Florence of Arabia (6 page)

This hugger-mugger took place inconveniently in the middle of a presidential primary race. This required all
the various candidates to spend precious airt
ime denouncing the Reverend instead of detailing their bold visions for America's future. Events reached a crescendo when the governor of Georgia was forced into the unenviable position of having to call out the Nationa
l Guard to protect Reverent! H
olybone. who had responded to the latest assaults on his person by barricading hi
mself inside his $12 million Holybone Tabernacle with a d
ie-hard remnant of acolytes, fearsomely armed.

Into th
is radioactive swamp, few public relations types would dare to wade. Yet
only
hours after the Reverend's helicopter was brought down by a shoulder-fired missile, there was Rick Renard on practically every TV channel, issuing statements on behalf of the Reverend's heirs, calling for an end to hostilities and for the healing to begin; moreover, pledging $5 million to build a Baptist-Muslim intercultural center on the campus of
Holy
bone University, featuring five basketball courts, each facing east for spontaneous midgame pr
ayer. Today relations between H
olyboners and Georgia's admittedly not numerous Muslims are immeasurably more tranquil than during the Days of Rage. Credit for that went not only to whoever had fired the fatal SA-7 at the Reverend's chopper, but also to the deft spinnings of Rick Renard. A man as fearless as that. Florence thought, she wanted on her team.

THE OFFICE
S Of Renard Strategic Communications International were two blocks from Washington's Dupont Circle, far enough from
K
Street to be
geo
graphically distinct from that porcine corridor—oinking trough, some might say—of American enterprise, and yet close enough so that Rick could have lunch with his friends and soul mates who worked there.

Florence had made the appointment, staling only over the phone that she represented a "significant institutional client." No sweeter syllables existed to a PR man's ear. Renard went through the motions of pretending that he was all booked up that day. then pretended to spot a cancellation. Why, he could see her that very afternoon.

Upon walking into his office, she saw that he had dispensed with the customary Washi
ngton Wall of E
go, consisting of framed photographs of the politicians being offered for sale. The price of the politician was indicated by the size of the photo. If the photo showed the politician golfing with the lobbyist, or smoking a Cuban cigar, the client could expect a 10 percent surcharge, as the lobbyist and politician were quite chummy.

Instead. Flore
nce saw behind Renard's desk a fl
oor-to-ceiling mural. It was a version of a famous
New Yorker
magazine cover showing that the world west of New York City was rather small and not really worth bothering with. In this case, the boundary waters were the Potomac River. Beyond it. where the Pacific

Northwest would normally be, was the word
microsoft
. Beyond the Paci
fic Ocean was a land labeled
SONY
. A lobbyist's
t
our d'horizon.
Of course, neither of these corporate titans was a Renard client, nor in all likelihood would either ever be. His clients by and large lurked in the shadows rather than the bright sunlight. This was hardly cause for shame, for his profession knew none and acknowledged even less.

A row of clocks mounted on the wall indicated the time in various world capitals. This was intended to proclaim Renard Strategic Communications International's global reach. It might be four
a.m
. in Jakarta, but that fact would not be lost here at world headquarters.

All this Florence took in as Rick Renard rose, smiling, to greet her.

"Ms. Farfaletti." he said, as though it were the most important name in the world. He tried not to stare, but his eyes couldn't help lingering on the unexpected loveliness before him. She reminded him of whatwashisname. the Italian painter—he really must remember the names, it always impressed a certain type of client—Modig-something, the one who painted women with their heads slightly cocked to one side, looking like they were asking the painter, "Won't you
please
have sex with me?" Sometimes they were nude, which made Renard wish he'd been there in the studio when the paint was still wet.

"Mr. Renard?"

"Sorry. You reminded me of someone. I lave we met. Ms. Farfalelti?"
"No. But I'm a meal admirer of y
our work." "Farfalelti. That would that be ..." "Finnish."

Renard smiled. Always smile when a prospective client makes a joke. "I would have said Danish."

"It means little butterfly. More or less. In Italian." "Is that your married name?" "No, Mr. Renard."

"So, how can I
be of serv
ice? You said over the phone it
involves the Middle Fast." Rick gestured somewhat grandiosely toward his Wall of Clocks. One gave the time in Dubai. "We maintain offices throughout the region."

"Mr. Renard"—Florence smiled—"you have mail drops 'throughout the region.' Post office boxes. I'd hardly call them offices."

Rick blushed. "Modern communications these days, you d
on't really need offices. Per se
. But I assure you we're wired in that part of the world. Just this morning I was on the phone to Dubai."

"Really? And what did Dubai have to say?"

"Of course, I can't talk about specific clients. But I think it's fair to say that the situation is far from terrific. Well, what
is
terrific in that part of the world?"

"Are you still working for the government of North Korea?"

"No. Ms. Farlalctti. That was just one project. And it was before the Japanese thing."

"The launching-the-missile-at-Japan thing?"

Renard cleared his throat. "I
am not currently in a business relationship with the government of North Korea."

" 'field of Screams.' Isn't that what the newspapers called it?"

"1 was unaware that the golf course in question had been built with so-called slave labor." Rick sighed. "Slavery's a subjective term, isn't it?"

