“Only at Coolis, Mr. Baladine—I wondered how a small person like Nicola Aguinaldo could circumnavigate all those fences and guard boxes and so on.”
“Ah, yes, poor Nicola. I understand she faked an illness and was taken to the Coolis Hospital, where it was easier to escape. An unhappy life and, I gather, an unhappy death.” He put a hand on my shoulder and shepherded me toward his own office. “Claudia, can you bring us something to drink? I understand you like Black Label, Ms. Warshawski.”
“Not when I’m negotiating the Eisenhower. Mineral water will be fine, thanks.” Since I’d investigated him I shouldn’t have been surprised that he’d done the same to me.
His private office was filled with more photographs and trophies—and exotic hardwoods and carpets and art. A diploma issued by the Naval Academy held a prominent place near his desk, next to a photograph of a much younger Baladine on board a destroyer, shaking hands with Nixon’s Secretary of Defense.
“Yes, I was in Vietnam in the sixties. And then had my own ship for a few years.”
“That was before you joined Rapelec’s defense division, wasn’t it?”
I said it without looking at him: I didn’t want to overplay my hand by scanning his face for any surprise at my research into his life—which had not garnered his drinking preferences. Still, I’d learned that at Rapelec he had moved rapidly from a job in systems procurement to managing their submarine division, and then to heading the manufacture of all rapid–deployment weapons, before the end of the Cold War shrank the importance of the unit. Carnifice brought him in as CEO five years ago. Their private prison business was one of the divisions that had grown the most rapidly under his command.
Claudia brought a bottle of Malvern water and poured for both of us, with a murmured reminder that his conference call with Tokyo would be coming through in half an hour.
“Thanks, Claudia.” He waited for the door to shut. “A picture like that probably doesn’t inspire you in the same way as it does me, since I gather you and I were on opposite sides in Vietnam.”
Okay, he had a staff of three thousand plus to go looking at everything from my drinking habits to my college protest activities, but it still made me uncomfortable. I knew I would have to work hard to keep my temper—since his research had probably also told him that was a vulnerable spot on my heel.
“I was on the side of Washington and Jefferson,” I said, “perhaps the side of na?veté and idealism. And you?”
“Certainly I’ve never been naive. Either about America’s external enemies or her internal.” He gestured me to a seat next to a coffee table made out of some kind of gold burl.
“And so it was a natural progression for you. To move from killing Zimbabweans to incarcerating Americans. Although exactly why Zimbabwe was an American enemy I’m not sure.”
At that his face did twist in brief surprise: Rapelec’s arming of the South African secret forces’ raids into Zimbabwe during the eighties had been the most deeply buried item I’d found in my afternoon’s research. I didn’t think it had anything to do with Nicola Aguinaldo’s death, but it did shed some insight into Baladine’s character.
“Unfortunately, in matters of national security it’s not possible to be idealistic. I always think that’s a luxury for people who aren’t willing to dirty their hands. But perhaps we should move to matters of more immediate importance. My wife was most upset by your questioning her yesterday under pretense of being a detective.”
I shook my head. “No pretense. I am a detective. I’m licensed by the state of Illinois and everything.”
He smiled condescendingly. “You know you’re splitting hairs: she never would have admitted you, let alone spoken to you, if she hadn’t believed you were with the Chicago police.”
I smiled back. “You should be pleased with me, Baladine—it shows I’m not afraid to get my hands dirty.”
He frowned briefly. “I’d prefer you demonstrated that someplace other than with my family. Particularly with my son, who has an unfortunate streak of na?veté of his own and is an easy prey for anyone willing to take advantage of his vulnerability.”
“Yes. I suppose one always thinks one’s own family ought to be off–limits, no matter how much one claims to inhabit the world of realpolitik. It’s what makes it so confusing, don’t you think? Everyone has a family, even Gadhafi, that they think should be off–limits. Everyone has a point of view, and who is to judge which point of view is more reliable or more worthy of protection?”
“And what point of view were you trying to protect by harassing my wife?”