Belinda came in with Zak Gould’s papers. She was Westfield’s equal for size.
“Thanks, Belinda,” Westfield said. “Just leave them on the desk.”
She went over to the printer, which had fallen silent, and picked up the sheaf of papers. She stacked them with Gould’s papers and handed them to Milner.
“There y’are, Mr. Milner. Now, is there anything else?”
“Thanks very much, Ms. Westfield. You’ve been real helpful. We appreciate it.”
He turned to the PA who had brought them down to Cindy Westfield’s office, and who had been waiting in the background throughout the exchange.
“Well, thank you, ma’am. I guess we’re all through here.”
She inclined her head slightly.
“Very good, Mr. Milner,” she said. “I’ll show you out.”
Terry’s phone sounded as they were leaving the building. He glanced around him, then took it out of his pocket and put it to his ear.
“Terry? It’s Chris.”
“Oh, hi, Chris.”
“Terry, John Gilchrist brought me the latest data on atmospheric ammonia. We’re nearly at eighty-seven per cent! I can’t believe it’s got that high so quickly. How close are we to finding whoever made this thing?”
Terry responded quietly. “We’re making progress. It was a scientist called Zak Gould. We’re working with the FBI now to track him down.”
“You’ve gotta find him fast, Terry. I had to show this data to the President and he nearly hit the roof.”
“We’re doing everything we can,” Terry said. “I’ll keep you posted.”
He hung up and saw Milner eyeing him.
“People back in Washington,” he said. “Reminding us the clock is ticking. As if we didn’t already know.”
CHAPTER 41
Terry sat on a sofa, trying to find his way around a copy of the Boston Globe. Maggie paced the room, paused to look out of the window, then paced some more. They’d arranged to meet Milner in the hotel restaurant for dinner, but it was still too early to go downstairs.
She sighed. “I hate to be out of the picture this long.”
“Me too. Especially the way the levels are going up.”
“And the president has to follow your suggestion to blow up the world,” Maggie continued, with some bitterness in her voice.
“Maggie,” he said in a pleading tone.
She stopped pacing and flopped onto the sofa next to him.
“I’m sorry, Terry. I know you were just doing what you think is right, but I have to say, sometimes I wish you’d never given them this idea. They might see it as too much of any easy out. Panic and take it too early.” She sat up straight and looked into his eyes. “So many people will die, Terry. It can’t be the only way. We need time to figure this out.”
“Yes,” he said quietly. “But time is just what we don’t have. I wonder how the research teams are getting on without us. Maybe we could go back to Florida, at least for a few days.”
The hotel lounge was almost empty. A television churned out a seemingly endless series of advertisements. Terry and Maggie settled into a couple of armchairs to wait.
Terry saw her eyes flick to the television and he turned to follow her gaze. The adverts had given way to a man reading the news:
“In Chicago, efforts are continuing to clean up the bodies of alewives, now rotting all along the shoreline.”
There were blurry pictures of dark rocks covered with silvery masses. The camera panned to waves breaking against the rocks. The water was barely visible beneath undulating rafts of dead fish. The air was full of flies. She leaned towards him.
“What are alewives?”
“Small fish, a sort of freshwater herring, I think.”
When she looked up again they were interviewing an irate householder.
“You seen it? You smelled what it’s like? We livin’ with that all day, ever’ day. It ain’t healthy. Why don’ they get they asses down here and clean that mess up?”
Then another interview, subtitled “Dr. Dexter Maden, biologist, University of Chicago”.
“The problem’s not just here in Chicago, Ted, there are tens of thousands washed up all along the shores of Lake Huron and Lake Michigan. Cleaning it all up is a major headache. The authorities have been overwhelmed.”
“But this isn’t a new problem, is it, Dexter?”
“No, the alewives do have seasonal die-offs, but this is bigger, much bigger. It looks like the extinction of an entire species.”
“Now baseball. The Boston Red Sox…”
Maggie met Terry’s eyes. “It’s getting worse.”
He shrugged. “May not be ammonia. You heard that biologist; could be a seasonal die-off.”
“Who are you trying to convince, me or you?” She glanced towards the entrance to the lounge.
Milner came over and dropped into an armchair next to them. “Got a message for you, Terry,” he said. “Just came through. FBI Headquarters asked me to pass it on. Some guy in London called Spencer Talbot. Is Spencer his first name or is it one of those English two-handled names?”
“Double-barrelled. What did he want?”
“He thinks your phone’s switched off. Said the Home Secretary’s expecting a report.”
“Well he can go to hell. I’ve had it with these people. Say we’re working in the field and we can’t be contacted.”
Maggie said, “Sam, any news from Clive?”
“He’s putting his team together as we speak. The plan is to hit Genon early tomorrow morning.”
“You didn’t want to be with them when they go in?”
“Ah no, they know what to do.”
Terry said, “We were thinking of flying back to Florida for a few days – in case we’re needed by the research teams.”
Sam grimaced. “I put in a request to the Bureau's Search Center, Kidnappings and Missing Persons. It’d be better if you two could stick around here, in case they locate this guy Zak Gould.”
