Nano (15 page)

21.

ZACHARY BERMAN’S HOME, BOULDER, COLORADO

WEDNESDAY, APRIL 24, 2013, 8:00
P.M.

So here I am again,
thought Pia as she sat in her car in front of Zachary Berman’s house. She was wearing the same black sheath dress she had worn on Monday, since it was the only cocktail dress she owned. But this time there was no George, and, she hoped, no Whitney Jones. Pia had gone over in her mind what she intended to do tonight, but she realized the whole thing was going to have to be played by ear. With all her heart, she’d rather not have to go through the unpleasant charade she was about to inflict upon herself, but she was unable to let go of her intense need to know more about Nano. And to do that, she knew she had to go through the boss, Zachary Berman. Being a realist at heart, Pia knew she was accepting a certain amount of risk.

Pia flipped down the VW’s sun visor and reapplied her peach-shaded lipstick, which she knew set off her skin tone beautifully. Or so she had been told. She climbed out of the car and smoothed down her dress, aware that Berman was probably watching her. The security room he would be using, if he was watching her, was somewhere Pia wanted to locate as soon as possible.

As she walked up the steps and approached the front door, it swung open at just the right moment. As on the previous visit, Berman greeted her European-style with a kiss on each cheek. He was wearing a smart-casual getup similar to the one he had on her previous visit. The jacket was dark blue, and the mock turtleneck was a tan knit.

“You must have seen me coming,” said Pia in reference to Berman’s timing with the front door.

“I did,” said Berman, showing her inside. Pia paused just inside the threshold.

“I didn’t see a camera,” she said.

“It’s very discreet,” said Berman. “See if you can figure out where it is.”

Pia smiled. Berman had probably been the kid who loved to show off his train set. Like a lot of men, he had never grown out of the urge to point out his fancy toys.

“Okay,” said Pia. She went back and looked around the frame of the door and above, where the timbers of the wood-framed house were visible in a kind of modern Tudor style. Berman was amused.

“You’ll never find it.” He then pointed out the camera. It was a tiny reflective glass bubble in the middle of the granite lintel. It was all but invisible.

Pia made an expression that suggested she was duly impressed. “Cool! Where’s the monitoring room?”

“Please,” Berman said as he motioned for Pia to precede him back into the house. Just beyond the foyer he opened what looked like a closet door. It was a small room with a bank of electronic gear and two large TV screens showing a succession of pictures of the exterior of the house, the gate, the swimming pool, the tennis court, and the rest of the property.

“What about the interior?” Pia asked. “Is that included in this system or is this just for the grounds?”

Without even answering, Berman reached up to one of the pieces of equipment and touched a screen. Immediately one of the TV monitors switched to a succession of interior shots, going from room to room.

“Does this record?” Pia asked.

“It does,” Berman said proudly. “It records for forty-eight hours, then erases itself and starts again. It’s a continuous feed.”

“Let’s turn it off,” Pia said.

“Excuse me?”

“I want it off. I don’t want to feel inhibited, knowing that a recorder is operating.”

A slight smile appeared on Berman’s face. He loved it. She had miraculously transformed herself into a woman of his dreams. He reached up to the same piece of equipment he’d touched to bring up the interior images and turned it off. The appropriate monitor went blank until he switched it back to the exterior images.

“Sometimes,” Berman said with a wry smile, “it’s fun reliving an evening’s events, if you know what I mean.” He raised his dark, bushy eyebrows provocatively, or so he thought.

Pia felt a flash of anger at the realization that her previous visit had probably been taped. She had enough experience of her uncle taking pornographic pictures of her when she was a kid to be disgusted by Berman’s remark, but she had to keep her cool.

“There’s no Miss Jones tonight?”

“There’s no Miss Jones. And I let the cook and the housekeeper leave a short time ago. Our dinner is on low heat in the oven; the Champagne is on ice. We have the place to ourselves. Would you like to sit outside? It’s a lovely night again. You could put a fur throw around your shoulders if you’d like.”

“Sounds good,” said Pia.
So the coast was clear,
she thought. But that worked both ways—there was nothing to stop Berman from trying to get what he wanted, either. At least initially it was to be a kind of Mexican standoff.

