Peter did a little turn.
“Oh yeah,” said June. “You look yummy.”
“Great.” Peter smiled. “I guess this is the suit.”
“Oh, no,” said June. “We need more information.” She held out another suit. “This one next.”
In the space of thirty minutes, he’d tried on all four, and in the end she chose the first one. Jerome brought out his chalk, marked up the fabric, and promised to have the alterations done by the time they’d picked out the rest of Peter’s ensemble.
A belt, socks, and a narrow black tie. Then to the shoe department, where he tried on three pairs of seemingly identical black lace-ups. After so many years in boots, dress shoes made his feet feel odd, slippery and unprotected. Was this how civilians felt all the time?
When Jerome came back from the tailor with Peter’s new suit, he put everything on again and did the little turn his fashion consultants kept insisting on.
“My goodness,” said June.
Jerome looked a little wistful.
Peter put his hands on his hips. “Is that all I am to you?” he asked. “Just meat?”
“Oh, no,” said June. “Never just meat.”
And she and Jerome erupted in peals of laughter.
The final bill was what Peter had earned in a month in a combat zone. Peter told himself he was adding to the local economy. Jerome would take his husband out for a nice dinner. The waiter and busboy would pay their rent. It still felt fairly obscene, although he knew it was necessary for the next steps they would take.
June put her hand on his arm as they walked out beneath the low overcast sky. “You were a very good sport in there.”
“Just hedging my bets,” he said. “If things don’t work out with us, I was laying the groundwork with Jerome.”
She raised a wry eyebrow. “Is there something you haven’t told me?”
“Don’t ask, don’t tell.”
“Man, you are soooo obsolete.”
Peter smiled. “Mostly I had fun watching you.”
31
Peter’s plan for Jean-Pierre Nicolet was to get a last-minute meeting by bluffing his way past the gatekeeper. Then start asking questions.
“He won’t answer any,” said June. “Because he’s a lawyer.”
“But he’ll probably make contact with whoever wanted to buy the algorithm, and maybe that somebody will start to get nervous and make a move.” He looked at her. “There’s some risk here,” he said. “They might come after you again.”
“But you’ll keep that from happening,” said June, her eyes bright. “And maybe we’ll know more.”
Man, she was something.
He said, “What about the guys who tried to kill us before? Should we dig into their lives first?”
She shook her head. “They’re not going anywhere. Nicolet is still alive and probably doesn’t know the current situation.”
“You think they may try to kill him?”
“I think these are ruthless people. They killed my mom for a software program. They tried to kidnap me, and when that became difficult, they tried to kill me. So killing Nicolet, their only known contact, would be a logical step.”
“They’re not the only ruthless people here,” he said.
“Who?” she said. “Me? Shit, they started this.”
Proving Peter’s point.
“So,” he said. “How do we get the meeting?”
“I have some experience at this.” June smiled. “With an unfriendly source, someone who doesn’t want to talk to me in the first place, I used to say I was Jeff Bezos’s assistant. But that doesn’t work anymore, so I’ve diversified. Today I think I’ll go with Paul Allen. He’s actually got an artificial intelligence research project.”
Allen, one of two founders of Microsoft, was now running Vulcan, his own wide-reaching company, with its fingers in tech and real estate and medical research and who knows what else. June put her phone on speaker.
“Mr. Nicolet’s office, Suzanne speaking.”
“Hello, Suzanne, my name is Mary Swanson with Vulcan, and I need to reach Jean-Pierre immediately.”
“I’m sorry, Mr. Nicolet is out of the office right now.” Nicolet’s assistant had the calm, firm voice of a high school vice principal, long used to her role as enforcer of rules and keeper of the peace.
June replied with brisk efficiency. “Then I’ll go to him. Suzanne, this is a matter of some urgency. Mr. Allen insisted I meet with Mr. Nicolet today. This will be an informal five-minute meeting.”
“May I ask what this is about?”
“You may not. Mr. Allen has a proposal he would like me to deliver personally.”
There was the peculiar dead sound of a digital call in which nothing was being said, as Suzanne contemplated the power dynamics involved. Her boss’s schedule versus the desires of one of the wealthiest and most influential men in the city, if not on the entire West Coast.
“Mr. Nicolet is in a meeting downtown,” she said. “He’ll be finished at one-thirty. Where would be convenient for you?”
“Actually, I’m downtown, too. Where’s his meeting?”