Always Love a Villain on San Juan Island by Sandy Frances Duncan, George Szanto Page B

for the university president—two stories, four bedrooms, spacious living–dining area and a kitchen updated two years ago: granite counters, stainless-steel appliances, deep-red tile floors. Now, as he walked to the carport, he glanced over at the horses. Morsely leased the pastures to hay farmers, or to equestrians. These days horses superseded cattle. No goats, sheep or alpacas, the board was firm about that. Ruminants cropped the grass too closely. Goats denuded islands.
    He opened the door of his beige BMW and slid onto the seat, the interior smelling of lightly oiled leather. The farthest he could drive on San Juan was Roche Harbor, half an hour away, and to get to his office he walked across campus. Today he much looked forward to the real highway to Seattle. He slipped in the key and belted up. He slid his hand across the leather seat. He would never admit he actively loved this car.
    He drove down his driveway to the road to Friday Harbor and lined up for the Anacortes ferry. A warm morning, a bit muggy too. Maybe rain soon? He opened the window and then his briefcase, drawing out yesterday’s report on the university’s financial state. Damn recession. Way more than no good. Damn investments. Morsely’s endowment was down 9 percent from last year. Like the university’s knickers had slipped to its knees. Ka-nickers, he thought, ka-nees. But there was a way to bring in some serious cash. And today’s meeting would be the first step in clinching it. Better be.
    He should have suspected Rossini’s intentions from the moment he agreed to come to Morsely. Rossini could have gotten his research money from the Department of Defense, the DoD, from one of their many funding pockets. Or the Central Intelligence Agency, the CIA, by way of EST-K-Sum. But Larry didn’t want any governmental agency having the kind of control over a project that money buys: no exclusive rights for DoD.
    Eight weeks ago Richard O’Hara had received a visit from a certain Mr. Joseph Martin of EST-K-Sum. They wanted Rossini’s invention. How they had heard about it, he had no idea—at Morsely, only O’Hara knew—nor did Martin explain. But the money he offered astounded Richard. It would re-establish Morsely’s annual budget. More, increase it by 20 percent, for the next eight years. He checked out EST-K-Sum on the Internet the day after the visit. EST-K-Sum, a-not-for-profit venture capital organization, existed for one purpose only: to make sure the CIA was in control of the most advanced technology for the gathering of information. Its mission was “to pinpoint and endow labs and research centers that generate merchandise which brings into being the most advanced spyware technology, essential for the secure future of the United States.” They had identified Rossini’s work as being in that category, and now they wanted to invest. Richard wanted the money. Didn’t matter that he hadn’t liked Mr. Martin.
    The ferry from Sidney, BC, had arrived and was disgorging the passengers for San Juan. Not many. More stayed on board for Anacortes. A ferry worker waved to the first of two parked lines, and vehicles rolled forward. Richard slid Morsely’s finances back into his briefcase and started the engine. His Beamer glided across the ramp, silent as a balloon floating in the summer air.
    On the ferry, the car parked and locked, he took his briefcase to the lounge and chose a window seat. The case was antique heavy leather, once his father’s. He pulled out the Foundation’s second-quarter report and began to read. An hour later, he awoke when the loudspeaker summoned drivers to their cars. He stuffed that report back into his briefcase. Barely time to use the washroom.
    Anacortes was, if possible, muggier than San Juan. Richard took off his suit jacket, folded it, laid it on the passenger seat. As he drove he lowered both front windows, then closed them and turned on