Pia took her seat outside while Berman went to the bar to fix their drinks. He returned with two Champagne flutes and proposed a toast.

“To Nano, and all who sail in her,” he said, and laughed at his own little joke.

“To Nano,” said Pia, “and its continued success.”

“
Our
continued success. We’re in this together. And we’ll all share in the good times when everything we are working for comes to fruition. Mariel continues to tell me your experiments are going well.”

“Yes, they are,” said Pia, happy to be talking about work. She relayed that there had been no signs of any immunological reaction up until almost five o’clock that afternoon with the microbivores containing the polyethylene glycol molecules incorporated into their surfaces. “If this continues, we could be looking at starting mammalian experiments in the near future.”

“Fabulous!” he said, standing. “Let me top you up.” He indicated Pia’s glass.

“I am driving, Mr. Berman, but don’t let me inhibit you.”

“Call me Zach, please! When we’re out of the office, particularly here in my castle, I prefer you call me by my given name. And don’t worry about driving. I’ll have someone come up from the motor pool if necessary.” He smiled that same unctuous smile that Pia found so nauseating. She stood up.

“Perhaps we should go ahead and eat. If the food’s in the oven, we should not let it wait. I’d hate for it to dry up, whatever it is. The food was lovely on Monday night, and I’ve been looking forward to it all day.”

“Do you cook in your apartment?”

“Never. I’m too busy with what Mariel and I are doing in the lab.”

“Then it sounds like you don’t like the food at the cafeteria?”

“It’s fine. I just prefer yours.”

“Well, that’s good. I do, too. Come through to the dining room. I won’t be a second.” Berman walked toward the kitchen and kept talking, his voice echoing throughout the cavernous spaces of his house.

“I enjoy serving dinner to my guests,” he shouted from the kitchen. “It reminds me of a time when I didn’t have staff to help. They make me nervous sometimes, fussing around me. This is much more relaxed.”

That’s right,
thought Pia,
you’re just a regular guy at heart.

“Anything I can do to help?” Pia shouted.

“Stay right there,” Berman yelled back. He emerged from the kitchen with a tray. He gave Pia a bowl of steaming soup and offered freshly milled black pepper from an oversize grinder.

“Smells heavenly,” said Pia.

“Vegetarian pea soup, with a lot of mint from my herb garden. And a dollop of crème fraîche. You can’t beat it.
Bon appétit!
”

Pia had to admit the soup was lovely: fresh and delicate, highlighted nicely by the fragrant pepper. She would have enjoyed it more if she weren’t so nervous.

Berman had set down a fresh glass of Champagne and a glass of white wine that he claimed was a simple French white Burgundy but which Pia was sure was a pricey wine. As she sipped it, she reminded herself to be careful with the alcohol. As Berman drank his Champagne in a couple of chugs and started in on his wine, Pia took a few small sips of hers. She had to be particularly careful with the Champagne as it had a tendency to go to her head. Her obligation was to stay sharp.

As they continued with their meal, Pia had to admit that Berman was good company. He was solicitous, making sure her food was properly seasoned and that her glass of sparkling ice water was refilled. She finished a glass of the white wine, and took some of the extremely robust red Berman produced to complement the delicious buffalo steaks he served with local vegetables and some herbed orzo.

“The meat was so tender,” Pia said as Berman cleared away her plate.

“It’s good for you, too. Great protein, not so much fat. So let’s take some dessert in the den.”

Pia didn’t think she had seen the den on Monday, and indeed it was a new room for her, off the living room, with yet another fireplace at the center of the back wall. There was a huge TV on the wall at right angles to the fireplace, and a deep burgundy-colored leather couch in front. There was no other furniture in the room at all. Like his office at Nano, the décor and furnishings oozed stereotypical masculinity. There was a bank of photos of Berman on a countertop that ran along the wall behind the couch. They were mostly location sporting photos with Berman holding guns, fishing poles, and mountain climbing gear. Pia sat on the couch and Berman fiddled with his iPhone, changing the lighting, bringing on some jazz music, and closing the drapes all in the space of a few seconds.

“That’s very high tech . . . or something,” said Pia. She imagined she was supposed to be impressed.

