Claudia Kane thanked her guests for coming and excused herself. She had to check with the news editor; she might be needed. The shark scenting fresh blood, Chase thought, watching her leave.
"I worked with Carl," Gene Lucas recalled sadly. "We served together on a World Climate Research committee two or three years ago.
What in God's name is happening? Why? What's the purpose?" He shook his head, mystified.
It was time for Chase to get back to the hotel. Cheryl and Dan should have returned from their sightseeing trip by now. He was looking forward to a relaxed family dinner at a restaurant and hearing Dan's opinions of the capital.
As they were shaking hands Lucas said, "Give my regards to Cheryl."
"I didn't know you knew her."
"I don't, not personally," Lucas said, a secretive smile lurking at the corner of his mouth. "But I once sent her some information, which, I should add, she made excellent use of." He was smiling broadly now, tickled pink by something that left Chase with a mystified frown.
"What information was that?"
"About a certain project called DEPARTMENT STORE. I think you've probably heard of it."
After a stunned moment Chase grasped Lucas's hand and shook it again, this time more warmly than ever.
16
After a hard day's work there was nothing the secretary-general of the United Nations liked better than to linger in a sumptuous hot bath liberally sprinkled with Esprit de Lavande from Penhaligon's of Covent Garden, London. The small round bottle with the ground-glass stopper traveled in the UN transatlantic diplomatic pouch, a little privilege that Ingrid Van Dorn allowed herself.
She was tall and straight-limbed with long silvery-blond hair and classic Nordic features, clearly evident in her wide pale forehead and icy blue eyes. Rather angular perhaps, though she measured the same now as she had twenty-five years ago when a strikingly beautiful twenty-two-year-old girl from Orebro in Sweden. That had been before two marriages, two divorces, and two children, both girls, now at boarding school in Vermont.
Floating in the sunken oval bath and breathing in the perfumed mist, Ingrid Van Dorn watched the large flat TV screen inset into the wall. A crystal carafe of iced sangria was within reach of her slender white arm, and a tall glass, beaded with condensation, was on the tiled shelf by her elbow.
"In the studio tonight," Claudia Kane was saying, making the introductions, "we're delighted to welcome Dr. Gavin Chase, a British marine biologist, better known to us as the author of that hugely successful and influential book
"When was this recorded?" asked Ingrid Van Dorn. Her husky voice still had a trace of accent, though not as pronounced as when she gave interviews; the media loved it.
The man seated in the upholstered recess took off his horn-rimmed glasses and wiped away the steam with the hem of his bathrobe. "Last week sometime. Friday, I think. I thought of asking for a tape, but with transmission so near it didn't seem worthwhile." Kenneth J. Prothero --"Pro" to his friends and some of his close enemies--senator for North Carolina, slipped his glasses back on and leaned forward, hands clasped above his long, tanned, hairy legs. "You know, this guy has a lot to--"
"Sssshhhh!" Ingrid Van Dorn held up a slender finger. She glanced toward him, looking like a goddess with her gleaming hair coiled on top of her head. "Are we recording this?"
Prothero nodded and topped up his glass with a sangria. He chewed on a piece of orange peel, cursing under his breath. Bathtime for Ingrid was a sacred ritual, but with this damned steam he had to keep wiping his specs every two minutes.
Remaining obediently silent until the program was over, he got up and switched the set off. There was the gentle swish of water as Ingrid moved languorously in the tub and the creak of ice melting in the carafe. Prothero stood looking down at her. He couldn't look enough at this fabulous woman: that she was his seemed like a stroke of wondrous good fortune.
"Well, what do you think?"
Ingrid Van Dorn soaped her breasts thoughtfully. "Yes, I'm impressed. What do we know about him, Pro?"
"Quite a lot." Prothero settled himself on the step next to the bathtub, feasting his eyes on the swirl of silver hair, the perfect white arch of her neck, the damp hollows formed by her collarbones. "I've had
him checked out, every last detail. In my opinion we'll never find anyone better qualified."
"But if he's as committed to Earth Foundation as he makes out, perhaps he won't want to."
"All the more reason for him to accept, I'd say."
"Why? Because of the 'challenge'?" Ingrid Van Dorn used the word with scorn. "A man like Chase has more challenges than he can cope with already."
