The Scarab (23 page)

The manager mopped sweat from his
brow. “Why not?”

“It says that you have absolutely
no connections to the Middle East.”

“And?” he prompted impatiently.
Someone above him in the hotel hierarchy must have been making his life Hell
since yesterday.

“The El Greco in the lobby,” I
said.

“You want it? We can make a deal,”
the manager offered in hushed tones.

“No. It was given to you by a
prominent Arab leader. I’ve seen several other Arab clients here as well. I can’t
lie. Beside, this computer ring has nothing to do with the Middle East.”

The manager did what he was best
at, he squirmed and wheedled. “You don’t know that for a fact, do you? Just
disclaim any knowledge of a link between Arab terrorists and the Windsor.”

“Are you trying to get me lynched?
If I go on record saying something like that, the Arab Anti-Defamation League
will be all over me faster than kids on a broken pi
ñ
ata.
Then the other leagues will get it into their heads that I’m not seen in public
enough with Jewish people, overweight people, or cat lovers. No thank you,” I
ranted.

“Please, we implore you. The hotel
is losing money by the hour. People are canceling for the Spring already, not
just in our location, but at other branches as well. This could finish us if
the rumors go national by the end of the day,” the manager all but groveled.

“Look, I appreciate the service I’ve
had here, and you don’t need to worry about me suing. I don’t think I can help
you with your problem.”

“Two minutes,” announced the
coordinator. “To spread the finalists fairly among the guests, we have assigned
you seats with no more than two team members to a table. Look for your logos on
this chart. See me if you have trouble finding your place card.”

Piss. I had just wasted $2000 on
this meal. I turned my back on the hotel crew. “What’s for dinner, any way?” I
asked Mare, hoping the meal wouldn’t be a total loss.

“Spaghetti,” she replied.

Piss on an electric fence.

Seeing my sour look, Mary Ann
added, “Don’t worry, the FBI has a man making sure no one poisons the food and
two others watching the waiters.”

“Mr. Hayes,” the manager begged.

“What!” I snapped. I guess meeting
the press was making me more nervous than I thought, and Nigel still wasn’t
back from his mission. I was counting on him to spread the news about how easy
Ghedra was to pilot.

“Perhaps your lovely bride-to-be
could speak on our behalf? We could pay a fee,” said the gold-jacketed
sycophant.

I glanced at Mare, and she gave me
a definite “No” stare.

I bent close and whispered in the
manager’s ear. It occurred to me that I didn’t know the man’s name and didn’t
care. “It’s not like your home office is free from taint. As a Law Enforcement
professional, she couldn’t take money from a gambling organization.”

The manager switched from pleading
to indignant rudeness. “We didn’t want to mention this, but the ring you
purchased on your company’s expense account is not a legitimate business
expense. The IRS would be very interested in this abnormality.”

Foxworthy was still out on his
secret mission, so Steve stepped in. “She gets a bonus when we win. Since we’re
guaranteed at least a quarter million already, he got it for her early.”

“Sign me up for that incentive
plan,” Josie giggled.

I turned to Mr. Niven, the
concierge who had remained silent this whole time. He still looked at me with a
mixture of grudging respect and the tolerance one gives the
nuvo riche
. “What
would you do?” I asked.

He considered my question for a
moment, and then replied with perfect diction. “State that the event was not a
bombing; rather, it was an attempt to sabotage the game. The men involved are
now in police custody, making the hotel and the contest safe once again.”

There was still a very real danger,
but Kali was probably just after me. “Okay. That I’ll sign.”

“You’re next,” shouted the
coordinator.

I put on my mask, and we all walked
in to the strains of “Valley of the Kings” by the Alan Parsons Project. I
looked at the crowd from beneath my beak and waved. I sat next to Mare and
Steve took the next table with Josie. I wasn’t able to eat spaghetti
one-handed, especially with a white outfit. Luckily, I was still pretty full
from the pizza. I could snack on the salad and basket of garlic bread to take
the edge off. Just as I was about to take the first mouthful of cheese-covered
garlic bread, Nigel stepped into the room. He gave me a mute thumbs-up on his
way to his assigned seat.

