I wanted to find out as much about GRS as I could before making any kind of move. Its parent company, Western States Pharmaceuticals, sounded vaguely familiar. I ran through the alphabetical listings to W and read the bio. Somewhat to my surprise, I saw that the parent company was an affiliate of another corporation-one I knew about: Lowell Percival Enterprises. My stroll down the paper trail had suddenly gotten very interesting.
I left the library and, as I flew home, tried to make sense of this new information.
Genetic Research Systems was essentially part of Lowell Percival Enterprises. Was it purely coincindental that the sealed envelope from GRS was sitting on Alaynah’s desk just before the bombing? All my instincts said the two things were connected. But how?
The personal ads in the Bay City Mirror clearly implied that someone inside GRS was in contact with the Colonel. From what I’d learned earlier, I concluded that this person was probably the CAPRICORN mole Paul Dubois had told me about. Why had
CAPRICORN felt it necessary to infiltrate GRS? What was going on at GRS? I decided it was worth checking out and set course for Sacramento.
It was a short flight. I’d never felt any urgency to visit Sacramento, so this was virgin territory for me. After stopping to ask for directions three times, I finally ended up in an industrial section of the city. The buildings were old, prewar structures, and most appeared to be abandoned and/or condemned. Here and there, I saw barely thriving, unhappy businesses. From what I could see, the city had expanded to the north, leaving this part of town eerily isolated and empty.
When I reached the address I’d copied from Dun & Bradstreet, my first impression was not good. The building, a large rectangular block of cement, looked like it was just half a notch above a bomb shelter and appeared to be completely abandoned. All the
surrounding buildings were in various stages of decay. I walked to the front door and saw the words Genetic Research Systems stenciled cheaply on the steel door. The lock on the door was bolted shut. I walked around the side, past seven or eight blacked-out windows, and continued on to the back end of the building. There was a rear entrance, but it was sealed as tightly as the front door. A quick check of the other side of the building confirmed that there were only two entrances.
It was times like this that nicotine often came to the rescue. Enjoying a smoke not only gave me something to do, but also seemed to inspire me, elevating my pedestrian thought processes into the realm of the sublime. I took a long drag and surveyed the building from top to bottom and end to end. I inhaled again and waited for the brain power to accelerate.
By the time I took the last hit off the Lucky Strike, I’d formulated a plan. I discarded the butt and searched the ground for a goodsized rock. Finding one, I walked up to one of the windows and threw it against the window as hard as I could. The rock bounced harmlessly off.
OK, I needed a Plan B. Maybe there was an entrance on the roof. I backed away and looked up. The roof was flat, and it had plenty of surface area. I returned to my speeder.
A minute later, I set down on the gravely top of the building. I hopped out and spied what appeared to be a trap door. The red metal lid had a rusted padlock on it. I returned to the speeder and retrieved my trusty hammer from the trunk. After five minutes of banging and twisting, the padlock broke. I traded my hammer for my flashlight, opened the trap door, and climbed down into the black hole.
When I reached the bottom of the ladder, I turned on the flashlight and looked around.
Locating a light switch nearby, I flipped it but nothing happened. I moved my light around the room. It appeared to be some sort of storage area. There were rows of metal shelves, piled high with boxes and crates. Most of the boxes were marked and contained everything from test tubes to chemicals to computer supplies.
I found a door, opened it, and stepped into a long hallway. I walked to the first door on my right and entered a room full of computer workstations. The area was divided into cubicles with low walls, separated by narrow walkways. It looked like a typical office at night or on a weekend - empty, but not deserted. On some of the desks, I saw coffee mugs, notepads, and other objects you’d expect to find. I walked to one of the work stations and checked a desk calendar, the kind with a cartoon for each day of the year.
The date was December 7.
I thought back to the last personal ad I’d dug up. It’d been in the December 7 issue. The end of the message had read, “We sail tonight.” The meaning now seemed pretty clear.
