Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  "Was there any basis for Palmer's concerns?"

  "No."

  "What did Ms. Grayson think was going on?"

  "Sam imagined she wasn't working at the caliber Palmer was used to, but then she began to think jealousy on Palmer's part."

  "Jealous of . . . ?"

  He paused just long enough for the beat to be noticeable. "Didn't want to share credit for the research with her colleagues. All too plausible. When it comes down to grants, funding, reputation, it happens."

  Lang went silent, his expression shifting subtly, revealing internal rehearsal, a gearing up. He took a quick breath, began, "The day Samantha died, I was—"

  "Hold that for later," Sweetheart interrupted. "After Ms. Grayson's death, you opened an unofficial investigation?"

  Sylvia caught her breath at her associate's abruptness. Cold technique. She knew what he was doing—taking charge, controlling the interview. If it was hard on Lang, so be it.

  Lang's fingers tightened on the steering wheel, then loosened as he surrendered. "This was no case of accidental exposure. I never believed it for a minute. Sam was meticulous about procedure. I don't mean careful—I mean meticulous."

  "But others didn't see it your way," Sweetheart said.

  "True." Lang adjusted the rearview mirror. "When my superiors didn't respond to my suspicions, I began to look at Palmer's history, each facility where she'd done research. I looked for deaths, accidents, unusual events. I didn't have to look far. In ninety-eight there were cases of contamination and a lab death in the Netherlands—an epileptic scientist who died from a grand mal seizure. The local chaps, dead man's mates, queued up, talked his mum and dad into exhumation."

  As the grim story unfolded, Sylvia found herself longing for a cigarette, her first craving in ages.

  "Pathologist found traces of antimony. If the FBI was going to get involved, we needed a minimum of two exhumations, two victims, two jurisdictions."

  She heard Sweetheart asking about the second body, heard Lang's response: California, 1995, Lawrence Livermore, Palmer's coworker suffered a fatal heart attack.

  "The man had a history of heart disease. When I couldn't convince the family to proceed, I kept digging, if you'll pardon the pun. In ninety-two her fiancé died of lung cancer. Avery Winter. The family is prominent; they also refused to consider exhumation, even though there was speculation at the time of his death that someone helped him along."

  "Two strikes," Sweetheart said.

  "But then I got lucky." Lang glanced at his watch, and the ornate ring on his finger caught the light. He turned the ignition key, the engine purred to life. As he accelerated, he said, "When Palmer was at MIT in eighty-seven, the only other finalist for a spectacular grant award died of a sudden heart attack. There, too, a history of heart disease, but the family couldn't fathom it, paid a visit to the local coroner." Lang looked harshly satisfied. "His bone showed evidence of sodium fluoroacetate."

  "Isn't that used as a pest killer—rodents, coyotes?" Sylvia asked, primed from her research in international airspace.

  "Crude but fitting," Sweetheart said. "From a poisoner's perspective, it's pest control."

  Lang drove silently for several miles. Sylvia recognized enough of the landscape to know they were returning to Gatwick. Row houses strung together with lines of damp laundry passed in a gray-blue blur.

  "Tell us about her death," Sweetheart said abruptly, with artful timing.

  Because there was no rehearsal Lang struggled to keep his voice steady. "She . . . it was a Thursday. She left work early, she wasn't feeling well. I'd been in Paris for a few days on business. I flew back the next morning, Friday—changed my schedule, you see, delayed it by a day—and I found her that afternoon. If I'd kept to schedule—but I couldn't . . ."

  The business of driving, changing lanes, turning, gave Lang a reprieve, and when he spoke again, his emotions were in hard check, his voice was flat. "Her death wasn't quick. She'd suffered. She'd probably fallen into a coma early Friday. She'd been dead several hours by the time I arrived."

  He braked hard, knuckles white on the wheel, tires screeching, to avoid a truck that had stalled out in traffic. Nobody spoke for several moments.

  The worst question yet came from Sweetheart. "Before her death, was your fiancée sick? Did she have bouts of flu? Headaches? Nausea?"

  Lang slowed to make a turn. "She missed work several times, and we thought she couldn't shake a bit of flu going round. I was ill myself."

