by J. M. Lanham
“I’m sorry, Michelle.”
She stared out the window.
“Look,” he said, “I don’t mean to make you feel bad, or accuse you of anything. I’m just as frustrated as you are. I just want an answer, any answer. That’s all. I know we’ve fought about this a thousand times already. Maybe I shouldn’t have brought it up.” He would have reached for her hand, but he knew better. He opted for something safe. “I’m sorry.”
She cut her eyes over at him, then looked out the window again, shaking her head. “It’s obvious you don’t trust me, Paul. Out of all the crap we’ve been through the last few months, that’s what hurts the most.”
“You know that’s not true.”
“Do I?”
“Michelle. Of course I trust you.”
“Okay, fine. Let’s just get a move on, okay?”
That was Michelle’s way of saying drop it. Paul nodded, turned the key, and put the car in drive. Soon they were eastbound on the same two-lane highway he had been pulled over on earlier that day; only this time, they were heading in the opposite direction, far from anything resembling civilization.
The dark strip of northern California asphalt wound through the valley between two evergreen mountains, snaking deeper into the Pacific Coast range just a few miles south of the Oregon state line. Paul had no idea where he was going, but he wasn’t about to stop to look at the map. He just needed a minute to think. Problem was, taking a minute to think was Paul’s answer to everything. More often than not, minutes turned to hours. Hours turned to days. And in the case of obtaining damning evidence to make a case against Asteria Pharmaceuticals, a minute to think had turned into half a year.
Michelle was right. Living in hiding was no way to raise a child (if their transient lifestyle could even be called living). Something had to change. Not in a minute. Right now.
Paul jerked the wheel and hit the brakes, taking a hard left into the rest area just before the entrance to the Collier tunnel, a tight intermountain pass leading into Oregon.
Michelle grabbed the dash. “Jesus, Paul! What are you doing?”
“Something I should have done months ago.”
Paul parked in front of the information center, pulled a business card from his wallet, and hopped out.
He said through the window, “I need to make a phone call. I’ll only be a second.”
Michelle leaned across the seat. “Do you think it’s safe?”
“Absolutely not.” And with that, Paul walked inside.
Chapter 6:
Cloak and Dagger
“It’s still a madhouse . . . is that what you’re telling me?” Claire sipped her coffee, an afternoon pick-me-up courtesy of the outdoor café in downtown San José.
“Sí, Ms. Connor.” Carlos Vargas sat across the table, forking away at pollo con huevos and turning Claire’s stomach with every revolting bite. The portly government official was by no means a shy eater, but she hoped that what he lacked in table manners, he made up for with information. She winced through the meal, trying her best to listen intently without focusing too much on the sweating man’s poor eating habits.
He took a sip of beer, then said, “Security forces have thinned out in the area, but they are still keeping a tight perimeter around Poás Volcano. Then there is the restricted airspace, currently a five-mile perimeter. It’s been sealed off tight since the blast. The government’s stance remains the same: entry to the national park is strictly prohibited.”
“Do you think the restrictions will loosen up soon?”
Carlos laughed. “It’s been six months since the blast, and they haven’t found a thing. No secret facility. No bunker. Nada. At this point, security simply has nothing better to do. Could be days, could be months. My guess is they will hang around until the next national catastrophe, but who knows when that will occur.”
“You can’t call them off?”
“You overestimate my influence in the Ministry of Public Security, Claire. Calling off that kind of personnel would have to come from the top.”
“Who’s heading up the operation?”
“Gabriel Prado. But even he takes his orders from the politicians. Poás has been declared restricted to select security personnel only. Without a direct order from the president himself, security will remain.”
“Dammit.” Claire shook her head and looked across the street toward the Santo Paul Hotel. The white-stucco building wasn’t the most welcoming in San José, but it was popular with traveling college kids on a budget. She watched a couple of young tourists standing on the sidewalk in front of the hotel’s blue-arched windows, wearing hiking backpacks and reading a map. She had a thought, then turned back to Carlos.
