by David Dun
Benoit Moreau had moved into a sublet apartment in Manhattan's garment district—an area where there were few apartments. The usual occupant was on a trip to Europe. Benoit was calling herself Jacqueline Dupont because worldwide there were thousands by that name. From the apartment she used the phones to set up the escrow arrangements in Switzerland, kept track of Baptiste, placated the admiral. Constantly she had to keep in mind what Baptiste knew and what the admiral didn't know, and vice versa. Good news that this would be her best and last exercise in duplicity.
She called Gaudet, who was getting impatient.
"When will I see you?"
"Soon, when I've arranged everything. At the moment I'm having trouble with Raval and trying to make a deal with Bowden for the 1998 journal."
"How do you know it is 1998?"
"All that matters is that I convince the French government that it is 1998 and tell them the page."
"Why does Bowden sell this to you?"
"He doesn't own the rights to the Chaperone process. This is his best chance to make money and be done with it."
"I am hungry for you. It has been a long time. I hear that prison has not aged you."
"Be patient. We have bigger things to do now."
"When you can come, I will need advance notice. There are many precautions."
"I understand."
Next she wrote an e-mail to Sam. Finally she dressed to meet Georges Raval for the first time in more than a year.
Chapter 17
The cougar stalks while the fawn eats.
—Tilok proverb
The law firm was a short cab ride from Greenwich Village, where Sam was staying. Instead of having the driver stop in front of the building, Sam had him drive past the front entry and drop him off a block down the street. In this area the buildings were truly huge and walking in the concrete canyons seemed like something out of a Tolkien fantasy. It was cold and he wore a dense sweater with a heavy wool topcoat—all purchased by Anna. It was hard to stop thinking about her and he made no particular effort
The weather, like his mood, was troubled, and above the city the sky loomed pitch dark. Ground Zero was still a cavernous, empty space in the skyline. All the buildings were lit and the neon was everywhere, making twilight across the pavement and deep shadows along its borders. As Sam walked down the crowded sidewalks, he kept to the shadows and scanned the street.
Automobiles filled Broadway, taxis crept and honked while motorcycles weaved in and out, playing tag with death or dismemberment.
Sam eyed the entrance to the law firm's building and noted that people were leaving in ones and twos, not in a steady stream. All walked briskly, no doubt anxious to get home.
There did not seem to be anyone hanging around near the doorways to the main lobby. Sam approached the building's covered portico through a break in the foot traffic. He carried a sizable briefcase with the tools of his trade. Four revolving doors were set to allow exit while, given the hour, only one was set to allow entry. As he stepped close to the entryway door, it began to move as if it had a mind, and he stepped in between the glass sections and was whisked into the building. Once inside, he went to the security man, glanced at the board, and saw that main reception for the firm of Binkley, Hart, & Rove was on the tenth floor.
"I'm Michael Bowden. I'm meeting Mr. John Stephan at Binkley, Hart, and Rove." He handed the man a fictitious Michael Bowden passport, which matched his artificially bearded face. He looked nothing like himself after an hour with makeup and the beard.
"Go on up to the second floor."
Sam looked down at the listings under the law firm, let his eye travel to S, and found no Stephan, only a Stevens, a Smith, and a Stewart. Bowden had recalled that the managing partner on the project was Stewart. The law firm occupied floors 10 through 13, not the second floor. No office number was listed for Stewart.
"I don't see a Mr. Stephan listed."
"I was told you would be meeting Mr. Stephan and that you would meet him on the second floor in the lobby of the restaurant."
"I see. Okay. Well, thanks."
Sam emptied his pockets, went through a metal detector, then walked around the corner to elevator banks for the lower floors 1 through 20, and immediately found the stairs and noted with satisfaction that they could be entered without passing through the guard's field of view, but for a scanning camera. It was an easy matter to feign waiting for an elevator and to then remain outside the camera's changing field of view all the way to the stairs. If the security had been good, there would have been multiple cameras or a hidden camera, and evasion would not have been so simple. Or perhaps it wasn't so simple and he was being watched but not apprehended. It made for an interesting life.