I breathed a sigh of relief. The
race was nearly over, and the toughest parts were behind us. With any luck, we
could coast the rest of the way.

A photo opportunity was scheduled for the ballroom next-door
after the meal. By contrast to the casino night buffet, this meal was
underwhelming, but at least the company was hostile. We had one fan at our
table, a millionaire from Texas, complete with ten-gallon hat and spurs. The
rest were sharks. Between bites, I avoided questions like “There’s a rumor that
you’re a government agent.”

“Yes, there is.”

“Why do you conceal your face?”

“It’s called a costume.”

“Is your real name Ethan Hayes?”

I thought about inventing an alias
or something like Eitan or Etienne that sounded similar, but settled on the
cryptic “It is this week.”

I noticed that a few tables were
seeded with FBI guards incognito. Was the government paying for those seats?
More importantly, what was for dessert?

“How do you keep coming back from
the dead?”

Mr. Beauregard, who was dressed as
a Marshall from the Old West for the costume party, loaned me some of his red
wine. It was smooth, fruity, and helped the questions go by faster. “Would you
believe clean living? If I told you my secrets, it would spoil the fun. I’ll
bet you’re the sort who would ask the illusionist where the elephant really
went.”

Everyone chuckled politely, but
Mare whispered, “Be less antagonistic; this is for charity.”

“Is Ms. Valencia a member of your
team?”

“Not precisely. Ms. Valencia is a ... liaison to other teams, an emissary whom we all admire,” I said, trying
to be diplomatic.

“Did she replace your previous two
spokesmodels? Are you dating her?”

“I should say not; my fiancée would
never forgive me. Ladies and gentlemen, I am pleased to introduce Marie
Antionette Anselm, my lovely Cleopatra.” I let her field questions while I schmoozed
with the millionaire. She was a natural at it. The engagement news, now
confirmed, replaced my shady past as the question topic of choice for several
minutes. Even when they switched subjects to recent product announcements, she
answered without skipping a beat.

“Doesn’t it bother you that two
other teams are building your vehicles?”

Mary Ann smiled. “Not in the least.
Ethan is flattered by the interest. DeClerk isn’t a factory; rather, it’s a
research center. His labs try to focus on the future of GEV. Once it becomes
the present, he moves on.”

“What did your team achieve this
year?”

“We all had a great time. That was
the main goal. We all took vacation time to do this. We found some ups and
downs in the new designs, our own as well as a few others.” Again, the table
laughed. “The next goal was to introduce DeClerk to the industry as a whole, to
let them know what we have to offer, even as a small company. Interaction with
other teams is essential to innovate, integrate, and learn. Lastly, we proved how
easy GEV controls can be made. Did you know that Ethan, the Scarab, only
piloted for half the race? Every member of our team got to participate in the
event. I’ve had a little experience with high speed floaters, but never raced
before. Heck, our lawyer Nigel faced GEDM single-handedly, and he flies an
unarmed Volvo every day.”

With pencils, recorders, and
palmtops, they absorbed every word she said. Mare went on to thank various
people who had helped us in some way during the contest. The list was longer
than I remembered. She had them eating out of her hand for another five
minutes. Unfortunately, my reprieve didn’t last forever.

My millionaire friend, Mr.
Beauregard (or JB as he preferred to be called), noticed my injured arm and
commented, “Did you hurt your arm fighting those towel heads?”

I spilled wine on my lap. Luckily,
Mare had put my napkin there for me, and it soaked up most of the mess. All the
reporters were focused on me again. “If you’re referring to the ongoing police
investigation, I can’t comment. I can say that members of TSM set a fire in the
hotel in order to sabotage the game. Those people are in custody, and we’ll
have to wait till after the trial to tell our side. As you may have noticed,
the FBI stayed on to strengthen security and prevent future problems. I’ve been
asked to direct all further questions on this matter to Field Supervisor
Reynolds.”

Mare added that all the teams,
including Exotech, had helped in catching the ring, and that both GEDM and TSM
were facing charges. She creatively said nothing further of content for the
next three minutes. This time, the attack came from an unexpected direction.

“Mr. Hayes, what do you think of
this dinner?”