“What about hiking in? The town closest to the volcano is only a two-hour drive from here. If it’s outside the restricted zone, I could hike in from there.”
He shook his head before she could finish. “You forget one thing, Ms. Connor.” He tapped his finger on the table. “This is not the real Costa Rica. Out there, in the jungle, that is the real Costa Rica. The guards, the checkpoints . . . those are the least of your worries. You’d be completely loca to hike in alone.”
She batted her eyes, leaned forward, and in her best Marilyn Monroe voice asked, “You don’t want to escort me into the jungle, Mr. Vargas?”
Carlos almost choked on his eggs.
“Relax, Carlos. I work better alone.”
“That may be, Ms. Connor, but you would be ill advised if I didn’t warn you against going into the jungle alone.”
“Point taken.” She leaned back. “Now, did you bring what I asked for?”
He nodded, and pulled a manila folder from his briefcase. He slid it across, Claire lifting the corner up just enough to check the contents.
“Good?” Carlos asked.
“Good.”
He cocked his head, then said, “Tell me, Ms. Connor. Why are you so interested in the situation with the volcano?”
She played coy. “Come on, Carlos. You said it yourself: there’s nothing better to do. The eruption gave the entire north face a crewcut and took out a village. Why wouldn’t I want access?”
Carlos smiled, certain there was more to her story. “Well,” he said, standing up, “if that settles our business, I must be going. Whatever you decide to do, Ms. Connor, do be careful.”
Claire lifted her glass and nodded, and Carlos left.
***
“You have got to be crazy!” Aguilar walked away the moment Claire mentioned the restricted zone. She followed him into the sunroom.
“Come on, Han. I could really use your help here.”
“My help here? What have I been doing for the last six months, Claire? From the moment you called me out of the blue, my life”—he pointed to a family photo—“our lives have been utter chaos. I have given you refuge in your time of need; helped your friend in hiding; entertained this notion of some grand conspiracy, and for what? I have a teenager who never talks to me, and a woman living with me who is not my wife. Who is doing whatever she can to get herself killed.”
Aguilar sat on the couch, head in his hand, exhausted. Claire sat next to him.
“I’m so sorry, Alejandro. I know how much Isabel meant to you. How much Eva still means to you.”
“She won’t even speak to me anymore,” he said, looking away. “Ever since her mother died, she’s been distant. I call her school, drop by unannounced, send her gifts and letters and books to take her mind off everything that has happened, and she never replies. It’s like I lost both my girls this year.” He turned to look at Claire. “I cannot stand the idea of losing another.”
Aguilar fought back tears. It stood as a general rule that in his part of the world, men did not cry. But as he sat in the sunroom and looked into Claire’s eyes, he was coming dangerously close to breaking down.
Claire knew Aguilar had had romantic feelings for her for a while now, but unfortunately for the lonely widower, the feelings weren’t mutual. Sh
e felt bad for the man she considered a good friend, even regretting some of her actions of late.
Calling him Han might have been her first mistake. She had always been easygoing and affable with the opposite sex; most girls who grew up tomboys were. The problem was that men tended to interpret her spirited friendliness as a romantic advance. There was no denying there were times it helped; flattery worked wonders when chasing leads. But this was not one of those times.
She took his hand and said, “Nothing is going to happen to me, Alejandro. But you’ve known me for a while now, and you should know better than anyone that I’m not going to give up on a story because it might be a little dangerous. I’m just not built that way.”
She let go, reached for the folder, and handed it to Aguilar. He thumbed through a stack of eight-by-eleven photos inside.
“So this is why you rushed off earlier,” he said.
Claire said, “Listen, I completely understand if you don’t want to go. But satellite images of the park will only get me so far. You grew up here, Alejandro. You know the terrain. You said so yourself.”
