Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  Another nod.

  "At every meeting I want her searched—for hypos, aerosols, implements, anything even remotely out of the ordinary."

  "That's a given."

  "At no time will I be left alone with her. I won't do that, so don't expect me to."

  "Right. But know that the FBI's presence will be kept to a minimum. This isn't an official investigation, Sylvia. It can't be. For the sake of security, all meetings have to be covert. We can't have a battalion of federal agents—"

  "I understand."

  Sweetheart's gaze swept her face. He was assessing, measuring, gauging her emotional and mental reserves, praying she had enough of both. He was also watching her like a hawk for any appearance of symptoms—he couldn't know if she was functional enough to do the job. "You know what she wants from you . . ."

  "What else? She wants the dirty details. She's just dying to know why her poison didn't work. She wants to know why the hell I'm still alive."

  Edmond Sweetheart was standing in the concrete heart of Albuquerque outside the University Hospital. All around him, white buildings reflected sun beneath a sky so blue it hurt his eyes. He thought about a man he'd been pursuing for years. A mole in place for more than a decade; a spy whose handlers were most probably the Chinese. A man who continued to slip through his fingers.

  Sweetheart stared down at the LED letters scrolling across the tiny green face of the Palm unit. This was the answer to his question asked minutes earlier: What information are you picking up, Toshiyori?

  The response came over a scrambled signal from the other side of the country:

  –word out that someone has a product, is looking for a buyer, deep pockets–the usual suspects are interested–the Iraqis look good–a minor disturbance at the Chinese embassy a few days ago–which makes us think it's their mole–possible exchange in Mexico–

  The final news caught Sweetheart off guard: —might be a criss-cross, Rikishi—

  Sweetheart was impressed with the idea that the mole might be out to double-cross his longtime Chinese handlers.

  Paul Lang and Dr. Harris Cray had superseded Dr. Christine Palmer as his leading suspects. It fit neatly: Cray as lab contact replacing Grayson and Thomas—and both Cray and Lang connected via Palmer. She was still the best conduit to his prey.

  One question remained unchanged: What was the cost to Sylvia?

  As Sweetheart began to walk toward the silver Mercedes, a dust devil spun out of nowhere. The miniature tornado caught leaves, dirt, trash in its funnel. It picked up speed, heading directly into his path. He closed his eyes and braced for impact. For an instant he felt as though his feet were leaving the ground.

  Paul Lang drove the barrio streets slowly. His schedule had been pushed back because the feds were busy looking for him everywhere. They'd just missed him at the motel in Española, and again at the motel on the Santa Fe's south side. He'd had to keep moving every night. There would have been no way to get to Palmer even if he'd wanted—first they'd taken her into custody, then she was staying with friends, and all the time the feds were hanging around.

  None of that bothered Lang. His plan was still in place.

  He was going to offer them a trade . . .

  He turned the corner, following the map in his head. The mud houses made him nervous. He found them ugly, primitive. The arid atmosphere guaranteed an almost constant headache and he kept his sunglasses on until the sun disappeared behind the mountains. He reassured himself that his mission was almost completed.

  He counted street numbers, irritated by the lack of ordinal progression. The streets, the houses, the entire town seemed to have been put together without an iota of planning or intelligence. London was bad enough, but this place was hellish.

  Finally, after he'd circled blocks again and again, he saw the faded white numbers painted on a mailbox. He kept on driving until he was halfway down the street. He parked, locked his car (aware of three young men loitering by a dilapidated building), and carried his briefcase with him. Normally he would've left the briefcase in the car. But circumstances weren't normal—the young delinquents made him nervous, and the contents of the briefcase were . . . volatile.

  As he walked up the driveway of the house, he heard the distant, high-pitched cries of children at play. He looked around, searching for the source of the noise, just as he heard a voice in his ear.

  "Orale, 'mano. Let's go inside, take a load off."

  Paul Lang turned slowly around to find himself staring into a face that was chiseled, weathered, and pockmarked. He said, "I'm looking for—"

  But he stopped speaking when he felt the nose of the gun pressed into his belly. The man reached for the briefcase, but Lang jerked it away without considering the possible consequences. "If you don't mind, I'll keep it for now," he finally whispered.