  "Could you have been exposed to a mild dose of toxin?" Sweetheart asked, displaying no apparent emotion—unless, Sylvia thought, you watched closely enough to see the slight dilation of the nostrils, the tightening of the muscles around the eyes, the contraction of the masseter muscle, all idiosyncratic signs of extreme concentration.

  "My blood was screened, nothing showed up. But that doesn't mean there was nothing there."

  Sylvia felt her skin prickle. It was more than possible Samantha Grayson had been exposed to toxins before the final, acute attack. It was common for poisoners to administer multiple doses. She shifted again, uncomfortably. It wasn't easy to fathom the kind of mind it took to socialize with, and work next to, the person you were slowly killing.

  "There was another death," Lang said finally. "In eighty-eight. Palmer's father."

  Sweetheart frowned. "Fielding Palmer was diagnosed with a brain tumor . . ."

  "That's true." Lang turned from the main thoroughfare into airport traffic. "He was undergoing chemotherapy, and his condition had stabilized. But he died very suddenly. One night when his daughter was visiting. Christine was alone with him in the house."

  "Was there any proof?" Sweetheart asked softly.

  Lang guided the Bentley around the corner, passing an idling black cab, braking for a pedestrian who carried a bouquet of red roses, before he said, "The body was cremated."

  Sylvia shifted in her seat to study Lang's face. "You went to your superiors with your information?"

  "That's right. And then I went to the American legal attaché in London—he works hand-in-glove with MI-6. To a man, they told me to shape up and bloody get over it. Next thing I know, the FBI's taking over."

  Sylvia glanced at Sweetheart as she addressed one more question to Lang. "Have you ever doubted your instinct? Do you still believe Palmer's a murderer?"

  "Oh, she's a murderer, all right. And she enjoys the killing. She poisoned her father, God knows how many colleagues, and the woman I loved. Which leaves only one question: Who's next?" He slowed the car, just as fat droplets of rain began to drum against the windshield.

  As the noise of the rainstorm increased, Sylvia studied Lang—moody, vigilant, guarded, rigid, erratic, volatile were a few of the adjectives she might use in a psychological evaluation of the MI-6 analyst. But he was complex; she knew there was more. And she didn't like the fact that she wasn't getting a clear read on the man.

  Lang retrieved the envelope from under his feet, but this time he shoved it over the seat. Sweetheart unfastened the metal clip. The envelope slid open. He examined the contents slowly, taking his time, even as his face registered shock.

  After a moment, he handed Sylvia the photographs, but they slipped from her fingers and fell into her lap. She caught her breath. She was staring at color portraits of Samantha Grayson's corpse. The face was shockingly grotesque in death. Muscles contracted, features contorted. Skin mottled. A yellowish foam extruding from discolored lips.

  She heard Paul Lang's flat, lifeless voice. "Do you see?"

  She looked up sharply and found herself trapped by his eyes. This time there was no mistaking what she saw: a man intent on revenge.

  "These weren't in the police file," she said slowly.

  "They aren't police photographs. I took them." Lang shrugged. "I thought it would be best if I recorded the evidence. I was first on the scene of death, after all."

  Lang dropped them off almost exactly where he'd picked them up, on the airport throughway just outsid
e their terminal. The rain had slowed again, but there were plenty of puddles to dodge.

  He said, "This is as far as I go."

  Sweetheart asked, "How do we contact you?"

  "I'll find you." With that, Lang shifted into gear and pulled out into the stream of traffic.

  Eddie, their driver for hire, was waiting placidly beside a sturdy-looking sedan. He'd already loaded their bags into the boot, except for Sylvia's small roller bag, which he was using as a stool. When he saw them dash across the road toward him, he stood and dusted off his rump.

  "Thought I'd lost you," was all he said in his thick Cockney accent as Sylvia and Sweetheart climbed into the back of the cab and settled in.

  CHAPTER

  10

  The main entrance to the Chemical and Biological Defense Estabishment, Chemical and Biological Defense Sector, Porton Down—one of the world's largest facilities for the R&D of chemical and biological weaponry and warfare—was marked by protestors who carried signs, graphic duotones of animals suffering tortures in the name of science.

