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by Michael Crichton

  “Well, yes…”

  “Do you know that for a fact?”

  “No,” Diehl said, frowning. “I just assumed…”

  “Because that’s how it started at Radial Genomics. Minor thefts of physical property. A lab assistant’s car from the lot, a purse from the company dining room. An ID card from the bathroom. Nobody thought much about it—although in retrospect, it was someone probing the system for weaknesses. They understood that, after the massive databank theft.”

  “Databank theft?” Diehl said, frowning. That was potentially very serious. He knew Charlie Huggins down at Genomics. He’d call him and get the full story.

  “Of course,” Watson said, “Huggins’s not admitting anything happened. They’ve got an IPO in June, and he knows it’d kill the offering. But the story is, last month they had four cell lines taken from their labs, and fifty terabytes of network data removed, including backups of that data from offsite storage. Very professional job. Really set them back.”

  “No kidding. I’m sorry to hear that.”

  “Of course I put Charlie in contact with BDG, Biological Data Group. It’s a security outfit. I’m sure you know them.”

  “BDG?” Diehl couldn’t remember that name, but it seemed he ought to know it. “Of course I know BDG.”

  “Right. They’ve done security for Genentech, Wyeth, BioSyn, a dozen other places. Not that any of those guys will ever talk about what happened, but BDG is unquestionably the best when you have problems. They come in, analyze your security setup, ID your vulnerabilities, and close the network holes. Quiet, fast, confidential.”

  Diehl was thinking the only security problem he had was Jack Watson’s nephew. But what he said was, “Maybe I should talk to them.”

  Which was howRick Diehl found himself sitting in a restaurant across from an elegant blonde in a dark business suit. She had introduced herself as Jacqueline Maurer. She had short hair and a brisk manner. She shook hands firmly and handed him her business card. She couldn’t have been more than thirty. She had the tight body of a gymnast. She looked him in the eye when she spoke and was very direct.

  Rick glanced at the card. It hadBDG in blue, and beneath, in small lettering, was her name and a phone number. Nothing else. He said, “BDG has its offices where?”

  “Many cities around the world.”

  “And you?”

  “I am based in San Francisco at the moment. Before that, Zurich.”

  He was listening to her accent. He had thought it was French, but it was probably German. “You are from Zurich?”

  “No. I was born in Tokyo. My father was in the diplomatic corps. I traveled a lot when I was young. I attended school in Paris and Cambridge. I worked first for Crédit Lyonnais in Hong Kong, because I speak Mandarin and Cantonese. Then I went to Lombard Odier in Geneva. Private bank.” The waiter came. She ordered mineral water, a brand he did not know.

  “What is that?” he said.

  “It’s Norwegian. Very good.”

  He ordered the same.

  “And how did you get to BDG?” he asked.

  “Two years ago. In Zurich.”

  Rick said, “What were the circumstances?”

  “I’m sorry, I can’t say. A company had a problem. BDG was brought in to solve it. I was asked to help—some technical issues. I subsequently joined them.”

  “A company in Zurich had a problem?”

  She smiled. “I’m sorry.”

  “What companies have you worked with, since joining BDG?”

  “I’m not free to say.”

  Rick frowned. He was thinking this was going to be a very weird interview, if she couldn’t tell him anything.

  “You realize,” she said, “that data theft is a global concern. It affects companies around the world. Estimated losses of one trillion euros annually. No company wishes its problems made public. So we respect the privacy of our clients.”

  Rick said, “What exactlycan you tell me?”

  “Think of any large banking or scientific or pharmaceutical firm. We have probably done work for them.”

  “Very discreet.”

  “As we will be discreet with you. We will send only three persons to your company, including me. We will identify ourselves as due-diligence accountants for a VC firm that is thinking of investing. We will spend one week reviewing your status, and then report to you.”

  Very straightforward, very direct. He tried to focus on what she was saying, but he found her beauty distracting. She did not make the slightest sexual gesture—not a glance, not a body movement, not a touch—yet she was immensely sexy. No bra, he could see that, firm breasts beneath a silk blouse…

  “Mr. Diehl?” she said. She was staring at him. He must have drifted off.

  “I’m sorry.” He shook his head. “It’s been a very difficult time…”

  “We are aware of your personal stresses,” she said. “And also of your security issues. I mean, the political aspects of your security.”

  “Yes,” he said, “we have a head of security, a man named Bradley—”

  “He must be replaced immediately,” she said.

  “I know,” he said, “but his uncle—”

  “Leave all that to us,” she said. The waiter came back, and she ordered lunch.

  As the conversationcontinued, he felt more and more drawn to her. Jacqueline Maurer had an exotic quality, and a personal reserve that he found challenging. It was not difficult to decide to hire her. He wanted to see her again.