Pleased that someone was throwing
me an easy pitch, I stepped up to the plate. “I would have thrown a few shrimp
into the marinara sauce for this price.” I thought I had scored until the
follow-up question.

“I mean, how do you feel about the
American Indian College Fund?”

“Well enough to give $2000 and an
hour of everyone’s time.” Everyone sensed a trap here, but me. I hated when the
table got quiet.

“Worth an hour? How kind,” the
journalist said acidly.

My face burned. “At least in America we no longer burn their homes or kill them to mine the land. Last time I was in Brazil, the city slums were full of displaced Indians. Most of them had no running water,
and the trenches outside the corrugated metal shacks were filled with human
waste. At their average wage, it took six people working full time to afford a
legal, one-room apartment,” I said.

“So the South American Indians are
worth helping but the one here aren’t?”

It took considerable restraint to
keep from shouting as I said, “Stop trying to put words in my mouth, and tell
me what’s eating you, Mister.”

“Why is it that your company is the
only one that didn’t pledge volunteer teachers to the fund?”

That’s what that sheet had been
for. I started to waffle. “We’re pretty small right now. I’m the only one
working fulltime.”

“And you wouldn’t consider
teaching?”

I tried to look at my watch, but we
had left it off this morning because my left wrist needed time to recuperate.
Where was that dessert? No matter how I answered, I was going to get nailed. If
I was going to go down, at least I was going to go down honest. “I can’t teach,”
I admitted.

“Why not? You have a Masters
diploma from Oxford.”

Ouch. If I admitted the diploma was
fake, they had a new lead story. If I lied, they’d catch me. Mare sensed my
dilemma and rescued me. “What Ethan means is that he could never teach in a
traditional classroom setting. He has, however, done extensive work with
apprenticeship programs. He’s much too shy to stand in front of so many
strangers at once. I remember thinking he was cute the first time we met, but
it took him five years to get up the nerve to ask me out. It was almost another
three years before we got engaged. He’s a very private person.”

I was saved. Mare took the heat off
me and redirected the questions in one swoop. However, she couldn’t resist
whispering in my ear, “So private that even I didn’t know he was the Scarab
until this week.”

JB and I chatted about his ranch
and oil wells till dessert arrived. Then someone came back to my earlier
comment on Brazil and asked my opinion on the latest financial fiasco with
their President. If I came out against the billion-dollar boondoggle, I had no
heart. If I came out in favor of it, I had no brain. Either way I answered, I
would get painted as part of a political group I didn’t belong to. I shoveled a
massive portion of pudding in my mouth to stall and looked for a way out.

Mare must have signaled the others
for an emergency extraction because, the next instant, Nigel came over to the
table with Steve and Josie. “The
Car and Driver
folks wanted to see us a
few minutes early. I told them you wouldn’t mind.”

Mare made one last pass for
questions before excusing us to take pictures. When we were out of earshot, I
thanked Nigel for the timely assist. “She really did ask us to come early. Two agents
from the FBI are already in there checking to make sure there are no hidden
guns or weapons in the photo equipment.”

As we moved toward the huge double
doors leading to the ballroom, I overheard Steve chatting with his sister. “Josie
was telling me about this great Ski Resort not ten minutes from here, in the Cibola National Forest. I thought that after the race, we could all go there for a good
time. Oh, I forgot about his arm.”

“That’s okay. You two can go
without us. How did your grill session go?” she asked.

“Not bad. I told them he was the
kind of guy who was smart enough to invent the paper clip just because he
needed one. Nigel talked about the patents a lot, and showed them the latest
invention. Because it was a collaboration, the rights will go to SimCon under
the condition that they let people use it for free.”

Josie seemed less impressed. “What
he didn’t tell you is that Nigel already has patents on some of the tools and
clamps Scarab used to build the adjustable frame. If they give away these
blueprints and it becomes the standard, DeClerk could be a household name. Is
the name Scarab trademarked yet?”

Whitaker kept a tight rein, letting
everyone else go ahead of me into the new room. “Oh, good news,” Nigel told me
just before we got separated. “Everyone has signed up for payment by check.
Kali is on the ropes now.”

Once we were inside the ballroom,
the agent behind me fell back to guard the door. I thought they were being a
little paranoid.