“Why do you say that?”
“I didn’t mention it because I was afraid you’d get upset, but there was a bit of a come-on between us before Berman left on his most recent trip. It happened after a perfectly innocent dinner. Let me put it this way: Berman and I shared a few meals that were all business. Then it suddenly changed, and not from anything I did. I resolved I never was going to be alone with him again, pure and simple. I mean I still respect him for the visionary entrepreneur he is and what he’s accomplished in nanotechnology, but I didn’t come out to Boulder for a relationship with anyone, and certainly not with a married man.”
George nodded. He’d expected there had been something between Pia and Berman, what with the car and Mariel’s strange comments. He appreciated Pia’s candor but couldn’t help but wonder if she was telling him the whole truth.
“So,” Pia continued, “I’m glad you are here because I’ve wanted to see this place. I’ve heard about it around the proverbial watercooler, but never imagined I’d get to see it. I might not want a relationship with the guy, but he does interest me. He’s unique, and a major contributor to medical science, like Rothman was, just not in the same way.”
George smiled inwardly. Pia saying she was glad he was there was more than justification for his trip to Colorado. Maybe it had actually been a good idea. Earlier that morning, when Pia left the apartment without a word, he had despaired that it hadn’t been, especially when she reappeared late that afternoon without apology or even a word of explanation.
“Come on!” Pia said suddenly. “Let’s get out of the car. He knows we’re here, he let us in the gate ten minutes ago. Just try and relax and enjoy yourself. You’re good at small talk, which I’m not. And you’ve been saying you wanted to go out for dinner.”
Pia climbed out of the VW and George followed, clutching the bottle of wine he had brought as a gift. George had spent ten minutes looking at the reds at the nearest liquor store before dropping almost $100 on a bottle of Sonoma Syrah, money he could little afford.
As George neared the top of the stairs a few steps behind Pia, he saw that Berman had already opened the enormous, oversize wooden entrance door and was standing on the threshold. He was dressed in a snugfitting Italian gray herringbone silk jacket over a silk mock turtleneck. From the bulges in the right spots, George guessed he was a weight lifter. George’s confidence sagged. The man was not only rich but good-looking to boot.
“Dr. Wilson, I presume,” said Berman when George and Pia arrived at the level of the entrance. Berman examined George as if he were inspecting livestock. Or at least that was how George felt, dressed as he was in jeans and a comparatively dorky flannel shirt. Berman had a fixed smile on his face that looked to George more cruel than sincere.
“That’s me. Nice to meet you. Er, I bought this . . .” George thrust the bottle of wine in its silver gift paper toward Berman, who nodded. The men shook hands, and Berman guided him into his house, redirecting his attention toward Pia.
“You haven’t been here, Pia?”
“I have not,” she answered, recognizing his comment as a mere figure of speech. He knew full well she’d never been there. If she was hoping for sincerity, it wasn’t a good way to begin the evening. She was already surprised he’d directed his first comments to George. “It’s quite a home.”
Berman chastely touched both his cheeks against Pia’s, European style, before directing her inside the house after George.
Pia was not often impressed by material trappings, but even she could tell this was an extraordinary place. The front door opened into an atrium, whose ceiling extended up two stories to the underside of a pitched gable. Between the exposed beams was adobe-colored plaster. The living room, which was more expansive, with even higher ceilings, was spanned and crisscrossed by giant, hand-hewn beams, which Berman said came all the way from Montana.
By the time they walked into the center of the living room, Pia counted three substantial fireplaces, all ablaze with six-foot logs. The furniture was likewise oversize and upholstered in burgundy-colored leather. Ample fur throws and pillows were haphazardly but invitingly distributed. The wall without a fireplace was all glass, rising three stories to the massive central gable of the roof. Off to the side was a state-of-the-art entertainment system. Classical music hovered in the room more as a hint than as an intrusion. It was impossible to tell exactly where the sound was coming from.
Berman led them outside to the deck, which extended the entire rear of the house, commanding a view to the west of the Flathead Mountains, swathed in moonlight. Berman offered his guests seats in large wooden rockers, and a server appeared at once to take a drinks order. George saw that Berman had set down the bottle of wine he had brought in an inconspicuous place.
“You know Miss Jones already, Pia,” Berman said when Whitney appeared, as if on cue. Like Berman, she was dressed in elegant simplicity, her hair drawn back from her face and gathered in a bun without a single strand misbehaving. Her shapely and toned physique was in ample display.
George jumped up to be introduced. The deck was dimly lit but George could see how stunning this woman was. He was pleased—Berman had an impressive girlfriend.
“Miss Jones is my valued assistant. This is Dr. Wilson, who has come with Pia. I asked Miss Jones to join us to even up the numbers.”
So much for having a girlfriend, George lamented silently.
“Welcome to Boulder,” said Whitney to George. She came around and sat to George’s right; Pia and then Berman were to his left. Berman adjusted his seat closer to Pia and started talking to her. George took a deep draft of the vodka tonic that had just been brought to him. He felt he was going to need some alcohol to get through the evening.