  At the end of the meal, they walked outside. She shook hands firmly.

  “When will you start?” he said.

  “Immediately. Today, if you like.”

  “Yes, good,” he said.

  “All right, then. We will visit your headquarters in four days.”

  “Not today?”

  “Oh no. We start today, but we must address your political problem first. Then we will come.”

  A black town car pulled up. The driver came around to open the door for her.

  “Oh, and by the way,” she said. “Your Porsche has been located in Houston. We are quite certain your wife did not take it.” She slipped into the town car, her skirt riding up. She didn’t pull it down. She waved to Rick as the driver closed the door.

  As the limousine pulled away, Rick realized he was breathless.

  CH018

  It wasjust his way of relaxing, Brad Gordon knew, but try explaining that to anyone else. A single guy had to be careful these days. That was why he always brought a PDA and a cell phone whenever he sat in the school bleachers. He’d pretend to send messages and talk on the cell phone, like a busy parent. Maybe an uncle. And he didn’t come all the time, just once or twice a week during soccer season. When he didn’t have anything else to do.

  In the afternoon sun, the girls running around in their shorts and knee socks looked lovely. Seventh-graders—coltish legs, budding breasts that hardly bounced as they ran. Some of them had real racks on them, and butts that were developed, but most retained an endearing, child-like quality. Not yet women, but no longer girls. Innocent, at least for a while.

  Brad took his usual seat, halfway up the bleachers and over to one side, as if he were keeping some distance for his private business calls. He nodded to the other regulars, grandparents and Hispanic maids, as he took out his PDA and set his cell phone on his knee. He got his stylus and began to peck at the PDA, acting as if he were too busy to look at the girls.

  “Excuse me.”

  He looked up. An Asian girl was sitting down next to him. He had never seen her before, but she was cute. Maybe eighteen or so.

  “I’m really,really sorry,” she said, “but I have to call Emily’s parents”—she nodded toward one of the girls on the field—“and my battery died. Could I possibly use your phone? Just for a minute?”

  “Uh, sure,” he said, handing her the phone.

  “It’s just a local call.”

  “No problem.”

  She called qu
ickly, saying something about it being the third quarter and they could come and pick her up soon. He pretended not to listen. She handed the phone back to him, her hand touching his. “Hey, thanks.”

  “You’re welcome.”

  “I haven’t seen you at any of the games before,” she said. “Do you come a lot?”

  “Not as often as I’d like. Work, you know.” Bradley pointed to the field. “Which one is Emily?”

  “The center forward.” She pointed to a black girl, on the other side of the field.

  “I’m her friend. Kelly.” She extended her hand, shook his.

  “Brad,” he said.

  “Nice to meet you, Brad. And you’re here with…?”

  “Oh, my niece is at the dentist today,” he said. “I didn’t find out until I was already here.” He shrugged.

  “Nice uncle. She must really appreciate you coming. But you don’t seem old enough to be the uncle of one of the girls.”

  He smiled. For some reason he felt nervous. Kelly was sitting very close, her thigh almost touching his. He couldn’t use his PDA or his phone. Nobody ever sat close like that.

  “My parents are so old,” Kelly said. “My dad was fifty when I was born.” She stared out at the field. “I guess that’s why I like older guys.”

  He thought,How old is she? But he couldn’t think of a way to ask her without being obvious.

  She held her hands up, scrutinized them, fingers spread wide. “I just got my nails done,” she said. “You like this color?”

  “Yes. Very good color.”

  “My dad hates it when I get my nails done. He thinks it makes me look too mature. But I think it’s a good color. Hot love. That’s the name of the color.”

  “Yes…”

  “Anyway, all the girls get their nails done. I mean, comeon . I was getting my nails done in seventh grade. And besides, I graduated.”

  “Oh, you graduated?”

  “Yes. Last year.” She had opened her purse and was rummaging around inside it. Along with the lipstick, car keys, iPod, and makeup cases, he noticed a couple of joints wrapped in plastic and a ribbon of colored condoms that made a crackling sound when she pushed them around.

  He looked away. “So, are you in college now?”

  “No,” she said. “I took a year off.” She smiled at him. “My grades weren’t too good. Having too much fun.” She pulled out a small plastic bottle of orange juice. “Do you have any vodka?”

  “Not on me,” he said, surprised.

  “Gin?”

  “Uh, no…”

  “But you could get some, right?” She smiled at him.

  “I suppose I could,” he said.

  “I promise I’d pay you back,” she said, still smiling.

  That was how it started.

  They leftthe playing field separately, several minutes apart. Bradley went first, and he waited in his car in the parking lot, watching her walk toward him. She was wearing flip-flops, a short skirt, and a lacy top that looked like something you would wear to bed. But all the girls dressed that way these days. Her huge bag banged against her side as she walked. She lit a cigarette and then climbed into her car. She was driving a black Mustang. She waved to him.

