8
Jack Barns punched his cell phone, texting. The intercom on his desk buzzed. He tossed the cell phone onto the desk with a clatter and punched the in-desk phone.
“Yes, Louise?”
“Ms. Sachs and her party are here for their 10 o’clock.”
“Tell ‘em to swing it in,” and they did.
“Come in, let’s sit over here. The view is better. Anyone care for a drink?” Barns said.
“Tequila and a Coke, in separate glasses, for Mr. Smith Wilson,” Louise said without prompting.
“Ms. Sachs will take Zia-Zong tea and Mr. Papilov will have black coffee, correct?” she said, walking to the bar on the side of the room.
Their drinks dispensed, Louise left the room and closed the door behind her. Papilov pulled a flask from within his coat pocket and spiked his coffee.
“Well?” Barns said. “Where do we stand?”
“You said not to poke around PPD yet. Did you make your call?” Sachs asked.
“No, because there’s something else,” Barns said.