Undeniable

by Tom Grace

  “What do you got?”

  “Of all the embryos currently developing in Hawthorne’s Perti dishes, only one set doesn’t list the names of the biological parents. There are a couple other coded tags in this set’s record that the others lack, so maybe that will tell us how this is being done.”

  “Give me the details, and I’ll dig into it.”

  Tao read off the specifics of the record to Grin and then left him to complete the hack of Hawthorne’s data. She rose from the workstation and walked around the lab, careful not to disturb the order of anything. Hawthorne’s focused, linear approach was evident in the precision of this environment, and Tao was certain any deviation from the norm would be immediately noticed.

  Studying the layout of the lab equipment and benches, Tao imagined the orderly process with which Hawthorne conducted her work. She stopped at a tall stainless steel cabinet. The door was tightly sealed against the enclosure like a refrigerator, but an LED display on the control panel indicated the inner chamber was warm. Through a thick window in the door she saw several Petri dishes resting on wire shelves, each bar coded and carefully labeled. Tao recalled the number she had read off to Grin and located eight with the same ID number.

  “Well, little ones. I wonder who your mommy and daddy are and if they know about you.”

  THIRTY-SEVEN

  9:20 PM

  Nolan cracked the thin pastry shell of his fish cassoulet en croûte and was greeted with a steamy osmyrrah of succulent lobster, cod, and sausage. Deena sliced off a piece of wild mushroom ravioli and savored the first bite of her entrée. They shared a bottle of Bordeaux, and the server topped off their glasses before retreating.

  “This was an excellent recommendation. I have to bring Maggie here before we head home. She’ll love it.”

  “They do a fabulous brunch. I must admit that it is a delight to enjoy a fine meal with such a charming gentleman, free from the pressures of dating.”

  “You’re single? How is that possible?”

  Deena took a slow sip of wine before answering. “It’s a long story.”

  “And one that you are under no obligation to share with me. I meant it only as a compliment, and I apologize if I’ve strayed unwelcome into your personal life.”

  “It would only be a problem if I had a personal life. I am a single professional woman who spent all of her twenties and a good bit of her thirties in colleges, labs, and hospitals honing my particular expertise. I find great satisfaction in my work, bringing new life into the world. The downside is that I have little time to invest in a serious relationship, or to even dip my little toe into those waters.”

  “Married to the job but still dating?”

  “Infrequently.”

  “A sign of hope. Some guys are lucky enough to marry their high school sweetheart, and some like me have to wait a little later in life. It all comes down to finding the right person.”

  Deena’s eyes dropped as Nolan spoke, her gaze lost in the flickering candle.

  “I did,” Deena said softly, “but he died.”

  Nolan fought to suppress his own feelings of loss for his wife and son. His wounds still raw, he wondered if his grief would ever abate enough to date again.

  “I’m sorry,” Nolan said.

  “It was a long time ago, but I still miss him.”

  “‘I hold it true, whate’er befall; I feel it, when I sorrow most; ‘Tis better to have loved and lost than never to have loved at all.’”

  Deena held up her wine glass. “To Tennyson.”

  Nolan tapped her glass with his and shared the toast. They ate quietly for several moments, enjoying the French cuisine and a moment of silence to recover their emotions.

  “So, what is on the agenda for tomorrow?” Nolan asked.

  “While you and your lovely wife enjoy a morning in the city, I’ll run the lab work and see where things stand. I’ll call once I have the results, but I expect we’ll get together some time in the early afternoon to review next steps and options.”

  “I guess that’s the benefit, to me at least, of you having your own lab. I am sorry to be chewing up your Saturday.”

  “It’s where I would be anyway playing catch-up, and my fees reflect the value of my services.”

  “If my wife and I succeed in having a child, your fee will be the bargain of a lifetime. I am curious about something.”

  “What?”

  “Your degrees. Maggie and I deal a lot with science and technology, and you have an impressive wall of diplomas. What’s your background?”

  “Undergrad was biochemistry. I have a medical doctorate, of course, with a specialty in obstetrics and reproductive endocrinology. Then I picked up a doctorate in molecular and cellular biology and got some other bits of specialty training, and now I just do what I do.”

