Much as he’d tried to dissuade her, much as he’d tried to tell her she’d be wasting her intellect, a part of him was proud of her. And wanted her to be proud of him.
“Keep working with it,” Frik said, clapping Paul on the shoulder. “Write up your notes, but do it yourself—no secretaries involved. We’ll talk tomorrow and decide our next step.”
“Yes.” Paul was afraid his anger would explode if he dared to say more than the absolute minimum. He clenched his fists at his sides; resisting the urge to throw something hard at the back of Frik’s head, he settled for tossing out the word “Tomorrow.”
When he heard the Hummer start up and drive away, Paul pulled out a plaster cast. He had made it to support earlier reasonably successful attempts to duplicate at least the look, if not the feel, of the artifact, which he’d wanted to study without always risking the original. Separating the device into its original four pieces, he used the largest of the authentic pieces as his base and constructed a polyurethane model of the artifact. Then he locked the two smallest real pieces together, put them in a padded envelope, and addressed it to himself.
The third, the one with the figure eight at one end, he packaged separately, along with a letter of explanation to the only person he could fully trust—the only person who, as a physicist, would understand what he was saying—his daughter, Selene. He wrote her name on the package. Nothing else. Since she’d joined that ecoterrorist group, Green Impact, she had given up on conventional addresses. His only route to her was through Manny Sheppard. The diminutive boat captain had been a friend of Paul’s wife. When she’d been killed, Manny had helped raise Selene, teaching her the joys of the ocean, and how to be true to herself.
Turning back to the model, Paul checked that it was solid and placed it in the middle of the lab table, as if it were no more important than the beakers and tongs. That little bit of “carelessness” should drive Frik crazy, he thought.
He put the packages in the wide pockets of his lab coat, draped the coat over his arm, and glanced at his watch. It was after four. Manny should be arriving down at the dock, if he wasn’t there already. Bone weary, Paul left the lab, making sure he heard the click as he pulled the door shut and it locked behind him.
Once outside the building, he walked to his Nissan, got in, and drove out of the parking lot. He followed the potholed, semipaved road for a few hundred yards, out of view of the labs, then turned onto a side road which wound down to the smaller of Oilstar’s two docking areas. In quick glimpses between the hills, fruit trees, and palms, he spotted theAssegai ’s tall masts. As he turned the final bend in the road, he saw Manny’s small cargo boat and something that made his heart leap: Frik’s Hummer, parked at the end of the dock.
Paul stomped on his brakes and threw the car in reverse. Using his cell phone, he dialed Frik’s ship-to-shore number. What he didn’t need was Frik walking in on his conversation with Manny.
He let the phone ring a dozen times. This was an emergency number that Frik always answered if he was on the boat. When Paul was convinced that his boss was not on board, he put the car back in gear and drove down to the dock. He had set up the duplicate device in the conviction that Frik would go back to the lab tonight to find it.
It suddenly occurred to Paul that maybe Frik hadn’t answered the phone because he was moving sooner than Paul had anticipated. The Afrikaner could easily have walked the quarter mile from the dock to the lab while Paul was making his preparations. He could have been hiding in the bushes when Paul left the lab, waiting for the building to be empty.
He could be in the lab right now, which made it even more imperative that Paul find Manny and rid himself of the packages in his pocket.
To his enormous relief, as he parked he saw Manny sitting on a piling, a cigarette loosely held between two fingers of his left hand, which also held a Carib. The diminutive seaman waved as Paul approached.
“Good to see you. Get you a beer?”
The chemist shook his head. “I’ve got something to tell you, Manny,” he said, “and a favor to ask. A large favor.”
Paul told Manny everything that had happened, beginning with the call from Frik and ending with the Afrikaner’s own words:Who knows what that fifth piece will do? For all we know it could transform the artifact into some sort of devastating weapon .
“The man’s a ruthless bastard, capable of anything.”
Paul nodded. “We both know why I’m working with him, but you? You have a choice—” He stopped himself. “I’m sorry,” he said. “It’s really none of my business.”
