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EVOKE

Author's Note

Even as this goes to press, there's considerable discontent among my characters, much of it having to do with who's story this purports to be. They threaten lawsuits, hoping for a voice before the courts, but my attorney tells me he's never seen the elevation of a character in a novel to petitioner in court. Even in that unlikely occurrence he doubts any of them would prevail. There's not much published law in this area but it's a hell of a mess.

Good old steady Bob Fairchild is the only one content, he and Maggie, but they have family name on their side and family name counts for a lot in this part of Virginia. Old money is always confident of itself in any event.

Bob's son is less circumspect, not sure if I've been fair to either him or his father and the tangled state of his life gives him a certain validity of complaint, if not authority. His is a minor gripe anyway compared to the others.

Lonnie Romeri's voice is loudest as Lonnie has always made of himself a foreground character. In his mind all else should serve his view of the matter and it's a sticky point. He's not an easy man, nor one without power to corrupt as well as darker powers, only some of which we are destined to see. But it's not easily waved away, his lawyers are legion.

Marty wants his name on the title-page and insists that if the story is not his story, then who's is it? He's got a point, but giving in to one character would be to open the floodgates. He's there, intermittently there and if it's not a large enough role then perhaps I've wronged him. So be it.

The reverend got too small a part and knows it. I admit as much. If there's racial motivation behind these doings he's no doubt the best judge, but he's too powerful an orator and I sometimes think too powerful an intellect to be given more latitude. He'd take over the damned novel and I can't allow that. Not and tell the story the way it happens. Sorry 'bout that Rev, but you've been given the short end of the stick for four hundred years now and it shouldn't be a surprise.

What of Deek and Flip? Should that whole sorry business have been swept under the rug as the reverend would have wished?

You can see the problem, the age old theatrical problem over top billing, as well as the anguish of bit players who end up on the cutting room floor. Bill Wearley and Carla Romeri, Web Brooking and even Senator Alberts have all been at me to fatten their part. That's the fault of all of them, too much knowledge of their own role and they cry for justice.

But I had to weed and edit in order to tell it. Threats aside, they've each of them been shut away within their original pages and perhaps they can argue among themselves whose story this is.

My view is that it's your story. After all, you're the ones who are under the very real threat of having to live it and not me. I'm old enough to get out before the curtain.

Chapter One

"And he won't say what it's about?"

"Nope. Not mysterious exactly, Senator but close to the chest, like Romeri always is. Said he'd send his personal jet, dinner at his home, just the two of you and have you back in Washington by midnight."

"Well, I'm not flying halfway across the country not knowing what's on his mind, private jet or no. Can't we settle for dinner here in Washington?"

"At a restaurant?"

"Yeah. Private room upstairs at LaFrance if that'll do it."

"Personal dinner, personal jet and you're going to offer a restaurant?"

"That's a mite on the instructive side, Dan." Senator Fairweather shifted a bit behind the desk and fiddled with his fingers spread out across his lap, pressing the tips, unpressing.

"That's why I'm your Chief Of Staff, Senator. Romeri's not a guy to piss off. That's why I didn't let him through to you or let Sally handle it. Thought we ought to talk this one out."

"You're right." He sighed. "How about out at Fairacres? Think he'd settle for Fairacres?"

"I think that's what he's been angling for all along, to get an invitation to your private home. Make himself the guest and you the host."

"Hmmm . . . " Bob leaned forward, elbows on the desk. "Well, set it up then. A Sunday evening, week from Sunday if he can make it. Otherwise it'll have to wait 'till the end of next month."

"Done."

"I still don't like it."

______________________________

Robert Billings Fairweather sat the big bay thoroughbred comfortably, alone on the hillside above his hounds, attention riveted on the patch of woods, seeing with his ears as well as eyes. He shifted in the saddle and the bay's left foreleg trembled in anticipation, ears pricked in the direction of hounds.

"Easy, son. We'll be away in a moment."

He moved the coiled whip against the bay's neck, rubbing reassuringly and standing once more in the irons. Master of the Fairweather Hounds, third term United States Senator from Virginia, Bob Fairweather had good reason to sit easily in the saddle. Yet he was distracted this morning by events vaguely beyond his control.

