“It’s time for Lars to bend over and bite the pillow, as we’re going to try and penetrate his back door! So, come on, let’s do this, Pussy Galore.”
“Excuse me?”
“I said let’s do this, Pussy Galore.”
“Exactly, but why.”
Clearly Hot Sauce hadn’t seen or read Goldfinger.
“You do realize you called me James Bond a second ago.”
“Yeah.”
“Well, Pussy Galore was the female heroine in Goldfinger.”
“Oh—that Pussy Galore.”
“Yeah, as if there were another!”
Sweet lord! Hot Sauce might have her PhD in Archaeology, but she needed to brush up on her popular culture. We moved around the perimeter fence and reached the left rear corner and saw that the motorized camera I’d seen before was now on an automatic scan mode. It covered nearly a hundred degrees by sweeping left and right in a regular cycle. That was good news, because it meant that it probably didn’t have a remote operator controlling it at the moment, and, if it did, he was obviously monitoring multiple cameras and hopefully wouldn’t be all that focused on this particular one. I watched it and timed its arc and realized we had about a six-second interval in which to move from one hiding place to the next. That was more than enough time, but the first stage required climbing the chain link fence. I knew I could do it, but I wasn’t sure about Hot Sauce’s climbing skills.
“Do you think you can get over the fence in under six-seconds?” I asked.
“Oh, please,” she said, sounding annoyed as she immediately ran over, scaled the fence, and dropped down on the other side, where she took cover beside the menagerie of water pipes.
Apparently, Hot Sauce had forgotten to include ninjutsu on her list of skills.
“Now, the bigger question is can you?” she asked, in a rather condescending tone.
I waited for the camera to complete the next cycle then climbed over the fence and joined Hot Sauce, and, from there, we slithered along the ground and stayed out of view until reaching the building. I inspected the area where the pipes went though the outer wall and found a small access hatch with a standard padlock. I pulled out my lock pick tools and set to work and opened it in five-seconds flat. There were, of course, better locks on the market, but people often overlooked simple areas of security such as plumbing access hatches.
We slipped inside and quickly found that we were in the pump room that Nate had mentioned on the tour, though it looked more like a processing plant than a testing station for water quality. Sure, it had pipes coming in and going out, but those pipes passed through a series of valves that came together beneath several large stainless steel tanks that were in the center of the room. Above them were smaller tanks and a number of small pipes that connected the entire thing into one large honeycomb-like structure. Directly across was a bank of three computers, and beyond them was a sink and counter with test tubes and various lab equipment as well as a refrigerator. Apparently, Von Träger took his water purity very seriously.
“So, what do you make of this room, Hot Sauce?” I asked.
“It seems to have way too much equipment for a water testing station, and, looking at those tanks on each side, I would guess they’re using this room to put something into the water.”
“Yeah, that’s exactly what I was thinking.”
We walked over to the bank of computers, and I tapped the keyboard and the monitors came out of sleep mode to reveal what I assumed was the software that controlled all the various valves and devices in the room. In the center monitor, there was a graphic interactive map of Chalupa with red dots marking various locations such as the houses of the village, the Chalupa Waterfall, the stream near the camp, and four other outlying locations. On the side monitors, there were a series of graphical interfaces with columns of little windows, and each one had a percentage value and a visual scroll wheel just below.
“I’d sure love to know what they’re putting into the water,” I said.
“Believe me, it has to be harmless. Lars wouldn’t poison his own people.”
“Maybe he’s such a humanitarian that he’s just a giving them all a multi vitamin.”
We moved on and made our way to the door that led to the greenhouse to find that it had a basic lock mechanism that could be manually engaged from this side but require a key when traveling in the opposite direction. Opening it, therefore, took nothing more than a twist of the wrist, and it made this a very easy primary entry and exit point.
“After you, m’lady,” I said, holding the door open.
I made sure to leave the door unlocked and entered the greenhouse to find it particularly erie at night, for it was only lit by a small fluorescent light at each end, and what had been bright, green, and cheerful by day was now dark, mysterious, and inhabited by ominous shadows. Looking up through the glass ceiling, however, I could see the beautiful night sky, and, thanks to Ernesto the Cockblocking Kissing Bandito and his extensive knowledge of astronomy, I now recognized the Omega Centauri cluster. It was kind of interesting how gazing at something as infinitely vast as the universe kind of made you realize how small humanity and our problems seemed in comparison—but they were problems nonetheless. At the other end of the room, there was a camera above the door, so we headed off the main path, ducked down, and used the foliage to stay out of view. Upon reaching the door, I pushed on the handle and found it was unlocked. Voilà! On to the meat and potatoes of the savory stew that was our covert operation.
CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT
One in the Lab
THE MAIN HALLWAY was quiet as could be, and the only illumination was an eerie blue light being supplied by fixtures that resided in alcoves on the two main side walls. I stepped inside and paused in order to look for security cameras or sensors. It was lacking both, so it would appear they believed that the exterior measures were good enough to keep anyone from getting this far—or, whoever designed the setup, didn’t want their internal activities monitored.