“I work for Frik for two reasons,” Manny said, ignoring Paul’s last comment. “The first is obviously money.”
“And the second?”
“I’d rather be in a position where I can keep my eye on him, and stay in touch with the few good people who work for him. Now, what’s that favor you wanted?”
Paul held out the two packages. “I don’t know where Selene is exactly, but I’m sure you do.”
“I know how to find her,” Manny said.
“I need you to get one of these to Selene and post the other to me. Wait a few days first.” Paul paused. “If anything happens to me, make sure Selene knows about it and get the other package from my place. Don’t risk keeping it yourself. Give it to someone you’d trust with your life, the way I’m trusting you with mine.”
Grinning, Manny replied, “I know just who the doctor ordered.”
5
Frik ducked deeper into the foliage as Paul Trujold stepped out the front door of Oilstar’s labs. The chemist’s lab coat was draped over his arm, and his shoulders sagged. He looked exhausted.
About time he came out of there, Frik thought. He glanced at his Rolex. Four o’clock. Thought he’d never leave. What was he doing all this time?
From the cover of a thick growth of hibiscus, he watched Paul lock the door and head for his car. He felt ridiculous. Here he was, the owner of this whole complex, hiding from one of his employees so that he could steal a piece of property that already belonged to him.
I should have demanded it from him, he thought. Should have stuck out my hand and said, Give it to me, Paul. It’s mine.
Much as he’d wanted to, he hadn’t been able to force the words past his lips. Had he done so, Paul would have known; he’d have looked down on him from the moral high ground he occupied and seen into Frik’s heart. He wouldn’t have uttered a word, but the look in his eyes would have said it all.
I know what you’re thinking, Frikkie. I know your intentions. You never want this artifact to see the light of day. You want to sail out past the edge of the continental shelf and hurl it into the sea, let the Guyana Current carry it into the abyss.
And he’d have been right, damn him.
That was indeed what part of Frikwanted to do. But he wouldn’t. Couldn’t. He’d never forgive himself for destroying a technological boon like that. If need be, he’d hide it, keep it to himself. Not forever, maybe, but for a long, long time.
He was not a man of science, yet he knew as sure as he knew this morning’s spot price on a barrel of sweet crude that the artifact operated comfortably on principles not even suspected by modern science. Just as surely, he knew simply by looking at the thing that it wouldn’t give up all of its secrets until it was complete.
When that happened, he would need people he could trust, people like Paul, to help him decode it, decipher its technology and break it down into patentable units to make it Oilstar’s technology. He’d call the shots then.
Paul’s car cruised out of the parking lot. Frik didn’t move. Best to give the man a few minutes on the road, in case he forgot something and decided to come back. He could think of worse places to hide than among these fragrant red blossoms. A little more time in the bushes wouldn’t kill him.
The sound of a familiar motor drifted up from the boat dock just down the hill from the lab. Manny had arrived with some of Frik’s favorite supplies, the ones he didn’t want pas
sing through the sticky fingers of the customs inspectors in Port of Spain. He had left the Hummer down there and walked back up, knowing that anyone seeing it there would assume he was on his boat. When he went back down there to pick up his car, he could also pick up his loot.
The thought encouraged him to pull out his cigar case and remove a long, fat Cohiba Esplendido. He could have a celebratory cigar now without worrying about Paul seeing the smoke.
As he lit up he thought again about that scene in the lab this morning. Christ, what a moment that had been. He had imagined one of those gizmos attached to every car, truck, train, and plane engine, to every furnace, to every freaking dynamo in every power plant across the world. Frik could see his life’s work crumbling to smoke and ash if this device were reproduced and oil became as old-fashioned as vinyl records.
Paul had seemed somehow oblivious of the full implications of what he’d found. Yes, he was holding the key to a future free of dependence on fossil fuels. But that key, that odd little contraption he had assembled in there, could make Oilstar obsolete. No…obsolete was a euphemism here.
Extinctwas more like it.