  The man stared at him, then nodded. "Whatever, chinga. Andale."

  Although Lang spoke little Spanish, he knew he'd been given the order to move. He nodded quickly, signaling that he understood and would comply with orders—at least for now. He began to walk with the man toward the house.

  CHAPTER

  27

  redrider: it's happening / too late to back out

  alchemist: do you know what to do?

  redrider: yes

  alchemist: no! new plan / look in the usual drop

  CHAPTER

  28

  Ninety minutes after Sylvia was officially discharged from the Albuquerque hospital, the meeting took place in the safest location she could think of—not the U.S. marshal's office, not in a maximum security cell, not in a bunker. Instead, she chose the middle of Santa Fe's Canyon Road Park, where Frisbee champs, dog lovers, and tai chi practitioners were out in full force.

  Christine Palmer was waiting at a small picnic table in the shade of two cottonwoods in the northwest corner of the park. Special Agent Simmons was seated next to Palmer. S.A. Darrel Hoopai stood nearby. Twenty-five feet away, the sluggish and paltry Santa Fe River bordered the grassy turf and Alameda Street.

  Sylvia noted these details from the security of the Ford as Matt approached the park's entrance on Alameda. He turned in, slowing, then braking to a stop.

  "You don't have to do this," he said quietly.

  She reached across the seat to place her hand over his. She felt the reassuring warmth of his skin; her own fingers were unnaturally cold, her hands almost numb. The constant sense of floating, of detachment, made it difficult to stay present. She hadn't told him about the moments of total darkness—waking moments—when the paralysis seemed to return, leaving her body frozen and helpless.

  She said nothing now.

  They shared the silence of the car's interior for a moment before she opened the door and stepped out into soft, clear air. They'd already agreed he would wait for her, but he said it again, to remind her of his vigilance. Just before she shut the door, he said, "I won't take my eyes off you."

  The desert sky was cloud-washed; the sun broke through, disappeared, reappeared. A constant dance of light and shadow.

  Sylvia left the parking lot and began to cross the open grass. From this distance, Palmer and the feds were anonymous figures; while they didn't look particularly casual, they weren't definable, not yet. It was possible to imagine they were a group of business associates—acquaintances, not friends—waiting for the food to arrive, the picnic to begin.

  A yellow Frisbee spun past her ear; she could hear the wiry buzz of object moving through atmosphere. Someone called out to their child or their dog: "Rudy!"

  The fall air was probably scented with the bite of piñon wood smoke—she couldn't tell because she hadn't recovered her senses of taste and smell.

  When she was a hundred feet from Palmer and the agents, she stumbled, then caught herself. Continuing on. Narrowing her focus. Too late now—there was no way to pretend these were normal people on a normal Saturday afternoon. Life and death. Biotoxins. Spies. Serial poisoning.

  It was all too dam
n bizarre.

  Sylvia sat at one end of the table, keeping her distance from everyone, not just Palmer. Special Agent Simmons offered a barrier between the two women. Hoopai stood roughly ten feet from the table, marking a perimeter.

  "The body search has been completed," Simmons said.

  Sylvia nodded.

  "Are you comfortable with this arrangement?"

  "No—but it will do."

  Palmer looked thinner, edgier than when they'd met at the Tesuque Market. How long ago—not even two weeks? It seemed like a lifetime, almost had been a lifetime. She was thankful to be alive. Which brought her back to the point: the meeting between victim and perpetrator. An exchange of data. Details on what it was like to die—almost fucking die—in trade for information on a spy, a traitor.

  Sylvia caught sight of herself in Palmer's round, white-rimmed sunglasses. She saw an angular face, dark hair pulled back into a braid, high cheekbones too denned, the face of a woman who had been recently ill, the face of someone who had not yet recovered.

  The image vanished abruptly when Christine Palmer reached up one slender hand, wrist linked with delicate gold filligree, and removed her sunglasses. She set them down on the picnic table. Her eyes glittered. Her gaze was speculative, intensely focused.