  “And apparently with great success.”

  “What about you and Maggie? Are you scientists?”

  “Hardly,” Nolan chuckled. “Venture capital and intellectual property consulting—we try to turn the sweat equity of brilliant minds into dollars. Most of our deals are private, but some involve corporations and even the government. It’s interesting business, but nothing as sexy and transformative as the discovery side. That’s where the magic is.”

  They finished dinner fully sated and both declined dessert in favor of espresso with a shot of anisette.

  “I wonder how your wife is enjoying the show.”

  “Maggie and I share an interest in the human side of history, and Hamilton’s life was epic. She needs a diversion—our situation has been hard on her.”

  “Regardless of the outcome, you can both honestly say that you exhausted every medical option.”

  Nolan paid the check and pocketed his copy of the receipt and the credit card of his alias. He had to suppress a chuckle at how quickly the CIA created his fictitious identity, right down to a working credit card.

  “I must thank you for a pleasant evening,” Deena said. “Your wife is a lucky woman.”

  “The luck is all mine,” Nolan admitted. “I just try to be worthy of her.”

  Nolan helped Deena don her coat and escorted her out of the restaurant. Both enjoyed a warm inner glow from the excellent wine and food as they emerged into the cool, crisp evening air. His phone vibrated with an incoming text message. He glanced at the screen and saw it was from Roxanne.

  Hope dinner went well. Great show—Grins all the way around. Drinks later?

  He tapped a quick okay and hit send.

  “This is where we part company, I’m afraid,” Nolan said. He held up his phone before pocketing the device. “I did promise my wife some fun in the big city.”

  “You’re a good man, and I’m sure she appreciates you. I’ll call you tomorrow.”

  “I really appreciate you’re going the extra mile for us,” he said.

  “No trouble at all.”

  Nolan hailed a taxi for her and, as it pulled away, his phone rang and he stepped away from the curb to take the call. Another couple moved up to take the next taxi.

  “Be ready to go as soon as we have him,” Sal ordered Lucca.

  “Is this wise?” Peng asked.

  “I can’t say whether it’s smart or not, but Toccare wants to have a talk with this guy, and I do what I’m told.”

  Sal and Angelo stepped out of the cargo van and began walking quickly up the sidewalk toward Nolan.

  “Hello?” Nolan said again, hearing nothing.

  He glanced at the phone’s touch screen. The number was blocked.

  Probably a damn telemarketer, he thought as he ended the call.

  As Nolan slid his phone into his blazer’s inside breast pocket, he felt a hand press something against the back of his neck. His vision suddenly narrowed and his legs grew weak. He turned and saw a man he did not recognize. The man was nearly as tall as Nolan, lean and strongly built with sharp features and sandy blond hair beneath a dark woolen cap. He had on dark hiking boots, black jeans, and a black
leather jacket over a dark gray shirt.

  “Easy, buddy,” the man said sympathetically.

  The man grabbed onto Nolan to prevent him from falling, then slid a supportive arm around his back. Nolan tried to speak but could not form any words with his mouth. A few of the other diners awaiting taxis moved to help, but most simply watched the unfolding scene hoping to remain uninvolved.

  “He’s all right,” the man announced. “My friend has just had a bit too much to drink tonight.”

  Nolan again tried to protest, but what emerged from his mouth was an unintelligible slur of sounds. The other bystanders pulled back. Drunken men on the streets of the city at night were not an uncommon sight, and one in Nolan’s apparent condition posed the added risk of vomiting at any moment.

  “Let’s get you home,” the man said with thinly veiled disgust.

  The bystanders parted to allow the man and Nolan to pass, grateful for any increase in the distance between themselves and a sloppy drunk.

  “Geez, what the—” Sal groused as Nolan was led away from the restaurant by another man.

  “What do we do now?” Angelo asked.

  “Damn,” Sal fumed. “We get back to the van and follow ‘em.”

