Nimec suddenly paused, clearing his throat. He had been about to say,
Before his recent death, Max Blackburn had been Nimec’s second in command in UpLink’s security division, a role that had evolved into his becoming the designated troubleshooter at their international facilities, particularly in hot spots where his covert skills sometimes became indispensable. But there was a high price to be paid for Max’s eagerness — even overeagerness — to put himself at personal risk. Max had not died peacefully in his sleep. Far from it, he had gotten killed long before his time, killed in a way Nimec still found difficult to accept or even think about. And in his efforts to avoid thinking about it
Perhaps, then, the shuttle accident — terrible as it had been — wasn’t the only reason for her moodiness. No matter how delicately he tried to frame it, how convenient it was that neither of them had mentioned Blackburn’s name at any point on the way here, there was no hiding the fact that finding someone to take his place was the reason they had traveled to Maine. If Colonel Rowland’s shadow had been hanging over them since they’d left San Jose that morning, then so too had Max Blackburn’s.
“We need to shore up our end of things,” Nimec resumed, choosing his words with care. “Those new robot sentries we’re using at the Brazilian ISS plant are fine and dandy, but well-trained manpower’s the foundation of any security operation. We need to beef up our force strength and tighten the organizational structure there. And that really ought to go double for the Russians in Kazakhstan.” He paused. “I only wish Starinov wasn’t under parliamentary heat to keep us out of the loop. You’d expect our saving his skin a few years ago would help on that front, but it’s actually worked against us. Seems his government has made proving it can look out for itself a point of nationalistic pride. Typical paranoid Russkie thinking, you ask me. Give them another two centuries and they still won’t have gotten over Napoleon taking Moscow.”
“As if we’ll ever forget it was one of
“Not to be compared. Pedachenko was a rogue and a traitor to his own country. And last I heard, Napoleon wasn’t an American—”
Megan raised her hand. “Wait, Pete. We can get into all that later if you want. But there’s something you said a second ago… were you implying that you suspect the shuttle explosion wasn’t an
“No,” he said. “Nor do I see any cause to be suspicious. But I like to be ready.”
“And you honestly feel Tom Ricci’s the best person to get things in shape?”
Nimec paused again, no stranger to her skepticism in connection with Ricci.
“I appreciate your reservations and agree he’s a long shot,” he said. “But you ought to keep an open mind. At least meet the guy before ruling him out as a candidate for the job.”
She frowned. “Pete, I’m sure Ricci’s a good man, and if I wasn’t willing to give him a fair shake I wouldn’t be here. But if we’ve learned anything from Russia and Malaysia, it’s that UpLink’s global enterprises can put us smack in the middle of some incredibly volatile political situations. You and Vince Scull have both insisted we need to raise our security force to a higher level of performance so we can adequately respond next time we’re caught in the cross fire. I’m just agreeing with you, and proposing that someone with a less, shall we say, checkered background would be best qualified to implement the changes that have to be made.”
Nimec furrowed his brow. He’d heard her argument before, and certainly acknowledged that it had a degree of merit. But…
But what? Was he simply being mulish insisting that Ricci had what it took to help restructure a world- spanning organization that was, as Megan had suggested, increasingly coming to resemble the military in style and scope?
Surprised by his own doubts, Nimec gave the matter a rest and concentrated on his driving. The lake area behind him now, he made a left turn off Route 3 in the town of Belfast and got onto U.S.1 northbound, crossing the bridge that spanned the harbor inlet, then heading on along the coast. Here the roadside junk dealers were shuffled in with restaurants and summer resorts and had obvious upscale pretensions, their deliberately quaint shop fronts geared toward tourists rather than hardscrabble locals. Most had the word ANTIQUES hand-painted across their windows in ornate lettering. Many were closed for the winter. The motels, inns, and cottages were also battened down for the dregs of the season, their lawn signs wishing patrons a happy and joyful Christmas and inviting them back after Memorial Day.
They continued north on the coastal highway, talking very little for some miles, catching frequent glimpses of Penobscot Bay behind and between the tourist traps on the right side of the road — its shoreline extending in belts of jumbled stone and harsh wind-carved ledges, giving intimations of a primal wildness that seemed dormant rather than lost, capable of hostile reassertion. There was a constant sense of nearness to the sea, the sky swirling with gulls, the water refracting enough pale sunlight to lift some of the cloud cover’s gravid heaviness.
“It’s much different here from inland, isn’t it?” Megan said at length. “Still sort of forlorn, but, I don’t know…”
“Beautifully forlorn,” Nimec said.
“Something like that,” she said. “There’s a disconnection from the rest of the world that makes me understand why Ricci chose this place to hide out. If you’ll pardon my choice of words.”
“Nothing wrong with it,” Nimec said. “That’s exactly what he’s been doing for the last eighteen months.”
Nimec nodded toward a green and white road sign ahead of them that read:
“Looks like we’re coming up to our turn,” he said. “Another forty minutes or so and you’ll be meeting my friend and former colleague for yourself.”
As it happened, he was right about the turn but wrong about the length of time remaining on their trip, for only ten minutes later Megan Breen got her introduction to Tom Ricci… as well as two local law-enforcement officers.
It was by no means a pleasant encounter for any of them.
Nor was it one Megan would soon forget.
It always struck Nordstrum as fascinating that Roger Gordian, who had made opening up and changing the world through telecommunications a crusade, rarely opened
Or
He paused inside the doorway, giving the room a bemused visual audit, comparing the way it looked now to how it had looked a decade ago, a year ago, or the previous autumn, when he’d last been inside it. Not to his surprise, everything was precisely the same — and in the same condition — as always. The place was a testament to careful upkeep, a paradigm of maintenance and preservation. Over the years, Gord’s desk had been refinished, his chair reupholstered, the pens on his blotter refilled, but heaven forbid that any of them ever might be replaced.
“Alex, thanks for coming.” Gordian got up from behind his desk. “It’s been too long.”
“Gord and Nord, together again for one outstanding SRO performance,” he said. “How are Ashley and the kids?”
“Pretty good,” Gordian said. He hesitated. “Julia’s moved back home for a while. Personal reasons.”
Nordstrum gave him a meaningful look.
“Husband with her?”
Gordian shook his head.
“The dogs?”
“Probably napping on my sofa as we speak,” Gordian said, and then motioned Nordstrum toward a chair.
They sat facing each other across the desk. There was, to be sure, an aura of bedrock consistency and
