Free Silent Treatment by Michael Palmer Page B

5
    Galahad … Gawaine … Merlin … Tristram … they arrived at the nineteenth-floor conference room at prescribed times, in prescribed order, and by prescribed routes. Galahad had chosen the hotel and meeting room and set up the protocol. He had also checked the room for listening devices and cameras.
    Although the women from the escort service were hired to stay the night, Kevin Loomis—Sir Tristram—had sent Kelly away an hour or so before he left his room. He loved his wife and was satisfied with their sex life. But every man had his limits. Nancy did not like giving backrubs as much as she liked receiving them. Five minutes of uninspired kneading was about the best effort she could muster. But Kelly was tireless, and the sweet-smelling oils she produced from her bag would have pleased a potentate. Spending an entire night with her would have stretched his willpower beyond the breaking point.
    Now, reasonably relaxed from the perks of power,Kevin checked the time, dialed Merlin’s room, and allowed the phone to ring six times. Certain that Merlin had left, he took the elevator to the second floor, then a different elevator up to the eighteenth. The security measures seemed excessive to him, but they did heighten the sense of always being on the edge of danger and discovery, and from games of highway chicken in high school to several dozen jumps in his thirties with a skydiving club, Kevin had always been drawn to that feeling.
    He took the stairs to the final story, checked the corridor, and slipped inside room 1902, the Stuyvesant Suite. Three other knights were already there, seated at places marked with their Roundtable names on small gold plaques. They greeted him with businesslike smiles and nods. Percivale, Lancelot, and Kay arrived next, exactly three minutes apart.
    Except for Galahad’s having taken absolute control over security, there was no leader of the knights. They took turns chairing the meetings, which began at seven-thirty and continued until there was no more business to transact. In Tristram’s four months with the group, two sessions had already gone well past midnight. Both of them had focused on the security breach by the reporter calling herself Desiree. For an exhausting three hours, the knights had grilled Kevin and Gawaine, dissecting their recollected conversations with the woman word by word.
    Did she ask you about what your business was?… What did you say?… Did you mention any of our names?… What did she seem the most interested in?… Did she ask your last name?… Did you tell her?… Did you make love with her?… Get undressed with her?… Fall asleep while she was with you?… Did you leave her alone in the room with your wallet?… Your clothes?… How about your briefcase?… Is there any way she could have drugged you?
 …
    Throughout the questioning, Galahad, as prime inquisitor, had never been antagonistic. But there was a coldness about him, a professionalism, that Kevin found unnerving. Even more disconcerting was Kevin’s feelingthat the interrogation focused much more on him than on Gawaine, who radiated self-assuredness, entitlement, and breeding. Kevin had kept himself on red alert during the session and felt indescribable relief when it was over! Tonight, at some point, Galahad would bring them up to date on his investigation of the woman. Kevin hoped it would be the last he ever heard of the matter.
    He surveyed the group as the men settled in and readied their notes. At thirty-seven, he was probably the youngest, with Gawaine a close second. Lancelot, Pat Harper, was probably the oldest—mid-to-late fifties, he guessed. Every one of the men was accustomed to power and status. Less than half a year ago, Kevin was nothing mote than the employee of a Roundtable member. Now he was their comrade in arms. And he felt certain that in time, as they came to know his resourcefulness and commitment, they would come to accept him as their