Let’s not forget you assembled that thing from piecesI gave you, he thought. It’s not about money, Paul. As it is, I’ve got to rack my brains to begin to find ways to spend theinterest on my holdings. Money hasn’t been the point for a long time. It’s thedoing, Paul. This is my company.
Frik thought back to when he had left South Africa. His family’s fortunes in land and gemstones could have kept him in Cohibas and fine scotch for a lifetime, but it would have meant being under his father’s thumb. He couldn’t stand that. He’d filled theAssegai with supplies and sailed alone across the Atlantic to make a life he could control.
I worked as a stinking charter captain for a year to get together a few thousand bucks, he recalled. Hocked my soul for start-up money, sank my first well almost single-handed. Oilstar isn’t just a company, it’s not some soulless corporate entity. It’sme, damnit.
He was a bull tyrannosaur now, but that little gizmo Paul had assembled in there was a dino-dooming asteroid aimed straight at the heart of Frik’s personal Cretaceous period.
Think what you will of me, Paul, he thought. I’m not ready to become extinct.
Figuring he had waited long enough, Frik stepped out of the bushes. As he strolled down the slope to the lab, he fished a set of keys from his pocket.
Immediately after leaving Paul this morning, he’d returned to his office in San Fernando and put together a full set of keys for the lab building. He just prayed that Paul hadn’t at some time changed the lock on his personal lab.
He unlocked the front door and hurried down the central hallway. The key fit into Paul’s door…turned. He was in.
He crossed to the workbench but stopped halfway there. The artifact sat alone in the center of the black surface.
Christ, Paul hadn’t even bothered to stick it in a drawer. This was not something to leave lying about, even in a locked room.
He approached it slowly, cautiously, with the proper respect due a thing of such wonder. He leaned close to the bench top and stared at it. No question—there was something unearthly about this thing. Reminded him of the science-fiction paperbacks he’d read when he was a teenager, the ones with the abstract covers by someone named Powers who squiggled bizarre-looking shapes in the backgrounds of his paintings. This thing would have been right at home on one of those covers.
“Wheredid you come from?” Frik muttered.
He looked around and found the chopstick-length forceps Paul had used earlier. Turning on the bench lamp, he grasped the artifact with the tips of the forceps and lifted. He twisted it, turned it, rotated it this way and that, waiting for the loop of the figure-eight piece to fade away.
Nothing happened.
He kept at it, remembering how it had taken Paul a good bit of trial and error this morning before he’d found the precise orientation that made it work, and he’d had a whole night of practice.
Still nothing.
Frik felt himself starting to sweat. Why wouldn’t it work? Had Paul taken one of the pieces? No, all four were there. Then what—?
“I thought I’d find you here.”
Frik froze. The words had been spoken without inflection, with far more weariness than heat. And that only sharpened their edge. Clamping his cigar between his teeth, he turned to face Paul Trujold’s withering stare.
“Oh. Hello, Paul.” Frik maintained his game face and drew deeply on the Cohiba.
“Oh. Hello, Paul,” Trujold mimicked. “Is that the best you can do?”
The scientist’s dark eyes blazed. Frik fought the urge to step back as Paul stopped two feet in front of him.
“What were you going to do with it, Frik?”
“Put it in a secure place. This room is too vulnerable. I’ll feel better if it’s in the safe in my office.” He held up the artifact, still clasped within the forceps. “Perhaps you’re forgetting, Paul. This belongs to Oilstar, and Oilstar belongs to me.”
“Yes,Oilstar ’s yours Frik, but the artifact belongs to the world. One man can’t be allowed to keep it hidden.”
“Since when do you speak for the world?”
“Sincenow, you selfish son of a bitch.”
Frik couldn’t say exactly what happened next, what it was inside that snapped. In his mind, the bizarre object he was holding became a meteor, and Paul the inexorable laws of the universe that were propelling it toward Frik’s world. He reacted the only way he knew. Sure that the scientist was about to grab for the artifact, he dropped it and lunged at the smaller man. He grabbed Paul by the shirtfront and twisted him toward the lab table.
