Hunting The Kobra

by Cooper-Posey, Tracy

  The tense silence which had gripped the dinner table last night fell again. Even the manager, Franz, who had trouble following rapid English, seemed to sense that wariness was required. He watched Aslan.

  Noah laughed. He smothered the soft sound with his hand. His eyes danced over the top of his hand.

  Aslan pulled his mouth into a grimace.

  Noah shook his head. “I’m sorry, but it is funny.”

  Aslan’s tight expression moved into a smile. He relaxed. “Let me show you the factory,” he told Quinn.

  A covered walkway stretched between the office building and the factory itself, connecting the two upper floors. The factory looked like a warehouse. It had solid concrete walls and no windows yet soared to the height of three stories. The flat roof held a small mountain’s worth of air conditioning and environmental units, smokestacks and air scrubbers, and much more. The equipment on the roof hummed, audible even inside the glassed-in corridor. It implied there was a great deal of activity inside the blank wall.

  The manager, Franz, did not accompany them into the warehouse. It seemed his responsibilities ended at the walls of the administration block.

  Quinn sensed the difference in the atmosphere as soon as they stepped into the warehouse. The air was cool, but not cold. A small foyer with two chairs had signs on the wall in German and English, telling visitors to pick up the phone and dial zero to announce their arrival, then wait.

  Three wide corridors ran off the foyer, their linoleum flooring gleaming with care and polish.

  “I thought warehouses were big rooms with forklifts and crates,” Quinn said.

  Aslan nodded at the corridor running off to the left. “There is a big room with many forklifts and thousands of crates, down there. Come this way first. You asked what business I was in. Come and see.”

  He moved down the center corridor and Quinn followed. The walls along the corridor were glass from waist height to the roof. The glass was solid, at least an inch thick. She suspected it was bulletproof.

  Curiously, she looked through the windows. Her steps slowed, as the industry on the other side of the glass caught her attention.

  It was one huge room on that side of the glass, and it was as far from a warehouse or factory as anything could get.

  The first impression to strike Quinn was that she was looking at a science-fiction setting. The floor was pristine white and everyone wore white, including white paper slippers over their shoes. There were benches with esoteric equipment for which she couldn’t guess the function. More counters held stacks of glassware, including trays of test tubes, beakers, cups, pipettes and big jars of different colored liquids.

  Chemicals. Most of them had large labels with fine writing. All the labels had symbols on them she recognized as warning signs of caustic and toxic substances.

  Big banks of computer equipment took up the far corners. Shelves of supplies stretched between them and in the middle sat a desk with a laptop and the remains of someone’s lunch. Behind the laptop was a toy poodle with a bobble head.

  The human touch was almost a shock.

  “Chemicals,” Quinn breathed.

  “That is the business I am in,” Aslan said. “I have an advanced degree in chemistry and have been working in this field my entire life.”

  “Chemicals make you rich?”

  Aslan did not take offense at the question, as he had the last. Noah had deflected him into a better frame of mind. “The right chemical, sold to the right people, can make anyone rich.” Aslan reached out and picked up the interpreter device in her hand. “Everything needs chemicals. There is chemical etching on the titanium chip which runs this device. The casing is made of plastic, formed in a factory just like this one. The protective film on the screen was developed in a laboratory run by men wearing coats just like those people in there.” He nodded his head toward the white lab coated technicians behind the glass.

  “Most of the clothes you wear are made of textiles created in a chemical bath. Anything man-made began life in a chemistry lab like this one. So yes, chemicals made me rich. And I am at the start of the food chain. People buy what I make and make even more money.”

  Quinn frowned. “Start of the food chain?”

  “I supply the base chemicals which other chemistry labs use to create the end products.”

  “Ultrasuede,” Noah said. It sounded as if he was prompting Aslan.

  Aslan nodded. He reached out and fingered the coat Quinn was wearing. It was faux suede and felt luxuriously soft against her fingers. It was the warmest coat she had ever owned.

