THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (11 page)

'Could be part of it.' Kaplan took a tentative sip of his hot coffee. The brigadier general narrowed his eyes. 'God knows what Goldman's been up to lately.' He dug into the coffee cup's polystyrene rim with his thumbnail. 'Anyhow I'm sure we'll learn something after Turner's visit.' He shrugged his shoulders and straightened his army-issue tie. 'Who knows? This could be the start of routine DIA inspections ... God help us all.' He shifted his bulky frame against the high-backed seat then sipped more coffee. Talk of transferring his command to a missile testing range in the Nevada desert had filtered down to him through a reliable contact in the Missile Defence Agency. Such gossip had the brigadier general on edge. Was Turner's visit somehow related to the transfer? Again Kaplan had no answers.

'Look sharp when you see Turner. We want to make a strong impression concerning security.' He looked at Reid's holstered Beretta sidearm. 'Is that piece licensed?'

'Of course it is, Jim. Jeez, what do you think I am? A goddamn cowboy?' Reid shook his head and drummed his thigh, all the while looking down at the floor.

General Kaplan stared at the framed mission statement on the back wall of his office:

Protecting the War fighter and US Interest through the Application of Science, Technology and Engineering in Chemical Defence since 1947.

SCC Mission Statement.

'Have Seaways come up with that five-hundred litres of Methylene Chloride?' he asked from behind the desk.

'No, but Fogerty, the acquisitions clerk, called them last week – '

'Call them again. And tell them if we don't have the order by the end of next week they can consider it goddamn cancelled.' A bitter burning swamped Kaplan's windpipe. He plucked an antacid from a fresh roll and popped it into his mouth.

'Okay, I'll get onto it now.' Reid picked up his coffee and made to leave.

'And Troy.'

Reid looked back from the doorway.

'You haven't seen Goldman going upstairs today, or anywhere else he doesn't belong, have you?'

'No, but if I should ... should I stop him, or tell you about it?'

Kaplan tapped the edge of his desk as if contemplating aspects of a game plan far removed from present conversation. 'Just tell me if you see him going upstairs or out to the back of the grounds.'

'You can count on it, general.'

Reid stopped at Fogerty's office on the second floor, which was sandwiched between the office of the Chief Financial Officer and the office of the Army Banking Program. After some amicable chitchat with the acquisitions clerk, topped off with some disparaging jokes about navy personnel, Reid passed on Kaplan's ultimatum about the Methylene Chloride order.

While Reid chattered away in Fogerty's office, Goldman raced up the ground floor stairs. He was impatient to get on to the Milnet using General Turner's Sensitive Compartmented Information (SCI) password.

'And how are you today?' Belize Cheraz smiled at the elderly lady piling groceries on to the rubber runner belt beside the register. The hunched pensioner looked up suspiciously and grumbled a brusque reply.

God, help me, Belize sighed. She registered the woman's purchases at breakneck speed, then totalled the prices on the register (including a price she'd made up for a can of mushrooms in butter sauce that wouldn't read on the scanner. Luckily Miss Personality the Class of '25 hadn't noticed).

'That's eighteen dollars forty, ma'am, including tax. Don't forget our contest coupon. First prize is a holiday for two ...'

The silver-haired lady cursed controllably as she fumbled through her lavender-scented handbag. Belize finished her spiel and looked over at Manuela who was operating a checkout six bays along. Her sister's checkout had such a queue Belize was grateful only to have to contend with this grumbling woman thumbing through a wad of low-denomination bills.

Belize had lied to her sister to coerce her into going to Goldman's dinner party. There's no way I'll leave when Manuela wants to. She can call a taxi. Belize remembered the last time at Goldman's: the spicy Thai meal, the bottle of red wine, the irrepressible laughter, and the memorable lovemaking afterward.

Yes, she reassured herself, grabbing a crisp five and three crinkled tens from the age-spotted hand of the pensioner. There's no way I'll leave when Manuela wants to.

Michelle turned off the television, indifferent to the ABC News-Harris survey which gave Carter a comfortable lead over Reagan in the coming election. She frowned at the state of her nails and grabbed the tabloid she'd bought the night before. She was disappointed there weren't any pictures of Carmen on Mustique; and the telephoto shots of Brad and Jerri Jasper, along with the lead guitarist of the Black Roses, were so granular one could only question their authenticity.

