At his country villa north of Rome, just off of the Via Salaria, Caesar Demas was about to get down to business with his guest from the Middle East. He’d already given him a short tour of his four-thousand-square-meter gardens, the mahogany-lined fifty-stall horse stables, and the restored ancient Roman road that made up part of his three-kilometer-long gated driveway. Now he and his visitor were seated in the gold room, so named for the dark wheat-colored walls, with the stunning view of the rolling hills of his estate. Demas was seated in one brown leather chair, his guest in the matching chair next to him.
Now that refreshments had been served, Demas motioned for the servants to leave the room. But before exiting, the head butler bent down next to Demas’ ear and whispered, “Excuse me, sir, but Mrs. Demas is wondering whether you will be able to address the matter of the vineyards today. Your chief of operations in your Tuscany property resigned a week ago. Your wife is worried that there is no one to oversee all of the vineyard work.”
Demas turned to the butler and gave him a withering look.
“Do not—I repeat—do not bother me with those trifles. Do you understand?”
“Yes, sir,” the butler whispered. “But what do you want me to tell Mrs. Demas?”
“Tell her anything you want. Now please leave.”
The butler nodded courteously and was about to exit, but then Demas thought of something and motioned for him to come back.
When the butler bent down next to Demas again, his master whispered in the butler’s ear, “Remember that I want her to be accompanied at all times. I don’t want her left on her own. Understood? And please have her escort, who will be helping her with her wheelchair, send me instant messages regularly. I want to know all of her whereabouts and everything about her activities.”
The butler nodded once again and swept out of the room.
Then Caesar Demas turned his attention to his visitor who was sipping tea.
The delegate from the Republic of Iran smiled appreciatively now that they were finally going to address the reason for his visit. With his hand he gave a quick stroke to his closely cropped beard and straightened his white silk waistcoat.
“I had expected Hamad Katchi to be part of this discussion. We had dealt with him previously on this.”
Demas said, “Unfortunately, we have many enemies.” Then he folded his hands, took on a sad, reflective expression, and added, “I fear Mr. Katchi may have fallen prey to some of them. He’s disappeared. We haven’t been able to locate him. I am so concerned that they may have liquidated him.”
“That would be a terrible loss.”
“Yes, to all of us.”
“Well, then we shall talk, you and I, about these important matters. The RTS specifications…,” the Iranian said, “will be delivered…when?”
“We will have possession in the next forty-eight hours. Delivery after that will follow with all possible haste.”
“Will technical assistance be guaranteed?” the Iranian asked.
“That’s part of the package. We have some physicists and weapons designers who are prepared to help you integrate the RTS into your existing weapons systems.”
“The matter of exclusivity has been of great concern to our president,” the Iranian said. “We do not want the RTS to turn into a kind of global discount item available to any banana-republic or no-name island.”
“Of course not,” Demas said, offering to refill his guest’s teacup.
The Iranian smiled but held a hand up to say no thank you.
Demas continued explaining. “To reiterate. The RTS technology will only be available to cooperating nations or international unions that are members of our soon-to-be-established League of Ten.”
Then he remembered something else and added, “And remember that another benefit is that your nation, and others in our League, will have the benefit of the anti-RTS avoidance technology we expect to develop as soon as our scientists analyze the RTS operating principals. So, you will not only have the benefit of returning incoming missiles to their point of origin, but your nation—and those inside our ten—will also be able to send your missiles into nonmember states, like the United States or their allies…and the wonderful thing is that you’ll be able to bypass their RTS system.”
The Iranian beamed and said, “Very good. That is all very good.”
Caesar Demas smiled back. Then he had a private thought. So glad I chose Atta Zimler for this. Truly reliable men are hard to find.
In a different time zone, in a very different part of the world, Cal Jordan was in his dorm room at Liberty University, changing into his gym trunks and a T-shirt. He was glad, now that he’d thought about it, that he was going to play some basketball with his buddies to get his mind off things.
And he was also glad he had heard from his dad. Who knows, maybe he and I will start connecting. Maybe things are going to be better between us.
Cal was going to turn off the lights in his dorm room before leaving, but suddenly they started to dim—and then they went out completely.
He flicked the switch a couple times. Still no lights. Nice. I wonder how long it’ll take maintenance to get this fixed. I’ve got a lot of studying tonight.
Then he heard a knock on the door.
He swung open the door.
A man in a grey maintenance jumpsuit stood in his doorway.
“Sorry to bother,” the maintenance man said. “We’re cutting the power to some of the rooms. These old fluorescent lights in the ceiling have to be replaced one by one. It’s your turn.”
“Lucky me,” Cal said, then added, “hope this doesn’t take long. I’m supposed to shoot buckets in a few minutes with some friends.”
The maintenance man gave a look that lacked full understanding at something in Cal’s answer, but he flashed a quick smile anyway. Then he rolled a large covered utility cart into the dorm room. A few students wandered past the open door, looking in with some curiosity, before the man closed the door behind him.
“I’ve got my portable ladder and tools in here,” the repairman said, pointing to the cart.
“Okay, well, do your thing,” Cal said and took a step toward the door.
“Could you just help me for just a second?”
“Sure.”
“I just need you to catch that big lighting fixture when I hand it down. Won’t take too long. If you look up there at the fixture in the ceiling, you’ll see where the bulb fits in at both ends. Just be careful not to dislodge the long light bulb when I hand it down to you. The bulb could break. It has some toxic contents inside.”
“Doesn’t sound too hard,” Cal said.
Then Cal took a step into the center of the room and craned his neck to look up at the light fixture.
“I think I see what you are talking about,” Cal said as he was studying it.
Right behind him, dressed in the grey maintenance jumpsuit, Atta Zimler was smiling.
He stepped up closer to Cal Jordan, and as he did, he had a satisfying thought.
This is almost too easy.