Lee was thoroughly in love with her office, and for a lot stronger reasons than the Dial-a-Mug beverage station, or the view of the Sangre de Cristo Mountains. As much as she enjoyed those, it was the design and equipment that really made it, especially the 5x8-foot wall screen. Ngunda himself had ordered it for her. On it, a command to her computer called up her rough-draft operations chart, as far as she'd gotten on it. Either in standard form, or as interlocking flow charts with call-up overlays. She used it as an easy-to-read working tool, as well as for conferences.
She'd decided to like Ngunda for now, despite his being a guru.
Most people at Millennium headquarters left their office doors open. She preferred hers closed. Thus Larry Rocco knocked and identified himself. When she called, "Come in," he brought with him a man she'd never seen before.
"Hi, Lee," Larry said. "This is Duke Cochran, a writer for American Scene. Duke, this is Lee Shoreff, our resident organizational genius." He turned back to Lee. "You've probably read Duke's articles. He'll be with us for a while, writing about Millennium and Dove, and I'm introducing him around. He did a great piece on Dove's Sacramento appearance in the new issue. He may ask you for an interview between tours."
Involuntarily she'd gotten to her feet. Here was another kind of magnetism; this was a sexy man. He grinned. "Hi, Lee. I've never met a genuine organizational genius before. Do you do personal consulting? My life could use some organizing."
"I only do personal consulting for my husband and daughters. We have an agreement: I don't charge them, and they don't take my advice."
Both men laughed. "Sounds like a workable system," Cochran said. "And I will call you sometime for an interview."
The two men left then, and after a few seconds she realized she was still standing, looking at the closed door. Lee, she told herself, can you spell trouble? That's a man to avoid.
In his room, Duke Cochran sipped coffee and reviewed the day. This continued to be an interesting assignment. He was already satisfied that nearly all the people he'd met here were for real, doing their best for a cause. True believers, he thought, but not idiots. None of them are likely to do something stupid to embarrass Ngunda or the Foundation. Lor Lu probably did all the executive hiring, he decided. The little Asian was more than smart. He could read people.
But the controlling brain, or brains, Cochran told himself, are high up, out of sight. Ngunda's the necessary gimmick and figurehead, someone that people, lots of people, believe in and admire automatically. Equally important, his charisma came across on television, despite his speaking style. Or maybe that style worked for a guru. Maybe he'd even cultivated it.
Basically, though, Cochran told himself, he's a megalomaniac brilliant enough to be plausible. "I teach as one who knows!" Good God! The words had rung a bell, so he'd checked a concordance of the Bible, on the Web. It was a paraphrase of statements in the Gospels of Matthew and Luke, describing how Jesus taught. Yet Ngunda mostly came across as casual, matter of fact. As Harriet Wilson had described him in a column: clean, likeable, and straightforward. But it seemed to Cochran she'd left something out. She should have added, "with personality and style that lets him say the things he says and get away with them."
All in all, Ngunda Elija Aran was a man you might buy a used car from without troubling to raise the hood. A figure to turn to if you wanted a safe and stable anchor point in a world increasingly chaotic and threatening. Someone you'd give your support to, your loyalty—maybe your pension fund. It seemed to Cochran that before this scam was over, Ngunda would declare himself messiah. The tabloids already had, along with more than a few fanatics.
Meanwhile this place—the Ranch, the Cote, its staff—had cost lots of money. Up-front costs for establishment, and ongoing costs for operations. No way were Millennium's psychotherapies paying for even a fifth of it. Several investigative reporters had shown that. Outside interests had to be financing it big-league, especially given the Hard Times, and they'd require some kind of payoff. The membership of its board of trustees was public knowledge; anyone could check it out on the Web. All were big-league rich. But what their actual roles were . . . For that matter, the number one Mister Big might not be a trustee. Probably wasn't.
Lee Shoreff's probably as well informed as anyone short of Lor Lu and Whistler. And she's different than the others here; she doesn't feel like a true believer. If she comes across something, she might even spill it.
He looked at the possibilities thoughtfully. "Maybe I need to get her in bed," he murmured, and mentally backed off, evaluating. She was taller than he usually went for, but good looking, athletic looking; and beneath that professional demeanor, sexy—though she covered it well, with more than her horn-rimmed glasses and no-fuss hairstyle. She'd be passionate, once he got her started, especially if she got into a guilt trip. And she was capable of multiple orgasms, he told himself; he had a sense for things like that.
He pictured her naked, examining her from all angles. Let her think you're passionately in love with her, he told himself. Get her in a hotel room, screw her out of her skull, and unless you really louse it up, you'll find out what she knows—or not. There are worse ways to spend a weekend.