  He started his engine, pulled out, and she followed him.

  He thought,Don’t get your hopes up. But the truth was, he already had.

  CH019

  Marilee Hunter,the pedantic director of the Long Beach Memorial genetics lab, liked to hear herself talk. Marty Roberts did his best to appear interested. Marilee had a fussy, pinched demeanor, like a librarian in an old forties movie. She delighted in catching errors among hospital staff. She had called Marty to say she needed to see him, right away.

  “Correct me if I’m wrong on the basics,” Marliee Hunter said. “Mr. Weller’s daughter obtains a postmortem paternity test that indicates she and her father do not share DNA. Nevertheless, the widow insists Welleris the father, and demands further testing. You provide me samples of blood, spleen, liver, kidney, and testes, although all have been compromised from funeral home infusation. You are looking for a chimera, obviously.”

  “Yes. Or an error in the original test,” Marty said. “We don’t know where the daughter took the blood for testing.”

  “Paternity tests have a nontrivial error rate,” Marilee said. “Especially in online establishments. My lab does not make errors. We will test all these tissues, Marty—as soon as you provide buccal cells from the daughter.”

  “Right, right.” He had forgotten all about that. They needed cheek cells from the daughter to compare DNA. “She may not cooperate.”

  “In that case,” Marilee said, “we will test the son and the other daughter. But you realize these tissue tests take time. Weeks.”

  “Of course, yes.”

  Marilee opened the Weller patient file, which was stampedDECEASED . She thumbed through the pages. “Meanwhile, I can’t help but wonder about your original autopsy.”

  Marty jerked his head up. “What about it?”

  “It shows here you ran a tox screen that came back negative.”

  “We do a tox screen in every automobile fatality. It’s routine.”

  “Umm,” Hunter said, pursing her lips. “The thing is, we repeated the tox screen in our lab. And the result is not negative.”

  “Oh?” he said, controlling his voice. Thinking:What the fuck?

  “It’s difficult to run a tox panel after all the funeral preservatives have been infused, but we have experience dealing with that. And we determined that the deceased Mr. Weller had elevated intracellular levels of calcium and magnesium…”

  Marty thought,Oh boy …

  “…along with significant hepatic elevation of ethanol dehydrogenase, implying a high blood-alcohol level at the time of the accident…”

  Marty groaned inwardly. Who had done the original tox screen? Had fucking Raza sent it out? Or onlysaid that he had?

  “…and finally,” Marilee said, “we found trace levels of ethacrynic acid.”

  “Ethacrynic acid?” Marty was shaking his head. “That makes no sense at all. That’s an oral diuretic.”

  “Correct.”

  “The guy was forty-six years old. His injuries were severe, but even so, I could tell he had been in fantastic physical shape—like he was a bodybuilder or something. Bodybuilders take those drugs. If he was taking an oral diuretic, that was probably why.”

  “You’re assuming that he knew he was taking it,” Hunter said. “Possibly he didn’t know.”

  “You think somebody poisoned him?” Marty said.

  She shrugged. “Toxic reactions include shock, hypotension, and coma. It could have contributed to his death.”

  “I don’t know how you would determine that.”

  “You did the post,” she reminded him, thumbing through the chart.

  “Yes, I did. Weller’s injuries were massive. Crush trauma to face and chest, pericardial rupture, fracture of hip and femur. His air bag didn’t open.”

  “The car was checked, of course?”

  Marty sighed. “Ask the cops. Not my job.”

  “It should have been checked.”

  “Look,” Marty said, “this was a single-car fatality. There were witnesses. The guy is not drunk or in a coma. He drives straight into a freeway overpass at ninety miles an hour. Nearly all single-car fatalities are suicides. No surprise the victim turned off the air bag first.”

  “But you didn’t check, Marty.”

  “No. Because we had no reason. The guy’s tox screen was negative and his electrolytes were essentially normal, given his injuries and time of death.”

  “Except they weren’t normal, Marty.”

  “Our tests came back normal.”

  “Umm,” she said. “Are you sure the tests were actually done?”

  And that was when Marty Roberts began to think seriously about Raza. Raza had said there was a rush order from the bone bank that night. Raza wanted to fill the order. So Raza would
not have wanted Weller’s body to lie in a locker for four or six days while the abnormal tox findings were analyzed.

  “I’ll have to check,” Marty said, “to make sure the tests were done.”

  “I think we ought to,” Marilee said. “Because according to the hospital file, the deceased’s son works for a biotech company, and the wife works in a pediatrician’s office. I assume both have access to biologicals. At this point, we can’t be certain that Mr. Weller wasn’t poisoned.”