THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (2 page)

'Come on, James,' Reid said, with an easy smile. Kaplan recognized the all-too-familiar expression for what it was: Reid comfortable and confident in his role as son-in-law. 'That's Goldman's lab, after all. We all know, he's a bit brash sometimes, but ...'

'Don't lecture me,' Kaplan said. He glanced at the uniformed men and women spilling into the passageway, then stared with disapproval at Reid's coffee, as if the stimulating drink signified a lack of character, a lack of assertiveness.

Not caring for the general's brusque manner, Reid looked off into the distance. ‘Well, I hardly think Goldman's worth getting flustered over ...'

'I don't care what you think, Troy. I have it from a reliable source that Goldman is a security risk.' Kaplan looked uneasily about him. He was in a hell of a mood, and wanted nothing more than to go fly-fishing in the Catskill Mountains for a week; but there was little chance of that. A shapely blond officer and a ruddy-faced serviceman walked past. The couple's easy stride suggested more than a professional or platonic relationship, and their unbroken laughter over some shared exchange only heightened Kaplan's mood. Army Chemical Corps workers also shared high spirits as they passed. The four workers readying to don full-body inspection suits for a routine inspection of the base's Mustard Agent Storage Yard.

With a sudden lull in foot traffic, Kaplan said, 'Listen Troy, as of now I'm upgrading security. It'll be a week until the new administration computer is on-line. So until then I'm posting you on guard duty.'

Reid almost sputtered from the unlikely command. 'General, you can't be serious?'

'Listen,' Kaplan said. 'I
know
your office can get by without you for a week.' The general's blunt remark underlined what he'd learnt about Reid's clerical performance. 'Jesus, Troy, surely you'd welcome a break from paper shuffling?' A part of Kaplan felt sorry for his son-in-law who due to a lower-back injury had been forced to work behind a desk.

'Check the IDs and bags of everyone going to and from this building. Keep your eyes and ears open.'

'You mean in relation to Goldman?' Reid stared at the linoleum floor, clearly riled by this new development which had been thrust upon him.

'Yes, him particularly. I want anything you can come up with. And Troy ...'

Reid let out a slow, controlled breath, raised his face.

'Don't tell a soul that I have more than a passing interest in our Australian friend.' Kaplan waved contemptuously towards Goldman’s lab.

The corporal nodded. 'Right, not a soul ...' Reid soon succumbed to curiosity. 'You seem a bit worked up, James. Is something going down?'

Kaplan remembered the special-communication from General Turner. 'Well, I think  Goldman better tread carefully from now on.' His poker face broke into a pinched grin. 'He's being watched.'

Reid brightened at being privy to the general's confidence on an official matter. 'Hmm, the DIA, eh?' He finally sipped his coffee and the warm brown fluid coursed agreeably inside him.

Kaplan nodded and told Reid to visit him in an hour's time. He headed for his office, comfortable with what he'd set in motion. But any pleasant feeling was short-lived, however, for he sensed Reid's eyes on his back, and imagined Reid laughing inside at the tell-tale sign of the general's torn armpit.

TWO

The laboratory door swished shut and barely stopped Goldman's nervous laughter from spilling into the corridor. He cupped his mouth in an attempt to curtail his tomfoolery. Haslow took off his coat and picked lint from its sleeve, before hanging it with an impulsive finality on the wood rack beside the door.

'For God's sake, don't manhandle me like that again.' His sharp expression cut through Goldman's lingering merriment.

'I didn't
manhandle
you,' Goldman replied, scrambling for sobriety. 'I simply lost my footing.'

'Your footing?' Haslow sighed and rolled his eyes. 'Listen, don't pull stunts like that in front of General Kaplan. He can be a nasty piece of work if you rub him the wrong way, and I don't think it's in anyone's interest to do that.'

Rod Haslow was Silverwood Centre's chief research chemist and had been for more years than he cared to count. He was in his mid-forties with a round face and smooth, ruddy cheeks. He sported a head of wavy brown hair, though a peppering of grey at his temples and a slight paunch spoke of his advancing years. He was recently divorced and not yet reconciled to his status as a single man. Goldman knew Haslow's ex-wife lived with a younger man and imagined this made Haslow's nights alone at home that much more uncomfortable. In any case, Haslow threw himself into his work by day, and now, tugging at his shirt cuffs, he seemed well and truly rankled by the carefree antics of his younger colleague.

