couldn't get along without him for a couple of hours?
The buzzer sounded again, an unpleasant sound suggestive of an insect being electrocuted by a bug zapper.
Susan reluctantly untangled herself from Raoul and crossed to the desk, long legs flashing, long, lithe golden form naked except for a towel draped across her shoulders.
She leaned forward, over the desktop. A red light flashed on the communicator. The buzzer blatted again. She grabbed the phone, cutting off the buzzer in mid-blat.
She said, 'What?'
A voice on the other end said quickly, 'It's me, Hal. Sorry to bother you, Susan, but this is important.'
Hal Dendron was no mere hireling; he was her deputy director and manager.
Susan started to say something, paused, and started listening. Hal had the authority to override Susan's version of the DO NOT DISTURB sign and the sense to know not to abuse the privilege. He wouldn't burst in unless it was something important.
He said, 'I've got Mylon Sears on the other line.' Hal's voice was pitched low, confidential.
Susan said, 'I'm listening.'
'There are some men here asking about Raoul.' Hal paused, adding, 'Government men.'
A vein started to throb in Susan's forehead. Or perhaps it had already been throbbing, but this was the first that she noticed it. Her jaw muscles flexed, her teeth clenched.
This was the onset of a too-familiar syndrome of frustration, irritation, and rage.
It was an effort for her to keep her voice level, and even then, some strain crept in.
She said, 'FBI?' The FBI had distinguished themselves, in her experience, as the most persistent pain-in- the-ass component of U.S. government harassment. She called it harassment. They called it investigation.
Hal said, 'Not, not them — CTU.'
Susan said, 'Who? Which ones are they? There's such an alphabet soup of government organizations harassing the Initiative — FBI, NSA, Homeland Security, Treasury, SEC, you name it — that I can't tell one from the other anymore.'
Hal said, 'CTU, Counter Terrorist Unit. It's kind of a domestic police force for the CIA.' Not pausing for a breath, or letting her get a word in edgewise, he plowed forward to get his message across. 'Susan, they want to talk to Raoul and they're quite insistent about it.'
She stiffened. The throbbing in her temples was turning into a pounding, forerunner of a near-future splitting headache. 'What does Mylon Sears say?'
'He's stalling them but he can't hold them off much longer.'
Raoul crossed to her. Instinctively he walked soft-footed, minimizing his tread, so nobody outside the room — like, say, a U.S. government spy with an ear pressed to the door — could hear him. He mouthed the words, 'What is it?'
Susan said, 'Hal, I'll get back to you in a minute.' She put him on hold.
She turned to Raoul, said low-voiced, 'More of those government pests. A couple of snoopers outside who want to see you.'
'I don't want to see them,' he said.
Susan looked less angry than worried. 'It's not anything serious, is it, Raoul?'
'Certainly not. It's just more of the same, part of the pattern of oppression that your government routinely inflicts on all members of President Chavez's government in this country. They hate us because we're trying to help the people — the people of Venezuela and the United States.'
Susan said, 'It makes me ashamed of my country, Raoul.'
Raoul smiled, patted her bare shoulder. 'These idiots have nothing better to do than to take up my valuable time asking a lot of fool questions about plots and conspiracies that exist only inside their own heads. I have better things to attend to. Besides, this delightful interlude of ours — I wouldn't have missed it for the world, my darling — but it has put me behind schedule.
'I can't afford to lose any more time. And so, my dear, I will say farewell, and take my leave via your private exit,' he concluded.
'Oh, Raoul… '
She opened to his embrace, yielding, molding herself to him. They kissed. Raoul gave it enough to be convincing, but not too much. He was eager to be away.
He had immunity, Caracas-issued documents attesting him as a member of the diplomatic corps. He could not be arrested, need not answer questions. But he had better things to do with his time than waste it sparring with more Washington stooges.
He came up for air first, breaking the clinch. Fingers reluctantly parting contact with Susan's golden, velvety flesh. He said, 'We'll have dinner tonight.'
They had both resolved to stay in town despite the storm, he to ride it out at the consulate, she 'to show solidarity with the people of New Orleans' and because she had a first-class house in the Faubourg Marigny and a top-notch security staff to protect her.
She said, 'Phone me as soon as you get clear, Raoul.'
'I will do so.'
A back door exit from Susan's private quarters had proved useful in the past and would do so again — in fact, now. He crossed to it, opening the door. Beyond lay a narrow passageway. He opened the door a crack and peeked into the hall. It was empty.
He turned, blew Susan a kiss. She blew one back to him. He eased into the hall, shutting the door behind him.
Now that he was in the corridor, he could hear voices coming from around the corner and deeper into the main hallway. Several voices. The rhythms were ordinary, conversational. He couldn't make out what they were saying.
He went the other way, turning left toward the tall window at the end of the hall. Before he reached that, he came to a fire door. He opened it, stepping out onto an empty stair landing. No voices or sound of ascent or descent reached him. He was alone.
He went down several flights to another landing, opened a fire door, and entered a hallway. He was now several floors below the main floor of KHF offices and Susan's private retreat.
He got on an elevator and rode it all the way down, to an underground parking garage on a sublevel of the building.
The elevator car came to a halt with a slight bump, doors sliding open. Ahead lay a square-sided corridor of white-painted concrete-block walls, some lined with pipes and cables. Raoul followed it to the underground garage.
So far, so good. He'd eluded pursuit. All that remained for him to do was get in his car, exit the garage to street level, and be on his way.
He was unarmed. He never carried a gun or a weapon. That was for the likes of Colonel Paz and his bullyboys, not for a Garros. He was insulated from that side of the business, too valuable to risk for mere vulgar gunplay and strong-arm activity.
'From each according to his abilities, to each according to his needs.' That was a philosophy much in favor with the new masters in Caracas. In this case, Raoul approved of the sentiment.
He headed for his car, saying to himself, 'Home free.'
9. THE FOLLOWING TAKES PLACE BETWEEN THE HOURS OF 1 P.M. AND 2 P.M. CENTRAL DAYLIGHT TIME
The offices of the Keehan Humanistics Fund occupied several upper floors of the Mega Mart building. Not the topmost floors, because the flat roof doubled as a helicopter landing pad and the KHF offices had been sited below them to buffer and muffle the chopper noise.
The main floor of the complex was the one where Susan Keehan maintained her office and adjoining suite of