Son of a Senator, grandson of a coal baron and great grandson of a Senator. Bob was a man who belonged in that august body not merely by wealth or the whim of politics, but in the only sense that mattered. There in the tradition of family. Since the Theodore Roosevelt administration there had been a Fairweather in the Senate, except for grandfather's years. Grandpa John had built a dynasty from West Virginia coal, a vast empire that stretched into Pennsylvania, Illinois and finally Montana. A base of power and wealth that allowed his son and grandson access to the United States Senate, handing off that access from fathers to sons like the smooth passing of a runner's baton, with never a break in stride.

He steadied the big horse. The days of handing off such power along with the surety of family empire might well be passing. There was trouble in the Senate. Hell there had always been trouble in the Senate, but the threads of power were coming unstrung and old steady alliances could no longer be counted upon. Strange times particularly in the EVOKE Committee, his committee. The only chairman EVOKE had known during its ten year history, he'd watched it struggle from a tortured and divisive beginning to a phenomena that worried him. Truth be known, it frightened him and he was a man unused to fear. If hounds were loose in the Senate, he was an unwilling fox.

A horn sounded, his Huntsman's two quick notes rolling up from the wispy fog of woods below, a pause, then two more blown on the short brass horn he kept jammed between the front buttons of his pink coat. Jerrold MacCay had his own traditions and the horn he blew with such casual skill came with him from Ireland. Handed from father to son to grandson, three generations of hunt servants and huntsmen all. Endless stories attached to that battered horn, each dent, crease or scratch in the polished brass a reminder of foxes that ran and hounds that found the line, then faltered to lose, found it again and chased across his dreams of Ireland. A rare man who could hunt hounds, a dying breed in a dying sport and Fairweather valued his huntsman, sending him every year to Ireland for a month after the season ended in Virginia. How many seasons left, before that final departure?

His pack broke from the edge of woods, Ravage in front, noses down, tails furious with expectation. Their muffled cry broke into frustrated yelps until the old hound found the line once more. Honoring his deep voice they came together, spilling away down the edge of Bottom Creek. Jerrold burst from the woods on the gray horse he favored, his forearm raised against branches through which he plunged, hard on the heels of his hounds. A faded scarlet coat he'd refused to retire over the past ten seasons caught the early morning light as he galloped, coattails flying, blowing the long wavering call of "gone away." He glanced hurriedly up the hill at his master, pointing in the direction of the streaming pack with coiled whip to let Bob know he'd viewed the fox.

Fairweather booted the big bay horse down across the hill, sitting well back in the saddle as they slid and scrabbled their way toward the creek. Bottom Creek wound around this section of woods and doubled back on itself, finally crossing the Middleburg Road at the old steel bridge. The fox was sure to cross it several times, throwing hounds off scent, but Bob doubted he'd cross the road. More likely instead to run up toward Miller's place. This early in the game Bob counted on him to hold tight to thick cover and the larger patches of woods.

It was a gamble but he was well behind his hounds by now. He'd chance leaving the creek to skirt the edge of the woods hoping to pick them up again near Miller's. Damn, he might better have stayed with Jerrold instead of climbing that hill, but it was a great vantage from which to watch his pack work. From the corner of his eye as he galloped, he spotted his Field Master jogging around the edge of the woodlot from which the pack had just come, thirty or forty members in tow in a long uneven line of men in scarlet and women in black. They'd stay well behind the Huntsman and pack and they'd damned well stay clear of the line.

If he guessed wrong about Miller's he'd be nearly out of the game and a hell of a distance behind his hounds should the fox make an early break for it and cross the Middleburg Road. Have to chance it he thought and spurred the bay again, the horse reluctant to turn away from the voice of the pack. Galloping the west edge of the woods, standing now in the stirrups, he spoke softly to the horse and his thoughts fled back ten years in the Senate. It annoyed him, this scattering of focus on a hunting morning with hounds running.