  "Dr. Strange, thank you for coming," Palmer said. "I hope this meeting isn't too much for you. I know you're just out of the hospital. But there is a temporal issue—for the FBI as well as for you."

  A round, dusty leaf fell from its branch, spiraling down to settle on the middle of the table, where it was quickly blown into the air again by a sharp gust of wind.

  The dance of the leaf on the air, the minute lesson in physics, gave Sylvia what she needed—a moment to gather herself, to move away from a position that was largely defensive.

  She nodded coolly at Palmer. Her hands, which had been tightly clasped together, relaxed. "You're right, there is a temporal issue."

  "I imagine you feel rather fortunate," Palmer said. "From what I've heard, you suffered through an ordeal."

  "An ordeal cau—caused—by the poison you put in my body."

  "I'm guessing you were exposed to a neurotoxin." Palmer shrugged, apparently puzzled. "Without more information, I can't—"

  "Which neurotoxin?"

  "I really can't say."

  "You can if we agree that it came from your lab."

  "If that were the case, we would still have to narrow it down." Palmer paused. "Off the top of my head, I can think of at least a dozen possible toxins."

  "Take a wild guess," Sylvia said. A rigidity of voice, a stiffening of muscle telegraphed a shift in intensity. Both agents changed stance. Special Agent Simmons was prepared to intervene.

  "Even for a wild guess, I'll need more information," Palmer said. A faint smile lifted the corners of her lips. "I'm a scientist, not a psychic."

  She turned toward the river, and Sylvia followed her lead to see Edmond Sweetheart crossing the sluggish flow, creating a path over the largest stones.

  He moved easily, keeping his loafers dry, dressed in dark slacks and a sweater the color of lemons.

  Palmer watched his approach, her gaze keen, her attitude expectant.

  Sweetheart focused on Sylvia, taking the seat next to her when he reached the table. Without thinking, she took his hand. She was grateful for his presence. The world shifted, righted itself again. She felt his fingers tighten around hers, and then he let go. For the first time since his arrival, he looked directly at Christine Palmer.

  Her eyes met his. "Hello, Edmond." She turned her cold gaze on Sylvia, but she was still addressing Sweetheart. "It's been a long time, my friend."

  No one said a word. Sounds echoed across the park—dogs barking, a child calling. The world disappeared in shadow, then slowly returned to light. Sylvia stood and stepped away from the table. She wasn't going anywhere but away—from danger, from lies, from betrayal. She moved toward the river. She'd covered fifteen feet when she sensed Sweetheart at her back.

  He said her name and she stopped.

  "Why?"

  "Please understand—"

  "I do understand. You can't exist without lies. You're incapable of the truth. Where did you meet her?"

  "Japan." Sweetheart shook his head, a gesture meant to dismiss either the encounter or his omission. "Three years ago, the Masuma Hayashi case."

  "She must have made quite an impression."

  "We were in the same place at the same time for a total of seventy-two hours."

  She stared at him, silent, unblinking.

  "It was a circus," he said. "Everyone was there, swarming over this little Japanese suburb. End of story."

  "End of story? You betrayed me, Sweetheart. You left me out in the cold. You made me vulnerable to her poison."

  "You're just in time for the ground rules," Christine Palmer said when they were seated again. "It's very simple. The success of this endeavor depends upon a smooth and mutual flow of information." She slid her gaze from Sweetheart to Sylvia. "Is that understood?"

  "Yes."

  "Good." Palmer took a breath. "You're missing crucial data from a hard drive, and physical product as well. Then there's the matter of the MI-6 analyst and my colleague Dr. Harris Cray. I believe I can help you recover what you seek."

  She slid white-rimmed sunglasses over her blue-smoke eyes. The delicate bracelets glistened on her wrist. "If your intelligence sources tell you the product has not yet changed hands, I believe they're correct."

  "How do you know?" Sweetheart asked sharply.

  "At the moment I can't give you any more information."

  "How can you expect us to take you seriously if you won't volunteer some indication of your sources?" Sweetheart's body contracted slightly when Palmer stood, apparently signaling the end of the meeting. "You talked about the flow of information, Christine."