“I don’t want to be at a loose end, Sam,” Maggie said. “Couldn’t we be following something up?”
“Maybe. What did you make of Signett?”
“I thought he was very smooth,” said Maggie. “A bit too smooth.”
“Yeah,” said Milner. “And he told us Vance decided not to develop that nitrogen-fixing organism. That can’t be true, can it? You said this organism escaped two-and-a-half years ago. It was in Vance’s hands at that time so they can’t have canned it.”
Terry nodded. “He also told us all their research was concentrated in Lexington. If that was true what was the organism doing down in Richmond? Either they were doing research on it there or it had passed beyond the research stage into production. Either way the man has to be lying.”
“But why?” asked Milner. “The guy’s not a fool; he’s CEO of a major company.”
“He doesn’t know how much we know,” Maggie pointed out.
“Bothers me, all the same,” Milner said. “If he thinks he can palm us off with stuff like that he must be pretty damned sure he’s not going to get caught out."
“Sam,” Terry said. “If they were working on the organism, maybe even producing it, why didn’t we find a patent?”
Milner pursed his lips. “Could be they never took one out. Or it was taken out, but by another subsidiary, or in another country. I could ask Clive to do another search.”
“Couldn’t we do it?” Maggie said quickly. “Clive’s busy preparing for tomorrow’s raid. And he won’t be able to filter the patents like we can.”
“True. Terry, you have your laptop here?”
“Yes.”
“Okay, I’ll have him give you access to the databases you need. Some of that stuff is in the public domain, but he can probably do better than that. Meantime you’ve given me an idea. I’ll see who I can get hold of at Otis, Digby and Preiss – you know, the agents who prepared the patent on that insulin thing. If they do all Vance’s patent work this one may
have passed through their hands. Look, I won’t stay for dinner. We’ll meet up tomorrow morning. There’s a breakfast bar just a couple of doors up from the hotel. I’ll see you there. Not too early, say eight-thirty – it’ll give me a chance to talk to these patent guys first thing.”
The air in the breakfast bar was warm and heavy with the odour of frying eggs, hash browns, and bacon. The only vacant table was close to a wall-mounted television, which added to the general noise of conversation, orders shouted from the counter to the kitchen, and the clatter of plates and cutlery. At least they wouldn’t be overheard.
A waitress set down two glasses of iced water and they said they were waiting for someone before ordering. Maggie rotated the glass in front of her, which contained more ice than water. It left a widening ring on the laminated table top. Iced water was the last thing she felt like at breakfast.
Then Sam appeared at the entrance, spotted them and shuffled his chair up to the table.
“So,” he said. “Anything new?”
They shook their heads. “Hit a blank everywhere.” Terry said. “All we got was eye strain. What about the patent agency?”
“I couldn’t push too hard, in case they started sounding the alarm with Signett. I just said the FBI was interested in a patent on a nitrogen-fixing organism, maybe pending, maybe from Vance Pharmaceuticals. The guy searched their files. Nothing.”
He looked up. The waitress was standing next to him.
“You folks ready to order now?”
She took their orders and weaved her way back to the counter.
Milner’s cell phone buzzed. He lifted it to his ear, listening while engaging Terry and Maggie with his eyes.
“It’s Clive,” he mouthed. Then, into the phone:
“Who have you got with you? Okay. Listen Clive, you know the form: it’s not so important what they’re manufacturing now, see if you can find out what was in production two-and-a-half years ago. Try and pull in some of the people from the shop floor who were around at that time… Great stuff… Okay… Thanks. Keep me posted.”
He clicked off the phone and replaced it in the small holster on his belt.
“He’s at Richmond, Virginia now with a bunch of agents. Everything’s ready. He didn’t let his guys in on the whole thing, just told them they were suspicious of the safety record of the facility. They’ll give the place a thorough going-over.”
The waitress returned with their breakfasts. Maggie winced at the pile of pancakes she placed in front of Milner.
“Maple syrup’s on the table,” she said. “Juice and toast?”
Maggie said, “Over here.”
Terry was just having coffee.
“Anything else for you?”
They shook their heads.
“Okay, enjoy.”
They unwrapped cutlery from paper napkins. The television above their heads hammered out the latest sports results.
“The urgent question now is, where is Zak Gould?” Maggie said.
Milner drizzled maple syrup onto the pancakes. “The Bureau hasn’t got him listed as a missing person.”
“What does that actually mean?” she asked.
“Means either the guy has gone to ground somewhere, or he’s dead and no one’s found the body.”
“Dead?”
Milner shrugged. “Well, it’s a possibility. Hillman said he didn’t seem to have family or friends, so he could have died – or been killed – and no one called it in.”
Maggie sighed. “Then we could be on a sodding wild goose chase.”
“Won’t know that until we find him – or what’s left of him.”
Terry said, “We may get something from the list of resignations.”
“Oh, right. You know, I went along with it but why did you want that list?”
“Well, I was thinking: for a researcher like Zak Gould this was a plum job, in charge of his own lab in a major company. He’d only been in it for a year or two, so why did he leave without telling anyone? If something happened to upset him – enough to make him take off in a hurry – it may have done the same for other people. And they may be easier to trace.”
