straight-backed, with good posture. She wore a tailored jacket and pleated skirt, both charcoal-gray; a white blouse with a thin red and yellow paisley kerchief, and black pumps with chunky three-inch heels.
She was already acquainted with Anne Armstrong and greeted her warmly. Noone introduced her to Jack. They shook hands. Her palm was dry, her grip firm.
Noone’s handset radio squawked, prompting him to excuse himself for a moment. He stepped a few paces away and held the transceiver to the side of his head, taking a message and responding to it.
He said to the other three, “I’m needed at the guardhouse to iron out some business. Nice seeing you again, Ms. Clary. I’ll see you later, Anne—Jack.” He went out.
Marion Clary said, “Mr. Wright’s meeting with some of the event planners is running a little long. Please excuse the delay.”
Jack said, “I thought he was meeting with Don Bass.”
“He was, but Mr. Bass was called away unexpectedly a few minutes before you arrived and the planners seized the opportunity to see Mr. Wright for a few minutes. He’s scheduled to deliver the opening keynote address at ten and there were one or two last- minute details to finalize.”
“Mr. Wright is going to speak today?”
“Oh yes, he always delivers the opening address to the conference. It’s a tradition and a high point of the Round Table, if I say so myself. Of course, I’m hardly in a position to be objective, knowing him as well as I do. His talk should be especially interesting this year, what with all the turmoil in the global markets.”
“I’m sure,” Jack said. He was thinking that if Wright and the high-finance attendees knew of the short-selling bets being made against their companies, there’d be some real turmoil right there in the conference room. But that information was being closely held by Chappelle and a handful of others. Chappelle was as tight at disseminating confidential intelligence as a miser would be in handing out dollars. Which was one of his good points as far as Jack was concerned.
The pattern of shorting had of necessity been made known to CTU/DENV head Orlando Garcia, since it was the wedge that had gotten Jack involved in the local operation. Jack didn’t know how far down the line Garcia had passed the intel. He didn’t know if Anne Armstrong was aware of it. She hadn’t mentioned it, and he wasn’t about to volunteer anything on the subject until he was sure she had an irrefutable need to know.
Marion Clary said, “While you’re waiting, may I offer you some refreshments? Coffee, tea, or some other beverage?”
Jack said, “Coffee would be fine, thanks.”
Anne Armstrong said, “Yes, I’d like some, too, please.”
The process was nothing so simple as pouring a couple of cups from a coffee urn. Marion Clary spoke into her desk intercom, issuing a summons. A white-coated server appeared within less than two minutes, wheeling in a serving cart. It held silver pitchers, china cups and saucers, and an assortment of muffins, buns, and pastries. One pitcher held coffee, another held decaffeinated coffee. Jack had the full-octane coffee, black.
It was good coffee, rich, aromatic, flavorful. His stomach growled at the sight of the pastries, but the left side of his face still felt too sore for much chewing so he reluctantly passed on them. Anne Armstrong had the decaf coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. Marion Clary had a cup of tea. The server exited, wheeling away the cart.
Jack’s eye was caught by a picture that looked out of place among the Old Masters creations. It was a full-length portrait that hung high on the wall behind the mahogany desk. Its subject was a man dressed in the garb of the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. He had a shock of white hair, a hawklike predatory face, and a white walrus mustache that failed to disguise a self- satisfied smirk. His eyes were hard, narrow, and bright, boldly, contemptuously staring out at the
She was already acquainted with Anne Armstrong and greeted her warmly. Noone introduced her to Jack. They shook hands. Her palm was dry, her grip firm.
Noone’s handset radio squawked, prompting him to excuse himself for a moment. He stepped a few paces away and held the transceiver to the side of his head, taking a message and responding to it.
He said to the other three, “I’m needed at the guardhouse to iron out some business. Nice seeing you again, Ms. Clary. I’ll see you later, Anne—Jack.” He went out.
Marion Clary said, “Mr. Wright’s meeting with some of the event planners is running a little long. Please excuse the delay.”
Jack said, “I thought he was meeting with Don Bass.”
“He was, but Mr. Bass was called away unexpectedly a few minutes before you arrived and the planners seized the opportunity to see Mr. Wright for a few minutes. He’s scheduled to deliver the opening keynote address at ten and there were one or two last- minute details to finalize.”
“Mr. Wright is going to speak today?”
“Oh yes, he always delivers the opening address to the conference. It’s a tradition and a high point of the Round Table, if I say so myself. Of course, I’m hardly in a position to be objective, knowing him as well as I do. His talk should be especially interesting this year, what with all the turmoil in the global markets.”
“I’m sure,” Jack said. He was thinking that if Wright and the high-finance attendees knew of the short-selling bets being made against their companies, there’d be some real turmoil right there in the conference room. But that information was being closely held by Chappelle and a handful of others. Chappelle was as tight at disseminating confidential intelligence as a miser would be in handing out dollars. Which was one of his good points as far as Jack was concerned.
The pattern of shorting had of necessity been made known to CTU/DENV head Orlando Garcia, since it was the wedge that had gotten Jack involved in the local operation. Jack didn’t know how far down the line Garcia had passed the intel. He didn’t know if Anne Armstrong was aware of it. She hadn’t mentioned it, and he wasn’t about to volunteer anything on the subject until he was sure she had an irrefutable need to know.
Marion Clary said, “While you’re waiting, may I offer you some refreshments? Coffee, tea, or some other beverage?”
Jack said, “Coffee would be fine, thanks.”
Anne Armstrong said, “Yes, I’d like some, too, please.”
The process was nothing so simple as pouring a couple of cups from a coffee urn. Marion Clary spoke into her desk intercom, issuing a summons. A white-coated server appeared within less than two minutes, wheeling in a serving cart. It held silver pitchers, china cups and saucers, and an assortment of muffins, buns, and pastries. One pitcher held coffee, another held decaffeinated coffee. Jack had the full-octane coffee, black.
It was good coffee, rich, aromatic, flavorful. His stomach growled at the sight of the pastries, but the left side of his face still felt too sore for much chewing so he reluctantly passed on them. Anne Armstrong had the decaf coffee with plenty of cream and sugar. Marion Clary had a cup of tea. The server exited, wheeling away the cart.
Jack’s eye was caught by a picture that looked out of place among the Old Masters creations. It was a full-length portrait that hung high on the wall behind the mahogany desk. Its subject was a man dressed in the garb of the late nineteenth or early twentieth century. He had a shock of white hair, a hawklike predatory face, and a white walrus mustache that failed to disguise a self- satisfied smirk. His eyes were hard, narrow, and bright, boldly, contemptuously staring out at the
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