Ruthless.Com pp-2 Page 9

  Caine looked thoughtful. "I respect Mr. Gordian for his tremendous past accomplishments. But he has already expressed his views on the subject, and the people have voiced their grassroots opposition through their elected representatives. This is about our children and our grandchildren. About the future. Regrettably, Mr. Gordian has turned his eyes in the opposite direction."

  "If I may follow up, sir… as the bill's most vigorous proponent in the public sector, will you be going to Washington for the signing ceremony?"

  "I haven't yet decided." Caine manufactured a smile. "The President has been gracious enough to extend an invitation, but one day a week in the spotlight seems like plenty to me. Quite candidly, I've had enough of hotel rooms and am itching to get back to work."

  The reporter sat down and a second man sprang to his feet.

  "Do you believe there's any link between Roger Gordian's stance on the encryption issue and UpLink's diminishing stock values?"

  Beautiful, Caine thought.

  "That's a question better asked of an investment banker than a software developer," he said. "I'm really not here to speculate on my colleague's business difficulties. But if I may argue the obvious, the fortunes of any technology firm rise or fall on the willingness and ability of its leaders to look ahead rather than behind them." He paused. "Now, if we may get back to the children's initiative I've proposed today…."

  But of course they didn't, which was exactly what Caine had wanted and anticipated. In the remaining minutes of the Q and A, Roger Gordian's name was mentioned half a dozen times, mentioned until he almost became an unseen presence at the press conference.

  But not a participant to it, Caine thought. Today the floor was his, and his voice alone was being heard.

  Engrossed in his own performance, he called on another reporter.

  The future indeed.

  That was very much what it was all about. "Roger—"

  Putting his hand over the phone, Gordian looked up at his wife as she appeared in the doorway of his study, wedged the receiver between his neck and shoulder, and held his pointer finger aloft.

  "Just a minute, hon."

  "You said that twenty minutes ago. Before you called Chuck Kirby."

  "I know, sorry, we tend to get long-winded," he said distractedly. "Right now, though, I'm just buzzing the airport. I intend to fly the plane into Washington for the press conference, and want the mechanics to check it out… "

  Ashley gave him a look that meant business. "Gord, what do you see in front of you?"

  He cradled the receiver. ' 'A wonderful but increasingly impatient spouse?"

  She still wasn't smiling.

  "Gorgeous, too," he said, knowing he was in for it.

  "It's been three hours since I came home from the salon with shorter hair and blonder highlights than I've ever had in my life, and you've been holed up in here the entire time, too busy to notice," she said. "This is Saturday. I thought you were going to take the evening off."

  He didn't say anything for a moment. Three hours since Ashley came home? Yes, he guessed it was. The afternoon seemed to have raced past before he'd managed to get a handle on it. As had the six months since his continual absorption with his work, his calling as she referred to it, had brought them to the brink of divorce. Always, he seemed to be trying to catch up. It was only after the murders of his dear friends Elaine and Arthur Steiner in Russia — a hail of terrorist gunfire having ended their lives and thirty-year marriage without reason or warning — that Gordian had awakened to what a gift he had in Ashley, and realized with terrible clarity how close he was to losing her. A half year of intensive counseling and earnest commitment had helped bridge many of the rifts between them… but every now and then there were marital ground tremors that reminded him the bridges weren't all that steady. Not yet, anyway.

  "You're right, that's what I promised." He stretched his neck to work out a kink of tension. "I apologize. Do you suppose we can start over from here?"

  Ashley stood there in front of his desk, a trim, elegant woman whose youthful good looks had made no discernible concessions to early middle age, her sea-green eyes very still as they met his gaze.

  "Gord, listen to me," she said. "I'm not a pilot. I don't even like to sit near the window in a passenger plane and be reminded there are clouds underneath me, rather than over my head where they belong. But you've always told me how being in the cockpit of a jet frees up your mind, gives you a feeling of perspective and… what's that term you use? Ambient space?"

