Free Impulse by Catherine Coulter Page B

the war in Angola?
    There were other names mentioned, and among them she found, finally, the name she was looking for—Dominick Giovanni. She read intently now. “…Little is known about Giovanni, a U.S. citizen. He is protected by intermediaries, and prizes anonymity. It’s rumored that his power and influence base exceed those of Robert Sarem and of Roderick Olivier in the world arms market. He operates solely out of his compound on his own island in the Caribbean…”
    “You still going, Rafe?”
    She looked up at Al Holbein. “I need a vacation, just like I told you. Charles agrees I should go. I’ll keep in touch with him every day to see how my mother is doing.” It hurt to lie to Al, just as it had hurt to lie, by omission, to Charles.
    “
If
it’s just a vacation,” Al said, moving closer, blocking her from Gene Mallory’s view. “Ignore lover boy,” he added, “he’s just jealous.”
    “I will. It’s a good thing sometimes that you’re twenty pounds overweight, boss.”
    “In your ear, kiddo. Where are you going, Rafaella? And why? You might as well tell me the truth. I can always tell when you’re lying to me.”
    He rarely used her full name. It gave her pause. Had he spoken to her stepfather? It wouldn’t have mattered. Charles wasn’t all that intuitive at the moment, all his energies focused on her mother; he didn’t know what his stepdaughter was up to. She’d been very careful.
    “A vacation, a long-overdue rest. In the Caribbean. For two weeks. You jealous? And I don’t lie.”
    He didn’t answer, just looked at her closely. He looked down at the pile of articles on her desk. “You’ll send a postcard?”
    “Count on it. I’ll try to find one of those
Men Are Pigs
cards, just for you.”
    “Your mom’s condition still the same?”
    Rafaella nodded, tears closing in her throat. Now her frantic machinations over Freddie Pithoe seemed mundane compared to what she planned to do.
    Al patted her shoulder. “Get out of here. I’ve got my hands on Larry Bifford—he’ll be taking over your assignments until you get back.”
    She felt a spurt of paranoia mixed with a good dose of insecurity. “He’s pretty good,” was what came out of her mouth.
    “Yep, the best,” Al said cheerfully. “Take your time, kiddo.”
    She watched him amble away, graceful despite his bulk as he wove his way through the closely placed desks to his office. He seemed oblivious of the continuous noise in the newsroom, oblivious of the young sports reporter who tossed a football to the entertainment editor. It sailed by Al’s ear, missing him by two inches.
    “You’re too smart, Al,” she said under her breath. She managed to get out of the
Tribune
office with a minimum of words to Gene. He gave her a stiff goodbye, and she gave him an easy see-you-around.
    Brammerton, Massachusetts
March 1, 2001
    Logan roamed through Rafaella’s living room and followed her into the kitchen, not volunteering to help, just watching her and fidgeting with a can opener.
    “All right, Logan, what is it?” she asked finally, slapping down the hot pad and looking away from the warmed-up tuna casserole. “You’ve been acting strange. I’m tired, not in such a good mood, and I’mworried about my mother. Now, what gives with you?”
    That gave him pause. Logan, another ultra-WASP, she realized, studying him. Blond, blue-eyed, tall, lanky, a passable lover, a sense of humor, and now—now she just wished he’d spit out what was bothering him. She was tired, frantic with worry for her mother, and scared of what she knew lay ahead.
    “Pithoe,” he said, as if that said it all.
    Rafaella served the casserole onto paper plates. They had to eat it fast or it would soak through. She set a bottle of white wine on the table and pulled out several day-old bagels. “Sit and let’s eat before it gets cold.”
    They sat and ate. “Pithoe,” Logan said again after two bites of casserole.
    “What about it? Them? Freddy or