informative.”
“Yes, why don’t you do that,” Zambendorf agreed.
Periera turned to Baines Hendridge, a dark-haired, clean-shaven man with a
collegiate look about him, who was wearing his usual intense expression.
Hendridge had come to the Hilton early that morning to convey personally the
news of the GSEC Board’s decision concerning the Mars project, and to invite
Zambendorf and colleagues to lunch with some of the other directors. “It is a
well-established fact that manifestations of paranormal phenomena differ from
observables at the more mundane, material level of existence in that their
repeatability is affected by the presence of negative or critical influences,”
Periera explained. “The effect is predictable from elementary quantum mechanics,
which proves the interdependence between the observer and the observed.”
Hendridge nodded as he absorbed the revelation, and looked even more intense.
The call tone sounded from the room’s terminal. Drew West answered, and a second
later Otto Abaquaan’s face appeared on the screen. “Is Thelma there?” Abaquaan
enquired, signaling with an eyebrow that he had information to impart. “I need
to talk to her.” He meant that he couldn’t talk openly with Periera and
Hendridge there in the room.
Zambendorf looked across at Thelma, the team’s blonde, shapely, long-legged
secretary, who was listening from the couch by the far wall. “Oh, it’s probably
about some places I told him he ought to see while we’re in New York,” Thelma
said. “He’s planning to spend the afternoon touring the city.”
“Yes, well, can you talk to him on the extension next door?” Zambendorf said.
Thelma nodded, unfolded herself from the couch, and disappeared into the suite’s
bedroom. Drew West switched the call and cleared the screen in the living room.
Periera and Hendridge could be tedious at times, but their wealthy and
influential social acquaintances made them worth putting up with.
“Where are we due to have lunch?” Zambendorf asked, looking at West.
“At that Austrian place you liked last time—Hoffmann’s on East Eighty-third,”
West answered. “We can go straight on after the interview. I’ll have a cab
waiting.”
“Is Osmond joining us?” Zambendorf asked.
Periera shook his head. “I have to attend a meeting this afternoon, thanks all
the same. Next time, hopefully.”
“A pity,” Zambendorf murmured, and went on to talk for a minute or two about the
food at Hoffmann’s. Then, judging that they had given Abaquaan and Thelma enough
time, he gave West a barely perceptible nod.
West glanced at his watch. “We’d better be moving.”
Joe Fellburg, the huge, six foot three, black ex-fighter and former
military-intelligence agent who functioned as Zambendorf’s bodyguard and the
team’s security man, straightened up from the wall just inside the doorway,
opened the closet next to him, and took out Zambendorf’s overcoat.
Zambendorf shook his head as he put on his jacket. “No, I don’t think the
weather’s quite cool enough for that, Joe. Perhaps my blue cape . . .”He looked
around the room. “Oh yes, I left it next door. Excuse me for a moment.” He went
through into the bedroom where Thelma was waiting and allowed the door to swing
shut behind. “What have you got?” he asked in a low voice.
“We’re in luck,” Thelma said, speaking quickly. “The reporter is a woman called
Marion Kearson. She drives a 2018 Buick six-seat limo compact, hydrogen-burning,
silver-gray, black trim, white wheels; small dent on driver’s side, front;
registration is New Jersey, KGY27-86753. Kearson’s address is 2578 Maple Drive,
Orangeton.” Zambendorf nodded rapidly as he concentrated on memorizing. Thelma
went on, “Two other drivers with cars are registered at the same address:
William Kearson, born August 4, 1978, five ten in height, brown hair, green
eyes, one hundred eighty pounds—has to be her husband; drives a USM Gazelle, new
this year; speeding fine last April, minor accident the previous fall; also a
Thomas Kearson, bom January 14, 2001 , also five ten, fair hair, gray eyes, one
twenty pounds; drives a 2013 Datsun— sounds like the son.”
Zambendorf repeated the information, and Thelma confirmed it. “Good,” Zambendorf
said. “Will you and Otto be able to get anything on those GSEC people we’re
having lunch with?”
“Maybe. Otto’s following up a couple of leads.”
“Call Drew or me at Hoffmann’s after twelve-thirty with whatever you come up