She sighed aloud and dropped on to the room's sofa, only to read an article about a Florida Keys man who'd had his hand bitten off by a pet alligator (aptly titled: TALK ABOUT BITING THE HAND THAT FEEDS YOU).

Frustrated, she tossed the tabloid aside and checked the telephone. No on-line signal.

'Damn.' She got up and slipped a Bowie record on to the stereo. She clicked her fingers and moved her hips as the bass-line of the opening song wove into the late-afternoon quiet of the apartment (Carmen had gone to meet the acting solicitor of her deceased grandfather's estate). For want of inspiration Michelle stopped dancing. She dropped back on the sofa and blew against her fringe, checking her Gucci watch.

Still too early.

She planned to call Scott and get more of that crazy powder from him – though she had reservations. Of course Carmen wanted a mountain of the stuff. But Michelle wasn't sure she wanted to see Scott again. It could prove awkward. Sure there'd been an underlying attraction between them – she couldn't deny it – but he'd come on a bit strong giving her his phone number when she got out of his car. She didn't need any more complications in her life, especially her love life. She pushed back on the sofa and pressed her knees together, her lower legs splayed in a Twiggy-like pose, and chuckled darkly.

Her love life? What a joke. It was as unstable as everything else in her life. She had zero passion for Terence, and Scott Goldman was fast becoming a dim memory attached to a phone number scrunched in her pocket. Some rusty-haired guy with a strange accent. Fingering her fringe, she felt lost and lonely. And prayed for better days.

Pilar Artarmon gulped down mineral water and burped against the back of her hand. She felt good from a just-finished aerobics workout. She'd telephoned Terence Cruise and arranged to meet him at his DC apartment the following morning. The gram price he was asking for his cocaine sounded high; though she believed his solemn assurance of the drug's quality, as much as he could convey it over the nervy confines of his telephone. At any rate, she could well afford his asking price.

The twenty-eight year old MBA graduate had done well for herself in recent months, having successfully ridden the seesawing Dow Jones Industrial Average with a profitable straddle of call and put stock options. The realized profit from her market investments for the last quarter was more than half of her husband's annual salary. Stephen, however, viewed such investments as no less speculative than having a sizable punt at the racetrack, and had warned her as much. Of course she'd paid him no mind.

She returned the bottle to the fridge and wiped her palms across the front of her vicro sweat suit. She checked the platinum watch her father had given her for her twenty-first birthday. Nearly three. Stephen would take her to Dr Porter's for a general check-up and pap smear. The attractive Filipino whistled a Police song and skipped towards the bathroom, pleased from the profitable options her stockbroker had sold for her that morning. Auto-mechanic, Spider Anderson – an open admirer of Pilar – would deliver her XJS Jaguar around dusk, newly serviced and ready for tomorrow's drive to the Capitol. She had no reservation about seeing Terence Cruise again, and positively keened at the thought of leaving Baltimore proper, if only for a day.

She turned on the shower, peeled off her sticky sweat suit, and admired her trim brown body in the mirror. She stepped into the stall and lathered herself with a perfumed cake of soap. Rubbing her breasts, she fantasized about Spider Anderson ripping off his grimy overalls and making heavy-handed love to her.

TWELVE

Stephen Artarmon look plainly troubled. 'Jesus, Scott, I'm about to take my wife to the doctor.'

'It's too early to go home, mate.' Goldman stepped into the cold light of the computer room. 'Come on, Steve. I just want to use a terminal for a sec. Surely it's no problem.' The metal door slid shut behind him.

Artarmon cursed under his breath, obviously unsettled by the sudden turn of events. He grabbed a transparent Tupperware box with a brown apple core and a scrunched-up food-wrapper inside it. He shook his head and slipped the lunch box into an upmarket knapsack. 'Sorry Scott, no can do.'

