The Prodigal Daughter Read online

  “You’re a wise old thing, Edward.”

  “Ah, but you mustn’t forget I’m a year older than you, my dear.”

  Florentyna took Edward’s advice and spent two hours every night dealing with the letters prompted by her speech on defense. At the end of five weeks she had answered every one, by which time her mail had almost returned to normal proportions. She accepted invitations to speak at Princeton and the University of California at Berkeley. She also addressed the cadets of West Point and the midshipmen at Annapolis and was to be the guest of Max Cleland at a Washington lunch to honor Vietnam veterans. Everywhere she went Florentyna was introduced as one of America’s leading authorities on defense. She became so involved and fascinated by the subject that it terrified her how little she really knew which made her study the subject even more intensively. Somehow she kept up with her work in Chicago, but the more she became a public figure, the more she had to assign tasks to her staff. She appointed two more assistants to her Washington office and another in Chicago at her own expense. She was now spending over $100,000 a year out of her own pocket. Richard described it as reinvesting in America.

  Chapter

  Twenty-Nine

  “Anything that can’t wait?” asked Florentyna, glancing down at a desk full of correspondence that had arrived that morning. The 95th Congress was winding down and most members were once again more concerned about being reelected than about sitting in Washington working on legislation. At this stage of the session, staffers were spending almost all their time dealing with constituency problems rather than concentrating on national affairs. Florentyna disliked a system that made hypocrites of normally honest people as soon as another election loomed.

  “There are three matters that I ought to draw to your attention,” said Janet in her customarily efficient manner. “The first is that your voting record can hardly be described as exemplary. It has fallen from eighty-nine percent to seventy-one percent this session and your opponents are bound to jump on that fact, claiming that you are losing interest in your job and should be replaced.”

  “But the reason I’ve been missing votes is that I’ve been inspecting defense bases, and accepting so many out-of-state engagements. I can’t help it if half my colleagues want me to speak in their districts.”

  “I am aware of that,” said Janet, “but you can’t expect the voters of Chicago to be. They’re not pleased that you’re in California or Princeton when they expect you to be in Washington. It might be wise not to accept any more invitations—from other members or well-wishers—until the next session. If you make most of the votes during the last few weeks we may push you back above eighty percent.”

  “Keep reminding me, Janet. What’s second?”

  “Ralph Brooks has been elected State’s Attorney of Illinois, so he should be out of your hair for a while.”

  “I wonder,” said Florentyna, scribbling a note on her pad to remind herself to write and congratulate him. Janet placed a copy of the Chicago Tribune in front of her. Mr. and Mrs. Brooks stared up at her. The caption said: “The new State’s Attorney attends charity concert in behalf of the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.”

  “Doesn’t miss a trick, does he?” commented Florentyna. “I bet his voting record would always be over eighty percent. And the third thing?”

  “You have a meeting with Don Short at ten A.M.”

  “Don Short?”

  “He’s a director of Aerospace Plan and Research, Inc.,” said Janet. “You agreed to see him because his company has a contract with the government to build radar stations for tracking enemy missiles. They’re now bidding for the new navy contract to put their equipment into American warships.”

  “Now I remember,” said Florentyna. “Somebody produced an excellent paper on the subject. Dig it out for me, will you?”

  Janet passed over a brown manila file. “I think you’ll find everything in there.”

  Florentyna smiled and flicked quickly through the papers. “Ah, yes, it all comes back. I shall have one or two pointed questions for Mr. Short.”

  For the next hour, Florentyna dictated letters before reading through the briefing file. She found time to jot down several questions before Don Short arrived. Janet accompanied him into Florentyna’s office as ten o’clock struck.

  “Congresswoman, this is a great honor,” said Don Short, thrusting out his hand. “We at Aerospace Plan look upon you as one of the last bastions of hope for the free world.”

  It was very rare for Florentyna to dislike someone on first sight, but it was clear that Don Short was going to fall firmly into that category. Around five feet seven and twenty pounds overweight, he was a man in his early fifties and nearly bald except for a few strands of black hair which had been carefully combed over the dome of his head. He wore a checked suit and carried a brown leather Gucci briefcase. Before Florentyna had acquired her present hawkish reputation she had never been visited by the Don Shorts of the world since no one thought it worthwhile to lobby her. However, since she had been on the Defense Subcommittee Florentyna had received endless invitations to dinners and travel-free junkets, and had even been sent gifts ranging from bronze model F-15s to manganese nodules encased in lucite.

  Florentyna had accepted only those invitations that were relevant to the issues she was working on at the time, and with the exception of a model of the Concorde she returned every gift she had been sent with a polite note. She kept the Concorde on her desk to remind everyone that she believed in excellence whichever country was responsible. She had been told that Margaret Thatcher had a replica of Apollo 11 on her desk in the House of Commons and she assumed it was there for the same reason.

  Janet left the two of them alone and Florentyna ushered Don Short into a comfortable chair. He crossed his legs, giving Florentyna a glimpse of hairless skin where his trousers failed to meet his socks.

  “A nice office you have here. Are those your children?” he asked, jabbing a pudgy finger at the photos on Florentyna’s desk.

  “Yes,” said Florentyna.

  “Such good-looking kids—take after their mother.” He laughed nervously.

  “I think you wanted to talk to me about the XR-108, Mr. Short?”

  “That’s right, but call me Don. We believe it’s the one piece of equipment the U.S. Navy cannot afford to be without. The XR-108 can track and pinpoint an enemy missile at a distance of over ten thousand miles. Once the XR-108 is installed on every American carrier, the Russians will never dare attack America, because America will always be sailing the high seas, guarding her people while they sleep.” Mr. Short stopped almost as if he were expecting applause. “What is more, my company’s equipment can photograph every missile site in Russia,” he continued, “and beam the picture straight onto a television screen in the White House Situation Room. The Russians can’t even go to the john without us taking a photo of them.” Mr. Short laughed again.

  “I have studied the capabilities of the XR-108 in depth, Mr. Short, and I wonder why Boeing claims it can produce essentially the same piece of equipment at only seventy-two percent of your price.”

  “Our equipment is far more sophisticated, Mrs. Kane, and we have a proven record in the field, having already supplied the U.S. Army.”

  “Your company did not complete the tracking stations for the Army by the date specified in your contract and handed us a cost overrun of seventeen percent on the original estimate—or to be more precise—twenty-three million dollars.” Florentyna had not once looked at her notes.

  Don Short started to lick his lips. “Well, I’m afraid inflation has taken its toll on everyone, not least of all the aerospace industry. Perhaps if you could spare a little time to meet our board members, the problem would become clearer to you. We might even arrange a dinner.”

  “I rarely attend dinners, Mr. Short. I have long believed that the only person who makes any profit over dinner is the maitre d’.”

  Don Short laughed again. “No, no, I meant a testimonial