On our original tour, we had already seen Nate’s office, but this time I hoped to get a look at his computer files and any actual documents he had lying around. We set off down the center aisle and found his office unlocked, and, using the ambient light coming through the glass wall, we made our way to his file cabinet. Like his office door, it was also unlocked, and I began searching for the secret Project H that he had told us about. The H supposedly stood for Huitaca, and so I started at H in the files and found nothing except a list of his favorite hamburger places. It was a common phenomena for Americans traveling or living abroad to crave hamburgers, so I understood how such a seemingly odd list could make it into his files. Wainright probably had a similar one, but his was likely under F for fish and chips.
I then tried P on the idea that it might have been listed alphabetically, as in Project H, but again came up empty, so it was time to try the computer, which might prove to be a shitload trickier due to password protection. It was too bad that I didn’t have Beeber physically with me, as he could have broken through any security software in about as much time as it took for him to ejaculate to a picture of Fabiana. That meant actual seconds—perhaps ten at the most depending on his hand speed. I brought the computer out of sleep mode, and, oddly, there wasn’t a login window. What the hell kind of lab were they running here? This was one of the most basic ways of protecting information, yet Nate had left it wide open. Perhaps the remote location of the lab led to a distinct lack of vigilance. It wouldn’t be the first time in human history that our own lazy natures were our undoing, and one roaring example was committed by a lazy contractor in the Mexican city of Guadalajara. All he had to do was put in some new water lines, yet somehow he managed to connect his piping with the natural gas lines. Fast forward to 1992, and the city was leveled to the ground by series of explosions set off by a single spark. In our current digital age, passwords had become the spark to create different kinds of disasters, but they were disasters nonetheless.
/> I clicked on the search window and typed in Project H, and it brought up the file I wanted as well as the navigational route that led to its particular folder. I double clicked, and a new window opened that required a password, so I suppose luck could only take me so far. I typed in the only word that came to mind which was Huitaca. I used all lower case and got a stern sounding beep and an error message. I capitalized the H and tried again and received the same result, only this time it said I only had two more tries before the system would be inaccessible for one hour. Shit, I had to get into Nate’s brain and imagine what that fucker would use for a password. Alessandra, meanwhile, was hovering over my shoulder, and I could feel her breath tickling my ear.
“Any ideas, Hot Sauce?” I asked.
“How about Sexstasy?”
“Not bad.”
I typed it in all lowercase and again got the beep and error message.
“Fuck. OK, now we really need to put ourselves in the typical male mind.”
“Oh, so your mind?”
“No, Nate’s mind, obviously, as he’s more typical than I am.”
“Meaning?”
“Meaning he’s only obsessed with boobs, cars, and farts.”
“So, in essence—your mind.”
“For the record, my mind if filled with thoughts about how to save the environment, achieve world peace, and make vegetables that are even more organic.”
“Which is just your way of saying tits, ass, and farts.”
“Pretty much, now if you’re done being a shitbag, I’d like to figure out what Nate’s password might be.”
I turned back to the screen, and Hot Sauce leaned closer and looked over my shoulder, and it inadvertently made her breasts brush against me. It was a bit distracting, but, more importantly, it was enlightening and made me remember that Nate had said every day Alessandra visited was a good time, and I could see that working out here this far from civilization would make her a pretty nice sight for sore eyes. I smiled and turned my attention back to the keyboard as I typed in a new password, only this time it beeped in a friendly tone, and up came the Project H file.
“What did you type in?” Alessandra asked.
“Your nickname, of course—Professor Hot Sauce, but one word, all lowercase. I guess Nate wasn’t lying when he said every time you visited was a good time.”
“Men,” she grumbled.
Alessandra and I gazed at the file and quickly realized it was just a summary describing the chemical compound, and it listed the molecular makeup and all the chem-nerd stuff before getting to something a little more interesting—namely the results and side effects. Clinical trials on mice had shown outcomes similar to benzodiazepines, specifically Rohypnol, in terms of memory loss at high doses. Unlike the benzos, however, Huitaca at moderate dosages increased libido and decreased inhibition. It was a party in a pill, and, while this was all interesting, it wasn’t particularly incriminating or unusual. I was hoping for some kind of reference to off-the-books clinical trials, but such wouldn’t be our luck.
“Maybe there’s something more interesting in Wainright’s office, as it is his baby, after all.”
“Originally it was Ernesto’s baby, so I can’t help but wonder if he’s involved in any of this,” Alessandra said.
“I’d like to think so, but he wasn’t at the meeting in the garage, so it seems doubtful. Besides, as the director of Von Träger Pharmaceuticals, he’d have the most to lose if they got busted.”
“And what about Lars? Don’t you think he has a lot to lose?” she asked.
“Billionaires always get away with this shit by blaming an underling.”
“Regardless of what you think, I know Lars is innocent.”
“We’ll see.”
