Michael Palmer - Silent Treatment

'Do we have anything else we need to takecare of?' he asked. 'I'm just getting set to leave for the day.'

'Second and fourth Tuesdays. I know,' shesaid, a smile in her eyes. 'I wish you well.'

The poker game. For years, Dreiser, whowas a legendary workaholic, had uncharacteristically left the office at fouro'clock on the second and fourth Tuesdays of every month. Some sort ofexplanation seemed called for. Brenda was far too efficient and observant notto wonder. The poker game fit the bill perfectly. Now, Kevin had taken over notonly Dreiser's former title, office, and secretary, but, as far as BrendaWallace was concerned, his seat at the high-stakes card game as well. Secondand fourth Tuesdays. Four o'clock. In fact, Dreiser had made a point ofcorroborating the poker story to Kevin's wife, Nancy. The necessary rite ofpassage up the corporate ladder comfortably explained her husband'stwice-monthly overnights in the city. The avowed secrecy surrounding the game'slocation explained the need for her to communicate with him by beeper only.

'I've won maybe once in the four monthsI've been playing,' Kevin told Brenda dryly. 'I think that might be why Burtinvited me into the game in the first place. He could tell I was a greenhorn.Listen, seeing as how Oak Hills has decided to renew with us, I think we oughtto do something for them. You have the names of the members of the school boardand the head of the union. Send them each some champagne. Better still, make itchocolates. Godiva. About a hundred dollars worth for each should do fine. Putsomething nice on the cards.'

'Right away, Mr. Loomis.'

She left after favoring him with a smilethat would have melted block ice. His successes were hers, and the Oak Hillsschool system renewal was a triumph. The system was huge, one of the largest onLong Island. And by and large its teachers were young and healthy. Young andhealthy — the golden words in any group medical coverage. It was a featherin Kevin Loomis's cap, to be sure. But the victory really belonged to TheRoundtable. The Oak Hills system had been apportioned by the society to Crown.Any competition for the contract would come from non-members. And of course,dealing with nonmember competitors was what The Roundtable was all about.

The Oak Hills coup was meaningful onanother level as well. Kevin's first four months as Burt's replacement on TheRoundtable had been marked by controversy. A troubling situation had developedthat had resulted in the group's moving their meetings from the Camelot Hotelto the Garfield Suites, and the situation had involved Kevin. But in truth,nothing that had happened was his fault. Hopefully, the others saw it that way,too. He had no idea what would happen if they didn't.

He picked up his briefcase and overnightbag and took some time to survey the panorama of the city, the river, and thecountryside beyond. Kevin Loomis, Jr., had risen from gofer to first vicepresident, from a gerbil-village corkboard cubicle to a corner office. Hisparents, had they lived, would have been proud — damn proud — of the way he hadturned out. He swallowed against the fullness in his throat that memories ofthem always seemed to bring. Then he headed out toward the elevator bank. Histransformation to Sir Tristram, Knight of The Roundtable, had begun.

The Garfield Suites was on Fulton, a blockand a half from the World Trade Center. The cab ride downtown from the CrownBuilding took twenty minutes. Kevin rode quietly, staring out at the passingcity, but seeing little. The remarkable changes in his life could not have comeabout much more abruptly had he won the lottery. To be sure, he was good — verygood — at what he did, which for years had been to sell insurance. He had beena member of the industry's Million Dollar Roundtable for sales five yearsrunning, a branch manager, and then a successful department head at the homeoffice. For a relatively young man from the far wrong side of Newark, thosewere accomplishments enough. But suddenly, Burt Dreiser had started invitinghim out to lunch, and soon after that, to dinner.

What do you think of. .?What would you do if. .? Supposing you were asked to …? First came the questions,phrased and rephrased, over and over again. Then, with Kevin's responsesapparently acceptable, came the secrets. The sales force's well-publicizedroundtable had a counterpart, Burt explained, at the high executive level. Butunlike the Million Dollar Roundtable, which was an industry honor to beextolled in ads, on letterheads, and on business cards, membership in this Roundtablewas not only very exclusive, but very secret.

By the time Kevin had agreed to become SirTristram, replacing Burt Dreiser as Crown's representative, he realized that healready knew too much to refuse and remain employed. His rewards for acceptingthe appointment were the promotion, a generous raise, and an annual bonus ofone hundred thousand dollars or one percent of what The Roundtable saved ormade that year for Crown, whichever was higher. The deal was, Dreiser assuredhim, on a par with that accorded the other knights.

Following the recent scare, a number ofsteps had been instituted by the knights to protect their small organizationand its members. Adhering to one of them, Kevin paid off the cabby at Gold andBeekman and made a two-block detour to the Garfield Suites, cutting through astore, and doubling back once as well. Certain he was not being followed, heentered the hotel lobby. His reservation, under the name George Trist, wasalready paid for. Anyone trying to backtrack from that name to the source ofpayment would find only a dummy business account with a set of directors who hadlong ago died. Sir Galahad, in charge of security, did his job well. He wasparanoid about details. And after the undercover reporter had been discovered,he had become, if possible, even more obsessive.

Across the lobby, Kevin saw Sir Percivalewaiting for the elevator. Percivale was with Comprehensive Neighborhood HealthCare, the largest managed care operation in the state. Kevin knew that muchabout the man, but no more. Not his name, not his title at CNHC. Burt told himnot to worry about such things — it had been three years before he knewthe names of all six of the other knights. Their eyes met for just a moment,then Percivale was gone. Kevin glanced at his watch. In three hours they wouldbe meeting, along with the others, on the nineteenth floor.

He crossed to the registration desk. Thesecrecy, the code names, the nature of their projects. . Kevin thoroughlyenjoyed the intrigue and mystery that surrounded their small society. Andgradually, he was learning to cope with the less appealing aspects of it aswell — some of the methods employed to achieve their goals and, of course, theconstant risk of discovery.

Number 2314 was a two-room suite with adecent view of the World Trade Center. Kevin stopped in the living room andtwisted open a Heineken from the ample supply in the refrigerator. Then hestripped off his tie and laid his suit coat over the back of a chair. He hadjust kicked off his shoes when he tensed. He was not alone. Someone was in thebedroom. He was absolutely certain. He took a step toward the hallway door.There were house phones by the elevator. He could call Galahad or hotelsecurity.

'Hello?' a feminine voice called out.'Anybody out there?'

Kevin crossed to the bedroom doorway. Thewoman, in her early twenties if that, stood by the edge of the king-size bed.She had obviously been sleeping, and now was brushing out her waist-length,jet-black hair. She wore a bit too much makeup for Kevin's taste, but in everyother regard she was perfect. Her Asian features, her slender body, her high,full breasts, her legs. Perfect. Her emerald dress was wet-suit tight, slit upthe right side to her hip.

'Who are you?' he demanded.

She set the brush down, smoothed the frontof her dress, and moistened her lips before she spoke.