THE POLITICS OF PLEASURE (32 page)

During their two night stay, Scott and Michelle made love time and again (with only modest utilization of the room's amenities). They'd ventured out for food at odd hours (relishing one late-night establishment in particular:
Le Petite Francais Cafe –
its lavish array of coffees and French-style desserts were unsurpassable). All in all they were suffused with the timelessness of newlyweds on a honeymoon. One buoyant moment flowed seamlessly into another. The second day seemed a follow-on of the previous: an easy celebration of their growing attraction. However the day was distinct in that they spoke of future plans.

Goldman had his mind set on San Francisco. He planned to visit Carl Friedman, a friend from UCLA days. Of course he wanted Michelle to go with him, had told her playfully she had no choice in the matter. Michelle in turn laid out her plan to go to Milan, Italy, for the photo shoot Alexis Models had set up for her there in mid-December. In the end Michelle was comfortable with the overall plan of visiting San Francisco and of Goldman accompanying her to Italy (once he'd found a suitable passport). Goldman welcomed the idea of leaving the United States proper. So, cuddled together on the room's water bed, the two agreed on California as a prelude to Europe.

They'd embraced Monday morning with the optimism and vigour of newly pledged lovers. Goldman had gone early to a DC branch of Citibank to withdraw his savings. He wasn't greatly surprised when the attractive brunette teller said, 'I'm sorry, sir, but there appears to be a federal restraining order on your savings account ... and on your checking account, as well. If you like I can call main office for verification.'

Goldman declined the offer. He unloaded his thirty-plus Krugerrand gold coins at several DC bullion dealers, picking up twelve thousand dollars in cash. After selling the coins, he overlooked the sale of Michelle's Alfetta to a Georgetown Alfa Romeo dealer (he'd abandoned his battered Saab in a backstreet close to Michelle's Crystal City apartment). The shrewd Alfa Romeo dealer with gold cuff links and a trim moustache had sensed the unspoken urgency of the sale, and accordingly made an offer at well under market value. But after Goldman haggled the figure into a more palatable realm, Michelle took the auto dealer's money. Goldman sensed she was happy to be rid of the car as its untended condition spoke of her questionable years with Terence Cruise.

Boarding the TWA flight, Goldman had been filled with a brash sense of freedom. With Michelle by his side anything seemed possible. Moving down the aisle toward his seat, he remembered the adage about fortune favouring the bold. He quickened his step and became confident of overcoming the forces rallying against him.

Now, the DC10 flew over a drought-ridden mid-west, the sun's crimson disk slipping toward the horizon. Goldman's heightened mood upon boarding had waned. The monotony of the flight had curbed his initial zest. Michelle still slept soundly beside him as he stared out the window at distant banks of gray cloud. Fleecy pastures that offered little solace.

General Turner put on earphones and leaned back in his business class seat. He stretched his legs, closed his eyes, and listened to Tchaikovsky's
Symphony No.6 in B Minor
, in preference to watching Michael Cimino's
Heaven's Gate
, the expensive box-office flop many passengers on the airliner were viewing.

He was scheduled to land at Washington National Airport in two hours time. He was returning from a successful meeting in Los Angeles with Republican hardliner Frank G. Carlacotti. Turner had been promised a seat on President-hopeful Ronald Reagan's National Security Council. He felt it in his bones that the former governor of California would win next month, regardless of pollsters currently tipping the federal election “too close to call”.

It was a change for him to be on a civilian airline. Normally he'd be surrounded by the urgent drone of a military transport as it flew towards a base, most likely Durban, then onto Andrews. It was a change he could well afford as the Republican party was footing the bill. He glanced uneasily at the thick folder of papers on the seat beside him. At ten the following morning, he had to appear before a senate inquiry into the astronomical cost of the Army's Bradley Fighting Vehicle. A vocal proponent of the controversial vehicle, Turner had to acquaint himself more fully with the contents of the folder. As always, time was his perennial enemy.