EVOKE occupied an irritated corner of his mind this hunting morning. It was a force now to be reckoned with and bargained over. Conceived of late nineties technology that brought that closing decade's blinding multiplication of chip power and in its wake corresponding breakthroughs in computer imaging. Astonishing advances in virtual reality, progress so stunning and with such widespread implications that the FCC had intervened. Grinding bureaucratic wheels with uncharacteristic haste they took over licensing, control and distribution. Mistrustful of market forces, government had effectively snatched all power for itself, creating yet another bureaucracy. Irrevocably that intervention had come to change Bob's steady and predictable life in the Senate.

No longer a novel theatre experience or quirky Internet fascination, medicine and technology had converged to bring virtual reality in a quantum leap directly to the brain. A successful bridging of the unbridgeable, allowing all the senses into experiences no further from access than a modem. Watching the quarterback became passe' as onliners became the quarterback, seeing through his eyes, an adrenaline rush to exactly match his.

Demand was instantaneous. And overwhelming, everyone eager for an invitation to this perpetual sensory banquet. A public clamor for access and eventually they'd get it he mused, for better or worse.

There was of course a price to pay. Everything has its price. The entry fee had been wearied out of endless congressional debate while the country waited, eager for the newest and best . . . anxious to be among the first in that most American of extravagances, the thirst for whatever there is.

He pulled the big horse down to a trot, cut a corner of the woods and ducked branches that reached out to pull at his coat and breeches, taking in the heavy decomposing scent of late fall. Finally a kind of lottery for access had been agreed upon, based on random selection of social security numbers. A million citizens came online the first year,nearly four the second and now the numbers were growing at a geometric rate. Everyone who cared to would be online, perhaps in another ten years. Perhaps not, it was hard to tell. There was a surgical procedure involved, a rather invasive procedure and that's not as quick or simple as distribution of software.

There were other complicating issues as well. Among them the most controversial, morally distasteful and difficult had been the administration's insistence on voluntary male-sterilization as a condition of coming online. Controversial hell, that didn't half state the case for such a science fiction trade-off. A predictable firestorm of protest had broken over that requirement, with the Catholic Church and right-to-lifers in the front lines. The reality of growing population, a declining manufacturing base and runaway costs of entitlement programs had finally broken the back of all opposition. It had been a long, drawn out and bitter struggle. Finally the President threatened to veto the entire legislative package without that nearly unswallowable amendment. Congress sputtered and damn near choked, but finally swallowed and as a result of that painful ingestion, the first sitting president in memory failed his party's nomination to a second term.

As Chairman of EVOKE on the Senate side, Bob Fairweather fought hard against that amendment. All religious considerations aside, in his heart it represented an intrusion into personal life that was out of line, probably unconstitutional and far too basic a right to be given over to government. Constitution be damned, he lost as they finally all lost to the argument the sterilization program was voluntary. At least in theory. Sperm banks were available and access to those personal bank accounts was an option once certain requirements were met. A steady job and long-term relationship allowed a couple to conceive one child. Four years in unchanged circumstance allowed another, the maximum. Cries of racism were raised along with unwarranted references to genocide. Neither held up under scrutiny and the package finally passed on a voice-vote, no senator or representative willing to have his personal aye or nay penned in the record.

Nonetheless it cost a good many lawmakers their seats in the coming off-year election. And like much of American history, as violent the storm, so quickly the calm and life went on, attentions diverted to other matters and an anxious wait for individual numbers to come up.

He pulled the bay to an abrupt halt, its flanks steaming with effort and excitement, snorting and stamping in anticipation, eager to be off again. Bob listened for the faint cry of his pack and then turned, quartering across the pasture. This was his land they hunted, just over eight thousand acres of rolling pasture, hardwood forest and patches of crop land. Secured for his family through past generations against the encroachment of developers and whatever else lay in wait outside the gates to this private world. Home of the mansion, stables and kennel known as 'Fairacres.'

Great grandfather built the main house in 1895 and grandfather added massively to it in 1921, four years before Bob's father was born here. After his death Bob found it necessary to further remodel and bring the old place up to date in 1990. Times changed and he changed with them, turning the servants wing into several guest apartments, a more convenient organization for downsized staff. There were only three live-in staff now, a butler whose wife Amy was the cook and his widowed chauffeur, Wilson. They occupied two apartments over the gabled red brick garages and the balance of staff were all day help, excepting Jerrold and his wife who lived in the cottage at the kennels. Grandfather kept twenty-one full time staff, but those days were gone forever and probably well gone. There were still twelve in the house or on the grounds each day, but you couldn't call it staff, not in any proper meaning of the word. Sufficient for the constant entertaining that was required of him and Maggie. Sufficient. A twenty-first century word on a nineteenth century property.

