softly.
Swanson took off his raincoat. “If you hear gunfire, colonel, it’s only me fooling around. Walk the other way.”
“I accept that as an order, general. I’m deaf,” answered Pace as he reached for the handle and opened the door swiftly for his superior.
Swanson walked rapidly into the room. It was a library with the furniture pushed back against the walls and a conference table placed in the center. At the head of the table sat the white-haired, aristocratic Frederic Vandamm. On his left was the obese, balding Howard Oliver, a sheaf of notes in front of him. Opposite Oliver were Craft and a short, dark, bespectacled man Swanson assumed was Gian Spinelli.
The empty chair at the end of the table, facing Vandamm, was obviously for him. It was good positioning on Vandamm’s part.
“I’m sorry to be late, Mr. Undersecretary. A staff car would have prevented it. A taxi wasn’t the easiest thing to find.… Gentlemen?”
The trio of corporate men nodded; Craft and Oliver each uttered a muted “General.” Spinelli just stared from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“I apologize, General Swanson,” said Vandamm in the precise, Anglicized speech that bespoke a background of wealth. “For obvious reasons we did not want this conferenceto take place in a government office, nor, if known, did we wish any significance attached to the meeting itself. These gentlemen represent War Department gossip, I don’t have to tell you that. The absence of urgency was desirable. Staff cars speeding through Washington—don’t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down—have a tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?”
Swanson returned the old gentleman’s veiled look. Vandamm was a smart one, he thought. It was an impetuous gamble referring to the taxi, but Vandamm had understood. He’d picked it up and used it well, even impartially.
The three corporate men were on notice. At this conference, they were the enemy.
“I’ve been discreet, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“I’m sure you have. Shall we get down to points? Mr. Oliver has asked that he be permitted to open with a general statement of Meridian Aircraft’s position.”
Swanson watched the heavy-jowled Oliver sort out his notes. He disliked Oliver intensely; there was a fundamental gluttony about him. He was a manipulator; there were so many of them these days. They were everywhere in Washington, piling up huge sums of money from the war; proclaiming the power of the deal, the price of the deal, the price of the power—which they held.
Oliver’s rough voice shot out from his thick lips. “Thank you. It’s our feeling at Meridian that the …
assumed
gravity of the present situation has obscured the real advancements that
have
been made. The aircraft in question has proved beyond doubt its superior capabilities. The new, improved Fortress is ready for operational combat; it’s merely a question of desired altitudes.”
Oliver abruptly stopped and put his obese hands in front of him, over his papers. He had finished his statement; Craft nodded in agreement. Both men looked noncommittally at Vandamm. Gian Spinelli simply stared at Oliver, his brown eyes magnified by his glasses.
Alan Swanson was astounded. Not necessarily by the brevity of the statement but by the ingenuousness of the lie.
“If that’s a position statement, I find it wholly unacceptable. The aircraft in question has
not
proved its capabilities until it’s operational at the altitudes specified in the government contracts.”
“It’s operational,” replied Oliver curtly.
“Operational. Not functional, Mr. Oliver. It is not functional until it can be guided from point A to point B at the altitudes called for in the specifications.”
“
Specified
as ‘intended maximum,’ General Swanson,” shot back Oliver, smiling an obsequious smile that conveyed anything but courtesy.
“What the hell does that mean?” Swanson looked at Undersecretary Vandamm.
“Mr. Oliver
Swanson took off his raincoat. “If you hear gunfire, colonel, it’s only me fooling around. Walk the other way.”
“I accept that as an order, general. I’m deaf,” answered Pace as he reached for the handle and opened the door swiftly for his superior.
Swanson walked rapidly into the room. It was a library with the furniture pushed back against the walls and a conference table placed in the center. At the head of the table sat the white-haired, aristocratic Frederic Vandamm. On his left was the obese, balding Howard Oliver, a sheaf of notes in front of him. Opposite Oliver were Craft and a short, dark, bespectacled man Swanson assumed was Gian Spinelli.
The empty chair at the end of the table, facing Vandamm, was obviously for him. It was good positioning on Vandamm’s part.
“I’m sorry to be late, Mr. Undersecretary. A staff car would have prevented it. A taxi wasn’t the easiest thing to find.… Gentlemen?”
The trio of corporate men nodded; Craft and Oliver each uttered a muted “General.” Spinelli just stared from behind the thick lenses of his glasses.
“I apologize, General Swanson,” said Vandamm in the precise, Anglicized speech that bespoke a background of wealth. “For obvious reasons we did not want this conferenceto take place in a government office, nor, if known, did we wish any significance attached to the meeting itself. These gentlemen represent War Department gossip, I don’t have to tell you that. The absence of urgency was desirable. Staff cars speeding through Washington—don’t ask me why, but they never seem to slow down—have a tendency to arouse concern. Do you see?”
Swanson returned the old gentleman’s veiled look. Vandamm was a smart one, he thought. It was an impetuous gamble referring to the taxi, but Vandamm had understood. He’d picked it up and used it well, even impartially.
The three corporate men were on notice. At this conference, they were the enemy.
“I’ve been discreet, Mr. Undersecretary.”
“I’m sure you have. Shall we get down to points? Mr. Oliver has asked that he be permitted to open with a general statement of Meridian Aircraft’s position.”
Swanson watched the heavy-jowled Oliver sort out his notes. He disliked Oliver intensely; there was a fundamental gluttony about him. He was a manipulator; there were so many of them these days. They were everywhere in Washington, piling up huge sums of money from the war; proclaiming the power of the deal, the price of the deal, the price of the power—which they held.
Oliver’s rough voice shot out from his thick lips. “Thank you. It’s our feeling at Meridian that the …
assumed
gravity of the present situation has obscured the real advancements that
have
been made. The aircraft in question has proved beyond doubt its superior capabilities. The new, improved Fortress is ready for operational combat; it’s merely a question of desired altitudes.”
Oliver abruptly stopped and put his obese hands in front of him, over his papers. He had finished his statement; Craft nodded in agreement. Both men looked noncommittally at Vandamm. Gian Spinelli simply stared at Oliver, his brown eyes magnified by his glasses.
Alan Swanson was astounded. Not necessarily by the brevity of the statement but by the ingenuousness of the lie.
“If that’s a position statement, I find it wholly unacceptable. The aircraft in question has
not
proved its capabilities until it’s operational at the altitudes specified in the government contracts.”
“It’s operational,” replied Oliver curtly.
“Operational. Not functional, Mr. Oliver. It is not functional until it can be guided from point A to point B at the altitudes called for in the specifications.”
“
Specified
as ‘intended maximum,’ General Swanson,” shot back Oliver, smiling an obsequious smile that conveyed anything but courtesy.
“What the hell does that mean?” Swanson looked at Undersecretary Vandamm.
“Mr. Oliver
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