Scott Goldman and the events of Friday night were largely behind him as he listened to the Los Angeles Philharmonic begin
Allegro molto vivace.
By late Saturday morning, the general had had Goldman and Haslow placed on top FBI and Interpol bulletins: The Most Wanted and the National Central Bureau's red notice list (he'd done this with the behind the scenes help of Bill Howden, a long-standing associate from the Korean War who occupied a prominent desk at the CIA's Western Hemisphere Division). Of course the chemists wouldn't stay on the lists indefinitely, but having their names there made Turner feel that much better. Furthermore, the three-star general had asked the DEA to report any new crystalline compound appearing on the street (even as he knew the agency detested taking orders from his kind).

He'd derived some satisfaction from Stephen Artarmon's arrest; though the young computer professional had shed little light on the affair other than how he managed to get Goldman into the Milnet system. On his Saturday evening flight to Los Angeles, Turner, by then more calm, had decided against the matter going to court. It was after all too closely tied to the sticky business of Scott Goldman and Tape 64. Stephen Artarmon's high-powered attorney (Turner had learnt of Artamon's wife's considerable wealth) could raise security-sensitive issues. The hard-nosed attorney, a renown stalwart of civil liberties, might demand the exact files Goldman had accessed, might start making all kind of trouble. Turner might be forced to take the stand and swear on the Bible.

No, the general didn't want any of that. Accordingly he would let Artarmon sweat it out in a jail cell. Let the fool think he was going to trial – then in a last-minute citation of the National Security Act of 1947 – Turner would drop all charges. The young computer professional would most likely keep his mouth shut about the whole ignominious affair. Yes, Turner was sure of it.

The general opened his eyes as the stewardess offered him a choice of coffee, tea or orange juice. He took a cup of juice, peeled off its plastic lid and looked out the cabin window. Ruffled banks of grey cloud stretched toward the horizon. He sipped the orange juice and sensed the striving populations far below the Delta liner.

Having organized the most effective police action in the Western Hemisphere, Turner was confident Goldman and Haslow would soon be found. And from what he could
unofficially
organize, Turner was confident the chemists would come to a grizzly end once incarcerated in the remand section of Marion Prison, Illinois – the end of the line fortress for hardened criminals and political prisoners alike.

Scott and Michelle fastened seat belts and clasped hands as their plane descended toward Oakland Airport. Before long the DC10 touched down with a faint squeal of tyres on the rubber-streaked tarmac. After a screaming stretch of de-acceleration, the jet taxied to its disembarkation gate at the main terminal building. The couple deplaned and collected their luggage from the designated carousel inside the terminal. At a car rental counter Michelle used her credit card to hire a Datsun Stanza sedan.

Thirty minutes later, Goldman and Michelle drove along Telegraph Avenue, the car radio tuned to KFOG FM. The sun slipped behind the building-lined horizon and the avenue thickened with sluggish streams of peak-hour traffic. Brake lights flashed and horns honked as workers sporting varying degrees of Monday-itis commuted home.

Michelle's eyes widened and moved this way and that from the excitement of being on the other side of the country. She'd never been to the Bay Area before, let alone Northern California. The university end of Telegraph Avenue was a hive of activity. Its frenetic energy buzzed shamelessly in the failing light. Shoppers, tourists, students and counterculture types crowded the footpaths and moved in and out of coffeehouses, low-priced eateries, bookstores, clothing boutiques and assorted other storefronts. Sidewalk vendors selling incense, jewellry, bumper stickers and T-shirt displays plied their trade in a colourful and garrulous manner. A disabled Vietnam war veteran in a motorized bed (replete with rubber wheels, steering, side mirrors, brakes and indicators) turned into Channing Way, hardly drawing attention from the sea of motorists and pedestrians about him. A long-haired acid-casualty in a flannel shirt and stained jeans muttered incoherently as he sauntered past Michelle's side of the car. A mangy dog scampered after him, looking none the better for its fealty.

'Berkeley's a crazy place,' Goldman said. 'No wonder the locals call it Bezerkeley.' He turned left at the end of Telegraph Avenue and drove past the Berkeley campus of UC. Students milled about green lawns and strolled along campus footpaths. Michelle looked through her window. A clown busker juggled flaming batons. The entertainer balanced himself on a short wood plank atop a metal drum. A small audience had gathered before him.

'That university has spawned the most violent student riots this nation has ever seen.'

'Really?'

