Deep Black by Stephen Coonts; Jim Defelice Read Free Book Online Page A

dried, he got back on the highway and headed south toward Washington and his cousin’s home. When Rubens arrived,
     the party was just about reaching its height. A band that looked vaguely like ’N Sync and sounded like a cross between country
     pop and thrash metal, with the occasional rap beat thrown in, held forth on a stage in front of the pool.
    The swimming pool and surroundings had been shaped to look like a bamboo sanctuary. The bamboo was rather obviously plastic;
     Rubens, whose own pool looked like the contemplative pond of a Zen monastery, smiled wryly at his cousin’s poor taste as she
     thanked him for coming.
    Greta Meandes was related to him on his mother’s side. Greta had money, of course. No one related to Rubens did not have money; it was part of their genetic structure. But the bulk of it came from her husband, who worked as a CEO. As if that
     weren’t bad enough, his company made paper products, one of which was—naturally—toilet paper. It seemed to Rubens a grotesque
     satire on the decline of the family’s American branch, and he tended to keep Greta at arm’s length, even though she held a
     relatively important job as counsel to the House Defense Appropriations Committee.
    “Sylvia looks very sweet,” said Rubens, who in fact had not seen the girl yet.
    “She’ll be so glad that her favorite uncle could make it,” said Greta, as phony as ever.
    “Yes,” said Rubens. The girl was actually his cousin once removed, but it was typical of Greta to be imprecise.
    “I was talking to your mum just the other day,” said Greta. “She called with regrets.”
    “Switzerland can be difficult to leave this time of year,” said Rubens.
    “That’s exactly what she said.”
    Rubens nodded politely as Greta began telling him how perfectly tuned the communion ceremony had been—balloons for the children,
     a sermon that included references to Chuckles the Clown.
    A server approached with champagne. Five-five, she had a bright, beautiful face. Her curly shoulder-length hair was held back
     by a ribbon, accentuating her lightly freckled cheeks. These, in turn, complemented her very round breasts, which swelled
     from the black cocktail outfit like the glorious chest of Venus offered to the youth Adonis in the obscure but exquisite Estasi by Giorgione, one of Titian’s teachers. The painting hung in Rubens’ bedroom, a constant source of inspiration.
    Some might translate the Italian title of the work as “Ecstasy,” others as “Ravishment” or “Rape.” All three ideas occurred
     to Rubens as he took a drink from the tray.
    “Congressman Greene is here,” said Greta, probably hoping to break his stare as the girl walked away.
    “How very nice,” murmured Rubens.
    “He’s over by the pool, getting ready to take a dip. You should talk to him later—he’s running for senator.”
    “He is?” said Rubens, feigning not to know much about him. “Greene is from Kentucky, right?”
    “He’s on the Defense Appropriations Committee,” said Greta. “You didn’t know?”
    “I can’t keep track. Honestly.”
    Greta nodded. She knew that her cousin worked for the NSA, though they never discussed it. He doubted she knew what he did.
     More than likely she thought him a career paper-pusher, an image Rubens did his best to reinforce. He even doubted she knew
     Desk Three existed, though it was possible she had caught references to the supporting infrastructure through her work.
    “Maybe I’ll say hello to the congressman,” said Rubens. “After I mingle.”
    “Good.” Greta gave him a peck on the cheek and slipped away, leaving him with a perfect view of the waitress, who was now
     serving drinks to a cluster of leering white-haired business associates of Greta’s husband. Rubens sidled into a position
     to watch her pass back to the bar, feigning interest in the band. He tilted his glass up in her direction as she went by as
     a signal that he wanted more. She nodded; it seemed a