He shook his head. “Yes, I know it well. I grew up in Colinas del Poás. My father was a priest in the small village there.”
“I remember you telling me.”
He handed the photos back. “It’s been years since I’ve played in those hills, Claire. I wouldn’t know where to start.”
She shuffled through the photos and found a group labeled 10°12’54N, 84°17’54W—BAJOS DEL TORO.
“We start here,” she said, tracing the proposed route with her finger. “The perimeter holds tight to the base of the volcano, making Bajos del Toro a good drop-off point. We’ll hike in from there, coming in from the west and sticking close to the canopy in case we need to duck for cover. That should get us to the base of the mountain. From there, you’ll lead the way.”
Aguilar sighed. “It doesn’t sound like I have much of a choice, does it?”
“I’m going either way, Alejandro.”
“When?”
“Tonight. At least, that’s when I’ll be leaving the city. I want to be in Bajos del Toro by first light. Should give me plenty of time to make it to the facility by sunset tomorrow.”
Aguilar stood up and walked to the shelf on the far end of the room. He lifted the lid on a mahogany box and took out a revolver, checking the chambers before sticking it in his back belt.
Claire asked, “Does that mean you’re going?”
“Like I said, I don’t have much of a choice, do I?”
Chapter 7:
Dissolution
There wasn’t an empty leather seat in the executive boardroom of Asteria Pharmaceuticals that Monday morning. Board members, all white and mostly male, sat and listened to Jillian Penn report third-quarter earnings projections to a room full of suits.
“Financial milestones set for the second quarter have long been surpassed by the continued commercial success of Ocula. As most of you are well aware, the period between March 1st and May 31st marked Ocula’s first full quarter on the open market. The results have been nothing short of phenomenal. Following regulatory approval, Ocula experienced a higher than expected increase in new prescriptions, refills, and total sales. Conversely, competitors’ Q2 earnings posting last month reflect a drop in earnings per share that can only be attributed to Ocula’s record-breaking success.”
Jillian paused as a flat screen rose from the center of the polished mahogany table. She referred to the mountain chart on the LCD screen, displaying two distinct lines: one red, one blue.
“The blue line represents the Q2 projections for 2021,” she said. “The red line represents actual earnings. As you can see, actual earnings beat out early spring estimates by thirty-seven percent. Should the current trend continue, Asteria will be able to move up the proposed twenty percent budget increase for R&D from Q3 to Q1 2022.”
George Sturgis sat at the head of the boardroom, half listening to the highlights. Q this. Budget that. It was all boring the hell out of him. Instead, he diverted his attention to Jillian’s outstanding bosom—as ample as her lengthy presentation. He cracked his knuckles, passing the time taken up by the monotonous formalities while stealing glances of the only board member without a Y chromosome.
Sturgis might have seemed a distant and disengaged CEO, but that was far from the truth. A lifetime of trust issues had prompted Sturgis to seek out answers for himself long before the minions were scheduled to report it. The information so eloquently presented by Ms. Penn was news to everyone in the room—except for the man at the end of the table, who had been monitoring Ocula’s performance on a daily basis since its March 1st release.
Not that he had to. The silvery-haired CEO had a knack for picking winners. The moment he’d heard the genes responsible for insomnia had been identified, Sturgis had wanted R&D’s antisense program all over it.
Predictably, the game plan had had its share of detractors. Board members had voiced legitimate concerns; concerns that tended to worry people with salaries that fluctuated with rising and falling market share prices. A successful antisense regimen could still be decades away; research and development costs might not be recovered in time to pay back investors; consumers might reject a genetically enhanced sleeping pill in much the same way they’d rejected GMOs in other consumer goods. The general consensus was that the rewards didn’t outweigh the risks.
Spineless, Sturgis remembered thinking. Jillian read on, a distant echo in Sturgis’s ears as he scrutinized the faces of each and every board member sitting around the table. Some were visibly elated with Ocula’s success, grinning ear to ear and pumping fists and laughing out loud. Others were more reserved, still smiling and nodding with enthusiastic approval.
