On the first circuit of the track, Angelo made no great demands on the car. He accelerated slowly and circled the track at thirty miles an hour. He was in radio contact with Alex.

  “Normal,” she said at the end of the first lap.

  “I’m going to give your computer something to think about,” said Angelo.

  “It’s been thinking all along. Battery drain is within expected parameters.”

  “Okay. Let’s see if it can accelerate.”

  Because generations of drivers were accustomed to the throttle in a car being a long thin pedal located under the driver’s right foot, the 000 was configured that way. Angelo pressed down. The car surged forward. When he reached fifty miles per hour he eased up.

  “It doesn’t like that as well,” said Alex. “Battery drain is outside acceptable parameters. Not by much, but more than we can accept.”

  “You’re making notes, I suppose,” said Angelo. “We know what we have to work on.”

  “Try decelerating,” she said.

  Again, in order to avoid building a car that would radically change the driving habits of millions, Angelo had had the Triple Zero’s brake designed so that it was applied by pressing down a pedal. The test car had no backup conventional brakes. It would slow down as the polarity on the motors reversed, or it wouldn’t slow down at all.

  It didn’t slow down at all.

  “Shit!” yelled Alex. “I know why, too. The fuckin’ computer isn’t reading the command. Just keep your foot off the accelerator and let it run out of steam.”

  The test car eventually coasted to a stop, and Angelo nursed it back to the ramp at five miles an hour.

  When he got out, Cindy was the only spectator who remained. Loren and Roberta and their engineers had left.

  “A good first test,” said Keijo.

  Angelo slapped the test car’s fender. “Yeah,” he said. “We’ve got a week to make it work.”

  5

  One week because…

  Wilma Worth, the Wall Street Journal reporter who had called Angelo a playboy executive, was a plump and solemn little woman, probably about thirty-five.

  “I know journalistic ethics don’t allow you to ride around the country in corporate jets,” Angelo said to her, “but I’m going to Detroit, and you’re going to Detroit the same day, so what the hell? Anyway, why not have a look at that jet you wrote about?”

  They boarded the Lear at eight in the morning. To Angelo’s surprise, she accepted a Bloody Mary, then a second one.

  “The conventional wisdom on you, Mr. Perino, is that the world has yet to see a woman who can resist you.”

  “The world may not see them, but I do,” he said. “Anyway, in the Middle Ages there was something called the Truce of God, meaning that for a certain period of time all wars were called off so people could take care of other business. How about the Truce of God, today and tomorrow? After that…” He grinned and shrugged.

  She smiled. “Truce of God,” she agreed.

  “Which means you can call me Angelo.”

  “And you can call me Wilma. So tell me, is your car going to run for this drive I’m supposed to take?”

  “It had better,” he said. “The Truce of God doesn’t include your concealing any flaws you see.”

  “Deal,” she said.

  “So you asked me a question and now I ask you one. You’ve been fed a story that the car doesn’t run, right?”

  “Well … let’s change the terminology,” she said. “You can’t feed my paper stories. On the other hand, we’ve had reports to the effect that the car failed miserably on its first test drive.”

  Angelo nodded. “That is about half right,” he said. “In some respects it met expectations. In important respects it didn’t. But that was the first test. It’s been driven in second and third tests during the past week, and it’s doing much better. It hasn’t been perfected yet. It doesn’t meet all expectations.”

  “I’m still surprised that you asked me to come out to see it.”

  “From my point of view, you’re the perfect reporter to be given an advance look at the Zero-Zero-Zero. You wrote an article about me. I viewed it as critical, not hostile. But whatever … you’re surely not my pet reporter. So you get the first official reporter’s look. Deal?”

  6

  XB’s Zero-Zero-Zero Really Does Run

  REPORTS OF FAILURE CLEARLY PREMATURE

  A Cruise Around the Test Track

  By Wilma Worth

  A test car is a funny-looking vehicle. You wouldn’t want one for your family car. The backseat is full of steel boxes containing mysterious electronic instruments. The whole car has an air of impermanence about it—because as a test car it is constantly being changed and refined.

  The XB engineers opened all the nooks and crannies for me. It’s like they said; there’s no gasoline engine hidden in there somewhere. The 000 is powered by four electric motors, one on each wheel. The current comes out of a combination of batteries, all quite mysterious to this reporter. The whole thing is controlled by a sophisticated computer that uses electrical energy so efficiently that supposedly the car can run for hours without recharging the batteries.

  Apart from sitting in the midst of all those instrument boxes, riding in the 000 is very much like riding in any American passenger car. Mr. Angelo Perino, XB president, drove. The car accelerated smoothly to 60 mph and briskly circled the test track. We went around five or six times. The track is five miles around, so we went 25 or 30 miles without draining the batteries.

  Then Mr. Perino offered to let me drive. I did. It was like driving any American car—until I put my foot on the brakes. Only then did he tell me there weren’t any brakes! The car slowed down from the drag on the electric motors, polarity reversed. The car will have conventional brakes for backup, but this test car has none. I wouldn’t have known the difference. The car slowed down and stopped just as if it had brakes.