Sam took care not to make loud, echoing footfalls on the stairs. At the top he came to a steel door. As he approached it, he was able to see through a small window. Normally, this sort of door would be kept locked, but when he twisted the handle, it released. He opened it a crack.
There was grayish-white canvas draped around, with white wall texture material on it, and there were three men in the doorway of a darkened restaurant that was obviously being remodeled. It was a place with its guts ripped out, a skeleton of a room, and it did not provide a reassuring feeling. He listened.
"You got any more of that gum? The kind that squirts the green stuff in your mouth?" The speaker was very big, six feet four inches, probably 250 pounds, bull-necked, a round, meaty face with old zit scars, and a marine-style haircut. He spoke to a thin, smaller guy, probably just over thirty, with a jogger's body but no apparent muscle above the waist. The little guy was a sharp but conservative dresser wearing something like a Hickey Freeman suit, three-button coat with quality material, and wing tip shoes, nearly new. He sported a $40 haircut that came down slightly over the ears, had soft, white hands with well-kept fingernails, a crisp white shirt, and a red-checked power tie. He was bored, obviously hanging around with a couple of guys he deemed inferior, and he was without a doubt a lawyer—unless they had asked some stockbroker to stand around outside a gutted restaurant.
The third man was black with a mustache, the kind of guy who watches everything. He was in a sport coat, tie, and good slacks. No telling his role.
The lawyer fellow reached in his pockets and pulled out loose change, a cell phone, old receipts, an airline stub, and a wadded-up tissue.
"I think I'm out of gum. But he should be here anytime."
"Yeah. I don't know why they wanted us to go through this baloney. We could tell if he was alone down in the lobby."
"Just conservative is all. They don't want to be embarrassed upstairs."
"Yeah, well, if I was this guy Bowden, I'd get the spooks just stepping off the elevator and seeing this."
"This guy has lived in the jungle with savages, for God's sake. He tracks down remote tribes. I think he'll know we're friendly."
"Then why am I here?"
"We've gone over it, Max. You're a prop. Just a prop. Your only job is to chew your gum."
"If after talking, he doesn't want to go upstairs, he leaves?"
"Of course he leaves. Jeez, remember who you are working for. Besides, have you ever actually been in a fight after you got out of the service?"
"The rowdy client at the Christmas party. What do we do if he's like that guy, and after he listens to you, he wants to strangle your scrawny lawyer neck."
"That's not a question. And you wouldn't say that if you weren't the senior partner's pet."
Sam let the door slide quietly closed, then proceeded to climb the stairs to the tenth floor. It took between half a minute and a minute per floor, which left little time to think. For a few seconds he thought of Anna and his loneliness and his guilt and of not being with her, and the pain he would feel if he was. Then he thought about killing Gaudet, about wrapping his hands around his throat, and knew that he needed to be careful. And then he was at the tenth floor. Through the door's glass window he saw only hallway. It seemed
the staff was long gone. There were still lawyers, he was sure, and there would be evening-shift word-processing computer operators. Grasping the steel handle, he slowly turned it but found it wouldn't open. That was a big letdown. He waited a moment, and someone passed by. On impulse Sam knocked. The man turned as if startled and opened the door.
"Yes?"
"I'm here to see Arthur Stewart." And then he dipped his head just a bit as if embarrassed. "I'm afraid I get claustrophobic in elevators, so I never use them."
"Ah. I see. We don't get many that climb the stairs to the tenth. Check in at reception there," he said, and then turned the corner toward the elevators and was gone.
Sam looked down the hall to the one receptionist remaining behind a chest-high granite counter. Only the top of her head, with its vivid light red hair, was visible, and fortunately she was oblivious to his presence and the discussion. Looking around, Sam immediately saw another wide hall with cubicles and offices down it. He glided down this new hall and began looking at the names beside the doors. Hinkle, Cassaway, Manchester, Warne, Thomas, Meyer, Cooper, etc., etc. But no Stewart. The furnishings in the offices were tasteful and expensive—this was a prosperous firm.
