by C. G. Cooper
“Dr. Scarfe, in your article, you made mention of a group called PEBBLE.”
“That’s right.”
“Have you kept up on their whereabouts?”
“Last I heard, they sort of fizzled out.”
Knight shook his head. “Well, not necessarily. Doctor, a good many of the signers are dead.”
A pause. “OK.”
“They were all young parents.”
Scarfe sat back in his chair and stroked his chin, his mouth open thoughtfully.
“My problems,” he said, “started when those anti-vaccine activists got hold of my report. They started making a fuss. They were sending me letters; they were turning up at the lab and my offices. Then phone calls started to come through to the house, and soon they turned up there.”
“What did they want from you?” Knight asked.
“I don’t know.” Scarfe stared into his coffee. “They treated me like some kind of hero. Telling me they were grateful someone was on their side. I wasn’t on anyone’s side. I certainly wasn’t doing it for anyone’s adoration. The attention was a real nuisance, to put it bluntly. It put a lot of strain on my wife and myself. Not to mention the fact that I don’t necessarily like to be seen comporting with conspiracy theorists.”
Knight leaned forward. “Doctor, forgive me; I saw an old news report that you’d been in a relationship with an anti-vaxxer by the name of Nicola Taylor.”
Scarfe nodded knowingly. “Yeah, that was a complete fabrication. I have always been faithful. I would never have cheated on my wife.”
“Did you know Nicola Taylor died? She had an accident.”
“I am aware of that.”
“The accident happened shortly after the allegations of your affair appeared in the press.”
Scarfe looked up and fixed Knight with a fierce and withering stare. “I had never even met the woman.” He dropped his mug down so heavily that Knight thought the table’s glass top would shatter. “And you tell me why the government would want to kill off a few nut jobs.”
“They’re nut jobs now?”
“I never said they weren’t.”
“And I,” Knight retorted, “never said the government was involved.”
“Listen, Alex—may I call you Alex? That whole affair made me sick. It’s behind me now. I throw an article or two up on my blog about whatever interests me and that’s it. No one listens. No one cares. And I prefer it that way.”
Knight could see the old man was reliving the pressure that he must have felt during that hard time.
The old man sagged, then regained composure and got up to top off his mug. He poured and then leaned against the counter. “You know I kept asking for funds to do a follow-up study and check the results from that first one? I was denied again and again. Eventually, they offered me a study into biological contamination of surgical apparatuses and medical equipment. They wanted a cutting-edge, state-of-the-art solution to contaminated equipment. Understand? They wanted me to write a report on cleaning scalpels.”
And with that, the conversation was over.
Scarfe followed Knight to his bike, which was parked in front of the wide lawn with its light scattering of trees.
“Just you watch out for that anti-vax crowd,” he said as Knight climbed onto the S1000R. “Anyone who dips their toe into those waters is sure to get nibbled. Or devoured alive. They’re a crazy bunch. And what’s more, they’re dedicated. Just be careful.”
Knight smiled and shook the old man's hand. “Good luck with the roses,” he said. “I’m sorry about your wife.”
Scarfe smiled a weak, flat smile. Then his face changed. “Hang on—I never told you Mary died.”
Knight looked toward the house. “I noticed something was missing.” He turned back to Scarfe. “Your wedding band. You still have the indentation on your finger, which tells me you only recently came to terms with removing it.”
Scarfe looked at his hand. “Not a day goes by that I don’t reconsider the decision to take it off.”
“Give me a call anytime, Doctor,” said Knight. “We’ll talk roses.”
He shook the man’s hand again.
“Be careful, please,” Scarfe said, his tone dark and weary.
13
Knight settled into his office chair and tried to relax. The speedy ride back to the office had been exhilarating but also tiring. He sank into the work and surfed the news channels on his computer, one eye on the flu epidemic racing across Central America.
Mrs. Blunt entered the office hesitantly after a single-knuckled knock.
“I’m sorry to bother you, but I need your authorization on this.” She handed him a sheet of official-looking paper.
“What is this?”
“Supply requisition form. We need paper clips, printer ink, a new fax machine, and...” She leaned in slightly and lowered her voice. “Feminine products for the ladies’ room.”
“Of course.” He signed off on the form and handed it back. She took the form and turned quickly on her heel.
“Mrs. Blunt?”
The woman stopped and turned.
“Next time, you don’t need to itemize the list for me. I trust you.”
She grinned shyly. “Thank you, Dr. Knight.”
“And it’s Alex.”
“Yes,” she said, and hurried out of the room.
Another knock came at the door. It was Jeffries. He remained in the threshold.
“Yes?” said Knight.
“May I come in, Doctor?”
Knight rolled his eyes. “Yes, you may enter, O wise one.”
Jeffries approached the desk and stopped a few feet away. He locked his hands in front of him and shuffled in his spot.
“Jeffries?”
“Yes, sir?”
“Do you need to use the bathroom?”
“No, sir. I wanted you to know that I am going to have to leave an hour early on Friday.”
“OK. That’s four days away. You can wait till Friday to tell me.”
The young man’s mouth hung open.
“Anything else?” Knight prompted.
“No, sir.”