Tonight's dinner would be small, only requiring the cook, butler and two for serving. But they'd pull all the stops for Lonny Romeri and it would have an intensity that Bob preferred to keep in Washington, separate somehow from Fairacres. Romeri was a queer duck, one of those who seemed to live only for business. Not at all the type to invite casually for dinner. Yet he'd all but insisted on the invitation and Bob submitted grudgingly in his mind and graciously on the phone. What the devil could Romeri have to say that wouldn't more properly be discussed in Washington?

He pulled the bay up at the crest of a small rise and listened, then smiled. They were indeed headed for Miller's, he'd guessed right. If he and the big horse were quiet and careful they could get to the edge of Miller's woods and watch them break out. Unsnapping the cover of the leather flask case attached to the saddle, he slid the glass out, unstoppered the bottle and took a long sip of the liquor, nudging the bay north along the edge of woods he'd hunted for nearly fifty years.

Only the land is constant, he reflected and his entire life with the exception of boarding school and Princeton was spent here on this land. Fairweather land for four generations and soon five. He'd walked every inch of it, knew the feel of every field and woods and creek bottom underfoot, had seen the marshland where he hunted ducks in every conceivable kind of light. He'd plowed and planted and harvested each cultivated field as a kid, helping the farm manager and keeping the careful records his father required. He knew its intimate smell and sound, the taste of what grew there in every season.

He smiled at the memory of courting Maggie here and the first time they made love, a spring Saturday afternoon after a picnic up in the north meadow. A warm, sunny day in mid April and he remembered how she had touched him with her eyes and her spirit as much as her physical presence. She still did. A quick afternoon thunderstorm caught them naked on the blanket, their minds attending only to each other and they'd dressed quickly, laughing in the rain on the way back, guessing they were being scolded by the storm and not giving half a damn.

His Huntsman's long wavering call of "gone away" floated once more across the top of the woods and he knew hounds were in full tongue now, hard on a fox that should break from the woods at any moment a little below and ahead of him. He squeezed the bay into a bold trot and headed for the crest of the open sloping pasture at the north end of the woods.

Standing on the ridge line, Bob listened to the pack. Working their way steadily through the woods below him, he imagined in his mind the ripple of brown and white as crossbred English and American foxhounds surged across the forest floor. Jerrold was hunting thirty-two couple this morning, sixty four well muscled hounds, averaging sixty pounds apiece, forging their way after a fifteen pound fox. He smiled at the seeming imbalance of power, knowing that the game may be afoot but the odds were very strongly in favor of the fox. Bob grinned at the metaphor of foxhunting to politics. The bay horse shivered again under him, ears pricked and listening.

"There, there by God," he murmured The fox broke from the edge of the woods a hundred yards down in a hot coppery streak angling toward Beecher's a half mile away. Fairweather held his breath, standing once again in the irons to watch the fox pause halfway up the knoll, look back over his shoulder and guage his lead. Comfortable, he loped easily toward the woodlot. Damn, what a rare view. He settled back in the saddle, completely contented and self congratulatory in his tactic, proud to be in sight of his Huntsman when Jerrold broke from the woods and just the least bit chagrined at his pride. Anyway it felt good, made the days worth while when he had guessed wrong. Alonzo Romeri flashed into his mind and he shook off the thought, an intrusions into this perfect moment of a near perfect morning.

Seconds later the pack spilled from the feathered edge of woodlot in full cry, his Huntsman hot behind them. As Jerrold spotted him on the hillside, Bob stood in the stirrups and pointed his whip in the direction the fox had taken, calling the "Tally Ho" of a sighted fox. Jerrold nodded and Fairweather spurred the big bay horse across the meadow to intersect his line. Galloping alongside Jerrold's lathered gray gelding and standing in the irons, the two of rode a carpet of hounds in full cry.

"Wonderful run, Jerrold. Sounds like they never really lost him."