Sam decided to try the eleventh floor but didn't want to be locked in the stairwell. He wondered if there might be an inside stairway, and no sooner had he thought about it, than one appeared as he completed a tour around the outside hall of the building. It struck him as odd that the man hadn't commented that Stewart was upstairs.
He made himself climb the stairs briskly, as if he knew what he was doing. If he encountered someone, he wanted as few questions as possible. Every office seemed to have files or papers strewn on the desk, much like his own. This was hopeful. After touring the entire eleventh floor and failing to locate any Arthur Stewart, Sam went to the firm's next and second-highest floor. At the twelfth floor he discovered a library in the middle of the floor with hallways, offices, and cubicles around the outside. Just before the library there was a hall. Down it was reception and beyond that a large, glass-walled conference room in which there were four men. He moved quickly, figuring that it was the meeting arranged for Bowden. This was a group of optimists, given that Bowden had made no promise that he would show. Still, no Stewart. Finally, in the far corner of the thirteenth floor, he found the office. It was in a corner space, featuring windows on two walls. On a tripod sat a brass telescope, which was quite handsome and, no doubt, functional. There was a globe on a stand in one corner, a leather sofa, a coffee table, and, at the end opposite, a hand-carved wooden desk. Obviously, Arthur Stewart was very senior.
There was a photo of a middle-aged man and a young woman, cheek to cheek, and several other photos displaying similar togetherness. One photo, partially hidden behind a Rotary award, depicted Stewart and some thirtyish adults— no doubt the kids from the first marriage—just a little older than the new wife. He figured it was his imagination, but the young adult quartet seemed to be glaring at the cheek-to-cheek number. Sam found these happy, little families inspirational—just like Monday-night football with the boys, poker night, and other good reasons for serious caution in the marriage department.
He searched the desktop, which had a number of files stacked in the corner. One was labeled estate of mildred mcbeth, another troy vs humbitt manufacturing and still another southways corporation. Upon casual inspection they all involved patent rights. Looking at the bookshelves, he saw they were full with treatises on patents, many pharmaceutically related. So, this man was a patent lawyer and he did work with the patenting of molecules. It lent credence to the message Bowden had received.
Another file holder made of beautiful wood contained several more files: trustee: grace technologies. In this file Sam found some notes:
Contacted by Jean-Baptiste French government. Amazonia Molecule. Uses of the molecule strictly confidential. Molecular structure to follow. Discovered by Michael J. Bowden and under development by Northern Lights. Proprietary processes claimed by French Government trustee for Grace Technologies. Need to verify exclusive rights. Need to purchase any interest possible. Need location and habitat of the plant material. Memo FPC file.
Sam supposed that FPC meant fireproof cabinet. It would be locked probably in a secure room, so the odds of getting in were not great. Still, he decided to look. Exiting the office, he walked down the hall and glanced down a narrow interior hall, where he saw a young man and a young woman, maybe in their twenties, drinking coffee. No doubt, the junior associates burning the midnight oil. He decided to take a chance.
There was a reference to a secure file in the FPC and the date of initial contact was recent—right after they had left the Amazon. He couldn't imagine what he might find in the fireproof cabinet. He had been willing to wander around in this law firm, ostensibly lost, looking for the office of a Mr. Stewart, but breaking into a locked file cabinet was up a notch and he was still pondering the morality of that against his need to know. Borrowing the firm's copier for a couple of minutes, Sam duplicated the office file and walked into the kitchen with an air of nonchalance. The two young people barely glanced up, although the woman glanced a little longer.
He walked over to the coffeemaker, poured some black, and nodded at the woman. With a little effort he managed to catch her eye.
"I don't believe we've met," she said. "Are you a partner?"
