Free The Trojan Sea by Richard Herman Page A

discussed the meeting at the National Security Council for a few minutes, and Priestly related a funny incident that took place when he was a White House Fellow.
    Stuart decided he liked the old Ramjet better than the smooth-talking sycophant he was seeing now. An image of Jane meeting Priestly at a Washington cocktail party played out in his imagination. “General Butler had some good words about the impression you made on the national security adviser,” Priestly said. “When you look good, we all look good.”
    That’s why the change, Stuart decided. An urge to bolt swept over him. He was tired of the games they were playing.
    Priestly lowered his voice and spoke in confidence. “You didn’t tell me you knew the national security adviser.”
    Stuart couldn’t help himself. “You never asked.”
     
     
    It was after 9:00 P.M. when Stuart finally arrived home. His answering machine blinked a couple of messages at him. The first was from Jane. As always, she said little. “This is Jane, call me.” He grinned. She had gone over her allotted four words. The second message was from Jenny, his ex-wife. “Mike, you haven’t called. I have a personal problem and, and…well, please call.” The “I need money” voice—again.
    Two women in my life, and both their names start with J, he mused to himself. Why do I always go for the middle of the alphabet? But they couldn’t have been more different. Jenny was tall, willowy, and glamorous. Jane, anything but. He hit the speed dial, eager to hear Jane’s voice again.
    She came directly to the point. “Sorry, Mike. I can’t get a loan for the down payment on Temptress. I can list her with a broker or try to sell her privately.”
    Stuart thought for a moment. Did he still want to sell his boat? He made a decision not to make a decision. “Can you bring her up here? I can get a slip at Annapolis.”
    “Can do for expenses,” she replied. “Figure six hundred seventy-eight.” She had obviously thought about it.
    “I’ll send you a check,” he said, breaking the connection.
    Almost immediately the phone rang. This time it was Jenny. Her voice carried that same, breathless quality that always made him think of sex. “Mike,” she said, “why haven’t you called?”
    “I just came in. It’s been hectic at the office. What’s the problem?”
    “Oh, Mike. I’m in love.”
    Again? he moaned to himself.
    Dallas
     
    Professor Emil Steiner’s reputation preceded him into the corporate offices of RayTex Oil. As editor of the most prestigious scientific journal in Europe, a department chair at a respected French university, and twice a runner-up Nobel laureate, he had scientific credentials that were unimpeachable. He also had a reputation for thoroughness and maintaining the most rigid scientific standards. His private reputation was somewhat different. He was a womanizer with an extravagant lifestyle.
    What actually walked into Lloyd Marsten’s corner office was a short, sixty-four-year-old man with bright blue eyes, a flushed face, and tufts of closely trimmed white hair stuck on his balding head. His expensive suit draped artfully over his rotund body and hid most of his expanding waistline. He walked with quick, bouncing steps, and his incredibly small feet were never still, not even when he was sitting down.
    Marsten made the introductions as L.J. and Steiner shook hands. His left hand snaked out and snared her hand between both of his. “I have been looking forward to meeting you,” Steiner said, his voice free of any French accent. He didn’t let go of L.J.’s hand, and she had the distinct impression she was shaking hands with a trained seal.
    “My pleasure,” she said, extracting her hand with a little jerk. “I do hope you’re feeling better.” Steiner had arrived in Dallas four days earlier and pleaded jet lag, delaying the meeting. At last count, eleven call girls had cycled through his hotel suite at the Parke Royale to help him recover. Of