  I drove five or six laps. At the end I still had lively acceleration, and Mr. Perino said the instruments indicated we could go around a dozen or more times before we’d begin to exhaust the batteries. We wouldn’t need a recharge until we’d driven 150 miles, he said. The company expects to double that before the car is put on the market.

  Whatever the XB 000 turns out to be, it is far too early to call it a failure—or perhaps, at this point, to call it a success.

  7

  Henry Morris came to New York. He and Cindy left the gallery and went to the Bull & Bear in the Waldorf.

  “I had our personnel department run a check on your Professor Carpenter,” Henry told her. “Essentially, he is what he told you: a professor of art history at California State University, Long Beach. He is on sabbatical leave right now. He lives in a modest apartment and drives a four-year-old Chevrolet.”

  “Where does he get the money to buy art?” Cindy asked, puzzled. “That’s the mystery.”

  “He didn’t inherit it, that’s for sure. His father was a barber.”

  “Then he lied to me. He said his father was a yacht broker.”

  “How much money has he spent?” “He bought a DeCombe sculpture for fifteen thousand dollars. And he’s spent fifty-three thousand dollars on Amanda Finch nudes—including one of himself. Besides that, he flies back and forth to California; and when he’s here he stays in expensive hotels.” “His checks are good?”

  “Absolutely.”

  Henry Morris raised his eyebrows. “I guess we’re going to have to go a little further. Let me talk to the security company we keep on retainer for Morris Mining.”

  “What have I gotten myself into?” she asked. “What’s going on? Why has this man insinuated himself into my life?”

  “Be careful. Don’t let him see that you suspect him. Incidentally, what bank does he write checks on?”

  “United California.”

  “Did you ever see him use a credit card?”

  Cindy smiled. “I hope you didn’t suppose your sister was without smarts.” She opened her purse and pulled out a credit-card receipt. “A man should never leave his chit on the table when he goes to the men’s room.”

  Henry Morris may have been incapable of laughing, but he smiled faintly and put the receipt in his jacket pocket.

  8

  George, Viscount Neville, broke his breakfast egg with the bowl of his spoon. He had been glancing through the Times but had put it aside when Betsy had come in a few moments ago. This was his habit. He tried to reach the breakfast room a few minutes before Betsy, so he could have a quick look at his newspaper and then be free for conversation. His wife was a fascinating conversationalist, always with something interesting to say, and he had broken the habit of a lifetime of always reading his Times thoroughly at breakfast.

  A tall, slender, white-haired man, the Viscount Neville had heavy-lidded eyes that suggested hauteur, but he was in fact a most democratic man, whose sincere greetings to dustmen and cabbies sometimes amazed his neighbors and friends. He was nobody’s fool, either. He knew perfectly well that his beautiful American wife had a long-standing relationship with Angelo Perino and temporary affairs with others. He cared, but he did not want to make such a fuss as to damage their marriage. He was distinctly proud of their marriage for a number of reasons, not the least of which was that it had endured far longer than his once-scandalized family and chums had predicted. Betsy did her conjugal duty for him, and he did his for her. Neither of them had any complaint on that score.

  “I have something I want to discuss with you this morning,” Betsy said.

  “Nothing ominous in that opening, I hope.”

  “Something ominous. Van will be here tomorrow. This is the second time he’s flown back here since his Christmas break, and I know why. It’s a girl.”

  “Is that ominous, really?”

  “He’s an innocent, George. He went from a public school in England to a boarding school in France, then to the States, where he immediately fell in love with Anna Perino. He met this new young woman during an interval at a theater. He’s absolutely crazy about her! She wants to go to the States. If she does, she’ll break up his relationship with Anna. And that would be a tragedy.”

  “There is rarely anything one can do about such a matter,” said George.

  “You can do one thing for me. She says her name is Lady Penelope Horrocks. Find out for me who Lady Penelope is. Get me her history, her background.”

  “Hardly my speciality, you know.”

  “Someone in chambers will have access to an investigator who can do a rundown on her. I need to know, George. I need to know right now?”

  XXXVI

  1993

  1

  Van graduated from Harvard in June. He had not applied for admission to law school and said he wanted to spend the summer in London.

  Alicia had a party for him. Betsy came. So did Max van Ludwige. Loren and Roberta flew in from Detroit. All the Perinos attended, as did Amanda, Dietz, and Marcus.

  For once, Angelo and Loren agreed about something. Both of them took Van aside and asked why he had not applied to Harvard Law. And so did his father.

  The young man became annoyed and was more than a little curt in dismissing the questions.

  Betsy didn’t ask him. She knew why.

  The day after the party he packed his bags in his room in Alicia’s house. Anna was with him.

  She wept. “I won’t see you until—until when? When will I see you, Van?”

  “I … well, I’ll be back, of course. It’s just that I’ve been away from my mother and father so long, I feel I have to spend some time with them, something more than just a few days now and then. I do have some obligations.”

  “But law school. You didn’t—”

  “Other people decided I should be a lawyer. I’m not certain. I need some time to think about it.”

  Anna sat on the bed, wiping her tears with the back of her hand. “You’ve turned cold to me, Van,” she said. “Is it because we haven’t had sex? ‘Cause, if it is, I’ll give it to you right now. Right now!”