By all appearances, GRS had been out of business for exactly three days. Where had they gone?
I returned to the hallway and crossed to another door. This room was a stark contrast to the cubicle room. It was cavernous and open, like the interior of a warehouse, and looked like it had functioned as a laboratory. All around the perimeter, overhead cabinets were mounted above black-covered counters, like the ones in my high school science classroom. Built into the counters, every twenty feet or so, were large, stainless steel sinks. In the center of the room were dozens of island tables, all completely bare. I looked through some of the cabinets, but there was nothing to find besides empty test tubes and other similar supplies. I circled the room, hoping to find something of interest, but this area, unlike the first room, seemed to have been thoroughly cleaned out.
Back in the hallway, I checked the next four doors. The first two were the men’s and women’s bathrooms, and the other two were utility closets. The last door, at the end of the hall, opened up to an office. I searched through the desk but, like the laboratory, it had been totally emptied. A quick search of a file cabinet, a wastebasket, and a cardboard box turned up the same result. I decided to give the first room a closer look.
I started at the work station closest to the door. Since the power was off, there was no way to turn on the computers. Upon closer inspection, electricity wouldn’t had done me any good anyway. The data storage clip had been removed. The computer was like a speeder without a drive cell. I rifled the drawers of the desk, but they were essentially empty.
I walked to the adjoining cubicle and went through the same procedure, with the same result. In the third cubicle, I saw something sticking out from beneath the computer. I lifted the edge of the machine and peeled off a piece of masking tape, which had gotten crinkled underneath. Written on it were the numbers 272551. Probably an inventory number. It gave me an idea.
I went back and checked under the two previous computers. They also had tape with six-digit inventory numbers stuck on them. I pulled out my notebook and checked the numbers I’d scribbled down the night before, after I’d found the Shakespeare quote. Act three, scene one, lines forty-nine and fifty. 314950. That could’ve been the meaning of the message - to find the computer with inventory number 314950. It was worth a try.
I hurried through the room, pausing only to inspect the bottoms of the computers. About halfway through, I found the one numbered 314950. To my disappointment, its data-storage clip had been removed, just like the others. I opened the top drawer and searched it. Finding nothing, I moved to the middle drawer, then the bottom drawer. Under a pile of papers, I found a tissue box. I picked it up, and it was heavier than it should have been. Much heavier. I tore open the side of the box like a kid unwrapping a Christmas present. There, nestled among the tissues, was a data-storage clip.
The Colonel had probably been meant to find this. That would explain the contents of the personal ads and why they were addressed to him. This might have been the only way the CAPRICORN mole could effectively relay the details on what was happening at GRS - wait for the decks to clear, then plant a land mine full of information. Well, the Colonel wasn’t around to find the clip, but I was. I slipped the clip into my pocket and made my way back to the roof. Minutes later, I was speeding in the direction of New San Francisco. My stomach was in knots with anticipation. I hoped that whatever was on the clip would answer some of the questions that had been piling up over the past few days. As I closed in on the city I ca
lled home, the sun disappeared over the horizon, and the waning moon hovered above the red band of fading light. By the time I landed my speeder in front of the Ritz, night had blanketed the city.
I climbed the fire-escape stairs and stuck my key into the deadbolt. As I stepped inside, just for an instant, I caught the sound of heavy breathing. A split second later, my jaw slammed into a wall.
UAKM - chapter twenty
As nearly as I could tell, I was seated in one of the chairs usually reserved for my clients. Someone had turned on the banker’s lamp on the desk, but my vision still hadn’t cleared. Gradually, a figure came into focus. It was an Asian woman, sitting on the edge of my desk, wearing a red silk blouse and black jeans.
“Good evening, Mr. Murphy.”
Her voice had a slight accent and a hard edge. I touched my chin gingerly and tested my jaw to see if it still worked. It hurt like hell, but at least they hadn’t knocked any teeth out. In my peripheral vision, I could see a pair of large bodies just behind and on either side of me. The odds weren’t in my favor, but I’d never let that stop me.
