VELOCITY - DEE JACOB [11]
“Can we go any faster?”
“Well, yes. A little. May I ask why the need for speed?”
“I’m being called on the carpet, if you know what I mean. The parent corporation of my company is, I think, displeased about something. And … well, there’s a possibility that I might be fired. So I don’t want to make them angrier than they already might be by being late.”
“What time is your meeting?”
“Three o’clock.”
He waved, as in nothing to worry about. “Our ETA into Teterboro, New Jersey, is roughly one p.m. Now I can’t predict traffic in Manhattan, but two hours … well, then again, let me see what I can do. Might be bumpier, but if they’ll let us fly higher, I think I might just find us a nice tailwind.”
Dawson turned his attention to the controls.
An hour and a half later, he turned to her again.
“Excuse me, ma’am, but thar she blows. You can see Manhattan now. Let me give you a little better view.”
He expertly crabbed the plane to turn it a bit sideways, then dipped the right wing so that Amy could look out her side window and see the skyline – a dense and intricate forest of steel, glass, and stone needling from a hazy gray smudge.
By 12:49 p.m., they were wheels down and taxiing across the tarmac toward the car that would take Amy into the city.
“Good luck in your meeting, ma’am,” said Dawson as he took her hand to help her step down. “Hope it goes well, but if it goes for worse, I do offer flying lessons at reasonable rates. You never know; I might even be able to work you in as a copilot.”
Amy smirked. She took her briefcase from his hand and walked to the car, which drove her away. Minutes later, creeping along in traffic, she wondered: had he actually been flirting with her? Yes, she decided, he had been, and for a split second she was annoyed. But for all her anxieties, somehow the whole thing made her feel … like laughing. Midway through the Lincoln Tunnel, she did. Much to the confusion of her Pakistani driver.
Winner, Inc. was headquartered in an elegant black building a few blocks from Rockefeller Center in midtown Manhattan. Amy Cieolara, wearing a navy blue skirt and jacket over a white silk blouse, stepped off the elevator onto the plush carpeting of the fifty-ninth floor at 2:53 p.m. She had spent most of those past two hours in traffic moving at maddening snail-paced speed, inching toward the city and through it. But she’d made it. The receptionist, who looked as though she had walked out of a page in Vogue magazine, took her name, made a call, and cordially invited Amy to have a seat.
At 3:22 p.m. a silver-haired woman briskly walked up to Amy, smiled rather mechanically, and informed her that Mr. Winn would now see her. The silver-haired woman then led the way through a dizzying succession of hallways, antechambers, and outer offices, ultimately to the double black-walnut doors that opened into the seemingly vast corner office of Peter Winn, chairman and chief executive officer.
She walked across the largest oriental carpet she had ever seen, her footsteps nearly silent on the luxurious pile with its jewel-tone patterns. On the far end of the carpet was a desk table of dark wood with legs intricately carved to suggest a grape vineyard. Behind it sat Mr. Winn – Amy recognizing his face from photos in the annual report. He had the aura of an aging movie star – thin and tall, ruggedly handsome, reddish blond hair, bushy eyebrows, a narrow and rather pointy nose, and intense hazel eyes that peered out from a classic chiseled brow. He had taken off his suit jacket and was in his shirtsleeves – a buttery cream-colored, hand-sewn shirt with a tie of red, black, and silver diagonal stripes.
In front of the desk, to either side, were two low-back chairs upholstered in oxblood leather. Both chairs were occupied. In one sat Nigel Furst, a European of English and German upbringing; his title was “group president” and the group over which he presided had three separate business units, one of which was Hi-T Composites. Nigel favored London suits, was lanky and athletic-looking with long