  Nolan staggered down the sidewalk guided by the stranger. His world tilted wildly and his thoughts raced in fractured pieces reflecting a flood of immediate sensations.

  Heart fluttering. Gasping. Shaking. Eyes watery.

  His vision blurred into smears of light and fragments of faces and objects. He turned a corner, then another, unsure of how far he and his guide had traveled. Then the sounds of the city became muffled and his surroundings dimmed. The fetid scent of rotting garbage hung in the cool air.

  An alley.

  The hands on his shoulder and arm tightened painfully. Nolan felt himself thrust forward, his head snapping back limply. What little air lingered in his lungs burst out with a sharp blast as his chest slammed into a brick wall. Momentum carried the left side of his face into the coarse masonry. His thoughts were reduced to instinct—panic and pain. Blood flowed freely from the abrasions to his forehead and cheek. His lip swelled and split and blood welled up in his mouth from the wounds his teeth inflicted on the flesh.

  The man pressed a forearm against Nolan’s shoulder blades, pinning him to the wall. He punched Nolan several times in the lower back, attacking the kidneys. Nolan’s legs buckled, pain overwhelming his senses. His breaths came in tortured ragged gasps. The assailant released the pressure on Nolan’s back and allowed him to collapse into the grimy alley slush, then aggressively frisked him, turning his pockets out. Hotel card key. Smartphone. Wallet. He crouched close to Nolan, his face just a blur to his victim as he looked him in the eye.

  “The lady,” he said through clenched teeth, “is spoken for.”

  “He went down there,” Sal shouted. “Drop us off!”

  Lucca brought the van to an abrupt stop and incurred an angry barrage of horns and, doubtless, an unheard stream of profanity from the drivers immediately behind them. Sal and Angelo bolted from the van and raced toward the alley.

  “Hey, you!” Sal shouted.

  Sal saw the mugger look up from Nolan as he and Lucca rushed toward him. He fled further down the alley, turned at the far end and disappeared.

  “Geez, this guy’s a mess,” Sal said when they discovered Nolan in a heap.

  “You want me to go after that guy?” Angelo asked.

  “Are we the fuckin’ NYPD?” Sal snarled. “Fuck, no. Help me get this guy back to the van. Get him under the arms. I’ll grab his legs.”

  They carefully lifted Nolan from the slush and carried him dripping out of the alley. Lucca idled the van near the alley entrance, double-parked and continuing to draw the ire of other drivers.

  “Open the doors!” Sal shouted.

  Lucca nodded and pressed the overhead button to open the passenger side door. Peng glanced out as Sal and Angelo emerged from the shadows with their load. Nolan hung limply from their arms, battered and disheveled. His head lolled to one side, and a gout of blood flowed out onto the sidewalk.

  “Call nine-one-one!” a woman passerby screamed at the sight of the bloody body.

  “Hey! We didn’t do this! And this guy can’t wait for no cops. They can talk to him at the hospital.” Sal tuned to Peng. “Get in front.”

  Before the woman could respond, they deposited Nolan on the open floor of the van, clambered in, and Lucca pulled away.

  THIRTY-EIGHT

  10:25 PM

  “Where to?” Lucca asked.

  “Just drive. I gotta think,” Sal replied.

  Peng sat sideways in the front passenger seat, staring down at the inert figure.

  “This man requires medical attention,” Peng said.

  “You think?” Sal snapped back. He knelt and quickly surveyed Nolan. “I don’t see no holes in him.”

  Nolan’s head rocked with the motion of the van in traffic, his eyes unable to focus on his would-be rescuers.

  “My boss wants answers, and I guess you do, too,” Sal said more diplomatically. “After he talks, we’ll dump him at a hospital. Okay by you?”

  Peng nodded.

  “Buddy, can you hear me?” Sal asked.

  Nolan nodded slightly.

  “Why’re you here?”

  “Fa-fa-fa-fa—,” Nolan babbled, his answer barely audible.

  Peng furrowed his brow.

  “The Hawthorne Fertility Clinic—what do you want there?”

  “Buh-buh—.”

  “What kind of game you playin’ at? What are you after?”

