I

1

"Mr. Robertson to see you," said Miss Farrell.

"Send him in," said Charley Becker. He had hired Robertson away from Northrop six months ago. He was a balding jock in his mid-forties who rose at 4 A.M. every day to strap on blood-pressure monitors and LED pedometers to run seven miles.

He strode in, beaming, hand extended, bursting. "CB!" he said.

Charley nodded. "I've been looking over the log to N forty-nine ninety."

"N forty-nine ninety… forty-nine ninety."

"Those are the tail numbers of the G-4 you've been living in the last six months."

"Right. Hell of a machine. The comparables just can't touch it, in terms of ceiling. I can't stand fighting it out with ATC for a decent vector. You have to plead with those bastards, it's so shoulder-to-shoulder up there."

"I see you took it to Chicago and back four times last week."

"We're burning on the PEMCO deal."

"Uh-huh. Well, only thing I smell burning is paper money, mine. Let me acquaint you with some figures. Costs $4,700 and change to keep that bird aloft per hour. Round trip Dulles-Chicago, that's two hours, that's $9,400, not counting downtime. Times four, that's $37,600. Figuring in downtime, comes to $50,000. Divided by four, that's $12,500 per trip."

"Right. As I say, we're real close-"

But Charley was already punching buttons and a voice fresh as bathroom deodorizer was coming in over the speaker box: "Thank you for calling American Airlines, Susan speaking, how may I help you?"

"Good morning, Susan. Got a fellow here needs to get to Chicago."

"Would that be first class or coach?"

"Well, now. He does like his luxury. But let's say coach. I'm sure he's got frequent-flier miles he can upgrade with."

"Round trip would be… let's see if I can get this computer to tell me… $670. Actually, it goes as low as $2.18."

"Two-eighteen, you say? Now, Susan, he's a bit touchy what altitude he flies. One thing he hates is going shoulder-to-shoulder with a lot of other aircraft. I was wondering if you could fix it so his plane will be above all those others."

"Uh-"

"Oh, and he's particular about what vector he's assigned by Air Traffic Control."

"Actually, we don't handle that here. You'd probably want to speak with… if you'll hold I could ask my supervisor."

"No, that's all right. Thank you kindly."

"Thank you for calling American."

Robertson left. Miss Farrell's voice came on, sounding surprised. "Natasha's just walked in."

"Well, send her in-"

The door blew open. "You son of a bitch."

"Sugar-" She came straight at him, cheeks ruddy from the October wind, breathing like she'd walked up all ten floors. Snorting, Charley would have said, if it weren't such an unfeminine term, though there was something of the charging bull to her aspect. Her long legs disappeared-finally-into a short black leather miniskirt. The jacket, he imagined, was of indeterminate Middle Eastern origins, with raggedy sheepskin cuffs and irregular bits of mirror stitched in along the sleeves. She looked like a cross between a Vogue model and an Afghan mujahed. She looked gorgeous. She planted her hands knuckle-down on Charley's desk-bad sign-and glowered at him with the full-moon eyes. It was her spring-loaded position; she was cocked and ready to fire. Charley felt his back flattening against the chair.

"You look a little pale, honey. You getting enough exercise?"

"Don't patronize me."

"A fine hello." He was trying to buy time while his brain raced to decipher the cause of the storm.

"You're a damn liar, Charley."

More input. Klaxons rang inside his skull, red lights flashed, neurons strapped on flak jackets and ran down corridors shouting and shutting watertight bulkheads against the norepinephrine that was already up to their knees. Aoogah aoogah, dive dive. Something seriously wrong here. More input, damnit! "Uh," he managed lamely, "how do you mean, lie?" She was giving him the microwave stare now, rearranging his molecules, cooking him from the inside out. Don't say a thing, it'll be taken down and used against you. She had a round face, she looked like the ladies painted by whatsisname, the one he could never pronounce. Anger… Inger… Ingres. Those nineteenth-century French ladies with skin soft as butter and their chins resting on a crooked finger, the picture of domesticity-you could almost smell the coq au vin in the oven-except that the eyes always seemed to be undressing the painter. What angst Ingres must have gone through in those quiet parlors-

"You have the nerve to put me under surveillance."

"I don't know what you're talking about."

"Like you didn't know what I was talking about when someone bought the building I rent in. My own rent-controlled apartment and suddenly there are cameras all over the place and round-the-clock Arnold Schwarzenegger doormen."

"Aw, we been through all that, sug."

But clearly they were going to go through it all again. "Doormen," she muttered, "in a five-story walk-up."

"I told you, the real estate division buys a lot of buildings. It's, a small world."

"Bullshit."

"You know I don't like it when you speak like that. They don't inform me about every little… rathole they're going to buy."

"Rathole. That's my home."

"Nonsense."

"What about that show I was auditioning for that suddenly you become a major backer of?"

"Coincidence."

"You're just like Nixon. You look straight into the camera and lie."

"I don't see the shame in supporting the arts."

"I was humiliated. Then you start having Felix hire people to spy on me."

"That's a terrible thing to say. I am not spying on you."

"Your righteous indignation needs a tune-up, Charley."

"Now look here, girl, you want to go live in a neighborhood looks like Bey-root"-his accent tended to deepen in periods of stress-"I don't see the harm in providing a little peace of mind."

"Your peace of mind, you mean."

"Have you seen the rape statistics for that neighborhood? 'Cause I have." He pressed a button. "Jeannie, bring the rape statistics for Natasha's new"-he said it sarcastically-"neighborhood."

They glared at each other. He said, "If you won't take my money, I've got a perfectly good apartment there that I can't hardly use anyway 'cause of my tax situation. I told you a hundred times you're welcome to it."

"Sutton Place? Are you serious?"

"The hell's wrong with Sutton Place? Not enough violent crime for you? Okay, I'll have Felix truck in some muggers. How many you want?"

"God," she said. "You just don't get it, do you?" It wasn't a surrender exactly, but she went over and sat on the edge of a sofa and lit a cigarette, staring out across Roosevelt Island toward the Mall and the Capitol.

Charley watched her. It disturbed him that she smoked. He'd offered her a significant sum of money when she was thirteen if she wouldn't smoke until she was twenty-one, which she dismissed at the time as an "obvious bribe." Well, this wasn't hardly the time to get on her about smoking. He tried, "Where'd they screw up this time?"

"They were good. I'll give them that."

I?

"Not that good."

She laughed. "He used women this time. As if you didn't know."

"That so?" he said disingenuously.

"Uh-huh." She blew a thin stream of smoke toward the Lincoln Memorial. A 727 flew past with its wheels down for landing at National. "They're kind of butch. Where does Felix find these people anyway?"

"Oh I don't know. Around, I guess."

"Do you pay them the same as men?"

"I'm sure of it." She stared. "I'll check on it."

"They followed me down here on the shuttle." She looked at her watch. "What time do you have?"