"Aye, Master. They're doin' a hell of a job." His flushed face broke to a wide grin. "Hell of a job. That Ravage is a hound just made to find foxes."

"He'll go to earth in Beecher's, I believe. Looked back once, but I think he's had enough."

"Reckon we've all had near enough, Master. This horse's just about caved in. You made a hell of a judgment, comin' out on that hillside."

"Been on this place a lot of years Jerrold."

"Hell of a judgment, anyway."

They put the fox to earth in Beecher's just as expected and Bob decided to ride back the long way, just he and Jerrold and his hounds relishing again what had been a morning of sheer magic. How many more seasons, who could tell? Land was closing in, another big estate up for sale each year it seemed. Middleburg was less than fifty miles from Washington and there weren't but a couple dozen really large places left anymore.

Hunting took land, as well as the money to support a pack. More than that it needed men and women to love the sport and keep it going, all of those factors in diminishing supply. Jerrold was fifty and in fifteen or so years when he retired to his beloved Ireland, Bob would be seventy-three. He reckoned that would be the end of hunting horns blowing across the early morning mists of Virginia. George Washington hunted his pack of English Foxhounds within a hundred miles of this very place, a continuity that spanned the life of the country and was soon to be lost. Bob shoved his leg forward in the saddle, reached down to catch the buckle, loosened the girth a notch or two to let the big bay horse breathe a little easier on the walk home. Hounds heads and tails were down, they were tired too.

Well, whatever Romeri had on his mind would wait, damned if he'd fret over it. A nap sometime in the afternoon would be just the thing to clear his thoughts and freshen the spirits before dinner. There seemed a hidden purpose in this man, not precisely on the square, a veiled agenda, something to be asked and given. Always a trump card to be played.

Whatever, it had been a grand morning, a hell of a morning.

-------------------------------------------

Alonzo Romeri laid aside the weekly European Sales Forecast, slid the half glasses off his nose and let them drop to his chest, gazing out the window. A cloud bank lay like a white down comforter sprawled across Pennsylvania beneath the World Star corporate jet. How different the world was above and below. One serene, sun drenched and knowable, the other in turmoil and scattered thunderstorms, unknowable. Damn, he'd had an exciting life though and there was still a lot left of Lonny after fifty-one years, pulling the focus of scattered dreams and achievements into position for the next surge. This would be his most ambitious, maybe the final goal in a life of goals.

A self made man, he reflected, if you can call starting out with the old man's five million self made. Still trim and slight of build, he was unremarkable in appearance, with a slight hook to an otherwise straight nose framed by soft dark eyes that seldom blinked. Not someone to pick out of the yearbook, not by a long shot. If a movie were made of his life, a little known actor could play his part. He scarcely fit the image of a leading man, more the decent looking but unassuming bit player who would prove to have a shiv up his sleeve.

He touched the intercom.

"Joe, how long to Dulles?"

"Thirty-five minutes, Mr. Romeri," the pilot answered.

"What's the weather?"

"Broken cloud cover, scattered showers moving through, fifty-six degrees."

A pain in the ass, arranging this damned hat-in-his-hand meeting with the Senator. Pompous sons of bitches these politicians, but it was the way Washington worked, talking around the subject at hand and feigning interest in side issues. Lay 'em down, I got aces Jack. What you got to beat that? With any luck, he'd be back in Detroit by midnight, time enough to spend the night at the apartment. He swiveled the armchair, got up and walked over to the sofa, stretching out full length, fluffing the pillow under his head.

"Anything I can get you, Mr. Romeri?" The steward glanced back from the galley doorway.

"No, thanks Edward, I'm just fine. Just gonna relax for twenty minutes."

He closed his eyes and the image of his father came to mind, sitting behind the wheel of his fearsomely polished Lincoln in the driveway of the big house in Shaker Heights. Honking impatiently, trying to get the family the hell into the car. Another in the endless strings of Sunday afternoons that were always spent with Momma and Papa. Italian families. Sundays all over the world were the same in Italian families, spent with grandparents over steaming bowls of pasta. The food always the same, always too much. The conversations always the same, always too much, the ritual of family stronger even than the ritual of church. He grew to despise those Sundays as he entered his teens.