'He just appeared out of nowhere, Rod. Jeez, the last thing I want is Kaplan knowing I've left my card at home again.'

'Well now he definitely knows you have!'

'Rod, please.' Goldman chuckled under his breath and raised his hand in a placatory gesture. 'You're gonna give yourself a goddamn coronary at this rate.' The thirty-three year old Australian tossed aside his work bag and dropped into a nearby seat. He had an honours degree in Molecular Biotechnology from Sydney University, and previously worked in drug discovery and development at a UCLA research centre. Goldman had American residency due to his father's Priority Worker, US Permanent Immigrant status.

'No,' Haslow replied, '
you're
gonna give me a goddamn coronary if you don't rein in your attitude around here. For God's sake, why can't you toe the line more?'

'Okay, so I left my access card at home. Jeez, it's no big deal ... other than I have to make sure I'm not docked a sickie because of it.'

Haslow dropped in front of a computer and brought it to life. The soft whir of its drive overrode the room's silence. 'You know it would be easier for everyone if you were more of a team player.'

'Come on, that's a bit rich coming from you. Considering how much work I put into our little project.'

'That's not what I meant and you know it.'

Goldman got up and paced the room, upset the day had started so badly. He cursed the unforgiving rules and regulations of his workplace. Mornings like this made him regret ever having set foot in the place. Thank God his employment contract was nearly expired. He still didn't know if it would be renewed. The great brass on high had left him dangling. Well, he was sick of the goddamn place anyway.

Goldman had been contracted two years ago due to Haslow's inability to synthesize the neurochemical Oxytocin. Haslow had been a one-man-show at his workplace for some time due to his ongoing ability to singlehandedly come up with the goods; but this time outside help had been called in.

The CIA's Directorate of Science and Technology learned in 1976 that doctors at the Serbski Institute for Forensic Psychiatry in Moscow had injected Soviet dissidents with large doses of synthetic Oxytocin, which in turn caused the prisoners to fall into trance-like states conducive to hypnotic suggestion and interrogation. Not surprisingly, the DST wanted to pursue this promising new development in the hypno-chemical field. In recent months Goldman had diffused synthetic Methylphenylethylamine-Oxytocin with a fortified MDA base – and from all accounts had created a psychotropic drug surpassing its Soviet counterpart.

Haslow tapped the keyboard and glanced at a pie chart on the screen. He turned to Goldman and presented an appeasing smile. 'Listen Scott, you're a damn good researcher and I'm proud to work with you. You know that.' He stroked his chin and looked at cluttered shelves at the back of the laboratory, as if searching for appropriate words. 'But try and keep a lid on your devil-may-care behaviour, otherwise ... well, you're going to attract all kinds of unwanted attention.'

Goldman lifted his eyebrows and shrugged noncommittally, his defiant attitude worsening by the minute. Haslow toyed with prescription glasses, but seemed far from dropping the issue. 'Listen, if the DIA get wind of you being a possible security risk, they'll monitor your sweet ass to the ground ... and probably mine due to close association.'

'Jeez mate, they've really got you under their thumb.' An overhead skylight only heightened Goldman's derisory features. 'Hell, there’s even a thumb print on your head, and by the look of it it's been there since the day you walked into this lousy joint.'

Haslow
tssked
like a harried school teacher. 'Listen, I doubt you'd be this foolhardy in your home country. But I'm warning you, be careful, cause bad ole Uncle Sam doesn't give a damn where you hail from.'

Goldman picked up a small spring scale and used its hook end to clean his thumb nail. An uncomfortable silence prevailed with only the muted sounds of trucks and machinery coming from the back of the grounds.

Drawn up in the Pentagon in the summer of 1955, Silverwood's civilian employee charter contained a proviso that ensured the employment of civilian chemists in a research laboratory. For security reasons, the laboratory was located on the ground floor of the administration building, which prevented civilian employees from being elsewhere on base.

Goldman looked about the room, its familiarity uninspiring. The Australian had reddish hair and penetrating gray-blue eyes, while his tall, wiry frame spoke of on-call strength. He replaced the spring scale and cleared his throat. 'Listen, Rod, I know it's short notice, but I've arranged a dinner party at my place tomorrow night, and you've gotta come. Belize and Manuela will be there. I told you about Manuela earlier in the week. I really think she's your type.'

