boards, the whir of tape drives, the buzz of fans, the hum of
communication lines, the snapping of switches. Above them a digital
clock showed the countdown, clicking off the hours, minutes, and
seconds, while next to it were the three master video screens: the
first giving the numerical status of the Cyclops power-up sequence, the
second depicting the Fujitsu's latest orbital projection, being lines
across a flat projection of the globe, and the third showing a live
feed from the base of VX-1, where the antlike images of SatCom Launch
Control staffers could be seen methodically readying the vehicle, not
having any idea what was about to go up.
"Got a little item to go over with you," Peretz said, in Arabic, not
looking up from his screen. "A minor business matter."
"What's on your mind?" Ramirez asked in English. "We're all busy."
Peretz glanced in the direction of Salim, who was standing by the door,
keeping a watchful eye on the staffers. Salim, he knew, spoke Farsi as
a first language and English as a second. Like many Iranians, he had
not deigned to learn Arabic. Peretz, on the other hand, spoke it
fluently. Furthermore, he had brushed up on it in his recent
experiences with the Palestinians. Ramirez, of course, had spoken it
for almost twenty years, finding it indispensable for his business
dealings in the Islamic world.
"The time is overdue for us to have a business chat," Peretz continued
in Arabic, revolving around in his chair. "I've been thinking over the
money. It strikes me that the split ought to be 'to each according to
his ability,' if you know what I mean. You're a card-carrying Marxist,
right?"
"If you insist," Ramirez replied, immediately realizing he had been
right about the direction the conversation was going to take. He also
understood the reason for the Arabic. "You may have the quotation in
reverse, but I assume you did not call me down here to discuss the
finer points of collectivist ideology."
"Nobody ever called you dumb, friend," Peretz went on, now settling
comfortably into the mellifluous music of the Arabic. He actually liked
the language better than Hebrew, understood why it was the perfect
vehicle for poetry. "So I expect you won't have any trouble
understanding this.'' He was handing Ramirez a plain white business
envelope, unsealed.
Sabri Ramirez suppressed an impulse to pull out his Beretta and just
shoot the fucker between the eyes. The only thing that surprised him
was why this extortion--for that surely was what it was--had been so long
in coming. Peretz had been planning this move all along.
After a moment's pause, he took the envelope and held it in his hand,
not bothering even to look down at it. Instead he let his gaze wander
around the room, taking in the rows of video terminals, some with data,
some with shots of the working areas, together with the lines of shell-
shocked staffers. Then his gaze came back to Peretz, a novice at the
trade.
This inevitable development, in fact, almost saddened him. He had, over
the past couple of months, acquired almost a fondness for the Israeli.
He even had come to tolerate his irreverent humor, if that's what it
could be called. Thus he had begun to wonder, in a calculated way, if
they might have a partnership that could continue beyond the current
episode. A good tech man was hard to find. . . .
"Do I need to bother opening this?" he said finally. "Why don't I just
guess. At this point you feel your services have become indispensable,
so you want to restructure the distribution of the money. You want to
cut out the others, and I suppose there's even a chance you want to cut
me out as well."
"Cut you out?" Peretz grinned again. "Never crossed my mind. The way I
see it, we're business partners, baby, colleagues. I'd never, ever try
and screw a partner, surely you know that. What do you take me for? No,
man, I just think there's no point in giving monetary encouragement to
all these other assholes."
"And what if I don't choose to see it your way?" Ramirez kept his voice
calm.
"Well, there could be a lot of problems with the countdown, if you know
what I mean. There's only one guy around here who could fix it. So I
think teamwork is essential. You do your part and I do mine. The old
'extra mile.'"
"Your 'extra mile,' I take it, is to finish the job you were hired for
in the first place." Ramirez found keeping his voice even to be more
and more difficult. But he had to bide his time. A quick glance at
Salim told him that the Iranian did not have an inkling of what was
going on.
"You might say that." Again the inane grin.
"And mine is to restructure the dispersals of the money afterwards."
Ramirez's eyes had just gone opaque behind his gray shades. "Something
like that."
"Not 'afterwards.' Now. It's all in the envelope."
'Tell you what," Ramirez said finally, his anger about to boil over.
"I'm going back to Launch, and I'll take this with me. What's the point
in opening it here, raising questions."
"You'd better take this problem seriously, believe me," Peretz
interjected, vaguely unnerved by Ramirez's icy noncommittal. "I'm not
kidding around."
"Oh, I take you quite seriously, Dr. Peretz." He was extracting a thin
cigar from a gold case. "I always have. You will definitely get
everything you deserve."
"I intend to."