  Eddie, their driver, braked to pass through the small crowd, and Sylvia forced herself not to turn away from the images. She thought she noticed Sweetheart's palms press together, as if he was offering a silent prayer.

  "It's been all over the telly," Eddie said, frowning in concentration. "Viva-exceptionists."

  "Antivivisectionists?" Sylvia ventured, aware that preclinical protocols were part of almost every research project.

  "They're acting up about them poor dogs and cats," he explained solemnly, turning onto military grounds.

  Sylvia stared out the window as they approached the sentinel post. A sentry greeted them with the cold steel of an M-16 rifle held to ready. Eddie identified himself as a licensed chauffeur; Sylvia and Sweetheart produced their passports and IDs, signed an entry sheet, destination BioPort; and then they all waited, engine idling softly, while a second sentry made the necessary phone calls.

  A minute passed. Two minutes.

  Outside the vehicle, the gray gloom turned to drizzle.

  The sound of the protestors' voices penetrated: Stop the murder of innocents before it's too late—stop the military-industrial killing machine before it kills us all!

  The guard with the M-16 gave Eddie a small plastic card and cautioned him not to stray from a direct course to BioPort's headquarters. The heavy security arm rose stiffly in wooden salute, allowing entry into the "military-industrial killing machine." Through the rain-misted rear window Sylvia watched the security arm fall again like a slow axe.

  Eddie followed the main road for several miles. The oldest buildings, dating back to 1916, having suffered the degradations of industrial vogue and age, made no claim to architectural merit. Newer buildings, lacking such temporal excuses, seemed to exhibit existential and structural angst in lieu of design cohesion; then the buildings gave way to storage lots and scarred fields. Although the facility was vast, it had the air of a city recently deserted.

  The car slowed to cut sharply into a narrow lane lined with war-era dormitories. Just beyond the dorms, at the dead end, a two-story fortification stood surrounded by twelve-foot barbed chain-link.

  Eddie pulled the car up at an "electronic soldier" and plunged the plastic card into the mouth of the machine. Sylvia thought she heard him mumbling to himself. The wide gate rolled open, Eddie drove through, and the gate closed again.

  A small black-and-silver sign above glass doors announced the headquarters of BioPort International. Although BioPort was a privately held company, it maintained a research facility on the grounds of the military center. A similar arrangement was in operation with companies at LANL and various national laboratories in the United States. Proximity of private to public encouraged technology transfer; it also provided sophisticated technical and scientific support for mixed-funding projects.

  Sensible. Incestuous.

  "Welcome to Project Nicander," Sweetheart said quietly as Eddie parked the car between a motorcycle and a military van.

  "Nicander?"

  "You didn't come across him in your Riker research?" Sweetheart asked—a tiny jab.

  "Afraid not."

  "Valet to Attalus the Third, king of Pergamum, second century B.C." Sweetheart was staring out at the foreboding facade. "Nicander developed an extremely popular and long-standing antidote made of venomous tissue, herbs, and fruits, used to counteract almost any poison." He paused, his fingers wrapped around the door handle. "Unfortunately, his recipe was useless."

  "Who named the project?"

  "Christine Palmer."

  "Then she has an interesting sense of humor."

  Sweetheart and Sylvia stepped out into a day turned damp and cold. Sylvia clutched the collar of her leather jacket and suppressed a shiver, but Sweetheart appeared unaffected by the drop in temperature. They kept to the curb, passing beneath a leafless elm to reach the main door of BioPort. Inside, they found a man in a gray suit waiting for them in an otherwise deserted tile-and-steel lobby. He said, "Professor Edmond Sweetheart? I'm Dr. Curtis Watley. I've been assigned to escort you around the facility." Dr. Watley, a soft, pasty man in his late fifties, spoke to them from behind a large handlebar mustache. His voice was tight and peevish.

  Sweetheart said, "I was expecting Colonel Smythe."

  "The colonel sends his regrets—speaks highly of you, by the way—but he's out of the country. Left at the crack of dawn; I'm sure you saw that unfortunate business in the news about Sierra Leone." He glanced pointedly at his watch. "I must say, I'd almost given up."

  "We were forced to make a detour," Sweetheart answered—not exactly a lie but an oblique reference to their interlude with Paul Lang.