'Uh-huh.' He became conscious of Michelle's disinterest in all things political, of the generational difference between them. He'd driven more or less on automatic pilot since the airport and had thought to dine at one of the budget-priced cafes he usually ate at when visiting the Bay Area.

What was he thinking? He had a wad of cash in his pocket and a beautiful young woman beside him. A beautiful young woman who was the only positive to have come from the tragedy that had befallen him. In any case, now he faced an uncertain future, it made little sense not to squeeze as much as he could from any given moment. Time to impress Michelle with something finer than DC cafe food.

'Hey Michelle.' He looked at her in a new light. 'Let's eat.' Then, more specifically: 'Let's dine.'

'Okay.' Her beaming smile lifted his spirits no end, and he navigated with newfound purpose through the early-evening traffic. Before long they drove over the San Francisco-Oakland Bay Bridge. Michelle took in the city lights view and pointed with touristic excitement at the Transamerica Pyramid rising above the skyline of San Francisco's financial district.

In an outside elevator, Goldman and Michelle ascended to a cocktail lounge on the thirtieth floor of the Fairburton Hotel. They'd had a memorable dinner at La Normande, a well-reviewed downtown theatre restaurant. Fortunately lack of reservation had proved no hindrance. They'd dined on pate
de campagne
appetizers,
coq au vin rouge
entrees, and steaks
au poivre
with orders of French string beans in butter for main course. Dessert had been souffle Grand Marniers, along with several glasses of Remy Martin brandy. Neither of them had had cause for complaint and the dining experience proved an agreeable reprieve from the ongoing pressures of being on the road.

Below them, from the vantage of the Fairburton's outside elevator, city lights twinkled like a futuristic metropolis envisaged by Jules Verne at the turn of the twentieth century. Michelle, satiated and content, rested her head on Goldman's shoulder.

'So this is San Francisco?'

'Uh-huh,' he replied. 'At your feet.'

The outside elevator came to a sudden, high halt. The panoramic nighttime view breathtaking. Goldman, Michelle and a handful of passengers made their way into a plush cocktail lounge.

After several drinks and cigarettes, and tapping her feet to the more upbeat songs of the lounge's Billy Joel-like piano player, Michelle headed for the ladies' room. Goldman decided to call Carl Friedman. He found a payphone and confirmed his and Michelle's arrival the following morning. He stopped at an ornate walnut table that was home to a slender vase of orchids and a scatter of newspapers. He selected the afternoon edition of
The Examiner
and returned to his table.

He read a third-page article about the British royal family. Apparently rumours were rife around Buckingham Palace that the thirty-two year old Prince of Wales would announce his engagement to Lady Diana Spencer, a nineteen year old sunny blonde often seen at the Prince's side. November the fourteenth the punters' favoured date.

Hmm, bit
of an age difference. Wonder if it'll work for them?
Goldman turned to the entertainment pages and read a disparaging review of 
Mad Max
, a futuristic-biker movie fresh from Australian director George Miller: “...senseless car-nage ... not a 'people picture' ... a b-grade destined for the grind houses”.

The chemist flicked to the front of the paper. A fifth-page article caught his attention and shook him from his cocktail-induced complacency:

MILITARY CONTRACTOR ARRESTED

Washington DC, October 25 (AP).

The FBI and the Defence Intelligence Agency (DIA) want to question two civilian workers from the Silverwood Chemical Centre in Maryland. The research chemists at the army facility have disappeared under mysterious circumstances, taking with them, the DIA believes, inestimable stores of classified data. Baltimore Police have confirmed a shootout outside one of the chemists' home on Friday night; though authorities are yet to arrest anyone over the incident.

The chemists allegedly stole data from the army base's newly installed DEC VAX computer. Stephen Artarmon, an employee of Datacheck, a data management and security firm, was at the Maryland centre as part of a team to get the new computer up and running. Artarmon is alleged to have given the chemists access to the DEC VAX computer. He was arrested over the incident and could face treason charges carrying a maximum prison term of twenty years.

However, Artarmon's lawyer, Robert Shapiro, announced this morning his client has not technically broken the law. As yet there is no state or federal legislation in place that outlaws the “electronic browsing” of stored material.