“Or maybe Gould was just unstable, like Signett said,” Maggie added.
“Maybe, but we already suspect Signett can be economical with the truth. It seems more likely there was a reason.”
“Okay,” Milner said. “I guess it was worth a shot. Did you take a look at the list?”
“Yes, we both did. There are about a dozen names on it. I guess that’s not unusual for a company this size. We’re not really interested in their internal problems except in relation to this case, so we thought the important thing was to focus on the period between the takeover of Biomolecular Technologies and the point at which the organism escaped.”
“That makes sense,” Milner mumbled with his mouth full. “How many did that leave?”
“Six. One was a straightforward retirement, and one was in packaging design. Take those out and you have four names. I wrote them down.” He withdrew a piece of paper from the inside pocket of his jacket and put it on the table. “Here they are: Philip Swanson, Susan Armitage, Grant Challoner, and Joseph Avanti.”
“Okay,” Milner said. “We can follow up on those.” He selected another pancake.
From the direction of the kitchen there was a loud crash, as if a tray had been dropped. The television blared: “Coming up, the news headlines…”
Milner thought for a moment. “There’s something funny about this, that’s for sure. Remember what Signett said as we were going out? Why was he so goddamned interested in catching up with Zak Gould? An employee who went AWOL two years ago? Doesn’t sound like the sort of thing a CEO would normally lose sleep over. His Human Resources people weren’t too bothered so why was he?”
Maggie said, “We’re back to the reason why he left so suddenly, aren’t we? What I was wondering was – ”
Milner held up a hand. “Hold on – ”
He was looking at the television.
“A police spokesman said the body had now been formally identified as that of Dr. Grant Challoner. Dr. Challoner was an expert on environmental issues and had acted as a consultant to both government departments and industry. Now over to Gordon Jamieson at the Weather Bureau...”
Terry looked at Maggie and then down at the piece of paper on the table in front of him. Milner reached out two fingers and twisted it towards him. He pushed the plate of unfinished pancakes away from him and stood up.
“Come on, you guys. We got work to do.”
CHAPTER 42
Terry grunted his approval as the police sedan stopped at one of the road blocks that had been placed at both ends of the street. A small crowd of local reporters and a film crew were hanging around, smoking, waiting for news. They surged around the car as it drew up but Milner ignored them. Their driver had a quick word with the patrol sergeant on duty, who waved them through. As they cruised slowly down the street they could see uniformed officers going from door to door. Milner explained what was happening.
“They’ll be asking the neighbours what they’ve seen and heard. Also they’ll be warning them not to leave the street without taking some form of ID with them; otherwise they won’t be able to get back in.”
Their car stopped outside a house that had been taped off. From what they could see it was much less grand than Hillman’s mansion but looked better cared for. In a tented area just inside the gate they each donned disposable coveralls, a hat, overshoes, a mask, and gloves before going in.
As they went through the open front door Milner looked over his shoulder and said quietly, “Don’t touch anything.”
An officer conducted them to a room which had evidently been Challoner’s study. The forensic team was hard at work inside. Terry’s gaze roamed around the room and stopped abruptly at an outline which had been chalked on the carpet. At the head end of the outline there was a pattern of brown stains. He glanced at Maggie and saw her shiver but she avoided
his eyes. The room was a shambles. The floor was littered with papers and books, pens and paper clips, emptied desk drawers, upended chairs, and a smashed picture frame. The cream wallpaper was streaked with reddish-brown smears and flecks.
His eyes were drawn back again to the chalk outline. There was something chillingly eloquent about that negative space. Articulating a presence rather than an absence, it dominated the room.
Milner stood quietly for a few moments, watching the team at work. Then he went over to one of them, had a quick word, and brought the man back to meet Terry and Maggie.
Milner said, “These here are my associates. This is Detective Dominguez, the Investigating Officer.”
“Eddie,” he said, raising the palm of a gloved hand by way of greeting. “The Captain said you were on your way but not to hold up the investigation. Sorry, but the body’s already gone to the morgue for identification and post mortem. Did you want to see it?”
“Nah, I’ll wait for the report. The Medical Examiner say anything to you before they took it away?”
“Died in the early hours.”
“Cause of death?”
“You know those guys – they won’t commit themselves until post mortem.”
“What do you say?”
“Off the record? No one lethal injury that I could see but...”
He hesitated, looking at Terry and Maggie, who were still gazing wide-eyed around the room.
“Go on,” Milner prompted.
“Well, my guess would be multiple internal injuries. Victim was in his late fifties. A much younger man wouldn’t have survived a beating like that.”
“That bad?”
“You better believe it. I’ve seen some assaults in my time, but they really worked him over. Guy wasn’t married but we located his sister. Even she had a job recognizing him.”
“There’s blood on the walls,” Milner pointed out. “Any penetrating wounds?”
“No, that’s just spatter. Nose was burst, lips smashed, blood all over. We’re checking it, of course, in case any belongs to the perp.”
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