"Stop it, I'm blushing," Remo said.
"You will help me stop submarine," she said, adding ominously, "and perhaps help to prevent new eruption of cold-war tensions that could end civilization as we know it."
"Hey, that's swell," Remo said, distracted. He pointed to a distant fishing boat bobbing amid the scows beyond the Mayanan cordon. "Before we do that, can we stop by my boat? I left my best world-saving shoes over there."
Chapter 15
Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume had a name fit for a British lord and the down-to-earth charm of a Mayanan peasant. With appeal that cut across class and political divides, the leader of the Mayana Free People's Party had carried more than sixty percent of the popular vote in the country's last presidential election.
He had slipped onto the Mayanan political stage more than fifteen years earlier, after Mayana had applied for Commonwealth status. His name was made as a voice against Communist-era reforms such as state-controlled industry and price controls. Serendipity put him on the right side of global politics just as the Russian Communist machine and its influence in South America were collapsing.
Curry-Hume was a populist vote grubber. There was no village meeting too small for him to attend, no metropolitan development committee he would refuse to join. As his influence grew, he found himself on university boards, state advisory committees and on dozens of community groups.
In a country the size of Mayana, it was relatively easy to become a household name.
By the time he was finished establishing himself as a man of the people, his fellow Mayanans had practically begged him to run for executive president. No one was surprised at his landslide victory. Least of all, President Curry-Hume.
That was because everything-from his first handshake to his televised victory speech-was part of a meticulously laid-out plan.
If someone were to suggest the lengths to which this professed nonpolitician had gone to attain elected office, they would have been scorned by a disbelieving public. Such was the people's faith in their president. It was a faith constructed on that most flimsy of foundations: personality.
Curry-Hume had charisma by the bushel. When he spoke, it was as if he were speaking directly to every single person in his audience. According to a New Briton newspaper that had supported his candidacy, he could "charm the moon from the sky."
When it was announced that Mayana would host the Globe Summit, the people gave credit to their first-term executive president for drawing attention to their tiny country.
That week, when the people of Mayana learned of the Vaporizer at the same time as the rest of the world, they heaped praise at the feet of their executive president for managing to keep so great a thing secret. When they were told how lucrative the project would be, not just in terms of money to the government treasury but also job creation, the poor of Mayana stood and cheered.
But there was one man in Mayana who wasn't applauding. One man who didn't buy into the concept of citizen politician. One man who knew what a crock it all was.
Finance Minister Carlos Whitehall was fussing at his jacket cuffs as he entered the office suite of Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume.
Phones were ringing off the hook. The entire building was abuzz with excitement. And the man who was truly responsible was getting no credit whatsoever.
The Vaporizer Project had been the brainchild of Finance Minister Whitehall, who had held the same post in the previous administration. The project was initiated under Whitehall, before Executive President Curry-Hume's election. But were the people told the truth? No, of course not.
Oh, if the project had been a failure, Finance Minister Whitehall would have gotten all the blame. And unlike a slippery politician, he wouldn't have been able to wiggle out of it. He was-to his intense irritation-not a charismatic man.
Whitehall wended his way through the bustle of people, stopping before the desk of the executive president's secretary. "Is he in?" he droned unhappily.
The woman glanced up. She had a phone in one hand and was digging through her desk drawer with the other.
"Oh, good morning, Minister," the harried woman said. "He knows about your appointment, but he's in conference now. Would you mind waiting?"
It was insulting to even suggest such a thing. Carlos Whitehall was a cabinet minister after all. On the other hand, he didn't feel like wading back through two floors of crowded hallways to his own offices. Lips twisting to show his annoyance, he took a seat in the waiting area.
He was dismayed to find that he was seated directly across from the official government photographic portrait of Blythe Curry-Hume. He had to put up with that photo everywhere he went in the building. There was even one hanging in his own office.
As usual, the man so beloved by his fellow countrymen failed to impress Finance Minister Whitehall. Certainly the executive president's appearance alone wasn't exceptional. In a country where combined Spanish and English features were common, Curry-Hume seemed to be a bland mix of both. His nose seemed a bit two narrow, and his eyes were almost a too-perfect almond shape. His features were white, though his skin was dark. It was as if his face had been voted on and selected for its across-the-board appeal.
Sitting in his little corner of the presidential waiting room, Carlos Whitehall realized that this probably went to the very heart of what constituted a successful politician.