"No. I'm from another firm. Working with Mr. Stewart."
"I thought he went home."
"He did. He's coming back and asked me to meet him at the fireproof cabinet. This case."
Sam laid the file down.
"Yeah, well, I'm not his associate and know nothing. I'm in litigation. But the file room is all the way down this hall, then to the right. It's on the short outside wall with no windows. If that's where he is, that's where you'll find him."
The logic was amusingly tautological, but he decided not to tease her. As he walked away, he heard the young man." 'If that's where he is, that's where you'll find him'? Come on."
Sam went down the hall, turned right, and passed an office with a thirtysomething woman bent over a desk. Then he kept on to the end of the hall and found a locked door. This was the difficult part. He walked into an open attorney's office and found a phone directory. This office belonged to Norman Chapman. He was a bit of a pack rat, even had piles of papers on the floor. Using the directory, Sam determined that there were more than one hundred lawyers in the firm. He rifled through the drawers. In the top drawer he found a bunch of papers and a memo concerning one Scott Davis, dated the previous month. It was a bio, a memo with a business plan, a bunch of interviews and partner ratings. Obviously, the man had been a partner at another firm and was a candidate to come to Binkley, Hart, & Rove. On a hunch he looked in the back of the phone book to the supplement and found that Scott Davis was added as of October. Davis was brand new. He dialed the extension for Davis and got a recording.
"My first day in the office will be November fourth, but until then, I will be getting my messages, so please leave a message."
Leafing through the resume papers and the business plan, he discovered that Davis was a civil litigator specializing in the defense of class actions. The man was from Boston and had been with the Arthur & Taylor firm. The business plan made the point that he would be bringing some large clients. On the first page of the resume was a picture of Davis. He had a full head of hair, some graying, was clean shaven, and slightly paunchy. Unfortunately, Sam couldn't judge the man's height.
Sam took a deep breath, knowing what he was about to try was very risky. Quickly he found a restroom and removed his entire disguise. After wetting his hair down completely, he combed as near as he could to Scott Davis. He went back to the woman's office. Next to the door was a plaque with the name Martha McConnell.
"Hi, Martha, I'm Scott Davis. You probably don't even remember me—"
"Oh yes," she said. "Of course. I was in the group of partners at Grady's Bar a month ago. Actually, I stop
ped by for just a minute and never got to shake your hand. You've done something to your hair. It looks great."
"Thanks. Probably the Grecian Formula." He gave her a toothy smile.
"What can I do for you?"
"Oh, I was just helping out Stewart on some stuff and needed to get into the fireproof cabinet."
"Oh sure. Gosh, it's really a cabinet in a big safe and they've locked it... I'm sure... but on a good day I can do the combination of.... Just a minute..." She fished around in her top drawer. "We're not supposed to keep this, but everybody does, otherwise you have to go to Mary Weiss's desk and she always has it locked, so it's just one thing after another. They never give anybody a thing they need until a month after they've been here."
She got a key and her piece of paper and another smaller key and went back to the locked door. When she opened the door and turned on the lights, they encountered a huge file room.
"What is your kind of lawyer doing with patents?"
"I'm just a little weary of defending drug companies and car manufacturers. The big class actions require a lot of travel. Some of the patent claim litigation isn't all that technical that a guy can't learn it. Especially with Arthur Stewart around. Anyway, he thought I might be interested in this. It's about a plant from the Amazon, of all things."
"Never heard of it. But anything to do with the Amazon sounds interesting."
"I thought so."
He noticed that she was appraising him and that she wore no wedding ring. Recalling the resume and the profile materials pertaining to Scott Davis, he recalled that he had seen nothing about a wife.
"It's normal I suppose for you to work into the evening."
"You can tell I'm relatively young and I'm a junior partner."
"What kind of work do you do?"
"Environmental litigation mainly. That's our end of the hall. The other is the estate planners. They're in another world."
"Aren't they, though."