ropes now.”
Once we were inside the ballroom, the agent behind me fell back to guard the door. I thought they were being a little paranoid.
Chapter 29 – Crash
The ballroom was as I remembered it, with the huge crystal chandeliers and elegant woodwork. The room was three times the size of the banquet hall, but was occupied by only my team, four agents, Ms. Lee and a camera man in the center of the room. The agents were still searching over the cameras and lighting gear. Ms. Lee waved, smiling as we came in. “We’re running a little late. I’m double-parked out front. Just have a seat on the stool here and let George, our photographer, work his magic. I’ll be back
before you know it.”
We made our way to where we needed to pose as she hurried toward the far door. Ms. Lee was wearing a black sweater and slacks, carrying a huge purse with a strap the size of a seat belt. Mom had a purse like that once, it had a TASER built into the strap, a popular defensive weapon for single women who traveled alone at night in cities. That particular model had been recalled in Massachusetts because it often malfunctioned due to rain or salt air. I guess in New Mexico, they don’t worry about those things. She took her car security remote out of the purse and stopped at the door. Having a car here with an alarm meant she was probably a local; everyone else used a rental or cabs.
I wanted to ask Ms. Lee if I should clean my makeup off for the picture. Just as I was about to call out her first name, I stopped in my tracks only a few feet into the room. She was holding the remote control in her left hand. Her first name was Cassandra. Thinking back to the movie “The Day of the Jackal,” the word play was obvious—Ca-Lee, Kali.
I must have mouthed the words out loud, because several of my team mates turned to face me. Ms. Lee stared at me in open hatred, confirming my suspicions. “Grab her, she’s Kali,” I said pointing. Time distorted and I couldn’t do anything but watch. Screaming incoherently, Kali pressed the button on her remote control and there was a deafening explosion from the ceiling. Josie screamed. Mare threw herself over her brother and the singer, knocking all three of them to the floor. Whitaker pushed Nigel out of the way and drew his weapon, too late.
Hours before, Kali had planted another bomb in the crawl-space where the heavy light fixture was mounted to the overhead steel beam. I watched in horror as the crystal chandelier became hundreds of pounds of shrapnel that killed the photographer and one of the agents immediately. The other agent nearby had his legs pinned and broken by the falling fixture. Plaster chunks and a thick cloud of dust prevented us from reaching the victims right away. I pictured the agent helpless and bleeding to death from countless cuts, the torture Kali had planned for me.