Goldengirl

She shook her head. ‘You won’t shake him, lover boy. Haven’t you noticed? He’s got a fixation. You’re the guy he needs for this operation, so you’re hired. Right now he could give you a rundown on every working part of your organization. He knows your clients, your contracts, your turnover, item by item. He knows exactly where the consortium can exert muscle if it needs to. Take my advice. You have two ways of handling this. You can take the job on his terms. Or you can move out of here tonight, sell out your business and get the hell out of America.’ She smiled and moved a strand of hair off her forehead. ‘I hope you won’t. I could use a little conversation now and then.’

Five

A lake several miles wide ended the symmetry of cabbages, olives and alfalfa. The Jet Ranger’s engine sounded a higher note, and a herringbone pattern was churned on the water twenty feet below. Ahead ranged the National Forest, where the westerlies of California are wrung dry by the towering Sierras. No more cabbages, railroad junctions, elevators, silver refrigeration plants. The San Joaquin Valley lay behind them.

Dryden, seated at the rear of the cockpit next to Valenti, leaned forward, trying to orient himself. They were cruising at 120 over sequoias and Douglas firs, following the course of a river through a precipitous gorge, the helicopter’s shadow picked out on the dead-still foliage. Soon they were compelled to rise almost vertically up the face of a cataract to the mirror surfaces of a glacial lake.

There the pilot left the river route. Dryden sat back. Without a contour map it was impossible to follow the Jet Ranger’s tangential progress into the mountains, except that the direction was generally northward. Somewhere ahead was Mount Whitney, over 14,400 feet in height, the tallest point in the state. Through the windshield each peak looked like Everest.

They had taken off from Cambria at one, after an early lunch. Dick Armitage had seen them off, excusing himself from the trip to put in some practice for Wimbledon. He had tried to explain the conflict he felt on account of his obligations as host. Dryden had cynically counted the seats in the Jet Ranger. Armitage had never been scheduled to join them.

For Dryden, the decision to join the flight was practical. Not because of what Melody had said, which revealed more about the kind of books she read than anything else, but because the showdown with the consortium had to wait. This required a cool approach. If he went along with them, looked at what they had to show him, and turned the project down from an informed standpoint, it would cause the least difficulty all round.

They must have traveled forty minutes among the peaks when Melody, on Valenti’s left, pointed ahead, along a narrow valley, to the first sign of habitation in miles, a filiform column of blue smoke rising perhaps a 100 feet before dispersing in the thin air. The pilot took them low in that direction over the conifers.

A clearing appeared, about 200 yards square. At the rear end a number of timber buildings were sited, some two-storied and large enough to have a communal function. The entire compound was surrounded by a tall fence. The open ground beyond the buildings formed a generous landing area. A second helicopter, a small Sikorsky, was already down there. Making a steep approach, the pilot dropped the collective-pitch lever to its bottom step and closed the throttle. The time as they touched down was 2:50 P.M.

A shaft of cold air ripped into the cabin.

‘Coffee first, I suggest,’ said Serafin. ‘We’ll take it in the staff lounge.’

The exit from the Jet Ranger gave Melody another chance to wobble on the footrail. Dryden turned to help her down. He was rewarded with a gentle nudge from her bosom. ‘Altitude 6,000 feet,’ she murmured. ‘You have to make allowances.’

‘Did you hear me complain?’ said Dryden.

Serafin had turned to wait for them. He was rubbing his hands, not because it was cool. ‘This place has a regenerating effect on me,’ he told them. ‘I think of it as my retreat.’

The references to Nazi Germany the evening before must have made a strong impact. There flashed into Dryden’s mind a picture he had once seen of Hitler with guests at his ‘Eagle’s Nest’ in the Bavarian Alps.

Serafin led them across the compound to one of the larger cabins.

From the Gold Rush exterior, it should have had a wood floor, bare tables and oil lamps.

Not, at any rate, a black mohair carpet.

The place was laid out like a Beverly Hills mansion. Two studio couches formed an angle containing a low, ceramic-tiled table and a Zenith 27-inch TV. The facing wall was taken up by a black Japanese shelf unit incorporating a stereo system and cocktail bar. In a recess to the left was a pool table. Playmates of the Month, in individually lit gilt frames, exhibited their charms at intervals along the silk-vinyl-covered walls. Most agreeably of all, it was heated. From where, it was difficult to tell. Perhaps below the floor.