“Thank you,” said George to Whitney, who crossed her legs, leaning into George’s space with both her person and her strong perfume. He strained to hear what Berman was talking to Pia about, but Berman was talking in low tones. Almost immediately he sensed Pia stiffen.
“So, Dr. Wilson, how do you like Los Angeles?”
In spite of his interest in what Pia and Berman were talking about, George found himself progressively pulled into conversation with Whitney Jones without a lot of effort. Her décolletage played a role, but more important from George’s perspective, she was interested in what he had to say and was interesting in return. Answering George’s numerous questions about Nano, she had reams of data at her fingertips. As absorbed as he was, George was unaware that his glass was being discreetly refilled, and was sorry when Ms. Jones excused herself to go check on the progress of dinner.
At that cue, Berman stood and walked over to the timber rail of his deck and looked out. “Not quite like Los Angeles, Dr. Wilson.”
“No, it’s not,” George said, casting a quick glance in Pia’s direction. She responded by rolling her eyes, which he had no way to interpret.
“Do you think it’s a good place to train in radiology?” Berman asked.
“The training is top notch,” George said. “But I’m not so sure the city is my cup of tea.”
“Maybe you should think about coming here to Boulder,” Berman said, still seemingly transfixed by the mountain scenery. “The University of Colorado has a superb program.”
“It’s a very attractive environment.” George looked back at Pia and silently mouthed “What?” Pia merely shook her head.
“I tried to get Pia to talk to me about her ordeal when she was kidnapped,” Berman said, before turning back to look directly at George. “She’s not interested in talking about it. I know you were involved, what can you tell me?”
As George tried to shift his mind into high gear, he realized he’d drunk more than he thought. He’d vaguely noticed that the level in his drink never went down thanks to the attentive staff, but hadn’t thought much of it. Despite his buzz, he remembered how strongly Pia felt abo
ut the kidnapping episode and how adverse she was to talking about it, even to him. He knew he had to be careful to stay in her good graces.
“I don’t know much,” George said, stumbling over his words.
“Oh, come on!” Berman said with a touch of irritation. “I can understand Pia’s reticence but not yours. Was it traumatic for you as well?”
“It was, but mostly because Pia was in physical danger.”
“I’m sure Mr. Berman doesn’t want to hear about any of that,” Pia said, speaking up for the first time.
“No, I do. I’d like to hear about the whole episode. Actually, I’m most interested in the use of polonium-210 to kill the doctors. I’d heard about that case in London like everyone else. Did they ever figure out where the stuff came from? My understanding is that polonium-210 is hard to come by.”
“It’s very difficult,” George said, thinking that it was a safe subject as far as Pia’s sensitivities were concerned. “It is involved with triggering nuclear weapons.”
“Well, I don’t know why you two are so secretive about it. It was big news out here for several days. My understanding is that you, Pia, were given full credit for uncovering the role that polonium-210 played.”
“It was the only solution that fit all the symptoms.”
“You’re not giving yourself enough credit. I read that the deductive reasoning was brilliant in the minds of several analysts. You see, Dr. Wilson, that’s the quality of scientists we have here at Nano.”
Berman was talking as if he were recruiting Pia, which confused George, since he knew Nano already had her loyalty. Before anyone could respond, Whitney Jones announced that dinner was ready.
The dinner was predictably excellent. Berman didn’t mention the Rothman affair. Instead he took great pride in pointing out that all the food was locally sourced. He was especially loquacious about the elk tenderloin, which was the centerpiece of the dinner. Despite George’s general discomfort of being in such a foreign, elegant environment, he thought Berman was entitled to brag about the meat, which was slightly gamy, but not intensely so, and superbly tender.
Without giving it a lot of thought, George proceeded to knock back several glasses of red wine he knew was far superior to the one he had brought. By the end of the meal, the buzz that he’d felt earlier had intensified. When Berman and Pia got up to return to the deck to look at the abundant stars through his impressive electronically controlled telescope, George concentrated his attention on Whitney, who remained behind as the epitome of the charming, endlessly indulgent hostess.
“So what’s the story here?” George asked, leaning in to talk to Whitney conspiratorially. He had become inebriated enough to lose all appropriate restraint. He still had one burning question, and he had the mistaken notion that Whitney was taken with him.
“The story?” said Whitney, lowering her voice, playing along, suppressing a smile. “What do you mean?”
“Listen, I know I’ve had too much to drink and God knows I’d never normally ask a question like this.” George took another swig of wine.
“Like what, Dr. Wilson?”
“Is Berman sleeping with Pia?”
Whitney laughed softly. “You’re asking the wrong person. I wouldn’t know either way. And isn’t that a question you should be asking Pia?”
“Yes, yes, of course. But . . . well, she wouldn’t necessarily tell me.”
“And why’s that?”
“She’s very willful, which is an understatement, if you know what I mean. She hates anyone probing into her life. But I’m interested, and it’s not just jealousy. I’ve never known her to have a lasting intimate relationship with anyone.”
“What about you?”
“Yes,” George said, sinking back in his chair, “that’s a very good question.” George was slurring his words. “I’m afraid it includes me. I tried for four years to break through her shell.”