Only now, separated by thirty-seven thousand feet and the thirty-seven years that faded the black and white of his youth, did he see those Sundays in a nostalgic wash of color. His grandfather's face was unclear in memory and only his strong enveloping embrace was focused. A one word description of the Romeri family would be touch. They hugged, chucked under chins, pinched noses, pulled affectionately at ears, threw arms across shoulders, kissed the kiss that wasn't a kiss but a touch on each cheek. Tackled and wrestled and threw each other down with their love. Romeris never shook hands, that was for strangers who weren't family, weren't Italian. He rolled over on his side, lulled by the soft whine of the fan jets.

Papa made what seemed a hell of a fortune with his Ford dealerships. First one, then another and finally the third, setting the Romeri family firmly into the upper middle class. But they were still Italians, always Italians. Elbows on the table, pass the pasta Italians and that meant you had to take what you wanted, no one was going to give it to you or even give you an equal shot at it.

The summer he turned seventeen, Lonny was the top salesman at the Garfield Heights dealership for all three months of school vacation, embarrassing the hell out of the old pros on the showroom floor. That summer the vision formed, took shape in his mind and became the guiding force of what he needed to do. And what he needed to do didn't include college. Been a hard sell to Papa, but his continuing success kept the vision alive and growing until finally the old man had a sense of it too and got off his case. He was grudgingly forgiven for turning his back on Ohio State.

The old pros thought a kid couldn't sell cars. Who the hell would buy a car from a kid, a snot-nosed teenager? Lonny was only there because he was the boss's son, to pick up a few pointers from the old pro's shined shoes, fast talk and juggled numbers. Then he'd move on to marry some local wop skirt, have a bunch of grease ball kids and finally own the company. They were careful around him, he was still the old man's kid. But the wariness was there, born of contempt for a punk who had it made, didn't need the job.

Lonny pulled records of customers who'd bought cars two years ago, then three years ago and called them in the evening at their homes. He told them what their cars were worth on a new Ford or Lincoln and how small the payments would be. He stopped at commuter stations on his way in to the dealership and slipped his card under windshield wipers with cash offers for the Fords, Chevies and Buicks on trade-in. He didn't sell price, told his prospects flat-out they could buy a new Ford almost anywhere in the Cleveland area for his price. But only at Romeri Motors would someone come out to the house, pick up their car and drop off a loaner for regular service. Only Romeri Motors would return the car freshly washed, at no extra charge. It worked, worked so successfully that it became the advertised policy of Romeri Motors and led to the building of two additional dealerships. The old pros sucked it in and took another look at the punk kid.

Free loaners and pickup was a hard sell on Papa too, but he convinced the old man the loaners would be moving billboards and he knew his ability to see things that others missed made him different. The difference brought him this plane, brought him the chairmanship and controlling interest in World Star. He sat up and moved back to the swivel chair.

"Edward, please bring me a Coke."

"Right away, Mr. Romeri."

The tractor was the start of the real climb, the laughable little tractor.

During Lonny's senior year in high school, his World Affairs class had a semester of study on disadvantaged countries. He still saw in his mind the images of horses and oxen pulling wooden plows, of barefoot peasants bent over in rice paddies. Unable to understand why these people had no mechanical equipment, he drove out on a Saturday afternoon to the Ford Farm-Equipment dealer in Twinsburg and found out why. The low end, bottom of the line cheapest Ford tractor was nearly twenty-two thousand bucks. He couldn't get all those farmers of the Third World out of his mind, behind horses and oxen needing tractors, millions of tractors.

Lonny didn't know anything about tractors, about nuts and bolts and assembly lines and didn't want to know. He knew there was a market among those Third World farmers and set out to build a tractor to meet that need. It would be, had to be a basic unit he could sell profitably for twenty five hundred dollars. Twenty-eight hundred, tops.

The prototype took a year to develop and cost Papa two hundred seventeen thousand dollars. It was a grimly beautiful little machine, steel wheeled with no power options, two cylinder and capable of pulling a two-bottom plow. It ran on low grade kerosene, heating oil, low octane gasoline, LP gas and probably Jack Daniels. Lonnie insisted that every exterior nut, no matter the size of the bolt it held, be only one size. He then fastened a wrench of that size, under the seat. He drove the engineers crazy with simplification, but they began to see what he was after and he got his way. He demanded a tractor that could be fixed by an illiterate farmer in the field, with a repair manual in pictures and he got that too.

