Nano

CHAPTER 18

Ensconced in his private Nano office, Zach Berman nursed a mild hangover as he waded through online editions of The New York Times, The Washington Post, and select German and British papers. Nano paid for subscriptions to a number of Chinese publications, and Berman entrusted that part of the morning ritual to Whitney Jones, whom he didn’t expect to see until considerably later in the day. Outside it was still dark.

Berman had spent the previous evening entertaining his Chinese guests, who had been pleased with their early-morning tour of Nano’s facilities and had worked the rest of the day in the restricted areas, watching their compatriots being tested and put through some basic, and safe, exercise routines for the dignitaries’ benefit. For the celebratory dinner, he again used his imposing home as the venue. He found it impressed Chinese visitors far more than the fanciest restaurant in either Boulder or Denver. It was also easier to arrange for a bevy of escorts at the house than at any restaurant.

By now, Berman was familiar with the long rounds of toasts that always accompanied such an occasion. Although he usually drank wine or beer while eating, with Chinese visitors he drank whiskey, which was their preference, hence the hangover, thanks to the number of toasts. Yet the meal had been a great success.

After dinner, Berman had made his formal PowerPoint presentation, detailing how nanotechnology was poised to become a global medical phenomenon, and how, through mutual respect and cooperation, Nano, LLC, and the People’s Republic of China would be able to capitalize on the unlimited potential they would soon unleash together. Everyone in the room had heard the spiel before in some previous iteration, but Berman’s bravura claim on this occasion had turned the last toast of the evening into the loudest and most emotional, requiring Berman to toss back an entire shot glass of scotch. Within minutes, as he reclaimed his seat, he had already felt the dull throb of an oncoming headache. A half hour beyond that, citing the need to get at least a few hours’ sleep, Berman had excused himself as his guests began playing poker in his living room with the escorts.

As Berman had gotten up to take his leave, the leader of the delegation, Shen Han Li, took him aside. He thanked his host for his generous hospitality and said that everything he had seen that day convinced him that his colleagues had been correct in their previous assessment of Nano’s progress. He reminded Berman that his superiors were still anxious to see concrete evidence of the efficacy of the particular nanorobots they were interested in. Such a demonstration would go a long way toward securing Berman his capital needs for the foreseeable future. Berman thanked Li for his candor and the generosity of what the deal could be. After the many hours of the meal and the innumerable, mutually congratulatory toasts, this was what Berman needed to hear.

It had been a successful evening indeed.

But now in the cold light of morning, Berman again felt the pressure of time and the need to assure himself that the athletes’ performances would be enough to ensure the full investment from the Chinese. There had been three recent setbacks, and even if all of the incidents had been contained, he couldn’t afford any more potential disasters. If the Chinese found out, it could unravel the whole deal. He was going to have to talk with Stevens that morning to be absolutely sure.

While glancing through the London Times, Berman became aware of what sounded like a knock on the outer door of his office suite. Berman thought his woozy head was playing a trick on him, but then he heard it again. It was too early for any of his regular secretaries, and Whitney Jones had told him she was going home to power down for a few hours. Even compulsive Mariel never came in before seven or seven-thirty. With mounting curiosity, he flicked on the screen that showed the feed from the security camera outside his office, and what he saw surprised him.

“Well, well,” Berman said aloud, and he happily buzzed his visitor in. “Through here,” he called out. Berman was shocked but pleased. Pia Grazdani was coming into his office! He stood, mildly flustered. The surprise made him feel like a smitten teenager. Nervously he smoothed back his hair and made sure his shirt was properly tucked into his slacks while his mind conjured up a mental image of George with his arm around Pia. It was a fleeting image from the other evening as the two were leaving his home, which at the time had bothered him. But not for long. Whitney had told Berman that George had been drunk and talkative, and had actually asked if Pia and Berman were sleeping together. Berman and Whitney had gotten a laugh out of it. Whitney had further said that George had admitted that his relationship with Pia was not intimate. Berman had found the information encouraging, especially now that Pia was coming into his office at the crack of dawn.

“Good morning, Mr. Berman,” said Pia brightly, appearing in the open door into his inner office. “I hope it’s not too early to come and see you.”

“It’s never too early for a pleasant surprise such as this. To what do I owe the pleasure?” To Berman she never had looked quite so good. He found her unbelievably alluring. “Come in! Please. Sit down!” He pointed toward a leather couch, while clearing away some papers that littered its cushions.

“I wanted to thank you for having George and me over to dinner the other night. We enjoyed ourselves immensely, particularly me. I’m afraid George ended up drinking more than he should have. Anyway, thank you.”

