all his life, but they were good Egyptian cotton, soft and absorbent.
By 7,50 Tuesday morning, Oslett had dressed in a white cotton shirt with
whalebone buttons by Theophilus Shirtmakers of London, a navy-blue
cashmere blazer crafted with sublime attention to detail by his personal
tailor in Rome, gray wool slacks, black oxfords (an eccentric touch)
handmade by an Italian cobbler living in Paris, and a club tie in
stripes of navy, maroon, and gold. The color of his silk pocket
handkerchief precisely matched the gold in his tie.
Thus attired, his mood elevated by his sartorial perfection, he went
looking for Clocker. He didn’t desire the big man’s company, of course,
he just preferred, for his own peace of mind, to know what Clocker was
up to at all times. And he nurtured the hope that one blessed day he
would discover Karl Clocker dead, felled by a massive cardiac
infarction, cerebral hemorrhage, or an alien death ray like those about
which the big man was always reading.
Clocker was in a patio chair on the balcony off the living room,
ignoring a breathtaking view of the Pacific, his nose stuck in the last
chapter of Shape-Changing Gynecologists of the Dark Galaxy, or whatever
the hell it was called. He was wearing the same hat with the duck
feather, tweed sportcoat, and Hush Puppies, although he had on new
purple socks, fresh slacks, and a clean white shirt. He’d changed into
a different harlequin-pattern sweater-vest, as well, this one in blue,
pink, yellow, and gray. Though he was not sporting a tie, so much black
hair bristled from the open neck of his shirt that, at a glance, he
appeared to be wearing a cravat.
After failing to respond to Oslett’s first “good morning,” Clocker
replied to the repetition of those words with the improbable split
finger greeting that characters gave each other on Star Trek, his
attention still riveted to the paperback. If Oslett had possessed a
chainsaw or cleaver, he would have severed Clocker’s hand at the wrist
and tossed it into the ocean. He wondered if room service would send up
a suitably sharp instrument from the chef’s collection of kitchen
cutlery
The day was warmish, already seventy. Blue skies and balmy breezes were
a welcome change from the chill of the previous night.
Promptly at eight o’clock–barely in time to prevent Oslett from being
driven mad by the lulling cries of sea gulls, the tranquilizing rumble
of the incoming combers, and the faint laughter of the early surfers
paddling their boards out to sea–the Network representative arrived to
brief them on developments. He was a far different item from the
hulking advance man who’d driven them from the airport to the
Ritz-Carlton several hours earlier. Savile Row suit. Club tie.
Good Baily wingtips. One look at him was all Oslett needed to be
certain that he owned no article of clothing on which was printed a
photo of Madonna with her breasts bared.
He said his name was Peter Waxhill, and he was probably telling the
truth. He was high enough in the organization to know Oslett’s and
Clocker’s real names–although he had booked them into the hotel as John
Galbraith and John Maynard Keynes–so there was no reason for him to
conceal his own.
Waxhill appeared to be in his early forties, ten years older than
Oslett, but the razor-cut hair at his temples was feathered with gray.
At six feet, he was tall but not overbearing, he was slim but fit,
handsome but not dauntingly so, charming but not familiar. He handled
himself not merely as if he had been a diplomat for decades but as if he
had been genetically engineered for that career.
After introducing himself and commenting on the weather, Wax hill said,
“I took the liberty of inquiring with room service if you’d had
breakfast, and as they said you hadn’t, I’m afraid I took the further
liberty of ordering for the three of us, so we can breakfast and discuss
business simultaneously. I hope you don’t mind.”
“Not at all,” Oslett said, impressed by the man’s suaveness and
efficiency.
No sooner had he responded than the suite doorbell rang, and Waxhill