With another half million of Papa's money and their fingers crossed, the Romeri Tractor Company built a hundred units. Lonny set up a leasing program for lease-purchase contracts and a modest international dealership network. International dealership . . . he grinned at the thought of those early dealers in cow pens and chicken coops of remote corners of the world. In five years at age twenty-three, Lonny was manufacturing in nine countries. His neighborhood buddies were graduating from Ohio State, Stanford and Penn State, looking for their first jobs.

Lonny stretched, took a sip of Coke and gazed out the window. Currency he knew to be a problem from the start, but solving that problem was the key reason he wasn't just a middling wealthy and still struggling manufacturer. In those days there was no way to convert zlotys and rubles and a slew of other minor currencies into the hard money that had international value. Lonnie saw another opportunity and Romeri Tractor bartered in local goods, like a peasant in the Saturday market. Train loads of Polish potatoes bought with zlotys from tractor sales, went to Germany and France for marks and francs. The Russian ruble, worthless on the face of it, was spent in Russia building oil tankers in Baltic shipyards that Romeri leased to the Japanese for yen and the Saudis for riyals.

The profits drawn from his eagerness to barter, was ten times the margin on tractors. Lonny's network of leasing and import-export businesses grew exponentially from the sales of his little two cylinder tractors and took on a momentum of their own. The beginnings of an international business empire was born of the vision of a seventeen year old who knew enough to bring a loaner to the house if he hoped to sell a car.

Lonny kept himself operationally aloof, raiding executive talent like a pirate on the high seas and becoming a billionaire in the process. Money was an accidental side issue and he was surprised and vaguely disinterested in the ever growing numbers. He recognized only the power of those numbers, the power to fuel a dream, the money to see it through.

"Dulles in five minutes, Mr. Romeri," the pilot announced. "Be a good idea to belt up, there'll be a few bumps on the way through the cloud cover."

"Thank you, Joe. Drop her in lightly."

The Starlight 3000 that Joe handled so deftly was simply another profitable appendage. A corporate flying-carpet that Lonny developed in a down aircraft market, another Romeri Tractor scenario covering a need that no one in the industry recognized. Six years after he'd led the successful takeover of an over extended automobile manufacturer, World Star made a run at Beechcraft. They came up a winner with a loser aircraft manufacturer as the prize. The ups and downs of periodic recession had taken its toll on the corporate jet business and the builders of airframes had been fighting for years over a larger and larger piece of a shrinking market, decimating themselves in the process. Beech was a disaster when Lonny finally got his hands on it and the industry, just like the old pros at the dealership, thought he'd bought himself a pickle. A very expensive pickle was the word on Wall Street.

But he had the staying-power of enormous cash flow by that time and went to work on his concept of a corporate plane. A fan jet nearly as fast as a jet, but with better fuel economy and far less maintenance, increased range and the ability to drop into small runways. Comfortable and plain, efficient and cheap by the standards of the day, it sold like hotcakes. Sold like two cylinder tractors and built worldwide markets where there had been none, staggering what little competition remained. Fourteen percent of World Star profits now came from the Starlight Aircraft Company, building corporate and cargo planes in four countries. UPS and Federal Express flew Starlights as well as a majority of the Fortune 500 and the major airlines, who found in them their solution to feeder routes. He felt the slight snuggling jolt of wheels touching down at Dulles and the plane rolled across the tarmac to the corporate terminal.

If tonight's dinner at the Fairweather estate in Middleburg went well, the flight would be time well spent. If not, there were other ways to get to the Senator. All deals were not winners, even Lonnie's deals. The talent was in turning a loss into something that could be leveraged. Fairweather might be a loss as well, it was a ticklish business, but Alonzo Romeri was not a man to be refused access. As long as he had access a United States Senator was just another potential problem to be levered into an opportunity or defused and shoved aside. He unsnapped his seat belt.

"What's the return schedule, Mr. Romeri?"

"Midnight, Joe. File a return flight-plan for midnight."

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