Code 13 by Don Brown Page B

right time. If that meant moving AirFlite to America, by golly he would do just that. In fact, he had done just that.
    He would let nothing and no one stand in the way of what he would accomplish.
    The intercom buzzer rang from the phone on his desk.
    He picked up his glass and stepped off the balcony, back into the office. “Yes, Ivana?”
    â€œSir, Mr. Patterson is here for your meeting.” His secretary, Ivana Jirotova-Martin, had a heavy Eastern European accent.
    â€œSend him in.” The empty glass went onto the coffee table.
    â€œYes, sir.”
    The office door swung open, with Ivana escorting the six-foot-six former Georgia offensive lineman into the plush offices of the CEO. The man, now in his late fifties, wore a gray, personally fitted Tom James suit, complete with a personally tailored white shirt and a Georgia-red bulldog tie.
    Jack Patterson’s hair over the years may have turned nearly as gray as his suit, but still a rock of a man, Jack was the type of chap one would want in one’s corner in a fisticuffs brawl in a dark alley.
    â€œJack!” Richardson said. “How ’bout dem Dawgs?”
    Patterson laughed. “Sorry, Richardson. I appreciate the sentiment, but I’ll never get used to a man with a British accent trying to speak southern redneck.”
    â€œSouth African accent,” Richardson quipped.
    â€œSouth African. British. Australian. It’s all the same.”
    â€œJack, you’re impossible.” Richardson extended his hand to Patterson. “That will be all, Ivana.”
    â€œYes, sir.”
    â€œHave a seat, Jack.”
    Patterson took a seat on the leather sofa in front of the desk. “Care for a drink, Jack?” Richardson picked up his own glass.
    Patterson shook his head. “CEOs of Fortune 500 companies can drink on the job. Law firms that work for those CEOs can’t afford to.”
    â€œNow, Jack Patterson.” A sip of brandy. “Is that your way of angling for a raise of your rates from eight hundred bucks to a thousand an hour?”
    â€œHold that thought. I’ll be back to see you when this drone contract is finalized.”
    â€œAh. I never forget why we’ve retained you as general counsel. You always know how to zero right in on what the CEO wants to talk about.”
    â€œYou mean my raise to a thousand bucks an hour? Or do you mean the new secretary? Or do you mean the drone contract?” Patterson grinned.
    â€œJack. My man. You help us get this contract shepherded through, and we’ll make sure your firm gets the kind of bonus that makes you forget you even joked about a grand an hour.”
    â€œYou know, Richardson,” Patterson said, still grinning, “you never let me forget why you’re my favorite client.”
    Richardson stood. He couldn’t sit for long. He walked toward the balcony and looked out. “To answer your question, we just hired Ivana’s American husband as one of our aeronautical engineers who will be working on the Blue Jay project. Nice guy. Name’s Harold Martin. Typical engineer. Kind of a boring guy, really. We’re hoping to keep him employed. That is, if you get this contract through the military’s red tape.” He turned around. “Ivana? She’s icing on the cake.”
    â€œNice icing. Just keep your hands to yourself, Richardson. I don’t need you getting deposed in a domestic case between Ivana and Mr. Ivana, and our divorce lawyers are as expensive as I am.” Patterson checked his watch, something he would do occasionally whenever Richardson initiated a discussion of legal fees, as if to subtly remind Richardson that AirFlite was still on the clock. “Not that you can’t afford the legal bills.”
    â€œWell, that’s plenty of incentive to behave myself, the prospect of being double-billed by the high-priced, silky-stocking, old-line Savannah firm of Patterson & Landry.” He