“And it’s Alex.”
“Yes, sir. Thank you.”
He too hurried out as quickly as Mrs. Blunt had. Knight rubbed his temples. He was beginning to get just a wee bit tired of the sycophancy around here.
Finally, Sarah, someone he didn’t mind seeing, appeared in the threshold bearing a cup of coffee. “Thought you’d like one of these.”
“You read my mind.”
She closed the door behind her. “And speaking of coffee, I wanted to thank you for the other night. And I also wanted to apologize for running out like that.”
“You don’t need to apologize.”
“It’s my mother. She’s one of those people who always has something wrong with her. She’s only sixty, but the way she talks, you’d think she was pushing ninety. She stubs her toe on the bedframe and all of a sudden she needs foot surgery. Or she gets a cold and it’s Panamanian Flu. The other night she got a rash from the cat licking her arm, and it took me three hours to explain that it wasn’t shingles.”
Knight chuckled at this. “I’m sorry, I don’t mean to laugh.”
“No, it is funny. I can’t laugh because it’s my life and it’s annoying.”
“Really though,” he said, “you don’t owe me any explanations.”
“Well,” she said plaintively, “I guess that’s all I got for now. I just wanted to... you know.”
She left slowly.
He turned his attention back to the news. A breaking headline had appeared. A container ship out of Costa Rica had radioed for assistance after all the crew had succumbed to the Panamanian Flu. The captain was incapacitated and the first officer was in command but was also succumbing to the virus fast. Every person in the thirteen-man crew was infected and in varying states of the illness. The Costa Rican government had dispatched a medical team aboard a coast guard vessel, and they
would be boarding with full biohazard protocols to administer whatever relief they could.
Knight looked at a map of the spreading infection. It had engulfed Panama and spread to Costa Rica, then south into Colombia. The United Nations had taken over control of the locks on the Panama Canal to ensure this vital trade corridor remained open.
Knight looked around his dingy little office. His stem cell work was more important now than ever. If he was released from this ridiculous investigation and allowed to finish his work on the stem cell therapies, he could fight this flu pandemic. He could save so many lives if he were allowed to continue his work. Instead, he was expected to write a report that would confirm what science already knew: that vaccines were safe. His report would only serve to antagonize a militant group of anti-vaxxers and would go no way toward convincing them of the safety of the things. This was a pointless task--a waste of his intellect and his time.
Knight slumped back into his chair in frustration. He looked out of his office window and saw a car pulling up to the curb. He recognized the man who jumped out of the passenger’s seat to gallantly hold the office door open for a woman who was entering the building at the same time: Special Agent Childs.
Knight jumped up out of his seat, skirted his desk, and opened his office door, the blinds clattering as he yanked the door open. Mrs. Blunt and Jeffries looked up at him suddenly, and then as the visitor entered the office from the double door at the other end of the floor, they both jerked their heads that way, as if at a tennis match.
Special Agent Childs walked over to Knight.
“Spiffy office you have here, Doctor.”
“Agent Childs,” said Knight, extending his hand.
“Can we talk somewhere in private?”
“I suppose if I said no, I’d look suspicious.”
“Not really,” said the agent, “but this isn’t a social call, if that’s what you mean. Maybe we could step inside your office?” Childs looked past Knight into the small office and then back again. “Just enough room for us to have a quiet talk,” Childs said, smiling.
The two men entered the office, and Knight shut the door, ignoring the inquiring looks he was getting from Blunt and Jeffries.
“Have a seat,” Knight said, taking his place behind the desk.
“I thought you were a laboratory scientist,” said Childs, taking a notebook out of his jacket pocket. “I didn’t expect to find you working in an office on this side of town.”
“I’m working on a program for the president.”
“The president? Doing what?”
“Top secret nuclear missile defense.” He put a finger to his lips. “Ssshhhh.”
Childs tilted his head and smiled. “Cute.”
“What can I do for you?”
“Well, for one thing, I thought you’d be back in your lab, studying...” Childs looked in his notebook, “cell proteins. What gives?”
Knight shrugged. “The NIH has deemed it necessary to reassign me for the time being. I expect I’ll be back in the laboratory before too long.”
“Okay.” Childs looked up from his notebook, a grave expression on his face. “When did you last see Trevor Keen?”
When Knight was silent, Childs slipped a photo out of his notebook and onto Knight’s desk. “Trevor Keen,” he repeated. “He was a technician at your laboratory. He was working on your cell protein study.”
Knight looked at the picture, recognizing the young man from the photo Professor Stone had shown him. It was the young technician who, according to Stone, had blown the whistle on the stem cell research.
“Yeah, I know him. I remember seeing him around the lab. But I don’t mix with the team very much. I don’t know when I saw him last.”
Knight glanced out of the office over Childs’s shoulder. Mrs. Blunt was surreptitiously looking into Knight’s office. Jeffries was less sneaky and was blatantly staring like he was at an aquarium.
Childs took back the photo and tucked it carefully into his notebook. “You don’t remember.”
“No, I’m sorry.”
“Mm. You don’t remember when you last saw him. How about hearing from him?”