All were overjoyed. All because of Sturgis; the only one with the balls to take a risk.
Damn cowards. He shook his head, disgusted with their reaction to a program they’d wanted no part of just a few months earlier. They didn’t deserve a seat at the table; they should have been at Sturgis’s feet, kissing his soles and praising his name.
Spineless. Every last one of them.
He turned his attention to the glass double doors. The blinds were drawn as a shadow of a man stood on the other side. The man tapped his watch through a crack in the blinds as he tried to get the CEO’s attention.
It was his CIA contact, Colin Kovic.
“Okay, everybody. That should wrap it up for the day.”
Jillian said, “But, sir, we haven’t had a chance to discuss—”
“Later. Everyone out. Now.”
Papers shuffled and chairs squeaked as members of the board cleared the room. Kovic held a door for the exiting herd, Jillian bringing up the rear. He smiled kindly, then shut the doors behind her.
Sturgis’s voice resonated from the far end of an emptied boardroom. “Kovic, it’s been a while. To what do I owe the pleasure?”
Kovic approached as he pulled a dossier from his suit jacket. “Traffic analysis at our West Coast station picked up a hit on a long-term target. Control says it’s legit.”
“Jesus, Kovic. Speak English, would ya?”
“It’s Paul Freeman.” He dropped the folder in front of Sturgis. “He’s been spotted in California.”
“California?” Sturgis looked puzzled.
“That’s right. Driver’s license was flagged yesterday. Apparently, Mr. Freeman’s got a bit of a lead foot.”
“Is he in custody?”
“Negative.”
“Well, why the hell not?”
Kovic took a seat, propped his leg up, and bounced his foot. “Read the file, George.”
Sturgis’s brow furrowed as he flipped through the pages. Photos of the Freeman brothers. Claire Connor. Donny Ford. Bulletins detailing last known whereabouts and possible leads. Pages and pages of social security numbers, known addresses, and next of kin. A dense, information-filled packet of Asteria Pharmaceuticals’ most wanted, prepared and served up courtesy of the
Central Intelligence Agency.
“There’s nothing new here, Kovic. We already know—”
Sturgis stopped.
He read the memo highlights out loud.
From the Office of Howard Miller
Deputy Director
Central Intelligence Agency
Washington, D.C. 20505
Stephen Cline
CIA Station Chief
Atlanta Regional Office
Atlanta, GA 30301
Chief Cline,
Your presence is requested before the Senate Select Committee on Intelligence this Wednesday, August 25th at 8:30 a.m. This will be a closed hearing.
Respectfully,
— H. Miller
“What’s this all about, Kovic?”
“Project THEIA. The CIA’s affiliation with Ocula, specifically the work that was carried out at the facility in Costa Rica. The new director believes Ocula 2.0 poses a threat to national security. It’s rumored she’s moving to have the program terminated entirely.”
Sturgis laughed. “Threat to national security? A student of Doyle and Tanner’s bullshit white papers, is she?”
“Something like that.”
“So when did you find this out?”
“Cline pulled me aside this morning. He wanted me to personally deliver the news to you myself.”
Sturgis leaned forward, eyes sharpened. “Why should I care, Kovic? Ocula 2.0 was your project, not mine. I told you months ago I didn’t want my company affiliated with any more side projects. Tanner was the last. We’ve got our own product to worry about, and right now things are going quite well.”
“It’s more than that, Sturgis. There’s been talk of a push to have Ocula blacklisted from the government formulary. Ban it from public use.”
The word blacklisted had barely left Kovic’s lips when Sturgis launched his leather-clad chair into the wall behind him, busting a chunk out of the sheetrock and knocking a framed certificate into the floor. Outside, employees walking by heard the noise and jumped, then briskly moved on, remembering Sturgis went off his rocker at least twice a week.