'Look, nobody comes up here,' Goldman said with a sliver of desperation in his voice. 'No one has access except for you, Straker and General Kaplan. And if either of them should make a surprise visit ...' He stroked the underside of his chin. 'I'll just run one of your computer games on the screen beside me, then quickly shut off the screen in front of me I was using. That way anyone who came in would only think I was playing computer games, right? Anyway Straker's not gonna show and Kaplan's never been up here, has he? So just show me how to shut down the system, and I'll swear under any oath you name that I won't use the printers. Come on, Steve. Please mate. You know I'm good for it ...'

Artarmon shuffled his feet. 'No, Scott, I really must get going.' He shouldered his knapsack and headed for the door. He stopped and looked back at his uninvited guest. 'That is
we
really must get going.' He turned again for the door.

Goldman's chest leadened with disappointment. It was a big ask in the first place. Then something changed. His last-minute plea must have struck a fraternal chord, for Artarmon pulled up short of the door's motion-detector range. He stared with a pinched brow at the cork-tiled floor. Goldman could almost hear the whir of thoughts inside his co-worker's head: Straker wouldn't be back until Monday morning; and General Kaplan, or anyone else for that matter, wouldn't waste time snooping about the new computer room; so probably nothing would come of it if Goldman stayed behind.

Also, Goldman knew Artarmon and his boss would be at their new workplace late next week, which was Baltimore University if he remembered rightly.

The dark-haired computer graduate looked to the ceiling and shook his head, as if hardly believing he'd succumbed to the hair-brained proposal. 'Jeez, I must be out of my friggin' mind ... Okay, but don't stay long, and don't make any printouts. C
omprende
?' With a juridical air, he gave Goldman the once-over. 'Just get your dumb ass out of here as soon as you can.'

Goldman broke into a wide smile and patted him on the shoulder. 'Thanks mate, I really appreciate it.'

'And spare me your Aussie mate crap. Just do what I say. I'm putting
my ass on the line for this
.'

'Steve, I'm all ears.'

'Okay.' Artarmon showed his unexpected guest how to shut down the VAX computer, then made him repeat the steps out aloud. Satisfied the system would be properly shut down, Artamon handed over a floppy disk, murmured a terse goodbye and left the room.

Goldman didn't waste time, either. He dropped into a seat in front of the console Artarmon told him to use. Like a pirate about to open a  chest of spoils, he rubbed his palms with excitement. He was heady with the knowledge the US Milnet was again at his fingertips. However instinct forced him to look about the windowless room. A part of him half-expected military police to storm in, cuff him and take him away. Of course he was breaking the law, and probably in ways he couldn't imagine; even so he wasn't prepared to back down at this last minute.

He whistled a Springsteen song and typed in General Turner's password, having memorized the password from the previous day. He hit the enter key and ghostly lines flickered across the screen as the Milnet-linked system got up and running. The adventurous chemist pushed the floppy disk he'd got from Artarmon into the disk drive next to him. The introductory titles to
The Heavens are Falling
flickered across the screen. Not one to skimp on the finer details of illusion, he played two rounds of the computer game and clocked up a convincing aggregate score, in keeping with his pretense for being in the room.

He wheeled back to the main screen:

WELCOME TO USAF MILNET GATEWAY

This database is an extract of AR25-400-2

Army Milnet and contains 34,618 documents.

BSD UNIX #20OCT 24PDT1980.

GOOD AFTERNOON GENERAL TURNER

VERTEX RED CLEARANCE

Please press displayed keys to access available listings.

Goldman looked through several directories, unguided by any particular interest or topic.   

Nothing appealed. He unearthed a large directory he hoped would grant him access to personnel files. It did. He called up Silverwood Chemical Centre from the many military centres listed. It didn't take long to locate his employment file. In it he found nothing surprising or untoward. Disappointed, he looked for his father's employment file in a mammoth Defence Advanced Research Projects Agency directory, hoping to find in his father's DARPA file something of the secret and unexpected so lacking in his own.

He eventually uncovered the file, and was surprised to see his father's German concentration camp number had been properly recorded (he'd memorized those blue numbers on his father's forearm since early childhood). Also recorded, of course, was his father's many years as an electrical engineer at DARPA.

The detailed information on the screen affected the prying chemist. A lump formed in his throat and the pain of resurfacing wounds made him shift in his seat. His father's murder two years ago had been a terrible blow, as had been the death of his wife shortly after. Deep and jagged was the pain of his double loss.