“I’m sorry,” Whitney said. “That must be difficult. I applaud your persistence.”
“It’s not been easy.”
“Let’s go outside,” said Whitney suddenly. “It’s such a beautiful evening.” She stood up and walked out to join Berman and Pia.
For a few minutes George stayed where he was, now convinced that in all likelihood, Berman was probably sleeping with both Pia and Whitney Jones. He then berated himself for saying what he had to Whitney. Even without alcohol, George knew that social adeptness was not one of his strong points. Asking Whitney the question he had was exactly the kind of weak behavior Pia had tried to shake out of him, if not explicitly, then by example. George helped himself to some more wine and then headed outside to join the others. He was now plainly dizzy and had to move slower than normal, running his hand along the furniture to maintain his balance.
Outside, Berman was still showing off his telescope and had turned off the lights in the living room to help the viewing. Joining in, George found he was impressed again, in spite of himself. He had never seen the rings of Saturn, which were clearly visible. After viewing several more celestial objects, including a distant, sprial-shaped galaxy, George went and stood next to Pia. The alcohol had not only loosened his tongue but made him more demonstrative and even possessive.
“This has been lovely, really, but maybe we should head home,” George said out of the blue. He daringly slipped his arm around Pia’s waist. He was surprised when she didn’t make an effort to elude his grasp as she usually did. If Berman noticed, he didn’t give it away. Whitney on the other hand gave him a discreet thumbs-up.
“The evening is still young,” Berman said, hearing George’s comment.
“It is getting late,” agreed Pia. As far as she was concerned, they had already been there too long. “And I have a lot to do, as you know, Mr. Berman.”
“Zachary. My name is Zachary, or Zach.”
“Okay. Zachary. Thank you for a lovely dinner. And, Miss Jones, thank you, too.”
“Of course. Our pleasure.”
George stayed rooted to his spot next to Pia until she pulled away and headed for the door with Whitney. Berman waited for George, who was taking his time navigating the step up from the deck into the house and crossing the darkened living room.
“Will we be seeing you again?” Berman asked.
“You never know,” George said flippantly.
At the door, George gave Whitney a kiss on the cheek, and she said she was pleased to have met him. George shook hands with Berman and took Pia’s arm as they descended the stone stairs, pretending he was helping her. When they got to the car, both he and Pia looked back up at the house. Berman and Jones were standing at the door, waving.
“That was an odd evening and an odd couple,” said George. He climbed into the car and fell into the seat, leaning back against the headrest. He exhaled noisily as if he were exhausted.
“Are you drunk?” said Pia.
“Oh, absolutely. That was the only way I was going to get through the evening.”
“You were very . . .”
“. . . drunk, is what I was. Am. C’mon, Pia, we’re sitting in the car again. Let’s get out of here.”
11.
EN ROUTE TO PIA’S APARTMENT, BOULDER, COLORADO
MONDAY, APRIL 22, 2013, 10:45 P.M.
At first George kept quiet in the car. He felt very full, of food and wine, and the motion of the car was doing unpleasant things to his stomach. He put his left arm around Pia’s shoulders, and while she hadn’t drawn closer, she didn’t pull his arm away, either. The evening had definitely been taxing, and George was tired and reeling. He felt Berman had skillfully choreographed the event, keeping Pia to himself while allowing Whitney Jones to apply her considerable array of charms on him. He was again irritated at himself for what he’d said to Whitney. Guiltily he looked over at Pia, but she was concentrating on n
avigating the dark, twisting road. As usual, she looked beautiful. He wondered if Whitney was going to tell Berman what he had said. If she did and Berman told Pia, there was going to be hell to pay.
“What were you talking about with Berman?” George asked.
“When?”
“Most of the evening. It was obvious that he was dominating your attention.”
“Work stuff, mostly, except when he was trying to get me to talk about Rothman and my being kidnapped.”
“He tried to pull me into that.”
“I know. I heard and I have to commend you for not allowing it to happen. Thanks.”
“You’re welcome.”
“He did pay me some compliments about my immunology work vis-à-vis the microbivores.”
“That’s not surprising. It’s deserved, too.” George shook his head, trying to clear the cobwebs.
“He also told me that he wanted me to get back to work on the flagellum issue I told you about, which is really what I was hired to do.”
“Do you have any ideas for that?”
“I do. In fact, while I was talking to him, I gave it some more thought. I had the idea of programming the microbivores that are sent to deal with flagellated bacteria to roll their targets into a ball. You know what I mean?”
“Can’t say that I do.” George put his palm against his forehead. Its coolness felt good. He was beginning to get a headache.
“I’ve explained to you how the microbivores have specific binding sites for the bacteria they’re sent to deal with. My idea is to program the microbivores to roll the bacterium over and over a few times before bringing it into the digestion chamber. That way the flagellum would be wrapped around it and would get digested at the same time as the bacteria’s body. I think it is a masterful idea. My only worry is how much code it is going to take. What do you think?”
“Sounds good to me,” George said, but he was having trouble concentrating. What he really wanted to ask Pia was whether she’d had an affair with Berman, like Whitney suggested, but he didn’t dare.