The other source (the one not resolved) was the Mafia. It was the first and only time Gelstrom had heeded a warning and backed off. The deal involved a casino and the location was Las Vegas and Gelstrom had unwisely employed his usual strategy of all-out attack to gain a controlling interest. It wasn't appreciated, and he should have known better, and soon did when the car he was supposed to be traveling in erupted in a fireball on Interstate 15 en route to Los Angeles. Two of his best people died while he was nine thousand feet above Death Valley on his way to San Francisco. Gelstrom immediately pulled out of the deal, wrote it off as a failure, and counted himself lucky to have failed. Gambling, he decided, was Mafia business, and they were welcome to it.
Unlike this business, which he was going to do something about, though as yet he hadn't decided what.
Gelstrom gripped the rail, tensing his biceps until the veins stood out. "Having a sick man in the administration doesn't say a fat lot for the president's judgment."
"That's if he knows."
"He must know. Lebasse would have to tell him."
"The media would tear Munro apart," said the man in white, who was called Sturges. His face beneath the blond crew cut was hard and brutal, the curved strip of smoked plastic making him seem blind and menacing. Gold glinted at his throat and on both hairy wrists.
"It's Lebasse we have to work on, not the president," Gelstrom said. "If the secretary of defense approves DEPARTMENT STORE, the president will rubber-stamp it."
"We can break Lebasse easily enough. Leak it to the media; but Munro will get as much flak."
"That doesn't help," Gelstrom agreed. "We want Lebasse neutralized and somebody we can trust in his place. Who do we have?"
Sturges gazed blindly over the ocean. "What about Zadikov? We've supplied him with enough girls."
"Good old Ralf." Gelstrom smiled without humor. His dark eyebrows came together above the broad ridge of his nose. "What's Mad-den's pitch on this?"
"He says it's our move."
"Has he found a way to block Lucas?"
Sturges nodded. "He made up something Lucas is supposed to have said about Agent Orange years ago. It should be enough--bars Lucas from having access to ASP material."
"Which just leaves Lebasse," said Gelstrom thoughtfully. He swung around to face the man under the sunshade whose bald head was bright pink. "We need an opinion, Ivor, old man."
"I'm--I'm sorry?" Ivor Banting said, craning forward with a tentative smile. He was pretending not to have heard what they were discussing.
Gelstrom spelled it out. "We can't wait a year for Lebasse to die. We need approval of DEPARTMENT STORE right now. How do we dispose of him?"
At that same moment, though due to the different time zone three hours later by the clock--7:25 eastern time--Thomas Lebasse and Gene Lucas were attending a garden party at the lakeside home of Senator Crawford P. Bright and his wife, Sonia, on the outskirts of Belverdere, a fashionable residential area fifteen minutes drive from Capitol Hill.
Circulating among the 150 or so guests it was easy and natural for the two men to meet without causing comment or arousing suspicion. At this time of year this was only one of countless social events, which was why Lebasse had accepted the invitation and arranged through an intermediary to have the names of Professor Gene Lucas and his wife, Elizabeth, included on the guest list.
As for Lucas, he regarded the invitation, even though he didn't know Senator Bright personally, as perfectly normal and aboveboard; after all, he was the president's senior scientific adviser, and he therefore went along with no other intention but to relax and enjoy himself and breathe in the rarefied atmosphere of the Washington socialites, an opportunity that didn't come his way all that often.
His benign and relaxed disposition lasted up until the moment he found himself strolling with the secretary of defense down by the lake --which at that relatively early hour was molten with the light of the setting sun.
Wildfowl made desultory muted sounds in the reeds as they settled down for the night, and behind the two men a garland of fairy lamps marked the perimeter of the festivities--voices, laughter, the
"Oh, yes, a number of times," Lucas said in answer to a question. "We've served on various presidential committees together since 1990. In those days General Wolfe was, as I recall, a colonel and Madden a lieutenant."
"Do you know anything about the work they're engaged upon?"
Lucas exhaled pipe smoke, his mouth small and prim beneath a neatly clipped moustache. He was only an inch or two shorter than Lebasse, which made a change from having to crane his neck in order to converse. "On the military side, you mean? I know they're both with Advanced Strategic Projects at the Pentagon. But no, not specifically."