"Mr. Curry-Hume will see you now, Minister." Whitehall glanced over. A helpful young presidential assistant was smiling at him. Whitehall harrumphed displeasure at the young man. He allowed the aide to lead him back over past the secretary's desk to the executive president's door.
Two men were just exiting. Whitehall recognized Blythe Curry-Hume's brutish bodyguards. The men were new to the government payroll. The executive president had brought them in from his private life. The men swaggered off through the crowded office suite and out into the hall.
The young aide caught the door just as it was closing, holding it open for the finance minister. Whitehall stepped past him without so much as a nod of thanks.
The door closed with a soft click behind him.
In person, Executive President Blythe Curry-Hume was as bland as his official portrait.
Curry-Hume sat behind his broad desk. The back of his gleaming leather chair touched the edge of the mahogany. Brown eyes stared out the window and into the lush hills above New Briton.
Curry-Hume was the one who had insisted the Vaporizer be built in those hills. The original plan had put it closer to the harbor for convenience. Often in meetings his eyes would slip to the window. Cabinet officers would find him staring wistfully at the miles of hills and jungle overgrowth that separated him from the device. He seemed to take strange comfort in the Vaporizer that went beyond what the device would mean for his country.
Whitehall waited a few seconds before clearing his throat.
"Sit down, Carlos," Curry-Hume said. The president did not turn around. He continued to stare. Finance Minister Whitehall took a seat in front of the president's desk.
"And what is so urgent that the man who has saved Mayana needs to see me?" Curry-Hume asked.
It was an admission only made in private. The world would never know where credit was truly due. "We might have a slight problem," Carlos Whitehall said. "One of the Vaporizer scientists has disappeared. He did not show up for work this morning. When someone was sent to check, they found his apartment in shambles."
"The Japanese," Executive President Curry-Hume said.
Whitehall raised a surprised eyebrow. "You heard?"
"News travels fast in a country this small," CurryHume said as he stared out the window. "I have spoken to their ambassador this morning. Apparently a member of their diplomatic mission never returned to their embassy last night. When the authorities were called, they already knew about your missing scientist. From you?"
Carlos Whitehall's face had paled. "What?" he asked. He shook his head. "No, no. The men who checked his apartment called the police. Mr. President, these men must be found. My God, this could be a disaster."
Curry-Hume finally pulled his eyes from the window.
"I know what you're thinking, Carlos," he said, spinning at his desk to face his visitor. "But I do not believe there's anything to be concerned about."
Whitehall shook his head. "I don't think you understand the ramifications of this," he insisted worriedly. "We hired Yakamoto away from one of Japan's biggest corporations. He signed a nondisclosure agreement like the others, but that is just words on paper if he never stopped working for Nishitsu. If he and this other man were working together, our technology could already be in their hands."
Curry-Hume offered a paternal smile that crimped the tight skin near his eyes. "Please, Carlos," he said in soothing tones. "Apparently I'm not a doomsayer like you. But even if it's as you say and they have stolen the ability to create their own Vaporizer, it would take them years to build one. And until that time, the market is ours. Look out at the harbor. We are turning scows away. The Caribbean continues to fill with ships waiting to dock. So what if someone builds another Vaporizer somewhere else? Will it bother me? Yes. But it's probably inevitable. And it is a long way away before they can hope to compete with us. We have everything in place to build more devices-faster than anyone else could, since we have learned from the mistakes of the first. And we have the first Vaporizer, Carlos. The only one in the world. It will serve its purpose."
Whitehall absorbed the executive president's words. He made sense. And though the finance minister was loath to admit it, Whitehall had already considered it inevitable that the technology would one day fall into the hands of others. However, he had always hoped that day would be far away.
He grunted unhappily. "I would still like to know where Yakamoto has disappeared to," he said. Curry-Hume's smile flickered just a little. "I am certain he will turn up somewhere. For now, the authorities will investigate. Put it from your mind. There is nothing we can do to help by worrying. And we have other business to attend to." He folded his hands in prayer on the desktop. "What about those scows that sank?"
Carlos Whitehall was reluctant to leave the subject of Toshimi Yakamoto, but he knew the executive president was right. With a deep breath he refocused his thoughts.
"There is no proof yet that they were torpedoed," he said. "Boat traffic has been restricted in the area, pending an investigation. We haven't been able to search yet, since our security is stretched thin already preparing for the Globe Summit. But honestly, sir, I doubt we'll find anything to support the American captain's claim. More than likely there was an accident. Perhaps an engine explosion on one that ignited flammable materials that engulfed both ships. The scows are very close to one another out there. It could be that they simply collided and both went down."