Man O' War, стр. 8
She almost replaced the senator's personal favorite, a long rectangular shot of a naval battle from the late 1800s. It was the largest and usually was the first to go in such situations. But the override files programmed into her wrist-link accessory reminded her that Hawkes was a former military man. That painting stayed.
Anything to create a bond, she thought, realizing in the . back of her mind how difficult that task might be.
The computerized bracelet suddenly beeped—the five-minute warning.
Goddamnit, she thought. No time—hell, just let the machine do it.
Quickly, Beckett pulled out a connector line from her wrist-link. Plugging it into the control panel to Carri's office, she gave authorization to her main computer to finish tailoring the senator's office to his advantage. If the computer made some mistake or other, there was always the chance she could catch it.
She hoped so, anyway.
It was the best she could do. Time seemed to be against them, although she had no idea why. For some reason, they had to let Hawkes walk through the door on his own schedule, without hesitation.
As soon as the computer connection was made to the program the operations chief had prepared earlier that morning, the spectral fibers in the carpeting instantly shifted to a deep blue from Carri's preferred charcoal gray. The walls dropped a degree in vibrancy but stayed the same tone of white, as did the ceiling. The paintings remaining on the walls shifted. An old-fashioned gas-burning racer flickered out, replaced by a dark scene from a deep forest: dense, old-growth pines, the kind Beckett's research said Hawkes had on his own property.
Scanning the room, the operations chief zeroed in on several bird portraits that had been artistically enhanced and added to the program the last time the screen had been used, a retouch that had been added the year before, when Carri had entertained the Audubon Society. She had them zapped back to the clip file.
The other vids shifted, one after another. Before Beckett could give her approval, however, the makeup staff finally arrived. She grabbed her own hair specialist, along with his utility cart, before he could join the crowd around the senator, telling him, "I need a gel upsweep, no spray or pins. Old-fashioned, turn-of-the-century. Get to it—you have maybe five minutes. I need it in four."
The man set to work immediately, asking, "Gel? My God, you really do want turn-of-the-century. Who's coming to lunch? Your grandfather?"
"A man who loved his mother," the operations chief answered absently. She continued to turn in a slow circle, trying to take in all of the computer's decor decisions without moving too fast for the man rearranging her hair.
As soon as she was satisfied with the look of the room, she unplugged her wrist-link from the control panel, announcing at the same time, "I'm heading for the mahogany straight-back, Clifford."
"That's good news," answered the hairdresser. He moved as she did, not watching where he was going, concentrating only on Beckett's head. "I actually do a much better job when my work isn't spinning about."
As the woman sat down, she brought her link steadily up to eye level and keyed in a variety of commands: everything from piping in what she hoped would be the best background music for Carri's upcoming confrontation to ordering him a take-out meal from the congressional commissary—hand-held items, all easy to eat while working—a sandwich, coffee, banana . . .
No, she thought, strike banana. Hawkes is from the Northwest—make it an apple.
Turning slightly, not enough to throw off Clifford's ministrations, but just enough to allow her to rest her eyes on the senator, she thought, Ladies and gentlemen, and especially the mindless of all voting ages, may I present to you that hardworking, self-effacing, tireless, devoted man of the people, Senator Michael J. Carri. Snapshots will be five units. Please deposit your contribution in the barrel at the tent flap exit.
Beckett's eyes narrowed. Benton Hawkes had recently cost her boss plenty. The ambassador should have been returning to a class-A, red-hot poker—one to be applied long, deep, and often. Instead he was getting the kind of circus she usually put together for the head lawyer from the petroleum lobby.
What's going on, Mick? she wondered. Just what the hell could you possibly want from this guy bad enough to jump hoops when a few days ago you wanted to be dancing on his grave?
Clifford finished his ministrations forty-eight seconds early. Beckett checked herself out in his utility mirror while he packed up his tools.
"I like the flat streak on the side," she told him honestly. "Like I've been pushing at it all day."
"Designed to look as if you walked in with it this morning," he answered, proud of the touch.
"You're an artist," she said, giving him a kiss on the cheek. "Now get yourself and the rest of this bunch out of here."
"An artist," he answered, "nay, fair lady. I am but a humble workman, toiling in the fields. If thou art happy, then I am happy."
"Git, hair jockey," she said. Her tone was teasing, however, one that turned into a laugh as he clicked his heels and bowed with a flourish.
"And thus I take my leave."
Beckett smiled. She was lucky to have been able to pull together some of the people she had for Carri's staff. Looking over at him, she wondered again, What could he be up to? Benton Hawkes had cost the senator possible millions in future contributions, not only from Deutcher— which was not only a lost cause, but already sending checks to the opposition—but from countless others who may have had their faith shaken in Carri's ability to deliver.
And yet she watched him putting on his best poker face, preparing for . . . for . . .
What, you devious bastard? What in hell is going on here? So important you're willing to let Hawkes off