  “This material began life as a thermoplastic set polyethylene terephthalate,” Aslan said.

  “And polybutyrate,” Noah added.

  Quinn blinked.

  Aslan gave her a small smile. “I always forget about the polybutyrate, because that is not a chemical I manufacture. The PET is one of our biggest sellers, though.”

  “I thought PET is what pop bottles are made of,” Quinn said.

  “They are. So is most of the clothing you’re wearing right now.” The corner of Aslan’s mouth turned up in a small smile. “I would say everything, only you might be wearing silk lingerie, which, unfortunately, is not a part of my business model.”

  “If he could figure out how to make silkworms produce on demand, it would be, though,” Mitchell said. He was grinning.

  Quinn shook her head, overwhelmed. “I had no idea…” She peered into the laboratory once more.

  “Come and see what happens to the chemicals once I have produced them,” Aslan said. He moved down the corridor, which ended at a large glass window. Quinn could see the sky beyond it.

  She walked down the corridor behind him, the others following. The laboratory and the windows ran to the entire length of the corridor. There were doors along the length of the corridor, all of them leading into tiny glass cubicles with more doors on the other side. She realized they were airlocks, designed for security and safety.

  Now she understood why so much equipment was on the roof of the building.

  As they walked, Noah said softly, “Germany is the biggest producer of chemicals in the world. Second behind it is the United States. The world market for basic chemicals increases every year.”

  The window at the end of the corridor had been designed to provide a viewpoint. It stretched from the roof to the floor and across the width of the corridor. It was a spectacular view. They stood on the second floor of the building, looking out over the Danube.

  Below them, and spread as far as she could see along both banks of the river, were piers and docks. Massive container ships were tied up at most of the piers. Gantries and cranes lifted containers onto the ships or removed them.

  “The Danube is the second longest river in Europe,” Aslan said. “It runs through ten countries, including Germany. Those ships you see travel the world, distributing containers. From here, I can supply chemicals to anyone who wants them.” He pressed the side of his fist against the glass and leaned on it, peering down. “A staggering number of people want them.”

  Mitchell stepped to one side and waved Quinn toward the window, where he had been standing. “Take a look.”

  Quinn stepped up beside Aslan and looked down at the foot of the building. A container was being filled with plastic barrels which looked like oil drums, only they were white. They had seals and warning stickers plastered all over them. The forklift carrying the pallets of drums into the container was massive.

  “There is your forklift,” Aslan told her.

  She gave him a rueful smile.

  “The floor beneath us is all one large warehouse,” he added. “It runs twenty-four hours a day.”

  “And this is just one of your warehouses,” Quinn murmured. “Among a few others here and there,” she added, deliberately repeating his words.

  His smile was small.

  “Why Austria?” she asked.

  Aslan looked at her. He raised his brow, his green eyes puzzled.<
br />
  “If Germany is the biggest producer of chemicals and the United States is the second biggest producer, then I would have expected you to set up shop in the United States or Germany. Only you’re here in Austria. I wondered why.”

  “I had a factory in Texas, once,” he said. “The United States did not work out for me.”

  One hundred and twenty people dead. The statistic came to Quinn. She could hear Dima speaking the number. Quinn should have felt the revulsion she had experienced the first time Dima had told her how a chemical factory had mysteriously exploded and killed so many people. Only, for days now, Quinn’s gut had been clenched and her heart elevated, as she juggled lies and tried to remember who knew what about her, while judging what she could say and not give herself away.

  Noah had been right about the tension—just not in the way he thought. She had forgotten this low-grade chronic terror which drove everything she said and did. It reminded her constantly to watch what she said, to remember how much she knew and how much everyone else thought she knew. She did not have the headache Noah had promised. Because she was permanently braced, though, the reminder of Aslan’s dark side did not make her or react.

  She met his gaze steadily. “Do they not like you in Germany, either?”

