By Douglas Preston
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A. ” He pulled a dossier out of the pile. ” Ford didn’t like the sudden shift in tone. ” Lockwood pushed the folder across the table to Ford, who opened it and stared at the photograph stapled to the inside cover—a smiling woman with glossy black hair and mahogany eyes. He slapped it shut, pushed it back at Lockwood, and rose to go. “You call me in here on a Sunday morning and pull a trick like this? ” A cold smile. ” “You were CIA, Wyman. ” Ford took a step forward, towering over Lockwood. ” The science adviser looked up, hands clasped, smiling mildly.
If only he hadn’t been caught with his hand in the tribal cookie jar. Yazzie finally spoke. “We have many pressing needs, Mr. Crawley—schools, jobs, health clinics, recreational facilities for our youth. ” Crawley held his smile as if for a camera. The ungrateful sons of bitches. They were going to collect their six million a year from now until doomsday, and he would get none of it. But he hadn’t been lying—this lobbying assignment had been a bitch-ride from start to finish. ” “Mr. Yazzie, we’re a boutique lobbying firm.
May I please speak with the Reverend Don T. ” The phone call was short and sweet and the timing had been perfect. He hit the OFF button, feeling a surge of triumph at his brilliance. Within a month, he’d have those bareback-riding savages back in his office, begging to hire him—at twice the retainer. His moist rubbery lips twitched with pleasure and anticipation. 4 WYMAN FORD LOOKED OUT THE WINDOW of the Cessna Citation as it banked over the LukachukaiMountains and aimed for Red Mesa. It was a striking landform, an island in the sky walled all around by cliffs, seamed in layers of yellow, red, and chocolate sandstone.