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Page 10.

The flight had stopped in Austria to pick up Pascal from a conference of the military guns industry. Wan was eager to learn the latest opportunities in this area, since his weapons design and manufacturing firms constituted a major part of his multifaceted enterprise.

"Who is the sultry blossom in the rear?" asked Monsieur Pascal as he prepared to dip a silver spoon into his ice cream.

"Oh, that is my American girl," said Wan. "She's a private property I bought through one of my North American brokers a few months ago."

"She looks like—" Pascal hesitated, trying to remember the name of a famous Nordic movie actress, and not quite delivering the syllables mixed with a slurry of bluish-red ice cream on the tip of his tongue. "She is beautiful," he concluded lamely.

"Yes," Wan said. "She is a rare find, if she is temperamental. I enjoy those little small-town treasures that are so innocent in their village sort of way. I believe she even prays each day. I've never asked, since I pray for nothing and take what I want. She is clean—"

"—You mean—?" Pascal interjected helpfully.

"—Yes, no drugs or diseases. I wouldn't have that. She offered a fair deal. Herself, for her mother's health."

"The Americans are so stupid about health care," Pascal said with a cold laugh.

Wan shrugged. "Their loss is our gain. They are made to believe health care is some form of evil, and they must not have any of it. It's a religious thing to them." He shrugged. "They are peasants."

"Exceptionalism," Pascal said. He glanced toward the blonde woman and asked, daring to favor his master with a sarcastic snicker, "Why does she seem so sulky?"

"Oh, she's had a little disappointment," Wan said. "The corporation that brokered her contract decided to let her mother die."

"Of what?"

"Breast cancer." Wan sipped his tea without caring much. He emitted a little shrug. "If I had been told, I would have paid for the surgery. Maybe she did say something, and I didn't listen." He shrugged. "It would have been a trifle for me. So now I have to put up with her temperamental outbursts. She cries at any strange moment."

"Maybe you need to trade her in for a better one."

"Maybe," Wan said. "But I am still intrigued with her for now, so I will keep her. With these village idiots, it's like this. They are like zoo animals. You toss them some oranges and candies and other treats, and pretty soon they forget. Their preachers, magicians, and television clowns have had them in thrall for generations."

"We all must die some time," Pascal contributed hopefully.

"Of course," Wan said. "I will offer her a lot of money, and maybe a little chalet in Switzerland—whatever her little childish heart desires—and she'll get over it. I'll tell her Jesus wills it, and that's all they need to hear. They'll eat poison to make Jesus happy, and of course their owners laugh all they way to the bank."

"I wish the Europeans were quite so docile," Pascal said, probably thinking of temperamental French, Italian, and Spanish women. Pascal eyed Hannah Smith desirously. "What are you going to do with her?" He eyed her boldly, making it obvious he was interested if Wan tired of her and sought another plaything.

Wan bristled a bit. "Good slaves are hard to find, Pascal. Do you need a toy of your own? Do I not reward you with enough money and perks?"

Pascal blushed and looked down, knowing he had pushed his limit with this master of the modern world. "Of course, my Lord. I'm sorry." Truth was, Pascal had his own exotic tastes, which ran to orgies with a mix of teenage boys and girls recruited in big Arabian or Brazilian cities where nothing could be traced to him, and human life meant less than a snatch of pretty song, lasting a few minutes and then forever evaporating into thin air. As they said in U.S. chicken restaurants, he preferred dark meat, but sometimes something a little different, like a taste of white breast meat. Not to eat, of course. He grinned inwardly. He was not as crazy as some other lieutenants of industry—just a modest bit perverted. An orgasm was an orgasm—the more exotic, the longer and better. It was addictive, and his mouth watered at the thought.

The engines powered down with a long, drawn-out double sigh filled with tired strength, as if they were prize athletes from one of Mr. Wan's Olympia-style stables around the world. As Wan and Pascal spoke, the aircraft rolled to a stop at a miniaturized docking port. Near-silence filled the air.

"Hello, Pascal," Wan said.

Pascal shook his head, coming out of his reverie. "Sorry, boss."

Wan took a look back toward Hannah and Yoichi. The young woman lay on one side, as if asleep or crying. Across from her sat Savia on a chair, and Yoichi on the opposite couch. Wan had lately asked them to keep a closer eye than usual on his girl.

Wan exchanged looks with Yoichi, who rose obediently—as did Savia.

Wan told Pascal, "Come, let's go to the lobby of the terminal. It's time to meet with my executives. I have some interesting and exciting news for you all before we travel to Luxembourg for the summit." As he spoke, Wan picked up the precious leather case at his side. "In this case are the data from Pierre Sander' experiments with the Intelligent Fuselage Skin experiments."

Pascal chuckled secretively. "You mean like the experiment that shot down the Belgian air force plane last week?"

Wan, who normally was so secretive that he seemed cryptic even to his top lieuteants, allowed himself a hard grin. "Proof of concept. When I address the CEOC chiefs, I will impress them with my power and determination.

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