“I’m sorry,” said Berman. “Is it too corny? I didn’t conduct that little performance just for your benefit. I actually do it when it’s me here by myself. I like the convenience of this custom app on my phone. I got some of the programmers at Nano to rig this up for me. It took me a while to learn how to use it, but now I can turn on faucets in the garage with this.” He held up the phone in triumph.

No wonder I can’t get any time with the microbivores programmers,
Pia thought, but didn’t say.

“So what can I get you?” Berman asked, playing the considerate host. “After-dinner cordial, some dessert wine? I do have some homemade ice cream in the freezer. I’m assuming you’re not interested in a cigar. But I don’t want to be sexist. If I were here by myself, which I’m infinitely grateful I’m not, I would indulge in a cigar.”

“Are you by yourself very often?” Pia asked.

“Sometimes. Why do you ask?”

“I don’t know. You have these attractive women working for you. Whitney, Mariel . . .”

Berman sat down next to Pia.

“Maybe they are attractive . . .” He reached out and ran his forefinger along Pia’s jawline as she turned to face him. Her initial response was to knock his hand away, but she controlled herself. She knew she had to maintain the pretense or the evening would be a flop. At the same time, she hated to be in the position she was. It reminded her of being attacked in the residence mansion of the superintendent of the Hudson Valley Academy. She struggled to keep as much eye contact as she could.

“Whitney and Mariel are definitely attractive,” Berman continued, totally unaware of Pia’s thoughts. “But they are not you.” He now reached around Pia’s shoulder and put pressure on her to draw her toward him. Pia acquiesced to a degree, then pulled back gently. She fought with herself to stay in control and not lash out at this man, who at the moment represented everything she found repulsive about the opposite sex.

“Let’s slow down,” she said softly. “Let me get you another drink.” Her goal was to get him to drink as much as possible as soon as possible.

Berman sat back and looked at Pia. “You’re making me work very hard, Pia.”

“I think we need to get to know each other better.”

“I thought when you came to see me in my office at the crack of dawn today that you were ready to take things to the next step.”

Pia stood and leaned over Berman, one hand on either side of his legs. Her face came close to his. She fought against the urge to give his neck a sharp karate chop that probably would have made him as limp as wet spaghetti.

“Maybe I am ready, but my Italian mother told me that the man had to show he respected me before I should let him do anything.” Pia was amazed at herself coming up with a line like that. In reality she could not remember one single thing her mother had said, as she’d had died a violent death when Pia was just a toddler.

Pia knew she was driving Berman crazy. He was shifting in his seat as if he were going to explode. Pia stayed where she was, and shimmied her hips a little and smiled. She couldn’t believe herself. “So what can I fix you?” she questioned. “I remember from Sunday night that you like scotch, right? I’ve always admired men who drank scotch. It’s such a masculine drink.”

“Yes, I do like my whiskey.”

Berman could hardly speak. He actually licked his lips.

Pia smiled again. The method acting she had done during her undergraduate days at NYU was coming in handy.

“So which way’s the bar?” She stood and took a step for the door.

“There’s one right over there,” said Berman. “I keep whiskey in here, so it’s close at hand.”

Pia swore under her breath. She had left what she needed in her clutch purse on the dining-room table. She assumed she’d be able to fix a drink in the wet bar in the living room, from which Berman was getting the wine and Champagne. She looked over and saw a built-in cabinet she hadn’t noticed. She walked over and pulled on what she thought was a large drawer. Instead the whole front of the piece swung aside to reveal cut-glass decanters and whiskey glasses.

“Which one?” asked Pia.

“The lighter of the two. A Laphroaig single malt.”

“Ice!” Pia said, triumphantly. “I need ice.”

“Pia, I really can’t allow you to sully a lovely single-malt whiskey with ice. It’s really not the way you drink it.”

“I’m sorry, but if I am going to try it, I need ice. Where do I go?”

Berman stood. “You should let me get it, please.” He’d regained a modicum of composure. He took a glass and poured himself a dollop. Pia reached under his elbow to encourage him to add a bit more. She smiled. He smiled back.

“I need to use your bathroom,” said Pia. “So I can get the ice on the way back.”