Powersat

Matagora Island, Texas

Al-Bashir turned off the engine on his Mercedes and walked back into the hangar. The noise was still painful, although the crowd was noticeably smaller.

April was still there, and when she caught sight of al-Bashir she looked slightly startled, almost afraid. He smiled at her from across the crowded hangar floor, then went to the makeshift bar and asked for two colas.

As he threaded his way through the crowd toward April, he saw a dusty minivan pull up directly in front of the hangar door. Dan Randolph got out with the scowling black technician. I wonder where he was, al-Bashir asked himself. No matter. His fate is about to be sealed. And I have a rendezvous of my own to make.

He stopped at one of the shaky little round tables that had been set up across the hangar floor. Putting down the two plastic cups of cola, al-Bashir reached into his jacket pocket for the little vial of pills he had brought with him from Marseille. He shook one out and made a show of putting it in his mouth, then taking a swallow of his cola. Actually, he palmed the pale pink lozenge and dropped it inconspicuously into the other drink. Somatomax, it was called. A gamma-hydroxybutrate, used for bodybuilding in Europe; illegal in the United States. Its side effects included euphoria and drowsiness. An admirable date-rape drug, much more subtle and effective than the roofies and clonazepam that American college boys used.

While Jane was present, Dan had stayed as far from Vicki Lee as he could, but now that the senator had left with Scanwell, Dan simply drifted through the crowd, nursing a plastic cup of flat and warm champagne, thinking, What the hell, if she comes over there’s no harm being sociable to her. He still worried about allowing her into his apartment upstairs, but he realized it would be damnably awkward to steer her out to whichever motel she was staying in.

We’ll see what develops, he told himself.

Even across the crowded, noisy hangar, April was alarmed by what she saw in al-Bashir’s eyes. A cold shudder ran through her. You must be crazy, she told herself. Go to France with him? In his private jet? That’s like saying yes to him before he even asks.

And yet she had told Eamons that she would go. They wanted to get evidence against al-Bashir. The man might be the one behind the crash and the murders, the one who was trying to ruin Dan.

But she fished her cell phone out of her purse and tapped out Eamons’s personal number. One ring. Two. Come on, April said, seeing that al-Bashir was pushing his way through the crowd toward her, a drink in each hand.

“Eamons here.”

“Kelly! It’s April.”

“Where are you?”

“I’m still at Matagorda.” She hesitated a moment. Al-Bashir was almost within earshot.

“Can you talk any louder?” Eamons asked. “There’s a lot of noise in the background.”

“I’m not going,” April said, as loudly as she dared.

“What?”

“I’m not going through with it. I’m sorry, but I just can’t do it.”

Eamons said nothing for a long moment. Then, “Can’t say I blame you, kid.”

“I’m sorry.”

“Don’t be. It was a crazy idea in the first place.”

Al-Bashir stepped up to her, smiling, holding the two drinks.

“I’ll call you later.”

“Okay. Call me when you get home. No matter what time it is.”

“All right. Thanks.” April clicked off the phone and put it back in her purse.

“Have a drink, April,” said al-Bashir, proffering one of the plastic cups.

She hesitated.

Smiling more broadly, al-Bashir said, “It’s nonalcoholic. Coke. Coca-Cola, that is, not cocaine.” He laughed mildly.

April took the cup. It felt cold and slippery in her hand. Then she looked up and saw, halfway across the hangar floor, that a buxom young news reporter was sidling up to Dan and he was grinning at her. April felt her innards tense.

Al-Bashir said something to her, but she didn’t hear it. She watched as Dan slipped an arm around the woman’s waist. The woman looked familiar to her. Vicki Lee, she recalled. From Aviation Week. She’s been here before, April knew. The way Dan was looking at her, there was far more than publicity on his mind, she could see.

Al-Bashir lifted his cup in a mock toast. April made herself smile at him and sipped at the drink he had given her.

Williamson found that if he didn’t move his head he was all right. His stomach had settled down, just as Nikolayev had foretold. That’s the one thing they can’t train you for in the simulators, he told himself. Zero gravity screws up all your body fluids. His head still felt stuffed, as if he had a monster of a sinus infection. But he didn’t feel as if he had to puke anymore, for which he was bloody grateful.

I wonder if Bouchachi’s going through the same ordeal, Williamson asked himself. He’s damned quiet. Bloody martyr. Maybe he’s afraid that if he complains Allah won’t let him into Paradise after all. Williamson laughed inwardly. Maybe I can get his seventy-two virgins then.

The transfer ship was slightly bigger than the Soyuz they had ridden to low orbit. Now Nikolayev was steering them to the powersat itself, high up in the geosynchronous twenty-four-hour orbit. Their equipment package was flying formation with them, guided from the ground control center, wherever that was.

It’s like a fucking computer game, Williamson thought. None of it seemed real to him. He sat inside a bulky spacesuit topped by a fishbowl helmet, inside a cabin that was crammed with gauges and dials and lighted boards that winked and clicked at him. No way to see outside, which was probably just as well. Nothing out there to see, he figured.

Ann’s face came to his thoughts, despite his best efforts to drive her image out of his mind. She had been beautiful once, young and lovely, with a laugh that could charm the angels down from heaven. But the face he saw now was pale and strained, lined with worry, old before her time. She knew Williamson was going to die, slowly and painfully as the cancer ate away his insides. She knew she’d have to support their two children by herself. He hadn’t told her about the money he’d get for this mission. He’d left a letter for her, to be delivered in three days. It’ll all be over by then, Williamson knew. I’ll be dead. Bouchachi and Nikolayev will be dead. And so will a whole shitload of Yanks.