his mother lived, though in much better shape. Howe pulled up the long, winding driveway and parked in the gravel lot off the macadam. Inside he found a receptionist who bore an uncanny resemblance to his hometown librarian, complete with pink-rimmed bifocals and tightly wound curls.
“Yes, dear?” asked the receptionist.
“I’m looking to rent either an apartment or a condo,” he said.
Before she could answer, the phone rang. Howe stepped back from the desk, his gaze wandering to the left side of the foyer. An old-fashioned steam radiator stood in front of the wainscoting, its thick gold paint glowing. The woodwork behind it had several sets of reveals as the panels stepped back to the wall. Whoever had restored the house had done a painstaking job; all of the original details shone through. Howe thought of his friend Jimmy’s business and felt a stab of guilt, as if his decision to take the NADT job meant he was letting him down.
“Are you being helped?”
Howe turned and found himself staring at a woman about thirty years old. She wore a black sleeveless top and a matching skirt that came nearly to her knees; her light-brown hair had a gentle wave in it as it fell just behind her shoulders. She had a few freckles on her face, which was one of those that seemed naturally inclined toward smiles rather than frowns. Her eyes were blue, and she raised the brows as she waited for him to answer the question.
Howe found himself suddenly tongue-tied.
“I, uh, I’m looking for an apartment or a condo, I guess. Something not that big.”
“Married?”
When Howe didn’t answer right away, the woman smiled and held her hand out to him. “I’m not trying to pick you up,” she told him. “Just find out how big a place you need.”
“No, I know. I’m not.” Howe stifled a sudden urge to smack himself on the side of the head. “I’m single,” he added, still fumbling to explain. “I’ve just taken a government job, actually; it’s a job with a company that does a lot of work for the government, but it’s not actually a government agency per se.”
“Per se?” Where the hell did that come from, he asked himself.
“I’m Alice Kauss,” said the woman, holding out her hand. It felt warm and slender in his, yet the grip was firm. “Come on into my office and let me take down some information. Then we’ll see what we can come up with.”
She spun on her heels and walked into what would have been the parlor area when the house was first built. Howe followed across the parquet floor to a sleek metal desk that sat before a covered fireplace toward the back. Somehow the ultracontemporary furnishings looked perfectly at home in the old-fashioned setting.
Not that Howe was able to pay much attention to his surroundings. As they worked through the basic questions, he tried desperately hard not to stare at Alice ’s cleavage and found himself folding his arms over his own chest.
“How much?” she asked.
“I’m sorry?” His eyes met hers. The blue irises glimmered in the light from the halogen on the desktop.
“Your price range?”
“I’m not sure,” he admitted.
Howe realized he had to do some more thinking before he was ready to rent a place, but now that he was here he couldn’t just get up and walk out.
“Well, how much do you make?”
He smiled at her.
“We haven’t settled on a salary yet,” he said.
Alice put down her pen. “So you’re more in the exploratory mode right now,” she said.
“Yeah. I— listen, I do need a place. I’m just not sure exactly what I need. It shouldn’t be too expensive or that big, but on the other hand, I mean—”
“You don’t want to live in a slum.”
“Right.”
“And you want to rent or buy?”
“Rent. I think.”
There were people in the front hallway. Alice ’s phone buzzed but she didn’t answer it.
“I have an idea, William.”
“You can call me Bill, really.”
“Bill.” There was that smile again, this time full force — not phony, and definitely disarming. “I have a closing in about fifteen minutes. I think that’s them out there, a little early. And then I have a full slate for the rest of the day. But if you come back around four-thirty, say, I can take you to a few condos and you can get an idea of the market. If you can afford it, you’ll probably do a lot better buying. What do you think?”
“Of buying? I don’t know. I guess.”
“Because of the market. But we can talk about it.”
“Great,” he said, standing. “Real great.”
NADT had been envisioned more as a think tank than a weapons development company, and those roots showed in its headquarters buildings. The ultramodern buildings were located well back from the road behind manicured lawns and gardens. A range of security sensors, from cameras to motion detectors, maintained constant surveillance of the grounds, but to the naked eye the place seemed deserted until you passed a row of evergreens a few hundred feet off the road. At that point a pair of security guards and the small kiosk appeared a few feet ahead.
Howe had been told that devices were planted in the roadway a bit farther along that could paralyze car engines with an electromagnetic pulse, and he had seen firsthand some of the weaponry the NADT security force had at its disposal. But for all that, the guards appeared almost nonchalant, unfailingly courteous, and friendly; indeed, they were tested and graded on these qualities, with the overall goal of presenting an image to the world — or, more specifically, visiting politicians and high-ranking military people — of absolute self-confidence and efficiency.
Unfortunately, that image had been largely that: an image. The security staff had not exactly covered itself with glory in the Cyclops One fiasco. While the problems at NADT had been caused by Bonham and some of the investors, not the security people or the engineers and scientists and grunts who did the real work, one of his first tasks would be to determine if anyone else should be sacked because of it.
A difficult task. Just about everyone he knew here was dedicated and hardworking, serious and proud of the job they did. A lot were ex-military people, though of course that wasn’t a carte blanche endorsement, either.
“Colonel, good morning,” said Nancy Meile, meeting him just as the two gate men cleared him and his vehicle to proceed. Meile, about forty and a former partner in a private security firm, was the security director. “Rumor true? You’re taking the job?”
“A few hurdles left,” he said.
“I hope you take it.”
“Why?”
The question seemed to take her by surprise, and she didn’t answer right away. “I think you’ll do a good job.”
As an officer advanced through the ranks of the military, he or she couldn’t help but become aware of the various political games that were played. For Howe, the gamesmanship was a severe negative: In his opinion it detracted not just from the mission he and his comrades had to accomplish, but from the bedrock duty and loyalty to one’s oath and the country itself. The relative lack of games in the development projects he’d gotten involved in with NADT, as a matter of fact, was one of the attractions.
As head of NADT he’d have to devote considerable energy to playing those political games. But not with his staff.
“I wasn’t fishing for a compliment,” he told Meile. “I want simply to understand what needs to be done.”
His words felt a bit too stiff in his mouth, but he at least got the thought across; he could see it register on her face.
“I’d be happy to talk with you at length when you think it’s appropriate,” she said.