“And you wanted to come and thank me at six-fifteen in the morning? Not that I don’t appreciate the gesture.” Berman was amused — he couldn’t imagine this was the reason Pia wanted to talk with him.

“I know you come in early, and I thought it might be easier…”

“… if Whitney and or Mariel wasn’t around?” Berman’s imagination began running away with itself.

“Well, since you mention it, yes,” Pia said, smiling. She felt transparent but forged ahead.

“Miss Spallek can be a little…” Berman let Pia finish his sentence.

“… possessive?”

“That’s a good description. But don’t let it bother you. Please, sit down!” Berman again gestured to a couch positioned in front of floor-to-ceiling windows that looked out onto a Japanese rock garden. He patted one of the cushions with an open palm as if Pia needed further direction.

Pia ventured into the room, checking out the memorabilia, including what was labeled as the horns of several different types of African gazelle. The place oozed of a stereotypical, old-school masculinity that she thought had died with Hemingway. Pia sat down where Berman had indicated. She was inwardly surprised and relieved at the apparent ease with which she seemed to string Berman along. She was pleased that men like Berman were so predictable.

Pia wondered whether she could simply drop the pretense and just go ahead and ask about the Chinese government runner. Just as quickly, she thought better of it. Her intuition was telling her that Berman would most likely not tell her anything. In her mind’s eye she remembered the number tattooed on the runner’s forearm. There was something unnerving about it when she had seen it, and it jarred her again now that she recalled it.

“Mariel might be possessive,” added Berman, “but she has a good heart and she’s loyal. What I’m trying to say is that she is a terrific lieutenant.”

“Lieutenant? That’s a curious choice of words,” said Pia.

“Can I offer you an espresso?” Berman questioned while pointing toward a modern machine built into the mahogany paneling.

“That would be nice,” Pia said. Before she’d arrived, she felt nervous about what she was doing, remembering uncomfortably how Berman had tried to force his way into her apartment. Yet now she felt confident and in control. She’d dealt with guys more intimidating than Berman. The Albanians who had kidnapped her, for instance. Much more intimidating guys.

“I always think of her as having a somewhat military air. She is very well organized.”

“She’s a good boss.”

“Absolutely. She keeps me abreast of everything you’re doing in the lab.” Berman handed Pia a cup of espresso, then made one for himself.

Pia was sure Mariel had briefed Berman about Pia’s role with the Chinese runner and was curious why he wasn’t mentioning it.

“She’s very impressed with you,” he went on. “As I mentioned the other night, we’re very appreciative of the great strides you and she have been making on the microbivore biocompatibility issue.”

“I hope we’re making good progress. It’s really fascinating work, and I very much want to make a contribution to the science. That’s what my goal is.”

With his coffee in hand Berman sat in an upholstered swivel club chair situated on the opposite side of a coffee table from Pia. For a second, he regarded her with a slight smile on his face.

“So, speaking of the possessive type, how’s your friend, Dr. Wilson? Did he get back to L.A. okay?”

Pia smiled a little herself.

“I assume so, I haven’t heard. It’s good to have the apartment back to myself. I’m not equipped for company.”

“That’s understandable,” Berman said.

“Does Miss Jones live with you in your house?”

“Hardly,” Berman said.

“I’d like to see it again. It was so overwhelming; I think I missed a lot of detail.”

Berman tossed back the rest of his espresso. This was all going so much better than he could have imagined.

“You’ll have to come back for dinner again.”

“Sure,” said Pia. “I’d be happy to come to dinner.”

Berman eyed Pia. She truly was one of the most exotically attractive women he’d seen in a long time, and here she was, seemingly offering herself on a platter. He tried to calm himself. It was more than he could have hoped for. “Okay,” he said. “So when are you free?”

“I’m free tonight, I believe. If that’s not too presumptuous.”

“That’s not presumptuous at all. So tonight it is. Does eight o’clock suit you?”

“It suits me fine,” said Pia, who smiled. “But there is one thing I would like to make clear.”

“And what might that be?”

“You promised no repeat of what you called your boorish behavior that happened before you went on your trip to China. I want to hold you to that promise.”

Berman raised his hands palms out. “On my mother’s honor.” His lips curled into a slight smile.

“Okay,” Pia said simply. “See you at eight!” She stood up and left Berman’s office, feeling his eyes burning into her back. “Let him enjoy his fantasies,” she whispered to herself. Once outside in the cool morning air she further murmured: “Mission accomplished.”

For his part, Berman rocked back in his plush rocking swivel chair and thanked the gods for such an unexpectedly promising start to his day. Even his hangover had miraculously disappeared.