  "Either that or altitude sickness," he said, smiling wanly. "You're a good listener, Ash."

  "It's my best quality." She slowly crossed the room to his desk. "That space you talk about… it's a kind of luxury that you afford yourself, and I'm glad you're able to do it. But sometimes I'm also a little jealous of it. Do you understand?"

  He looked at her.

  "Yes," he said. "Yes, I do."

  She expelled a long sigh. "I'm not blind to what's going on. I read Reynold Armitage's latest bunk in the Wall Street Journal I hear you and Chuck talking about stock sell-offs. I saw your face when the evening news carried Marcus Caine's remarks about you at the U. N. And I can imagine how it must sting."

  Gordian started to answer, then hesitated, his brow furrowed, his lips pressed tightly together. Ashley waited. It was his nature to hold his thoughts in close, and she knew he often had difficulty raising the lid on them.

  "I once met a snake-oil advertising man who would've called Caine's tactics a pseudo advocacy campaign," he said at length. "Or pseudo adversary campaign, it depends. He's been running both at once, you see. The basic idea is to use a public issue to gain attention for your firm, while promoting certain corporate agendas without being overt about it. You get the target audience to notice you by creating or stepping into a controversy, and then slip in the message you really want to convey between the lines. It's the marketing equivalent of a stage magician's top hat and cloak."

  "And Marcus's so-called Children's Challenge obviously would be an example of the first type of campaign."

  "A perfect example. Gives him an aura of take-charge philanthropism, a moral platform that's virtually attack-proof. You know anybody who's against kids?"

  She gave him a faint smile.

  "I can think of a few times when our own bugaboos were young that we almost qualified, but you've made your point," she said. "The pseudo adversary campaign…

  that would be his dispute with you over the crypto bill, wouldn't it?"

  He nodded. "If you're going to play this sort of game, the potential rewards should always outweigh the risks, and Marcus is well aware that the issues surrounding encryption really don't excite much public reaction. The average person doesn't see how relaxing export controls is going to make any difference in his daily life. Nobody cares except special-interest groups within the high-tech industry on one side, and the law-enforcement and intelligence communities on the other."

  Ashley paused to digest it all.

  "The strategy behind the UNICEF crusade isn't too down-deep," she said finally. "Let's give the kids computers and sell more Monolith software and have everybody feel good and pat themselves on the back. But what's he trying to achieve by taking you on over encryption? I don't see the… the subtext."

  Gordian shrugged a little.

  "You've asked the million-dollar question," he said in a vague tone. "And I'm not sure I can answer it."

  Silence filled the room. Ashley realized he was sinking beneath it again, and leaned forward, lightly touching the fingertips of both hands to the edge of his desk.

  "I understand how you feel, Gord," she said. "Do you accept that as a given?"

  The question caught him by surprise.

  "More than just accept," he said in a quiet voice. "Knowing that you understand… it's like a prize I've won without quite being sure how I did it, or whether it's even deserved. It makes me stronger than I'd be if I didn't know."

  She smiled thoug
htfully, looking straight at him. "I'd never, never want to minimize your difficulties, or suggest there's anything in the world I wouldn't do to help you with them. But what I was starting to say before…"

  He studied her face in the brief pause. "Yes?"

  "I was going to say that if you'd put those problems away for a few hours, if we could share some of the space you get up at thirty thousand feet right here on the ground, together, I'd trade UpLink, this house, our cars, every cent we have, everything we own. Or do you always have be to alone in the pilot's seat to let go?"

  There was more silence. Ashley thought she could see the detached, inward-looking expression gradually lift from his features, but wasn't sure. Perhaps it was only wishful thinking.

  She came close to exhaling with relief when he slowly reached out, covered her hand with his own, and let it rest where he'd put it.

  "Let's go out to dinner, you name the restaurant," he said. "Your enchanting new haircut deserves to be viewed by one and all."

