Able One (15 page)

Scheib took a healthy gulp of his scotch. "There's pressure coming from the top. There's going to be a congressional investigation. We have to show results, Victor, or they'll cancel the whole damned program."

Deciding that it was counterproductive to argue with the man who was pushing for the airborne laser in Washington, Anson cut to the chase. "How much time do we have?"

The general toyed with his glass, then answered, "Four months. That's when the congressional committee will open its investigation of the accident. You've got to have that laser working again in four months. Otherwise they'll cut you off."

"And then we start the integration work? Boeing's on schedule with the plane, I take it."

"Don't worry about Boeing, Victor. Just get that damned laser working again. And give me enough ammunition to show those old farts that you've corrected the problem that caused the explosion."

Anson nodded. Four months, he thought. Four months to make or break the program. Then he corrected himself. No, four months to make or break the company. If this airborne laser program goes down the tubes, Anson Aerospace goes with it. I'm going to have to push Levy and his people hard. And spend a lot on overtime.

Scheib looked bleak. He's under as much strain as I am, Anson thought.

"Well," he said with a forced smile. "At least we've got the weekend coming up. Are you staying here in California or heading right back to Washington?"

The young general tilted his head slightly. "I'd like to stay for the weekend ..." He let his voice trail off.

Anson leaned back in his chair and said grandly, "Well, why don't you stay at my place up at Big Sur? Beautiful spot. Looks right out on the ocean. I can have the company chopper take you and put you down right on the front lawn."

Smiling, Scheib said, "That'd be great."

"The caretaker won't be there over the weekend. You'll have the place completely to yourself."

Scheib's grin widened. "Maybe I'll bring a friend along with me."

"Do that," Anson said as he got to his feet. "Have a nice restful weekend. Unwind. Enjoy yourself."

The two men shook hands and Scheib left the office. Anson refilled his glass of sherry and went back to his desk. Maybe he'll bring a friend along, Anson said to himself. He knew perfectly well who the friend was: a certain Major Karen Christopher, USAF, who was normally stationed at some Air Force base in Missouri, but just happened to be in California this week.

Major Christopher was up for promotion to light colonel, according to the report in Anson's private computer files. She'll make lieutenant colonel, he told himself. But first she'll make the general. Scheib was a married man, but that hadn't stopped him from becoming quite involved with the good-looking major.

Anson sat at his desk and told himself that he wasn't spying on General Scheib for his own personal gain. It was for the good of the company, for the good of all the men and women who depended on him for their livelihoods. For the good of the nation, when you come right down to it. For the good of the entire free world!

Pasadena, California: Anson Residence

“My God." Sylvia gaped as they got out of their Camry. "It's
huge."

Squinting up at the eight-story brick building, Harry said, "It's not all his. He's only got the top two floors."

"Only!" Sylvia said with awe in her voice.

Harry had never been invited to Victor Anson's home before. The invitation had been completely unexpected; it had arrived in the mail two days earlier, on stiff white embossed paper almost as thick as cardboard. RSVP. Sylvia had rushed out in a flurry of shopping. Harry thought she looked pretty good in the light yellow cocktail dress she'd bought; she ought to, after all the time she and the girls had spent fussing over the dress, the shoes, her makeup, her hair.

Harry's hair was slicked down with a gel that Sylvia insisted he use. It made him feel like a pimp, but Sylvia screamed that he couldn't go to Victor Anson's party with his hair blowing every which way, like some nerdy creep. He hated the gel, but he used it.

Now the two of them stood at the front door of the condominium building while a parking valet drove their car down the bricked driveway to the parking lot in back. A doorman in a black uniform was standing by the glass double doors of the entryway. After checking the invitation Harry handed to him, the doorman led them every step of the way to the elevator, as if he was afraid Harry would steal one of the vases that held big bouquets of fresh flowers.

Another guy in a black uniform actually ran the elevator. Harry began to wonder if this was all security that Anson had hired. All the guy had to do was press the button marked PH. For penthouse, Harry figured.

