“Sure—it’s all public information,” Brad said. “After I get back, I can collect all that stuff for you.”
“Thank you so much,” Yvette said. “I can see I must make another visit to San Luis Obispo after your return . . .” She fixed her eyes on his and gave him a mischievous little smile. “Not just so you can tell me about your trip into space but to tell me more about your fascinating plane. May I take a peek inside the four-mile-high-club headquarters?”
“Sure,” Brad said. He opened the entry door for her, then glanced at her business card while she admired the interior—and yes, admired a peek at her exquisite ass that was shaking at him as she looked inside the plane. “You’re based in San Francisco? That’s an easy flight too. Maybe I could pick you up in San Carlos, we can do a test flight, and maybe have lunch in Half Moon Bay?”
“That sounds wonderful, Brad,” Yvette said.
“Yvette. Pretty name,” Brad added.
“Thank you. French mother and Swedish father.” She turned to him. “You are very generous with your— Oh!” Brad turned to where she was looking and was surprised to find Chris Wohl standing just a few feet away, his hands in his jacket pockets. “Hello, sir. May we help you?”
“He’s a friend of mine,” Brad said. “Yvette, meet Chris. Chris, Yvette, a reporter from the European Space Daily.” The two looked directly at each other. “What’s going on, Chris?”
Wohl remained silent for a few long moments, looking at Yvette; then: “There’s a few necessary items we have to cover before you depart, if you got a minute.”
“Sure,” Brad said, blinking in surprise. Something was going on here—why didn’t Brad detect it . . . ? “Yvette, will you—”
“I have taken up enough of your time, Brad,” Yvette said. “I can e-mail you the questions I have. If you have time before takeoff, please reply; otherwise, they can wait until we meet again after your trip.” She extended a hand, and Brad took it, and then Yvette leaned forward and gave him a kiss on his cheek. “Good luck with your flight and the test firing. I hope you have a safe trip and much success.” She then extended her hand to Wohl. “Nice to meet you, Chris,” she said. After a few rather awkward heartbeats, Wohl slowly took his right hand out of his pocket and shook her hand, never taking his eyes off hers. Yvette smiled and nodded, gave Brad another warm smile, entered her car, and drove off.
When she was out of sight, Brad whirled toward Wohl. “What’s going on, Sergeant Major? You gave the warning code-phrase ‘necessary items.’ What’s happening?”
“Who is she?” Wohl asked in a low, menacing voice.
“A reporter for the European Space Daily, an aerospace blog based in Austria.” Brad gave him Yvette’s business card. “I’ve spoken to her before, at a press conference.”
“Did you check her out before inviting her out here to meet with you one-on-one?”
“No, but she was cleared by the university and given press credentials and access to the campus,” Brad replied, carefully studying Wohl, who looked genuinely worried about that encounter.
“A chimpanzee can get press credentials and campus access with enough bananas, Trigger,” Wohl said, using Brad’s new call sign, given to him after the shoot-out in Paso Robles—he didn’t know if it referred to the shoot-out or to the fact that he was a horse’s ass. “You didn’t check her out, but you invited her out to your hangar, at night, alone?”
“Dad checking in on me,” Brad said. He had forgotten that his father could access the security cameras in the hangar and monitor his cell-phone calls, and realized that Patrick had undoubtedly called whoever was closest to head out to the airport immediately and check out the reporter.
“Probably saved your ass, Trigger,” Wohl said.
“All right, all right, I violated standard security and countersurveillance procedures,” Brad said. “You and your team have been in town for months without one alert, one warning. Now why suddenly the warning code-phrase? How do you know she’s a threat?”
“I don’t know for sure—yet—but I have a very strong suspicion, and that’s all I need,” Wohl said. For the very first time since Brad had been working with Chris Wohl, he saw the big retired sergeant major hesitate, as if he was . . . embarrassed? Chris Wohl, retired sergeant major of the U.S. Marine Corps, caring what the hell anyone thought of him . . . ?
“What the hell, Sergeant Major?” Brad said.
“I get a standard and . . . expected response from persons when I first encounter them, especially . . . especially women,” Wohl said.
“Let me guess: they recoil in abject gut-wrenching horror at the very sight of your radiation burns,” Brad deadpanned. “Pretty much the same reaction I had when I first saw you.”