Fire in the Firefly (18 page)

And four more flagged URGENT from Yasmin. That day was the turning point.

It was the day that Roebuck committed.

Stepping back into the lobby, he told Carol in his sternest
straw-boss
voice that he had several important calls to make so could she please do her job effectively for once and be certain he wasn't interrupted? Then he closed his door and locked it—something that hardly ever happened—and commenced his preparations.

Throughout that afternoon—throughout the
ninety-odd
minutes between Yasmin's first and second appearance that pivotal day—Roebuck's hands kept returning to the fascinating parcel on his desk.

One of the nice things about a client in the fishing business was the steady stream of tackle. As a valued partner in Ripreeler's North American retail operations, Roebuck received samples of every new product his client released. Most of it was overkill; last summer they sent a marlin rig that was bigger than the rock bass he and Zach fished for off the dock. But the supply of spinners, jigs, and plugs, to say nothing of all those glossy crankbaits, had made their tackle box the envy of all the other fathers on the lake.

This package was different. First of all, it hadn't come from Ripreeler directly. This one had been delivered by courier from a location in Manila, the Philippines. Roebuck removed a pair of scissors from his drawer and cut the wrap. Inside he found a flat polyethylene bottle, like the nasal spray dispensers he and Anne used when the kids were still in diapers, the kind you squeeze to make the medicine gush straight up the nostril.

It was, he realized, the new pheromone product poised to revolutionize sport fishing. Attached was a handwritten note from the marketing manager, an American he'd met briefly in Helsinki. Roebuck unscrewed the cap and tentatively sniffed. He jammed the lid back on. It smelled exactly the way you'd expect a fish extract to smell; worse. But that was good. They were selling to the fisherman, after all, not the fish, and that stink would certainly leave an impression. Roebuck put on his reading glasses to make out the tiny print. Not good. Anglers fall mainly into older demographics. The font size would definitely need to be increased, though the instructions, once in focus, seemed straightforward enough: “Spray a small quantity on your lure and watch the fish jump into your boat! This amazing product mimics key pheromones that send fish into a feeding frenzy.”

And there, at that moment, Roebuck found the crisis he was hoping for.

Pheromones, as everybody knows, stimulate the desire to mate, not eat.

Or at least that was the argument he intended to put into play the moment he heard Yasmin coming through his door. The note from Manila had thoughtfully included the sender's home phone number.
Roebuck programmed it into his speed dial, made sure the door was closed but unlocked, and waited.

An hour later, he was waiting still.

In the meantime, he'd consulted his
time-zone
converter and determined that in the Philippines it was very, very early in the morning. In fact, it was tomorrow. With any luck at all, marketing manager Frank O'Neil would be a light sleeper. But at least at that hour he was almost certain to be home. Roebuck was never entirely comfortable conversing with speakers on the far side of the dateline. He enjoyed a good paradox, but that one had always unsettled him: today and tomorrow being one and the same. This conversation was certain to be awkward whenever it was situated in the
time-space
continuum.

Though that, too, could prove beneficial.

When the line from the reception desk buzzed, he only just stopped himself from answering. Roebuck sprang to his feet. The buzzing stopped. Silence. Then another, longer burst. By this time, his earlobe was applied directly to the inside panel of his door.

Voices, raised voices; a confusion of footsteps …

Leaping back to his desk, he hit the call button and hovered—still on tiptoes—while the connections clicked through. A phone in a bedroom somewhere in a residential district of Manila commenced to ring. Roebuck almost feared no one would pick up when at last he heard a female voice, groggy, in a language he took to be Tagalog. “Hello!” he said loudly, cutting over it. “I'm calling for Frank O'Neil, please.”

More Tagalog. An alarming silence. Then, finally, a different, hoarser voice.
“Hello? Hello?”

“Is that Frank O'Neil?”

Cough. “What time is it?”

“Frank! This is Julius Roebuck.”

Roebuck pressed the button to increase the volume as he spoke.

“Who?”

“Julius Roebuck! From Roebuck and Associates. We met in Helsinki. I've just opened your sample bait.”

From out in the hall beyond the door to his office came the sound of a struggle. One of the voices he recognized as Carol's.

“Oh, Julius, of course. Hello. Nice to hear from you. You know it's
…
”

The other voice was definitely Yasmin's.

“I'm very sorry for disturbing you, Frank. But I'm afraid we have a problem.”

A covert knock; more scuffle.

“It's four o'clock in the morning!”

Carol—he will have to do something to make up for this, later—was bravely mounting a
last-ditch
resistance. But Yasmin had leverage and far more capable hips.

“A problem, Frank. A very big problem.”

Roebuck had ensured his back was turned, precisely at that moment: the better to spin dramatically in shock and consternation. Right on cue, his door burst open.

“I'm
so
sorry Julius!” Carol was flushed and possibly bleeding from an ankle. “She just wouldn't …”

He made a point of staring, mouth agape, as if not quite believing the effrontery of this, then whirled and cupped his hand over his ear, furiously deadening the interruption.