  “No, Anna. That’s not the problem.”

  “Then what is the problem?” she pleaded.

  “It’s just that … we’re not very grown up. Neither one of us. We must take some time to think everything through.”

  Anna fled the house crying.

  2

  Betsy did not see Anna. She came up the stairs and reached Van’s door five minutes later. She knocked once, then opened the door and walked in.

  “Mother?”

  Betsy sat down on the bed, where Anna had been. She was casually dressed, in blue jeans and a white golf shirt. For a long moment she stared at him.

  “Mother…?”

  “I have something to tell you,” she said coldly. “I spared you until after your graduation and yesterday’s gala. I don’t intend to spare you any longer.”

  “Mother?”

  She had a small photograph in her right hand. It was a police mug shot of a young woman, facing the camera with a flat expression. She passed it to him and waited for him to examine it. “Recognize her?” she asked.

  “Of course. It’s Penny!”

  “Lady Penelope Horrocks?”

  “Yes! What in the world is—this?” He blanched.

  “Lady Penelope Horrocks is seventy-two years old and lives in Kensington. The young woman in the photograph is twenty-five years old. Her name is Rebecca Mugrage, and she lives in Camden Town. The photograph was supplied to my husband by the Metropolitan Police. It was taken at Holloway Prison on the day she entered to serve a one-year term for credit-card fraud. She has also appeared in Bow Street Magistrate Court three times on charges of being a common prostitute.”

  Van tossed the picture on the bed. “I don’t believe it,” he muttered.

  “You had better believe it. Have you been checked for HIV? She’s a damned good candidate for giving it to you.”

  “Why?” he sobbed. “Why would she…?”

  “I intend to find out,” said Betsy grimly.

  “She knew a friend of mine. She remembered where we met, at a curling match.”

  “Information she couldn’t have gotten by herself,” said Betsy. “Someone helped her. And I, by God, will find out who. You, you damned fool, betrayed the girl you love and who loves you, for a professional piece of tail.”

  “Mother!”

  “That’s all she is, your Penny. And worse. And for her you didn’t apply to law school. I guess I haven’t been a good enough mother. Max or I should have taught you some facts of life.”

  Van wept. “What should I do about Anna?”

  “Tell her the truth. And don’t touch her until you’ve had a medical exam. Then call Harvard Law and see if they’ll accept a late application. You had an excellent academic record, and they might have an opening in the fall class. Stay here. I’ll ask Angelo to find you some kind of job. And learn to know who your friends are.”

  3

  Finding out who was behind Rebecca Mugrage was not difficult. She had presented herself as Lady Penelope Horrocks, not just to Van, but to the service from whom she’d rented the Jaguar. To rent the car without trouble, she had used a forged driving license in the name of Lady Penelope. Back in jail and facing a sentence for fraud, she gave a full statement.

  Angelo stopped in London on his way to Berlin. He was dining at Neville House with Viscount George and Viscountess Elizabeth. For this candlelight dinner, Betsy had brought out the Neville antique silver: heavy ornate pieces that had survived wars and estate taxes. Although the viscount knew of the relationship between his guest and his wife, he could not have been more gracious.

  Not until after dinner, when they remained at table over coffee and brandy, did Betsy tell Angelo why she had so urgently demanded he stop here on his way to Germany.

  “This is a copy of the written statement she gave,” said Betsy. “On the second page you see what she said about who hired her and funded her. Roberta.”

  Angelo looked at the viscount. “Do people do things like this in England?” he asked.

  Viscount Neville nodded. “I’m afraid so,” he said. “We should like it to be supposed that we are more … civilized than Americans. But we are not.”

  Angelo handed the paper back. “Betsy,” he said, “this means I am going to make war on your father. I am going to destroy him. Do you want to bail out, or are you with me?”

  Betsy hesitated for a moment. “It depends on how you’re going to do it,” she said quietly.

  “Not that way,” said Angelo.

  4

  Loren threw a file folder across his office. Papers flew.

  “Goddamn!” he yelled. “The sons of bitches have declared war! Do you know what this means?”

  For once, Roberta was flushed and flustered. Ned Hogan, XB corporate counsel, stared at the papers on the floor and made no move to pick them up—as once he might have done.

  “All right,” said Loren hoarsely. “In the woodpile. We know who they are. Perino. Burger. Fairfield. So Mr. Attorney General Fairfield files a lawsuit…”

  “I have to tell you, it might work,” said Hogan.

  “Let me get this straight. Number One transferred thirty-five percent of the stock in what we then called Bethlehem Motors to the Hardeman Foundation. Now the attorney general of Michigan is saying the foundation has to sell a lot of that stock because—”

  “Because the foundation is too heavily committed to one stock,” said Hogan. “A charitable trust—”

  “I know a charitable trust! Didn’t I have Number One’s ass in nineteen seventy-two because he’d retained control of Bethlehem Motors by appointing dummies as trustees of—”

  “So what have you done differently?” Hogan asked. “The foundation is a quasipublic entity. Its investments are subject to state supervision. That’s how Number One got the huge tax break. But he never really gave up control of that stock, and neither have you.”