  Aslan dropped his fist from the glass and glanced at his watch. “It’s time for lunch.”

  [17]

  Lunch.

  Quinn should have expected that lunch would not be a standard meal, not with Aslan directing it. Everyone went back to the big SUV and piled in. Noah circled back in the direction they had come from. This time he turned right on to Lassallestrabe and headed northeast. It took them over the Danube, and Quinn got to appreciate how wide the river was. It was easy to appreciate it was the second largest river in Europe.

  Noah exited off the busy freeway as soon as they crossed the river. He wound through minor roads then turned into a parking lot beside the river. Tied up at a low dock was a riverboat with glassed-in decks. The size and shape made Quinn think of paddle steamers, only it didn’t have the big wheel on the side.

  People walked up the sloping gangplank in small groups, talking to each other. Through the windows, which twinkled in the mid-winter light, she could see tables with white tablecloths and silverware. It was a floating restaurant. Possibly a cruising restaurant. The ropes which held the boat to the jetty did not look permanent.

  Quinn had taken the time to dress well this morning, not because she had anticipated anything like this, but simply because she could. She had time to spare to take pains with the details of her clothing and hair and makeup. It was not something she had ever done before. In keeping with her determination to not behave like the old Quinn, she fussed over her appearance.

  Now she was glad she had done so. It occurred to her that Toni was always well presented, even if she favored trousers and leather. While neither Noah nor Mitchell wore suits as Aslan did, they also were well-dressed at all times.

  It was as if everyone was prepared for anything. If Aslan was often this spontaneous then they would need to be. Quinn suspected Aslan would not put up with employees who wore jeans and sneakers. Even the men on the estate in Innsbruck wore more formal jackets and dress trousers, not casual pants and jeans.

  Aslan, of course, always wore fashionable business attire. Quinn knew nothing about couture, although she could tell from the gleam of the fabric in his suits that they were expensive. She guessed they were also tailored for they fit perfectly, without a wrinkle or bulge.

  Aslan’s group were not the only well-dressed people sitting at the tables on the floating restaurant. As the ropes were tossed and the boat eased away from the jetty, Quinn studied the other diners. Everyone spoke softly, barely above the noise of the well-muffled engine.

  She did not feel out of place among these people yet only a few weeks ago, she would not have fit in at all.

  As the boat drifted upriver, waiters issued menus and served wine. Stronger drinks could be ordered. Quinn stuck with wine, though. She was not used to drinking, not even wine—even if it was the best.

  Lessons given to her by uniformed marshals, years ago, lingered still. The dangers of alcohol and how it loosened tongues. How slips could be made when inhibitions were lowered.

  So Quinn drank the wine. Between mouthfuls, she drank water. She was not the only one pacing herself. Because she reached for the water pitcher so often, she noticed that Noah drank just as much water as her.

  The meal was delicious. Chicken served with a delicate gravy which exploded with flavors on her tongue. The conversation while the meal was served was the same pleasant, often amusing back-and-forth which the four of them—Noah, Toni, Mitchell and her—had fallen into the last few days. Aslan sometimes joined in, although he spent more time observing. He did not object to the banter. It amused him.

  Quinn asked for cheese for dessert, while Mitchell requested pie and ice cream. Everyone else took coffee, while the waiter put a porcelain teapot in front of her. The scent of bergamot rose. It was Earl Grey tea.

  Once Mitchell had destroyed his pie, mashed his ice cream to a batter and scooped it with relish, Aslan lifted the coffeepot and filled his cup again. He glanced around the table. “Give me the table for a while, please.” It was not a question.

  Without hesitation, everyone got to their feet. Even Mitchell, who spooned the last of his ice cream as he rose. Belatedly, Quinn pushed her chair out and got to her feet, too.

  Aslan looked up at her. “Quinn, please stay.”