The elevator opened onto a small entryway. Beyond its open door was a big room already crowded with people, buzzing with conversation, men and women standing and chatting amiably while holding champagne flutes or heavy cut crystal old-fashioned glasses. The men were all in suits or at least sports jackets. Harry felt grateful that Sylvia had insisted he wear his one and only suit, an old tweed that he hadn't taken out of the closet for years. It smelled faintly of mothballs. He recognized a few of the senior scientists from the lab. Moving hesitantly into the crowd, he introduced Sylvia to Jake Levy, who was wearing the kind of dark blue suit that Harry associated with church services. Levy in turn introduced his own wife, a plump graying woman who seemed surprisingly older than Levy.

A big picture window swept along the far wall; Harry could see all the way out to the old Rose Bowl and the hills beyond. It was a beautifully clear day, with brilliant afternoon sunshine streaming down. Harry nodded to himself, thinking, When Victor Anson throws a party the smog isn't invited.

Anson himself was standing by the curving staircase that led upstairs, General Scheib beside him in his best blues. A woman in Air Force uniform was next to Scheib, the gold oak leaves of a major on her shoulders. She was petite, kind of pretty in a sort of girl-next-door way, but she looked distinctly uncomfortable.

Sylvia fell into conversation with Mrs. Levy as a young waitress in a short-skirted black-and-white outfit offered a tray of drinks to Harry. He took a tulip glass of white wine and handed it to Sylvia, who accepted it without even looking at him.

"And for you, sir?" the waitress asked.

"Urn ..." Harry thought about the drive home. It wasn't far, but he'd never been up at this end of Pasadena, near the country club, and didn't know the streets very well. He knew the Pasadena police force, though. "I'll have a club soda," he said.

Mrs. Levy excused herself and moved away from Sylvia. For a few moments neither she nor Harry knew quite what they should be doing.

"Where's the other people from your crew?" she asked Harry.

He scanned the crowd. "I don't see them."

"Weren't they invited?"

"Maybe not."

"Didn't you ask them?" Sylvia demanded. "Didn't you tell them you were invited to Mr. Anson's home?"

He shook his head. The thought had never occurred to him.

Sylvia huffed. "Honestly, Harry."

General Scheib came up to him, with the good-looking major hanging a step behind him.

"How're the ribs, Harry?"

"They're fine," Harry fibbed. His back still ached, still twinged when he moved too quickly.

"Good," said the general. "Good." And he moved past Harry and Sylvia without introducing the major, who dutifully followed after him.

The waitress arrived with Harry's club soda in a tall glass tinkling with ice cubes. He began to feel edgy. He didn't really know anybody in this crowd, except for Levy, and Jake was all the way over on the other side of the big room now, by the picture window, deep in conversation with a couple of older men who looked to Harry like bankers or maybe members of Anson's board of directors: white-haired and balding, big in the middle, flabby in the face.

"Mr. Anson's coming this way!" Sylvia hissed urgently.

Harry saw Anson making his way slowly through the crowd, stopping to talk to this one or that for a moment, then moving closer to where he and Sylvia stood. There was something strange about his lean face with its high cheekbones and shaved scalp. His skin looked waxy, slick, like the skin grafts they give to burn victims. Still, he looked stylish in his navy blue blazer and white slacks: pencil-slim, his face taut, his scalp shaved, his moustache trim and elegant.

"Where's his wife?" Sylvia whispered.

Harry shook his head. "I don't know." He wouldn't recognize her anyway; he'd never seen a picture of her.

"She's very big with the opera society," Sylvia said, still whispering as though she were passing on military secrets. "I told you we should get involved in the opera society."

Harry didn't remember that, but he didn't say anything. Anson was chatting amiably with the couple standing next to them, but he was glancing in Harry's direction.

Sure enough, Anson disengaged from the other couple and turned to Harry and Sylvia. "You must be Mrs. Hartunian," he said, making it sound as if it were a compliment.

"Sylvia," Harry said.

"A pleasure." Anson took Sylvia's hand and bowed over it slightly, as if he were going to kiss it. Sylvia's face turned scarlet.

Then Anson said, "Sylvia, do you mind if I borrow your husband for a few minutes? I have something important to discuss with Harry. In private."

"Ce ... certainly," Sylvia stammered.