We’d found about all we were going to find, so it was time to go to Wainright’s office. I put Nate’s computer back into sleep mode, and we slipped out into the hallway and made our way down to Wainright’s door, which, unlike Nate’s, was locked. Luckily it wasn’t one of the usual magnetic ID card mechanisms, so I was able to utilize my lock picking skills, and fourteen-seconds later we were inside and making our way to the computers. This lab was basically identical to Nate’s, but it had two computer work stations, so I was guessing the other might belong to Ernesto.
“So, which one is Wainright’s?” she asked, obviously having come to the same conclusion.
“That one,” I said, pointing at the one on the left.
“Why do you say that? They’re identical.”
“Coffee stain on the floor and wear pattern on the desk and keyboard. Ernesto’s here fairly often but not as often as Wainright, and the one on the left belongs to a guy who’s here almost every day of the week.”
“I’m impressed. You really are a decent investigator.”
“Yeah, but, unfortunately, that still doesn’t get me as far in the dating world as being a billionaire.”
“True.”
“Ouch.”
“I’m obviously kidding.”
“Says the girl dating the billionaire.”
“To the guy dating the supermodel.”
“Good point.”
We walked over, and I hit the space bar to wake the computer out of sleep mode. Like Nate’s, it didn’t have a security login for basic access, but I was guessing the specific files would be password protected. I did a search, found the Project H folder, then double clicked the icon, and up came the same security window, so now we had a major dilemma. What on God’s green earth was Wainright’s password? Nate was easy, as he was a red blooded American male, but Wainright was a stuffy, overeducated Brit with a penchant for social awkwardness.
“You know him better than me. Any thoughts? ” I asked.
“No fucking idea.”
“Oh well, I guess we’ll just have to wing it.”
I typed in Huitaca, all lowercase, then hit enter. I got the nasty beep and the error message, so I then typed in Sexstasy, all lowercase and hit enter. Up came another angry beep and an error message saying I only had two more attempts before the system would shut down for an hour.
“Does he have a wife or dog?” I asked.
“Not that I’m aware of.”
I decided to try the most obvious idea that came to mind and typed in Project H, all lowercase. It took a second, and I was hopeful, but then it made an angry beep and told me I had one last try. Lovely. We’d come a long way, and I really didn’t want to leave here empty handed.
“Fuck,” I said, aloud, as I took a moment to think.
Then, an idea hit me, and I smiled to myself as I decided on one last Hail Mary play and typed in my final attempt and watched in rapt attention as the machine processed my request. It beeped in a friendly tone, and suddenly we were looking at the full report of Project H.
“What the hell did you type in?” Alessandra asked, sounding surprised.
“Your nickname, of course—one word, and all lowercase.”
“What are the odds that both of them would pick the same password?”
“Have you looked in a mirror lately?”
“Very funny, and I’m serious when I say that Wainright has all but ignored me every time I’ve been here.”
“Just because he didn’t talk to you, didn’t mean he wasn’t thinking about you at other times. Perhaps times when he’s alone and handling his twig and berries.”
“Ew.”
I turned my attention to the file and saw the same summary we had found on Nate’s computer, only this one was more detailed and included the drug’s complete development—namely plant derivative, chemical structure, intended benefits, and all the other crap. I scrolled down to the plant derivative and saw a picture accompanying the text that showed a golden colored flower resembling a poppy, and, not too coincidentally, it was named Chalupinious Cupidious.
“Does this flower look familiar to you?’ I asked.
“Of course. It’s a Chalupa flower. They grow all around this area.”
“
Do you know much about them?”
“I know that the Chalupans have been making a kind of tea out of them for at least a thousand years.”
“Was that tea used for any kind of specific event? A love ritual perhaps?”
“It’s been postulated but never proven, though Dean Delaney submitted a paper on it several years ago.”
“Well, I think we have all the proof we need right here.”
I scrolled down and continued reading the next section, which detailed the area where the flowers grew, and, surprisingly, it wasn’t a very large swath of land. Lars had said that there wasn’t anything growing in this area that didn’t grow throughout the rest of Costa Rica, but I think he forgot to mention this particular flower—perhaps on purpose.
“Where can I find a map of the proposed Chalupa land deal?” I asked Alessandra.
“Pull up an internet browser, and I can access it on the Board of Antiquities site.”
I did as she instructed, then I sat back while Alessandra entered her personal login information then brought up the Chalupa folder and double clicked the map file. It opened up and showed a map of the Chalupa area with a red line marking the proposed land to be transferred. I compared it to the Chalupa Flower habitat area and, not surprisingly, discovered they were virtually identical, though the former exceeded the latter by about a quarter mile buffer in each direction.
“I suppose we officially now have a reason why the Chalupa land is valuable,” I said.
“True, but it still doesn’t explain why the UCLA team was kidnapped.”
She was correct, but I knew the two were somehow connected, and, as we took a moment to ponder our latest discovery, she smiled at having reached an obviously favorable conclusion.
“Well, are you going to share?” I asked.
The Chalupa Conundrum Page 38