“I hope you don’t mind if I just make myself at home.”
The Asian woman folded her arms. “Something you seem to be in the habit of doing.”
“My habits are my business, thank you. Now, if you don’t mind me asking, who the hell are you, and what the hell are you doing in my office?”
Before I could flinch sufficiently, a hairy paw came from behind my right ear and cuffed me right in the sore spot on my jaw. Blinding pain flashed into my brain. A deep, vaguely illiterate voice rumbled behind me. “Shut yer face! You ain’t askin’ the questions here. Nobody talks to Eddie Ching like that.”
Eddie Ching? Damn. This wasn’t good at all.
“You’re Eddie Ching?”
“You’re a fast learner, Mr. Murphy. I respect that in a man. I also respect the job you did on my flat in Mexico City. It was very cleverly executed. All admiration aside, however, I must ask you to return the bird to me.”
I shifted in my seat and glanced back at the goon who’d cuffed me. “I don’t have it.”
Ching folded her hands patiently in her lap and smiled condescendingly. “Where is it?”
“I have absolutely no idea.”
My response had come out with an unintentionally sarcastic edge to it. The punch happy-goon made another move. This time I was ready and managed to deflect the blow.
“Listen, Ching. If your goon doesn’t quit hitting me, I’m not gonna tell you a @#%$
thing.”
Ching stared at me passively for a long moment, then waved the apes away. They stepped back, and I got my first look at the thugs. They were not handsome men. But they were unbelievably big and radiated violence - the kind of guys who honed their craft through childhood by stealing lunch money and intimidating teachers into raising their grades to D minuses.
“All right, Mr. Murphy. Just mind your manners, and we’ll get along fine. Answer my questions, and you’ll have a decent chance of getting around the rest of your life without a walker. Now let’s talk about the bird, shall we?”
“We can talk about it all night, but it won’t change the fact that I don’t have it.”
“Fine. Just tell me where I can find it.”
“Well, I’m not sure. But I’d start looking in Brownsville, Texas.”
Ching shook her head, confused. “Texas?”
“Yeah. That’s the last place I saw it. I stopped there for cigarettes, and someone jumped me in the parking lot. Which reminds me -” I dug into my pocket, which caused the goons to tense up. I pulled out my pack of smokes and held it up innocently. “I hope you don’t mind. This is a smoking office.”
Ching watched me thoughtfully as I lit my cigarette. I blew out a long stream of smoke, and she tilted her head slightly. “Why should I believe you?”
“It probably won’t prove anything, but there’s an unusually large bump and several stitches at the base of my skull. That’s about as good as you’re going to get.”
Ching was silent for a moment, then jumped off the desk. “Imbecile! You have absolutely no idea what you’ve done, have you?”
“You don’t need to insult me.”
Ching moved around to the back of the desk and began to pace. “Why did you steal the bird?”
“I was hired to find it. My client said the statuette had been stolen from her. As far as I knew, I was just retrieving it.”
“Who was your client?”
Hell if I knew. I was sure I’d been set up and that the countess was almost certainly a fake, but I didn’t know what else to tell Ching. “It was an older woman. She said her name was Countess Renier.”
Ching stopped pacing and shook her head. “Jacques Fou. I’d bet my life on it.”
Fou. That was the name the Interpol agents had used. The real name of the Chameleon.
It was hard to believe that the countess could actually have been a man, but I’d been fooled along those lines before. It was a horrible memory. Fortunately, Ching interrupted.
“Why you? How did you get involved?”
I shrugged. “The countess, or Fou, whoever…called and offered me the case. That’s it.”
Ching circled back around the desk and leaned against it. “Let me tell you what you’ve done. There is a group - a cult - more powerful than you can possibly imagine. The bird is very important to them, and I went to great lengths to keep it from them.”
Ching was getting worked up.
“I can’t belive that one idiotic PI could just stumble into the middle of all this and ruin everything!”