  "The mutual flow," Palmer snapped.

  "You're not leaving," Sylvia said, rising to her feet just as the federal agents stepped forward. "Tell me why I'm still sick." She followed Palmer, her voice low and harsh. "How was I poisoned?"

  Palmer held out both hands, palms raised protectively. For thirty seconds the women stood no more than six feet apart. No one else moved until Christine lowered her hands and said, "It's possible the acute symptoms you experienced were not synchronized with the preliminary dosage."

  "What the hell does that mean?"

  "The onset of acute symptoms may have been stimulated by the last dose, not the first dose." Palmer spoke carefully, as if addressing a difficult child. "There's a very good chance you were exposed to the neurotoxin over a period of time—hours, days—in contrast to one episode of acute exposure."

  Sylvia stood mute, trying to understand what Palmer had just told her. She barely heard the woman's next words.

  "I'm sorry, Dr. Strange," Palmer said. "I'm sure it can't be easy for you." She began walking backward away from the group, and Special Agent Simmons followed in her wake.

  "Christine." Sweetheart called to her, warning. "Give us something to work with."

  Palmer slowed. "There's an issue to settle before this meeting can resume. I requested copies of your medical transcripts from the hospital, Dr. Strange. The request was refused. I informed them that you would be calling to have copies delivered to me by five o'clock this afternoon. That gives you roughly forty-five minutes to meet my request."

  Sylvia stared at Palmer. This whole thing was a violation.

  "I understand your dilemma," Palmer said, turning to walk away. "But I think you'll reconsider when I remind you that time is an issue where your long-term prognosis is concerned. I need to review your records immediately, Dr. Strange."

  Sylvia took a deep breath. You are a piece of work.

  But she said, "Yes."

  At 4:30 P.M., on a narrow street fronting the river on Santa Fe's west side, a child strayed into the yard of a large ramshackle adobe. It was the child's fifth birthday, and his classmates at the da
y care center had celebrated with cupcakes and songs and games. One of his presents was the kickball that he now pursued down the slope to the front door of the adobe.

  The door stood open, moving slightly in the breeze, and with each back and forth, the faint squeak of hinges sounded like the mewing of kittens or the chirping of birds. The boy picked up his ball, clutching it in both hands, and then he stepped closer to see inside. The man on the floor was sleeping. But when the boy stood on tiptoe, craning his neck, he smelled the stench of sickness and he saw a dark stain on the ground.

  The boy backed slowly away. He had been warned to stay away from this house. He might be scolded or even spanked if he confessed his sin. It was best if he kept the secret to himself. The sick man was probably drunk—the boy had seen drunk men in the parks and even on his own street. His mother had told him to leave the drunk men alone, not to talk to them, never to go near them.

  The boy made up his mind. As he climbed the embankment to return to the yard of the day care center, he decided would tell no one what he'd found.

  At twenty minutes past five, Sylvia and Sweetheart were seated once again at the park table when Christine Palmer returned with Special Agent Simmons.

  Impending darkness and rain (a slow, lazy drizzle that spit minimal moisture down to earth) had driven all but the most determined visitors from the park.

  Two dogs ran loose. A man sat by himself at the crest of a small rise, lotus position, probably in meditation. A glistening raven danced from the lid of one trash can to the next, obviously enjoying itself.

  Sylvia had her backup: Sweetheart and S.A. Hoopai—and Matt, who'd spent the break with her.

  Palmer held up a thin file. "Your records arrived by fax twenty minutes ago. You're been having fever spikes, memory lapses, blackouts."

  Sylvia said nothing as Palmer produced a small pill bottle from the pocket of her orange sweater. She set the bottle on the table. "These should help—but there's a window of effectiveness."

  Sylvia stared at the bottle, at the shadowy pills inside.

  "A distillation of herbs," Palmer said. "Not an antidote but a detoxing remedy used by the indigenous people of Indonesia in response to ciguatera poisoning—another neurotoxin. They're potent. I spent two months analyzing the chemical content." She paused. "You can have a lab run an analysis, but I'd suggest you not wait more than twenty-four hours."