“What do you mean, a problem?”

“Julius, I …”

Roebuck rounded for a second time, eyes ablaze, throwing up one hand like a Columbian traffic cop, still concentrating mightily on the telephone pressed against his ear. “I mean we have a problem, Frank. The messaging is wrong.”

“Messaging? What messaging?”

Yasmin took a step forward.

“The messaging, Frank! The central messaging. It's totally wrong!”

Then another step.

Mashing the phone against his chest, glaring ferociously, Roebuck snapped his fingers. He'd been practising his snap the past
half-hour
: its percussion echoed off the walls like gunfire. Yasmin and the receptionist froze like rabbits. Roebuck jabbed a furious finger Yasmin's way and aimed it at a chair, then glared some more at Carol and jerked his wrathful thumb toward the door.

“Could you maybe be more specific?”

Carol backed out of the room. Yasmin crept softly to her chair.

“I'll explain when I get there.”

“Here?”

“This is critical, Frank. I'll be landing,” Roebuck furrowed his brows and studied his watch but gave up on the
time-change
calculations, “in a matter of hours!”

“Here? You're coming
here
?”

“See you shortly.”

“But …”

Roebuck slammed down the receiver.

He took a moment to allow his stare to linger in the space between them: a man only just containing his wrath.

“Julius, I …”

Roebuck clenched his teeth until he felt his molars squeak, then stabbed the button on his phone. “Book me a flight to Manila. Today! This afternoon!”

“Yes, sir.”

She had never—or anyone else, for that matter—called him
sir
. It wasn't even the receptionist's responsibility to look after travel arrangements. He would definitely have to find some way of making up for this. Still staring into nothing, Roebuck brought his fist to his chin and studied the wall a measured heartbeat longer. After a time, exhaling loudly, he moved his hands to the armrests of his chair. At last he eased himself back and slowly, consciously, relaxed his body. “Yasmin …” he said, tasting the syllables.

For a while no other word was spoken. Her eyes were on the floor, and Roebuck used the opportunity to take her in. She too was out of breath: adrenaline—and a cocktail of other, more arresting hormones—spiking through her system. Roebuck absorbed the lambent rise and fall of breast.

“It's today …” she whispered in a voice that rustled like the fabric of her skirt.

Roebuck kept his tone as hieratical as he could make it. “What's today?” He wanted to hear her say it.

Yasmin's tongue emerged, slid across her teeth. Her lips parted then opened then parted again. “I … I tried calling. You, you didn't get back.”

“Yasmin, I have a company to run. I‘ve been tied up the entire day.”

“I'm ovulating. Right
now!
Today … maybe tomorrow.”

“Tomorrow I'm gone. Tomorrow I'm on the far side of the dateline. Which makes it the day after tomorrow as far as you are concerned.”

“What …? I mean … Can't you just …?”

Already he could feel the vascular shift, the blood rushing from his brain, rerouting. He was very glad he'd had the sense to stay behind his desk. The phone startled them both. Roebuck picked it up.

“I found a flight.”

“A flight?”

“Direct to Manila.”

“Yes. Excellent … When?”

“It leaves this afternoon. Not much time to pack, but I can get you a seat.”

“Book it,” he said. And then, “Well done.”

“Yasmin …” Roebuck quietly replaced the phone. “This has gotten out of hand.”

Several seconds more elapsed in silence. An interesting transformation: Yasmin meek; Yasmin suffused like this in blush. She was looking at him, and he tried to hold her gaze. “I have a lot to do …” he said. “I'm at the airport in an hour …”

“Couldn't you just …”

“Just what?”

“No. You're right. You're always right.”

The phone went off again.

“I forgot to tell you. Daniel wants to see you. I had the feeling this might not be a good time …”

“What would give you that impression? Two minutes. Then send him in.”

Yasmin had risen, smoothing her skirt in that way of hers, fingers in the dimples of her hips.

“I should go.”

He needed to be careful. “I'm sorry it didn't work out this time.”

She stopped and caught her breath. He could almost feel the heat from where he sat behind his desk. “This time …?” Yasmin was standing, poised beside his door.

“In future, if you could provide me with some warning …?”

He still can't decide if it was deliberate, but Yasmin's fingers caressed the doorknob as she spoke, turning and unturning the latch. “
Twenty-eight
days,” she whispered. “Just count.”

“I'll make a note in my calendar.”

“You're such a lovely man!” Yasmin swept toward him for a lingering embrace. “I brought this …” she said, unfastening her purse. She had misread his expression. “Oh. But of course you can't right now. Anyway, you can keep it for next month.” She placed a plastic sample bottle with its
now-familiar
orange lid on the corner of his desk.

On the way out, she blew a kiss.

“Who was that?”

Greenwood was stopped outside the door watching Yasmin, weaving down the corridor. Roebuck swept the sample jar into a drawer.

“Can I help you, Daniel?”

“What? Yes. Just wondering if there's any development on that drag and clop concept?”