Disclosure by Michael Crichton Page A

something. Something about the flag. I get real y sick of it.”

    “Okay.”
    “My whole life.”
    “Okay. Fine.”
    “I'l tel Miss Johnson you're here.”
    Tom.” Meredith Johnson waved from behind her desk, her other hand holding the phone. “Come in, sit down.”
    Her office had a view north toward downtown Seattle: the Space Needle, the Arly towers, the SODO building. The city looked glorious in the afternoon sun.
    “I’l just finish this up.” She turned back to the phone. “Yes, Ed, I'm with Tom now, we'l go over al of that. Yes. He's brought the documentation with him.”
    Sanders held up the manila folder containing the drive data. She pointed to her briefcase, which was lying open on the corner of the desk, and gestured for him to put it inside.
    She turned back to the phone. “Yes, Ed, I think the due diligence wil go smoothly, and there certainly isn't any impulse to hold anything back . . . No, no .
    . . Wel , we can do it first thing in the morning if you like.”
    Sanders put the folder in her briefcase.
    Meredith was saying, “Right, Ed, right. Absolutely.” She came toward Tom and sat with one hip on the edge of the desk, her navy blue skirt riding up her thigh.
    She wasn't wearing stockings. “Everybody agrees that this is important, Ed. Yes.”
    She swung her foot, the high heel dangling from her toe. She smiled at Sanders.
    He felt uncomfortable, and moved back a little. “I promise you, Ed. Yes.
    Absolutely.”
    Meredith hung up the phone on the cradle behind her, leaning back across the desk, twisting her body, revealing her breasts beneath the silk blouse. “Wel , that's done.” She sat forward again, and sighed. “The Conley people heard there's trouble with Twinkle. That was Ed Nichols, flipping out. Actual y, it's the third cal I've had about Twinkle this afternoon. You'd think that was al there was to this company. How do you like the office?”
    “Pretty good,” he said. “Great view.”
    “Yes, the city's beautiful.” She leaned on one arm and crossed her legs. She saw that he noticed, and said, “In the summer, I'd rather not wear stockings. I like the bare feeling. So much cooler on a hot day.”
    Sanders said, “From now to the end of summer, it wil be pretty much this way.”
    “I have to tel you, I dread the weather,” she said. “I mean, after California . . .”
    She uncrossed her legs again, and smiled. “But you like it here, don't you? You seem happy here.”
    “Yes.” He shrugged. “You get used to rain.” He pointed to her briefcase. “Do you want to go over the Twinkle stuff?”
    “Absolutely,” she said, sliding off the desk, coming close to him. She looked him directly in the eyes. “But I hope you don't mind if I impose on you first. Just a little?”
    “Sure.”
    She stepped aside. “Pour the wine for us.”
    “Okay.”
    “See if it's chil ed long enough.” He went over to the bottle on the side table. “I remember you always liked it cold.”
    “That's true,” he said, spinning the bottle in the ice. He didn't like it so cold anymore, but he did in those days.
    “We had a lot of fun back then,” she said.
    “Yes,” he said. “We did.”
    “1 swear,” she said. “Sometimes I think that back when we were both young and trying to make it, I think that was the best it ever was.”
    He hesitated, not sure how to answer her, what tone to take. He poured the wine.
    “Yes,” she said. “We had a good time. I think about it often.”

    Sanders thought: I never do.
    She said, “What about you, Tom? Do you think about it?”
    “Of course.” He crossed the room carrying the glasses of wine to her, gave her one, clinked them. “Sure I do. Al us married guys think of the old days. You know I'm married now.”
    “Yes,” she said, nodding. “Very married, I hear. With how many kids? Three?”
    “No, just two.” He smiled. “Sometimes it seems like three.”
    “And your wife is an attorney?”
    “Yes.” He felt safer now. The