Paul took a swipe at Frik, knocking the cigar from his mouth instead. The Afrikaner pushed Paul backward into the workbench. It tilted under the force of the impact, and the very air seemed to explode, sending Frikkie staggering in the opposite direction.
When he recovered his balance, he heard screaming. Paul was rolling on the floor, his body bathed in flame.
“Paul! Oh, Christ!”
Frantically looking around for a blanket, a lab coat, anything to beat out the flames, Frik spied the red canister of a fire extinguisher on the wall. He ran to it, ripped it free, and carried it over to the wailing ball of flame on the tiles.
Don’t die on me! he screamed inwardly. God, don’t die on me. I didn’t want that.
It took him precious seconds to find the safety pin, yank it free, find the trigger, and start spraying. The conical nozzle coughed white plumes of CO2, enveloping Paul and seeming to take forever to douse the flames.
Frik stared at what had been Paul Trujold. He could recognize the face. Though charred, it had miraculously all but escaped the flames. The rest was nothing more than a twitching, man-shaped thing with only patches of clothing remaining. He didn’t know whether to retch or sob. With the room ablaze, there was time for neither.
“Jesus, Frik, get yourself out of here. I’ll get Paul.”
Where Manny Sheppard had suddenly appeared from Frik did not know or, at that moment, care.
Ignoring Trujold’s moans of pain, Manny lifted the man onto his back in a fireman’s carry. Frik started toward the door, but stopped when the artifact caught his eye. It lay at the edge of the flames, and it was burning.
He reached into the fire with his foot and kicked the object across the floor. The flames were doused by its tumbling flight. As he bent and picked it up, it oozed against his palm, searing his flesh. He cried out in pain that was more than just physical. The device was melting. Ruined. All but its base, which, amazingly, had remained intact and cool to the touch.
Tucking that against his shirtfront, he lurched toward the door.
6
The phone rang two, three times. Frik could not recall ever having felt so frustrated at the hollow ringing of an unanswered telephone.
“Come on,” he begged. “Pick up. Be there.” But at the end of the third ring, an ans
wering-machine message came on.
“You’ve reached Dr. Arthur Marryshow. If this is an emergency, please call my service at 212-555-9239 or you may leave a message at the beep.”
The number Frik had dialed was Arthur’s personal one at the midtown Manhattan apartment where he’d lived for the last few years—when he wasn’t away on some mission or another. Had it been on voice mail, which Arthur refused to use because he felt it was too impersonal, Frik might have left a message. But he didn’t want to go through the service—not unless he had to. The less anyone knew about this the better.
There was, however, another number he could try, one Arthur had asked him not to use except in dire circumstances.
He dialed Arthur’s cell phone number.
The phone clicked and rang.
“Yes.”
“Arthur?”
“Who else would it be, Frik? You dialed my number.” Arthur sounded annoyed at the interruption. Still, Frik had never been so glad to hear someone pick up. “This had better be important.”
“It is. I need help. I need it fast and discreet. There’s been an accident at the lab—and—”
“Frik, where are you?”
“Trinidad. Look, I need you to get here fast. Right away. You can use the Oilstar jet. It’s at Kennedy.”
Excellent chess player that he was, Frik automatically considered multiple options before embarking on any action, like the tone best used in this call. “Could you please” had been easy to discard because it left Arthur with too much of a choice. Offering recompense was out. Arthur, a plastic surgeon who had specialized in burn medicine, years before had pioneered grafting and reconstruction techniques that gave disfigured victims a chance at a normal life. It had made him loved, almost worshiped. It had also made him wealthy.
Of the two alternatives left to him, Frik had chosen the imperative. If that failed, he would take the I-scratched-your-back, you-scratch-mine mental leap which generally got him what he wanted. You owe me, Marryshow, he thought, picturing the prison escape in Grenada and the half dozen times he had saved his fellow Daredevil’s life in the intervening seventeen years and conveniently dismissing the equal number of times the roles had been reversed.
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