  She smiled gently.

  "You may have noticed," she said, "that my membership at Adrian's spa and beauty salon wasn't among the things I indicated a willingness to surrender."

  He looked into the oceanic greenness of Ashley's eyes and smiled back at her.

  "I very well may have," he said.

  Chapter Nine

  SAN JOSE, CALIFORNIA/STRAITS OF SINGAPORE

  SEPTEMBER 20/21, 2000

  When Max Blackburn first told Pete Nimec that he'd gotten a line deep into the working guts of Monolith, and that he was using it to trace what he'd described as "improper business practices and financial arrangements," Nimec had listened with close interest — and by not ordering him to abandon his investigation posthaste, had tacitly okayed its continuance. Still, as Chief of Security at UpLink, he had cautioned that UpLink would under no circumstances be dragged into a situation that might be perceived as corporate spying; the potential liabilities were far too great. Nimec had also pointed out that it would be inadvisable for Max to provide any further details about the probe should he decide to move ahead with it on his own string… unless or until he turned up something of concrete significance.

  Max had gotten the gist without anything more having to be explained. Deniability had been established with a nod and a wink — as it always was. If his activities came to light, no one else at UpLink would be dragged into the consequent chocolate mess. Nimec wanted clean hands and fingernails from the level of clerk to upper management.

  Officially, that had been the end of his involvement in the fishing expedition. Unofficially, he had been eager to see what developed. And was becoming increasingly so as Marcus Caine's public attacks on Gordian intensified.

  Their understanding kept very much in mind, Max had been exceedingly circumspect with his references to the matter in the three months since their initial phone conversation about it… when he mentioned it at all, that was. Nimec had gleaned that Blackburn's conduit into Monolith was a female employee with whom he'd originally formed a — quote, unquote — social relationship and only later enrolled as an informant. That she held a high-level position in the office of Corporate Communications, Singapore. Beyond these two pieces of information, he knew little else.

  Of course there were other legitimate reasons for the men to stay in touch. Max had been sent to Malaysia for the purpose of emplacing security procedures at the Johor ground station, and many of his plans required Nimec's input and advance approval. Which was why he'd tried phoning Blackburn from his home office at four o'clock Sunday afternoon, making it the first thing Monday morning Johor time. After reviewing an expensive upgrade Max had proposed to the bionetric scanners last week, he'd decided to give him the green light to begin installation — only to learn that he hadn't yet arrived at the office.

  "Mr. Blackburn was in Singapore for the weekend, and it's quite possible he's run into delays getting back across the causeway," his receptionist had said. "The causeway crossing has been awful lately… some sort of ship hijacking has Customs bollixed. Still, I'm certain he'll be in soon. Would you like me to try contacting him on his mobile?"

  "No, it isn't anything urgent, just tell him I called when he gets in," Nimec said.

  That had been eight hours ago, and Max still hadn't been in touch. Nor had he had a chance to give Max another ring; the child-custody arrangement Nimec had worked out with his ex-wife allowed him weekends with their son Jake, and he'd just returned from dropping the twelve-year-old off at home after taking him to a baseball game.

  Still, Nimec wondered if his message had somehow gotten lost or slipped Max's mind, and wanted to try him one more time before turning in for the night. Blackburn's greatest weakness was a tendency to let curiosity lead him in too many directions at once, and he needed to be reminded that the ground station was his primary responsibility.

  Nimec went over to his desk, picked up his phone, and keyed in Max's number.

  "UpLink International, Max Blackburn's office."

  "Joyce, it's Pete Nimec again."

  "Oh, hello, sir," she said. Then hesitated a beat. "Mr. Blackburn hasn't shown up yet."

  Nimec raised his eyebrows. "Not all day?"

  "No, I'm sorry. Nor has he phoned in."

  "Have you tried calling him?"