  “Pah—ter, pah—ter,” Nolan replied before losing consciousness.

  “I’m gettin’ nothin’ from this guy.”

  “His injuries may be more severe than you believe,” Peng offered.

  “If this guy’s a problem, wouldn’t it be better if we just make him disappear?” Sal asked.

  “Perhaps, but it may also draw more interest in your employer’s affairs and mine.”

  Sal considered what Peng said, then pulled out his phone and called Toccare.

  “You got the guy?” Toccare asked.

  “Yeah, we got him, but we didn’t get to him first,” Sal replied.

  “Explain.”

  “We made our move just as soon as the doc was on her way home, but another guy got to him first. Our guy looked hammered, and the other guy just waltzed him into an alley, gave him a few love taps and rolled him. Angelo and I chased off the mugger and scooped up what was left of the guy, who is now bleedin’ all over the van floor. Between whatever he was drinkin’ and the beatin’ he took, he ain’t talkin’ much that makes any sense.”

  “Is he hurt bad?”

  “He just passed out, and still bleedin’. The guy’s face is a real mess,” Sal said. “Our guest thinks dumpin’ him at a hospital would raise less questions than disappearin’ him into the river, but that’s your call.”

  Toccare considered his options. “A mugging is a mugging, just his bad luck. My business with our guest will be done in a few days, which is sooner than this guy will be up and about, if he’s in as bad a shape as you say.”

  “Oh, he’s fucked up all right.”

  “Then cut him loose.”

  Lucca navigated the grid of streets and avenues west of Central Park before pulling up behind an ambulance at the emergency entrance of Saint Luke’s Hospital. Sal popped the door just as a hospital orderly pushed a wheelchair up to the van.

  “Need some help, sir?” the young man asked politely.

  “Yeah,” Sal replied. “Give us a hand with this guy.”

  “Whoa,” the orderly said as he caught his first glimpse of Nolan’s limp body.

  He helped Angelo extract Nolan from the van and set him into the wheelchair.

  “What happened to him?” the orderly asked.

  “Got mugged,” Sal replied. “He’s pretty out of it—mighta took a shot or two to the head. Get him inside, I’ll be right be
hind you.”

  As the orderly wheeled Nolan into the emergency room receiving area, Sal hopped back in the van.

  “Move it!” he ordered Lucca.

  The van slipped back into traffic, its place quickly taken by an arriving ambulance.

  THIRTY-NINE

  11:30 PM

  “Something’s wrong,” Roxanne said. “Nolan is never late, not like this. Not without word.”

  “That’s a fact,” Grin agreed. “So you texted him you were in and out of the clinic, right?”

  “Yes, and he replied that he was wrapping things up with the doctor. He could have walked back to the hotel from there by now.”

  “Do you have the tracking numbers for that phone the CIA provided with his cover?”

  Roxanne pulled an envelope from the hotel safe and flipped through the pages until she found the information Grin had requested. She read off the codes that uniquely identified the phone Nolan was using among the millions of cellular devices active at any given moment in the United States.

  “Got it,” Grin said. “Now let’s see if I can figure out where he is.”

  Roxanne sat on the end of her bed nervously waiting as Grin did whatever it was he did to pull digital rabbits out of his silicon hats. Grin was operating in hands-free mode from his home, and she heard the faint machine gun tapping of keys as he dispatched cryptic commands across the Internet. In the background, she heard Lanie Lane sing plaintively of the fate that befalls those who fall in love with cowboys.

  “I’m coming up empty, Roxanne,” Grin said. “That phone is either out of juice or Nolan’s in a lead-lined room. The last track I got on it was not long after he texted you. It was near that restaurant he ate at with the doc, then pffft—gone.”

  “What about Hawthorne?”

  “You thinking they might have gone for a nightcap?” Grin asked as he searched for Hawthorne’s cell phone.

  “I’m grasping at straws.”

  “Cell site tracking puts her phone square in the middle of her apartment overlooking the river. And with a little finesse . . .” Grin said as he typed. “We have sound, courtesy of the doc’s cell phone.”