"Thank you, Sylvia," said Anson graciously. "I won't keep him long."

Anson's Inner Sanctum

Harry felt mystified as Anson gripped him by the elbow and led him through the partygoers, back toward the stairs. The crowd melted away before them. Like Moses parting the Red Sea, Harry thought.

"Can your ribs do the stairs or should we take the elevator?" Anson asked.

"I'm okay," Harry said, stretching the truth. "The stairs are fine."

The staircase curved between walls lined with old, fading photographs. Family, Harry thought. People at the beach, people at formal dinners in tuxedos and evening gowns, a man who looked a lot like Victor Anson shaking hands with President Franklin D. Roosevelt, no less. Some of the pictures seemed to go back to the roaring twenties.

The staircase ended in a single, open, airy solarium. All the walls were tinted windows from floor to ceiling. Harry squinted at the light streaming in despite the tinting; it was almost painful. A big old-fashioned desk of dark mahogany stood on one side of the room, an even bigger, heavy-legged pool table on the other.

"My sanctum sanctorum," Anson said as Harry looked admiringly around the room, his eyes adjusting to the brightness. "I come up here to do my thinking. And my deciding."

Harry couldn't think of anything to say.

A pair of comfortable bottle green-leather wing chairs was in one corner, angled slightly to face each other. A small sherry table stood between them.

Anson gestured to the chairs. "Have a seat, Harry."

Harry eased himself gratefully into the luxurious chair. It creaked a little. Or is that my back? Harry asked himself.

A bottle and two tiny tulip glasses stood on the table.

"Have some sherry?" Anson asked as he sat facing Harry. "It's amontillado, my favorite."

Harry hesitated, then hoisted his club soda as he replied, "I've got to drive home."

Anson nodded. "Smart fellow."

Harry felt uncomfortable. He didn't know what to say, didn't know if it was okay to rest his glass on the inlaid wood of the little table between them.

Anson solved Harry's dilemma by sliding a thick green marble coaster across the table as he asked, "How's the rebuilding work going?"

"We're on schedule, Mr. Anson. A little ahead of schedule, actually."

"Good," said Anson. Leaning forward slightly, his slender hands on his knees, he went on. "This laser project is very important, Harry. Extremely important."

"I know." Harry hesitated, wondering how Anson would react to being questioned, but worked up the courage to say, "Mr. Anson, is it all right if I ask you a question?"

"Certainly," Anson replied grandly. Then, with a sly wink, he added, "I don't guarantee that I'll answer it, though."

Harry forced a perfunctory laugh.

"So what's your question, son?"

Trying not to let his nervousness show in his voice, Harry said, "When ... when the accident happened and Pete Quintana died, I thought--we all thought, actually--that you'd pick Monk Delany to replace Pete as program engineer."

Anson's face went dour. For several long moments he said nothing while Harry berated himself for going too far.

At last Anson said slowly, "Not Delany. No, Harry, he wouldn't do. Not serious enough. I needed a man who could get the job done. That man is you, Harry, and nobody else."

Swallowing before he could speak again, Harry said, "Thank you, sir. I was . . . well, sort of surprised when you picked me."

With a thin smile, Anson said, "That's one of your good qualities, my boy. You don't have a swelled head."

Harry couldn't think of a thing to say.

Anson went on. "I've talked General Scheib into giving us a go-ahead for flight tests as soon as we prove the rebuilt laser works."

"Flight tests?"

"Yes. That's where the real money is, Harry. Systems integration and then flight tests."

"We'll have to test the COIL on the ground first, make sure we've got all the bugs out."

"Of course," said Anson. "Of course. But I want to stress to you, Harry, how important this program is. I've sunk a lot of the company's money into your COIL. I'm swinging for the fences with this one."

Harry thought, It isn't
my
COIL.

Anson went on. "You see, Harry, I believe in this laser idea. The United States is under threat, you know. A grave threat. It's bad enough that the Russians and the Chinese have whole fleets of ballistic missiles aimed at us--"

"I thought they agreed to retarget their missiles, just like we did," Harry interrupted. "They signed an agreement, didn't they? A treaty?"