I was starting to take exception to the verbal abuse. It simply wasn’t my fault. “I really wish you’d stop calling me names. And what’s the big deal with the statuette? You could probably find one just like it at Goodwill.”
Ching stuck a finger in my face. “You don’t get it, do you? This cult is planning on destroying the world! Finding the bird was the last thing on their list!”
I thought back to what Professor Perriman had told me about the brotherhood. It hadn’t sounded very believable then, and it didn’t now.
“This sounds like a bunch of mumbo jumbo to me.”
Ching was upset. “It sounds ridiculous to everyone! That’s the whole point! When everyone realizes that it’s actually going to happen, it’ll be too late! We’ll all be dead!”
I wasn’t convinced, but Ching certainly seemed to be. And she was clearly in charge of the situation. I didn’t think I should provoke her any more than absolutely necessary.
“All right. I belive. What am I supposed to do now?”
“Give me a cigarette.”
I handed her a Lucky and lit it. She took an agitated drag and began to pace frantically.
After some time, she stopped and looked at one of the photos on the wall - the one with me, the Colonel, and Xavier. She whipped around. “You know the Colonel.”
I nodded behind a cloud of smoke.
“Do you know what happened to him?”
“I’ve found out a few things. Interpol thinks Jacques Fou murdered him.”
Ching looked at me, reassessing. “If I didn’t know better, I’d think you were a complete incompetent. Apparently, that’s not the case. And there aren’t many left on our side.
Maybe you can make yourself useful.”
I thought it over. My PI instincts told me that Ching was on the level. Maybe this cult stuff was true, maybe it was a gross exaggeration. Regardless, it had gotten a lot of people killed. And if Ching was in the know, and I had no reason to believe she wasn’t, it seemed that I’d unwittingly been an accomplice in their plans. I pulled the data-storage clip from my pocket. “Maybe you can use this.”
Ching took it from me and examined it. “What is this?”
“A chapter in a long story.”
“We don’t have a lot of time. Make it short.”
As Ching went to my computer and loaded the clip, I recounted the events that had
led me to GRS. When I finished, she had something on the screen. Even the goons were interested - there must have been pictures. They moved behind her and peered over her shoulder. I joined them. Ching was paging through a directtory. She clicked on a file labeled COLONEL, and a document appeared on the monitor.
It was a series of journal-like entries, dating back more than three months. We read the text in silence.
8/14/42 - I’ve made initial contact with the cult. The Colonel’s information was right on.
At least two employees here are members. I haven’t been able to find a solid link between GRS and the cult, but I’m sure that Tucker knows what’s going on. Over the past month, I’ve been letting people know that I support the eugenics movement. I was contacted today by a cult member named Murray. He’s a project supervisor. I’ll be attending an initiation meeting sometime next week.
8/17/42 - I’ve gotten to know one of Tucker’s assistants. I’m fairly sure he knows nothing about the cult. He told me that Tucker doesn’t trust most of his staff and has the project groups working separately. I’m trying to work my way into a position where I can find out what’s going on, but everyone’s keeping quiet.
8/20/42 - Fifteen or sixteen people came to the meeting at Tucker’s home. There were eight employees of GRS, and I didn’t know the others. I got the name of only one other cult member, a little nazi named Camden Leander. Reminded me of Heinrich Himmler.
He seemed to be the highest ranking member. I didn’t learn much; they seemed more concerned with grilling me. Apparently, it was some type of pre-initiation.
9/22/42 - I’ve been attending the cult meetings every week, but everything I’ve learned is essentially a crash course on the Crusade for Genetic Purity. A lot of talk of eugenics, getting rid of the Mutants, etc., but no specifics.
10/11/42 - I heard something disturbing at the meeting last night. It wasn’t said outright, but it was implied that everyone involved in the project who isn’t initiated into the cult knows too much and will be eliminated when the project is finished.
Aaron Conners - Tex Murphy 02 Page 17