He stopped and patted Haslow’s shoulder. 'Come on, we both know it's high time you got out among the fairer sex. I dare say you've grieved over Madeleine long enough. I mean your social life must be on par with a Himalayan hermit's. Just this time, mate. Come on, what do you say ... you old killjoy?'

Haslow slouched back in his seat and stared at the glowing monitor, mulling over the proposition. 'Well, I suppose I should make an effort to socialize – '

'All right.' Goldman clapped his hands. 'My place, tomorrow night, around seven.' He whistled a few bars of a Top Ten song, and for the first time that morning felt something good might come of the day.

'Hmm, okay then. Your place, around seven.' A weak smile flitted across Haslow's face as he pulled himself closer to the monitor. 'Now, if you don't mind, I'd like to meet the deadline on this MPA presentation report.' He studied a graph and tapped the keyboard, his attention narrowing down to a string of orange numbers at the bottom of the screen.

Of late Goldman was frustrated from having too much time on his hands. Of course he hadn't experienced this dilemma in the private sector. Again, staving off boredom would prove his main work of the day. But how many times could he clean and make an inventory of the laboratory's equipment? Feeling caged in, he drummed his fingers on a nearby workbench, hoping to unearth some Caribbean-style rhythms. 

The research laboratory had three main counters to speak of, its walls lined with cabinets, racks of open shelving and tall drawer units. The spacious workplace was home to voltameters, scissor jacks, electric magnetic stirrers, electrodes, clamp stands, accumulator batteries, thermometers, drying U-tubes, digital scales, graduated cylinders, separatory funnels, multipurpose centrifuges, Leibig condensors and various other equipment involved in drug research and development.

After some uninspired drumming, Goldman grabbed an in-house phone and punched in a number. 'I'll be up in five,' he said into the mouthpiece. He dropped the handset back in the cradle. With a flourish of fingers, he belted the counter-top with a rocking R&B beat. He stopped with the precision of a well-rehearsed band, his sure-fire coordination linked to years of martial arts training.

'Hey Rod, I'm off upstairs for a tic.'

Haslow grunted a reply and studied the computer. Goldman hitched up his jeans, straightened his hair and headed for the door. But soon stopped in his tracks as if discovering an explosive trip-wire across his path. He slapped his forehead and spun around, surprised and delighted by what he saw.

With his eyes still fixed on the computer, Haslow waved his key card in the air. 'I believe you'll need this to get back in.'

THREE

Goldman looked nervously about him and rapped on the door. He felt a rush of minor victory when the door slid to on its tracks.

'Steve, my man.' He grinned mischievously and stepped through the open doorway. Stephen Artarmon moaned under his breath as the metal door shut behind his uninvited guest. Seated on a wheeled office chair, the young computer professional rolled back to the workstation he’d been using (having waved his hand in front of the motion-detector on his side of the door to let Goldman in).

'What on earth are you doing here again?' Artarmon wore scuffed brown loafers, stone-washed jeans and a Ralf Lauren T-shirt. He tossed a floppy disk onto the countertop beside him. 'I still haven't got over your visit this morning. Two visits in one day. Haven't you and Haslow anything to do down there?'

'Well, Haslow has. He's still writing the MPA report.' Goldman picked up the computer disk. '
The Heavens Are Falling
. Sounds a bit ominous. What is it?'

'Just a game I copied. A good one too, leaves
Space Invaders
 for dead.'

Goldman chuckled and tossed the disk onto Artarmon's lap. 'Undoubtedly Datacheck will shaft Uncle Sam good and proper for hours spent.' He shook his head and dropped into a spare seat.

'Hey Scott,' Artarmon said excitedly, 'have you seen that hot new chick a few doors down? Latino-looking, frizzy hair. Love a woman in uniform. You must've seen her?'

'Can't say I have, mate. But I've seen your wife and, whew, what a babe. You've got yours so leave the rest to us other guys, okay?'

'Well, my eyes aren't married.' A scintilla of pride permeated Artarmon's voice from Goldman's offhand compliment. The twenty-seven year old computer science graduate had a swarthy complexion and sharp features. With his engaging boyish grin, he'd attracted a lion's share of women in his time, but was now happily married to a wealthy Asian woman who never failed to draw attention upon entering a room or venturing out in public, such were her striking looks. Goldman sensed nothing particularly bad had happened to Artarmon. His middle-class existence had probably been something of a dream run. He was yet to feel the pain of unwanted intrusions in his life.