Powersat

Washington, D.C.

Despite the heat, Georgetown’s M Street was jammed with tourists and locals sweating and red-faced under the late afternoon sun. Wearing an open-neck shirt and light slacks, Dan weaved through the crowd, heading for the French restaurant where Jane had agreed to meet him.

Not for dinner. She’d been too wary for that. It had taken Dan two days just to get her to talk to him on the phone, and once he had explained that he needed her help but he couldn’t say why over the telephone, she had reluctantly agreed to have a drink with him. So Dan had dusted off his Orville Wilbur credit cards, flown to Ronald Reagan National Airport, and taken a modest room at the Four Seasons Hotel.

He found the Bistro Français and stepped gratefully from the hot, crowded street into the cool, shadowy restaurant. Jane wasn’t there yet, of course. Dan grumbled to himself that while Admiral Nelson might have claimed that he owed his success in life to being always fifteen minutes early, you spend a hell of a lot of time waiting for other people that way.

The bar was mostly empty and Dan had no problem getting a booth back away from the door, once he explained to the pinch-faced hostess that he was expecting someone to join him, and handed her a five-dollar bill. He ordered a Pernod with water and settled down to wait for Jane.

Half an hour later, when his drink was down to greenish melted ice cubes and he had gloomily watched the dreary news report of the stock market’s continuing slump on the television screen above the bar, Jane finally showed up. She was accompanied by a very fat guy in a rumpled gray suit. Rivulets of sweat were trickling down his bulbous cheeks and several chins. Jane looked fresh and cool in a pale lavender skirt and off-white blouse, as if the weather outside hadn’t touched her at all.

Dan slipped out of the booth to greet her. Jane smiled pleasantly and accepted a handshake, nothing more, then introduced Denny O‘Brien. She’s brought a chaperon, Dan thought. Well, at least she’s not with Scanwell. Dan felt sorry for O’Brien as he grunted and squeezed into the booth beside Jane. Once they were all seated, the booth felt to Dan as crowded and uncomfortable as the street outside.

The waitress drifted over and Jane ordered a vodka martini; O’Brien asked for a bottle of sparkling water. The waitress asked, “Another Pernod for you, sir?” Dan nodded.

“Denny’s my top political advisor,” Jane explained as they waited for their drinks. “He’s our real campaign manager.”

Dan nodded and made small talk about the weather, the stock market, anything except how much he wished Jane had come alone.

Finally, once their drinks were on the table, Jane said, “You sounded kind of mysterious on the phone.”

Glancing at O’Brien, Dan said, “I don’t want anybody to know what I’m about to tell you.”

“You can trust Denny.”

O’Brien smiled amiably. “I’m the soul of discretion.”

“In Washington?” Dan asked, his amazement only partially feigned.

Jane cut through the badinage. “What’s going on, Dan? Why did you want to see me?”

Because I love you, Dan wanted to say. Because I’d march into a horde of fanatical terrorists to get to you.

Instead, he replied, “I need your help. I need to talk to somebody high up in the government of Venezuela.”

O’Brien’s brows shot up, but Jane’s only reaction was a slight smile. “Are you thinking of leaving the country, Dan?”

“You know I’m not.”

“Then what’s this all about?”

He wasn’t prepared to tell the truth. “Sooner or later,” he began, “we’re going to need secondary landing fields where the spaceplane can land in an emergency.”

“‘We’ meaning Astro Corporation?” O’Brien asked.

“That’s right.”

“And you want an emergency field in Venezuela?”

“We’re working on agreements with Spain, South Africa, and Australia,” Dan said. “But Venezuela’s closer.”

O’Brien glanced at Jane, then said, “You expect to get your spaceplane flying again?”

“Sooner or later,” Dan repeated, straight-faced.

“They why the hurry?”

Dan made a lopsided smile. “I’ve got nothing better to do until the double-damned FAA okays the plane for flight.”

Jane obviously saw through his fabrication. “I can ask State for the names of the right people in Venezuela.”

“That would help,” Dan said. “Could you do it this week?”

“Why this week?” O’Brien asked, clearly suspicious. Dan hesitated, thinking fast. Then, “Okay, let me put my cards on the table.”

Jane smiled as if she knew there was a whopper coming up.

“Please do,” she murmured.

“I’m trying to raise money, you know that. Tricontinental and Yamagata both want to buy into Astro. You know that, too. I’m trying to stall them, or at least get them to give me a loan instead of buying in.”

O’Brien said, “But what’s that got to do—”

“The more I’ve got this operation nailed down,” Dan said, hoping it sounded believable, “the stronger my position against Garrison and Yamagata. If I can show that I’ve even got emergency landing fields set up for the spaceplane, hell, I might even be able to float a big-enough loan from some American banks to keep Astro in my own hands.”

“When will the spaceplane be ready to fly again?” Jane asked.

Dan almost said it was ready now, but he caught himself in time. “As soon as the double-damned FAA winds up its investigation and gives the backup plane a clean bill of health.”

“Months from now,” O‘Brien said. “Maybe a year or more:’

“Maybe,” Dan replied tightly.

Jane said, “Denny, could you go to the bar and get a couple more olives for my drink, please?”

O’Brien looked back and forth from Jane to Dan and back again, then said, “Sure.” He struggled out of the booth and headed for the bar, which was filling up now with drinkers.

Jane leaned across the table toward Dan. “What are you up to?” she demanded.

He shook his head. “You don’t want to know.”

Her lips tightened. “Do you really need to talk to someone in Venezuela this week?”

“Yep.”

“Dan, I don’t want you doing anything that will hurt Morgan’s chances.”

“I don’t intend to,” he answered. Silently he added, I’m fighting for my life here. Scanwell can take care of himself.

O’Brien came back with two green olives on a toothpick, carried daintily in a cocktail napkin. As he grunted back into the booth, Jane said:

“Very well, Dan. I’ll get one of my people to contact State first thing tomorrow.”

“Thanks,” said Dan.

Suddenly there was nothing else for them to talk about. They finished their drinks as quickly as they decently could. Dan spent the time explaining to O’Brien the economics of mass-producing the solid-fuel rocket boosters he used, instead of hand-crafting rockets one at a time. He neglected to tell the man that Astro Corporation had a warehouse full of boosters that the double-damned Internal Revenue Service would not allow them to discount as inventory.