  The other three did not look startled, or even question it. Perhaps they were used to his curt tone. They threaded through the other tables to where the glass doors gave access to an open deck at the end of the boat. They stepped through the doors, zipping up their coats and buttoning them. There were few diners out there, for a wind blew down the river which made it chilly.

  Quinn sat down once more. She would have felt trepidation, except her constantly elevated heart wouldn’t let her.

  Aslan didn’t glance around for eavesdroppers, although his gaze shifted from side to side. This was an exclusive restaurant. They had not jammed the tables in so diners jostled elbows. There was plenty of room between the tables for the waiters to carry their trays and serve their customers.

  The nearest table was over six feet away and those diners leaned together, murmuring in a language which was not German.

  “You have enjoyed yourself these few days, haven’t you?” Aslan said.

  Quinn smiled. “This is Vienna. How could I not enjoy myself?”

  “It doesn’t bother you that you are a fugitive?”

  Quinn let her smile fade. “I try not to think about it. Every time I do…” She pressed her fingers to her belly and then against her chest, over her heart.

  “You will grow accustomed to it,” Aslan assured her.

  Quinn considered him. “Then you are one, too.”

  He reached over and picked up the teapot and poured her a cup of tea. “Do you know what a precursor is?”

  “Not without context to guide me,” she admitted.

  His smile was small. “Fair enough. Do you remember me saying that to understand what happened to Denis, you must understand me better?”

  “It is the reason I am here.”

  “You have put a lot on the line to get your answers, haven’t you?”

  Quinn picked up the teacup and sipped. “I have to believe the world makes sense. At the moment, without knowing why Denis died, it doesn’t make sense at all. I feel that if I go on without answers, the craziness will reach inside me. It isn’t intellectual curiosity which drives me. I need to know for my sake.”

  Aslan’s eyes were warm. Empathetic. “I imagine answers and sense were rare commodities when you were a child.”

  Quinn’s throat tightened. She put the cup down, afraid she might spill it. “I was a dancer,” she said. “A ballerina. My parents were already taking calls from dance companies in New York. The Boston Ballet phoned t
hem every week. They held them off, told them I must graduate high school first. It was all locked in place.” She grimaced.

  Aslan sat back and shook his head. “Then that life was taken away.”

  Quinn sighed. “There was a churning in my middle, when they told me I could never dance again. I couldn’t even risk a line dance at the local bar. The emptiness in here—” She touched her belly again. “It’s the same sensation I get whenever I wonder why Denis died. Why they tried to kill me. I have to wonder if it’s something I did, even in a karmic way, to bring this upon me. Twice now.”

  “You did nothing,” Aslan said. “There are more unexplained and shitty coincidences in this world than most people are comfortable with. More hard luck goes around than good luck. Good luck doesn’t exist until you make it for yourself. Hard luck is as common as dirt.”

  Quinn swallowed. “Yes, I want answers. I’ve come this far, because I need to have them.” She paused. “So what is a precursor?”

  “In chemistry, a precursor is a chemical, either an element or compound, which goes into making another chemical. It reacts with other chemicals when mixed in a certain way.”

  “You said you produce basic chemicals,” she said. “Does that include precursors?”

  “Very specific precursors.” His gaze was steady. He might’ve been talking about the weather, for his tone did not waver. “Methyl difluorophosphite is just one of them.”

  Quinn’s heart picked up speed. She hadn’t thought it capable of beating any harder, yet it was. She felt as though she was standing on the edge of the Grand Canyon, peering down and wondering if she should jump.

  Then Aslan spoke and took the choice away from her. “Methyl difluorophosphite is a chemical weapon precursor. It is a Schedule 1 substance controlled by the Chemical Weapons Convention, administered by the Organisation for the Prohibition of Chemical Weapons, in The Hague.” His gaze held her. He waited.

  Quinn put her hand on the table, to feel the steadiness of the structure beneath it. She pressed her fingers against the linen. “What is it a precursor for?” Her voice was weak.