“I don’t know,” Knight replied, not liking where this was going. “Probably back when we worked together. Did something happen?”
“He was found dead from a heroin overdose.”
“You’re kidding,” said Knight, feeling a strange queasiness in his stomach.
“Were you aware Mr. Keen had a problem with heroin?”
“No,” said Knight.
“Do you remember where you were last Friday at around two a.m.?”
“I was at my apartment, sleeping.”
“We can check that. Ever been to Lane Park on Leland Drive?”
Knight shook his head. “No.”
“Never been there?”
“No. Never.”
“That’s where they found the body,” Childs said absently before pressing forward. “Let me ask, do you think there could be any connection between Trevor Keen’s death and the fact that he gave information to the FBI about a breach of law at your lab?”
“Wait, hold on, back up. What?”
Childs fixed Knight with a level stare. “We’re sure it was Trevor Keen who informed my office about the illegal stem cell research at your laboratory. Shortly after, he turns up dead, pumped full of heroin. And not just any street mix full of Tylenol and strychnine. No, this was high-grade stuff, pure Afghan.”
“Jeez.”
“Do you think he could have acquired it through contacts at the NIH?”
“I don’t know. I mean, I don’t think he could have. Then again, I hardly knew the man. I don’t know what he was in to.”
“Did he ever confide in you that he was having problems with anyone, or with any group in general?”
“As I said,” Knight replied, shifting uncomfortably, “I didn’t know him.”
Childs slipped the notebook back into his jacket pocket and rose from the chair. “If you think of anything, such as why this young man might have thought your lab was conducting illegal research, or why he thought he could rat you out for it, or how he could have ended up dead,” Childs said, dropping a card onto Knight’s desk, “that’s my cell number. Call or text anytime. I don’t sleep much.”
Knight picked up the card and looked at it. “Thank you, Special Agent Childs.”
“Please, call me Mark.” Childs smiled broadly. “So long, Alex. I’ll see myself out.”
Knight watched Childs walk confidently through the office, breezing past the curious Blunt and Jeffries. Sarah rose from her chair to see Childs out of the building, but he passed her quickly and was out the door to the waiting car.
Knight sat back, a barrage of questions bouncing around in his brain, none of which he had an answer to.
Knight didn’t like not knowing. He did not like it one little bit.
14
Wilhelmina Jones was sitting in a coffee shop with her laptop when Benji Johar popped up in a little box in the corner of the screen. Mina thought he looked worried.
“You alright, Benj?” she asked.
“No. No, Mina. It’s bad. Bad, bad, bad.”
“What is it? Slow down.”
Benji’s head was wobbling side to side. Mina could see he was troubled. “Just tell me,” she said. “What is it?”
A link popped up on Mina’s screen.
Mina clicked the link. It was a news report from a respected daily newspaper. The report was about a young man, Trevor Keen, who had been found dead of an overdose of pure heroin. The story went on about how the epidemic of drug abuse was crippling an entire generation of the nation’s youth.
Mina shrugged. “So what? Some kid got too high and floated off the planet. It happens, Benj. What’s so special about this one?”
“Read the rest,” Benji said. “It’s the lab we hacked. They say he was a fake whistleblower. An unhappy employee. They say the lab was running protein trials or somethin
g. It’s a cover-up, Mina. And they killed this guy to cover it up.”
“I don’t know if…” Mina trailed off as she struggled to find a reason that didn’t associate her with an innocent man’s death. “It’s not because of us.”
“It is, Mina. It is,” Benji asserted, sounding panicked. “We’ve had some fun, but we’ve never had anyone die before. It’s bad, bad, bad.”
“Well, I’ll just send the FBI agent a message and tell him it wasn’t this guy, it was us.”
“Don’t get me involved anymore, Mina. I’ll see you around.”
And with that, his face disappeared from Mina’s screen.
Mina reread the article and then scanned other related articles and cross-referenced them. Then she hacked into the employment records of the NIH and found the record of the young man.
Dismissed for poor attendance and possible drug addiction.
There was a note about rehabilitation programs that had been offered.
On a hunch, she decided to search the lab’s CCTV footage. She limited her search to the last several months, incorporating a facial recognition feature into the search using the photo from Keen’s employee file. The search came up empty in a matter of seconds. She then found out why: the CCTV folder on the NIH server relating to that one lab was empty. The files were not missing; they had been erased.
“OK,” she said bemusedly. So, someone was covering this up, but why? Some scientist involved in illegal research. So what? No one cared about science anyway. It wasn’t as if he had forged bank notes; it was only human cells. Why the big cover-up?
But more importantly, she wanted the credit. It had been a good hack, and she’d broken that network’s encryption. She would tell this FBI agent what had actually happened and who the real informer was. It was her: Wilhelmina Jones, ace hacker.
15
When Knight had first laid eyes on that photo of Trevor Keen Stone showed him, he had been exhausted from a night in a police cell. He’d been worried about himself and his research--terrified that all that everything he’d worked for and his myriad samples would be destroyed. Years of work that was going to provide breakthrough treatments for everything from head colds to cancer down the tubes. The photo and the face of Trevor Keen had been too far down on the list of things to care about to seal in his memory.