"Some things are worth their cost."
"Did the rumors tell you that the recipe has not been perfected?"
"Not perfected, how?"
"The results are unreliable. Unstable."
'Ah." There was silence as Morrell processed this. No sane person wanted to work with an explosive that might go off during transport, but then, Ronsard thought with grim humor, sanity was not required with these people.
"What brings about these unfortunate results?"
"Rough handling. Being dropped, for instance."
Another "Ah." If one used RDX-a on an airplane, then it would have to be in a carry-on bag so one could control the motion-a suicide mission. Or one could always use an unsuspecting courier, as on Delta Flight 183.
"One must accept these risks," Morrell finally said, meaning that he himself would not be handling the explosive.
"There is one other problem."
"So many problems!" Now Morrell sounded petulant, as if a favorite toy had been broken.
"The recipe must be used within a certain amount of time or it will . . . perform unexpectedly. Timing must be precise."
"So I have heard, my friend, so I have heard! It is a most interesting recipe."
"A thousand kilograms is a considerable amount to be handled."
"But an organized person can handle such a task. When will the shipment be ready?"
From that statement, Ronsard deduced Morrell already had his targets selected, and that they would be hit almost simultaneously. He did not, however, have enough people in his organization to do it all himself. Different organizations occasionally cooperated with each other, especially if they had mutual enemies.
To Morrell he said, "I'm not certain. That's such a large amount; the manufacturer perhaps doesn't have that much available." In fact, Ronsard was certain of it.
"It is worth a great deal of money to me to have this recipe within two weeks."
"I'll give the manufacturer your order."
"Good, very good! I will call again tomorrow."
Ronsard hung up. He was extremely irritated; by precipitously putting RDX-a on the market, the manufacturer had increased not just their risk, but his. Such risk would have to be compensated, of course. Highly compensated.
Then he had an amusing thought. Production was, he knew, still very limited. An order of a thousand kilograms would be difficult to fill, and he didn't yet know how much of the compound Temple would want. Perhaps he should simply let Temple and Morrell settle between them who got the RDX-a. A showdown, as they said in the Westerns. Yes, that would definitely be amusing.
Chapter Sixteen
I'm having a house party in three days," Ronsard said to Niema several days later as they strolled in a small, quiet park. "At my home in the Rhone-Alpes region, south of Lyon. The countryside is beautiful, and my home is comfortable. I would like very much for you to attend the party."
She was silent, her head dipped as she walked along beside him. The canopy of trees shaded them from the warm summer sun, and birds sang overhead. They were not the only people enjoying the little park. Young mothers and nannies supervised shrieking children of all ages as they dashed about, skipping and jumping, rolling in the grass. Joggers pounded up and down the paths, singly and in pairs. Lovers walked hand in hand, sometimes stopping to kiss. Older people occupied the benches, some of them playing board games, some of them just watching the activity that surrounded them. The sweet perfume of flowers lay on the warm air like the touch of a lover.
"You aren't saying anything," he observed after a moment. "Are you worried about Madame Theriot's disapproval?"
"That, and though you say you expect only friendship, somehow I don't think you've given up hope that. . . well, that I'll change my mind."
"Of course I hope," he said matter-of-factly. "I am a man-a Frenchman. I would like very much to sleep with you. But it's also nice just being with you. You don't want favors from me, and you don't want my money. Do you realize how few people like you I have in my life?"
"Your life is what you've made it." She glanced up at him. "I refuse to feel sorry for you."
Smiling, he caught her hand and swung it between them. "There, that is what I mean. You say what you think."
"Not always," Niema said. "I'm too polite for that."
The smile became a chuckle. "Are you insulting me?"
"Of course. You know what I think of your ... profession."
Something closed in his eyes, some expression that was shuttered before she could read it. "We all do what we must."
"Not everyone. Some people do what they can."
"And there is a difference between 'must' and 'can'?"
"There seems to be. People say they do what they must when what they've done has hurt someone. People who do what they can are usually helping."
"A matter of semantics." He shrugged. "But perhaps you're right. I made a choice, when I was a young man, and now I mustn't whine. Perhaps I had other options, but at the time, at that age, I didn't see them. Given the same circumstances, I would make the same choice again."
There was no regret in his voice, only a pragmatic acceptance of who and what he was. He didn't despair over the mistakes he had made; there was no angst, no wrestling with his conscience. He had set his feet on a certain path and never looked back.
She wanted to ask him why he had made the choice he had, but the answer seemed fairly obvious: money. He had needed money, and that was the means he had chosen to get it. The "why" didn't matter; by his own free will, he had put himself across the line that divided legal from illegal. She couldn't help liking him, but at the same time she had no qualms about presenting herself to him under false pretenses. Ronsard was an adversary, however friendly and charming he might be.