  "Well, yes. On his cell phone. I think I suggested it to you earlier—"

  "And?"

  "There was no answer, sir."

  Nimec was silent a moment. There had been something odd about Joyce's tone from the moment he'd identified himself, and now he suddenly realized what it was. She was covering. And had been right off the bat.

  "Joyce," he said at last, "maybe its my imagination, but you're sounding very protective."

  She cleared her throat. "Sir, Mr. Blackburn was rather vague about his plans before he left. But…"

  "Yes?" he prompted

  "Well, to be truthful… I think they were of a personal nature."

  "You think he's cozied up somewhere with his girlfriend? Is that it?"

  "Um, perhaps… I mean, not that he specifically told me—

  "Your loyalty to Max is admirable. But besides your suspicion that he's gone off on an amorous toot, are you sure you're not keeping anything from me?"

  "No, sir. Absolutely nothing."

  "Then let me know soon as he materializes," Nimec said, and hung up the phone.

  Seconds later he rose from behind his desk, switched off the light, and headed for the shower. If Max was deliberately trying to stay incommunicado, he was either having much too good a time accommodating his Monolith executive, or — to be fair — becoming overly preoccupied with the more substantial aspects of his investigation. Both possibilities left Nimec feeling annoyed and a little uneasy.

  When he finally got Blackburn on the horn, he intended to find out what he'd been doing, and if necessary remind him where he ought to be focusing his attention.

  Independence was acceptible within limits, but no information was worth the problems Max could cause by taking things too far.

  * * *

  Its diesels purring quietly in the late-night fog and darkness, the twenty-six-foot pleasure boat was within fifteen kilometers of the northern Sumatran coastline when Xiang, gripping the foredeck rail, sighted the bright glow of a floodlight almost directly abeam.

  He remained still and calm at the foredeck rail, checking his wristwatch.

  The yacht was traveling with its cabin and running lights off, but there was a chance it had been picked up by the radar or thermal-imaging sweeps of a fast patrol boat. Only a very small and random chance, though. He was confident the vessel's theft would not yet have been detected; his men had taken it out of its slip after midnight, stealing aboard when the landing had been nearly deserted, disconnecting its uncomplicated security alarms with a few clips of a wire cutter.

  Restrained and tranquilized, the American had been driven to the head of the landing in the panel truck his captors had used during his abduction, then
been brought onto the ship while its motors were warming up.

  No one had been there to challenge the pirates. Investigators searching for the Kuan Yin's hijackers had established tight controls at the airports, causeway, and commercial shipping docks — the obvious corridors of departure — but there hadn't been any strengthening of surveillance and inspection efforts at the marinas where the wealthy berthed their yachts and sailboats.

  Xiang had counted on the improvised cordons being spotty, and planned from the beginning to exploit their inevitable holes. Singaporean authorities were used to chasing common smugglers, and tracking down illegal workers from Thailand and Malaysia whom they would herd into detention camps, flog with a cane, and send back to their native countries with their heads shaved in disgrace. They had no experience dealing with a manhunt of any scope, and even with the computerized IBIS command-and-control system they'd purchased from the Brits making it easier for field units to coordinate their efforts, they were far out of their league. Unlike the boat people washing up on their shoreline as if they were beached fish after a storm, Xiang and his outlaws were neither desperate nor docile.

  Now Xiang peered into the conical beam of light shining at a right angle to him and waited, his jacket flapping in the warm south breeze. He could hear the grunt of a small outboard above the slapping of wavelets against his keel. Good, he thought. The boats manned by naval task forces were sped along by turbocharged engines and water-jet drives. This was nothing so modern or formidable.

  As Xiang stood leaning over the rail, the floodlight suddenly went out and the heavy-hanging sea mist knitted water and sky into a screen of undivided blackness. He dropped his eyes to his wristwatch again, waited exactly five seconds, then looked back out at the water.

  The light blinked rapidly on, then off, then on.