"Not especially."

"They asked to put on a celebrity pro-am golf tournament. To promote international pe
ace understanding. At the time I
thought.
Why not?
Would I do it again?" Rick shrugged. "Probably
^-
not. But my job is not to ma
ke judgments on clients. My job, as I
conceive it, is to help them get
their message across. This is the strategic part of strategic planning. Now"—he smiled—"did you come here to talk about golf in North Korea?"

"No. I came because I want to bring about permanent stability in the Middle East."

"H
mm." Renard nodded pensively, as if he had been asked for his thoughts on promoting a new brand of toothpaste. "And what sort of budget did you have in mind?"

"Money would not be a factor. Within reason, of course."

"In my
experience, Ms. Farfaletti, "within reason' is exactly where money becomes not only a factor but
the
factor."

Florence placed her briefcase on Rick's desk and smartly snapped Open the spring-operated clasps. Inside were two bricks of crisp new thousand-dollar bills. She placed them on his desk.

Renard tried not to drool. "You said you were with ..."

"The United
State
s government." "Oh."

"Do you always sound that
disappointed
when a client places two hundred thousand dollars in cash on your desk?"

"No. no. My inner child is definitely doing somersaults. What sort of
'permanent st
ability in the Middle E
ast'
are we talking about? And may I ask,
what branch of our wonderful government do you represent?"

"The
State
Department."

"So, CIA. Wonderful. I'm a huge fan. Your colleagues were extremely helpful to me over there in North Korea when the mine exploded on the
golf
course."

"1 didn't say I was with the CIA, Mr. Renard."

"No, you didn't. So I would be working for the State Department. Um-hum."

"You understand the confidential nature of all this." "Ms. Farfaletti. here at Renard
Strategic Communications, discretion
rules."

"That's very reassuring. Mr. Renard."

"Well"—Renard smiled and picked up the bricks of cash, tossing them playfully into the air—"I've always wanted to give something back to my country.

"It's a pleasure dealing with such a patriot. Mr. Re
nard." "When your country calls, I
mean, you pick up the phone, right?"

CHAPTER
FIVE

F
lorence
and
the
curious person
who
called himself
Uncle
Sam had been
sequestered in a small safe house in Alexandria, Virginia, for
two
days, going through personnel files. The house was normally used to debrief, or entertain, defectors. To judge from the acrid reek of old cigarette smoke, the defectors must all have died of lung cancer.

They examined the files on U
ncle Sam's laptop computer, which appeared to have the most intimate access to the files of
U.S. government intelligence officers and covert operators. Whatever doubts Florence might have had about Uncle Sam, he was certainly wired.

"What if you left the laptop on a bus?"

"I don't ride buses," he sniffed.

"Then what if someone look it from you? Would they be able to access all this?"

Uncle Sam sighed. "Anyone who turned this machine on without pressing the right sequence of keys would find himself in a very unhappy position." "You mean it would explode?"

"Yes, Florence. Now what about this one." he said as another file popped onto the screen. "He was station chief in Karachi. Military background. Might be just the ticket."

Florence scrolled through the file. "No," she said.

"What's wrong with him?"

"I want someone with a grudge."

"Bias, you mean. How many times do 1 have to point out—
everyone
hates Wasabis."

"You're the one who's biased."

"They're so eminently detestable. You should know. You married one."

Florence wasn't inclined to tell Uncle Sam that she didn't
want anyone he recommended. H
e'd made a fuss over her choice of Rick
Renard. "What is this, the Dirty
Dozen?" She put her foot down. This was either going to be her team or not. "Let's keep looking."

Uncle Sam groaned. "How many hies have we
been
through?"

"If you're bored, why don't you go for a walk? Leave this here with me."

"You'd only blow yourself up. Heavens to Betsy, are you looking to make a purchase, or just browsing?"

finally, he went upstairs to lie down, leaving Florence to scroll the personnel files of America's armies of the night. They began to blur. Then she realized that she was hunting according to looks. An hour into this phase of the search, she stopped scrolling.

He was in his army uniform, the black beret tipped jauntily over his forehead. Florence examined the ribbons on his chest and looked again at the face. She could tell right away, without reading any further, that he was a southerner. He looked pleased with himself, as though the night before, he had nailed the homecoming queen on the Astroturf in the back of his For
d pickup, under the stars. Or may
be he was pleased with his decorations. She checked his place of birth, and there it was: Mobile. Alabama. The photograph had been taken twelve years ago. She scrolled in search of a more recent photograph and found it. The grin was gone. She read the file and saw why. No longer the young eager warrior. Yes, this one.

"I've found him," she announced to Uncle Sam as he returned.

He scanned the file. "Good Lord, he's completely unsuitable."

"That's why I
want him."

"Young lady. I
am not running a dating service here." "I'll try to keep my hands off him. I have to say. why is a sexist pig like yourself interested in women's emancipation?"

"Look at this file." Uncle Sam snorted. "I'm surprised he's even still in government employ. Did it escape your notice that he's the one who called in that cruise missile strike in Dar es Salaam last year—the one that destroyed the residence of the Indonesian ambassador?"

"No, I happened to note that." Florence replied. "And it was a good target."