  "Really? I had no idea they were diverting traffic anywhere en route from Gatwick. That must have been inconvenient." He looked as if he were personally affronted by any and all delays. "The colonel asked me to assure you that BioPort will do everything it can to be helpful, including cooperating with the FBI whenever possible. Samantha Grayson's death was a blow to Project Nicander—a horrible accident—but I must say, I thought we'd left that behind us . . ."

  Sweetheart didn't respond to the prompt—and Sylvia could almost hear his mute warning: Watley's an unknown.

  The doctor cleared his throat. "We've arranged for you to meet with former members of the project, those who worked with Ms. Grayson. Naturally, we're limited by the fact that many project members have moved on to other facilities. Dr. Christine Palmer, for instance. She's on your side of the ocean, I believe?"

  "That's right," Sweetheart said. "Dr. Palmer is currently directing a project at Los Alamos National Laboratories in New Mexico."

  "Ah, yes, Mexico." Dr. Wadey turned to lead the way down the longest corridor. "We were sorry to hear about Dr. Thomas," he added, a frown creasing his broad forehead. "I watched one of your news shows and learned your highways are quite deadly."

  "That's right," Sweetheart said. "Doug Thomas worked at BioPort."

  "In close collaboration with Dr. Palmer, yes."

  Cozy, Sylvia thought.

  They followed Watley along the hard-tiled corridor to a stairwell, where their footsteps created an echoing cacophony as they descended one level. The basement was even colder than the rest of the building.

  "Can you tell us about the project?" Sweetheart asked. "Did you work with Dr. Palmer and Ms. Grayson?"

  "Unfortunately not. My work these days is in public information. But I can tell you BioPort researches and develops antidotes to chemical and biological agents that might be used in warfare situations." Watley spoke over considerable noise—an amorphous mix of cries, shrieks, and moans—emanating from somewhere at the end of the hallway.

  Sylvia tipped her head toward the racket. "What's that?"

  He made a rueful face. "Some of the preclinical subjects are still being housed down here until construction on a new facility is completed."

  Preclinical subjects meant lab animals: rabbits, mice and other ro
dents, cats, dogs, primates. Sylvia thought of their driver, Eddie, of his reference to the antivivisectionists, and of the demonstrators outside Porton Down.

  Dr. Watley picked up his pace. Apparently he didn't like the din of caged creatures any more than they did.

  "I have the vaguest sense of Dr. Palmer's project, Samantha Grayson's work." Sylvia matched stride with their guide.

  To her surprise, Watley didn't appear to hedge. He said, "Dr. Palmer's project was based on a cooperative grant from BDH, the British Department of Health. Its mission involved the analysis of zootoxins for medical applications—level three biological specimens. Specifically, for Dr. Palmer that meant some very rare species of dinoflagellates." The visceral shriek of an animal punctuated his words.

  As they turned a corner, Watley paused to say, "Here we are, then." He pushed open steel doors, leading them along a short corridor that ended in front of a glass wall. Here, the corridor opened into a T—both wings marked the glass boundary through which they could see several employees dressed in lab coats but lacking protective clothing or goggles.

  "This is BioPort's primary research area." Removing his horned-rim frames to chew on one earpiece, Watley gestured vaguely. "Of course, most of the work you see going on has only a tangential relationship to the research culled from Project Nicander."

  "But these aren't hot areas," Sylvia said.

  "Heavens no. The researchers you see are working in a BSL-one lab. We have several level-two labs. Our BSL-three areas are restricted." He sensed Sweetheart's protest and added firmly, "I'm afraid there's absolutely no way we can allow access to anyone but staff."

  Sweetheart remained silent, so Sylvia asked, "They're in this building?"

  "Oh, yes. I'll take you into this initial area—if we kept on walking, we'd reach the restricted labs." He moved toward the door.

  "Was Project Nicander brought to successful completion?" Sweetheart asked.

  Watley frowned. "The project reached its planned termination date; I've been told the research is promising, although I'm not privy to the details." He gestured for them to follow him along the glassed-in passageway, through the lab, into yet another hallway. Watley stopped at the door to an office, opening it wide, allowing them entry.