by Tim Downs
Dedushka read those articles, and Pasha contacted him.
Both men were dressed in trousers and crisp button-down shirts, probably because both had come directly from their labs at NC State—or perhaps because they owned no casual American clothes. Both men were PhD candidates from their respective countries, part of an exclusive academic elite, and they had not been in America long enough to take their appearance for granted as their American counterparts did.
Pasha held the refreshment tray in front of him and sidestepped his way down the empty aisle toward the two men. “Did you see? They call it a ‘home run.’”
“Why does the man run so slowly?” Jengo asked.
“He has no need to hurry. He hit the ball off the field.”
“Then why does he run at all?”
Pasha smiled. “It’s complicated, my friend. Americans have some very strange sports.” He passed the cardboard tray. “Here, help yourselves—my treat.”
Habib frowned at the food. “What is this?”
Pasha held up a tubular object by a stick protruding from its end. “This is what Americans call a ‘corn dog.’”
Jengo winced. “Is it dog?”
“No. It’s a kind of sausage coated in meal and fried in oil.”
Habib was still frowning. “Is everything fried in oil here? What I would not give for a simple lamb shawarma.”
“In Moscow we call it shaurma,” Pasha said. “A few strips of meat and some vegetables wrapped in lavash—is that so difficult? But no, Americans want their food very quickly.”
“And very poor,” Habib said.
Pasha shrugged. “That is why Americans are so fat.”
Jengo shook his head in disgust. “In my country only the rich and corrupt are fat.”
“I hope to be fat one day,” Habib said.
“That would be a sin.”
“In my country fatness is a sign of prosperity.”
“You talk like an American.”
“There is no need to insult me, Jengo.”
Jengo turned to Pasha. “Why must we meet here, so far from the university? The hour is late—I have a wife and child.”
“We must not be seen together on campus—you know that, Jengo. Tell your wife you had business. Don’t worry, she’ll keep the bed warm for you.”
“I wish I had a wife,” Habib said.
“You can buy yourself one when you get home—a nice fat one.” Pasha set down the tray and wiped his hands. “Now, to business.”
“Do we know the results of the test yet?”
“Yes. It was a failure.”
“The specimens did not survive?”
“We cannot be certain. Two of the shipments were intercepted by the Americans’ Drug Enforcement Administration—they never arrived. The local shipment arrived successfully, but I could not recover the specimens to examine them.”
“Why not?”
“The ‘buyer’ discarded the shipment just as we planned, but I was unable to find it and recover our specimens. I do not know if they survived.”
“The buyer would not tell you where he discarded it?”
“The man was mentally unstable. I could not convince him.”
“This is exactly what we predicted,” Jengo said angrily. “Men who deal in drugs are violent and impulsive—who knows what they will do? This method is too unpredictable. Why would our patron not listen to us?”
“Because our patron is a stubborn old man,” Pasha said. “I warned him that a drug shipment would involve too many unnecessary risks, but he is from a generation that thinks drugs can solve everything. It was his plan and his money—what could we do?”
“An entire summer wasted,” Habib groaned.
“Nothing has been wasted,” Pasha assured him.
“Have you ever been to Bogotá in the summer? The heat is like Qatar, but the humidity—insufferable! They have cockroaches the size of dates.”
“You were at a university. Was it so different from this one?”
“I was at the university for less than two weeks! Three men came to my door in the middle of the night with uniforms and guns. They told me to gather my things and come with them. Ten minutes, they said—I barely had time to collect my specimens and equipment. They blindfolded me; we drove most of the night. When they took off my blindfold I was in the middle of a jungle. That’s where I spent my summer, Pasha—living in a filthy shack. It looked like one of the godforsaken worker camps in Dubai.”
“Were you not provided with adequate facilities?”
“Are you listening to me? It was a jungle. Jengo was here working in an air-conditioned laboratory. My ‘laboratory’ was a shed, and I had to share my equipment with ‘chemists’ who knew nothing about chemistry except how to test the tetrahydrocannabinol content of marijuana. The conditions were deplorable. I had to research that ridiculous fungus and breed those insects in the same tiny room—and all of it was for nothing.”
“You are too critical,” Pasha said. “Your summer was successful—you should be proud of what you accomplished. You learned how to combine the insect eggs with marijuana, didn’t you?”
“How can we know that for certain? You weren’t able to recover the specimens to see if they survived shipment.”
“But that was not your fault—the method itself was flawed.”
“I was able to isolate the fungus,” Habib said. “It wasn’t easy—I had to test hundreds of species before I found one that matched.”
“There, you see? Another success. Because of your work we would have been ready for the second phase of our test—if the first phase had not failed.”
“I’m not going back there,” Habib said. “Send Jengo next time.”
“That is not my field of study,” Jengo said. “I am a plant pathologist—we agreed that I would focus on the toxin.”
“No one is going back,” Pasha interrupted. “The test has failed—we must abandon that method and find another.”
Habib groaned.
“Relax, my friend—we have not failed. Jengo’s toxin is the important thing, and the toxin is a success—that is what we must remember. All we have to do is find a different way to deliver the toxin. The only thing that has failed is our patron’s foolish strategy.”
“Does he know the test has failed?”
“Yes. I told him his method was too expensive and too risky. I told him there was too much chance of failure. I told him we can do better.”
“Perhaps if we all spoke with him,” Jengo suggested. “Perhaps we could convince him then.”
“Now, Jengo, you know that’s not possible—we’ve discussed this before. Our patron wishes to remain anonymous. He sympathizes with our causes, and he is willing to generously fund our efforts, but he chooses to remain behind the scenes.”
“He wishes for us to take the risks,” Habib grumbled.
“Perhaps—but we are being paid handsomely for taking those risks. Our tuition, our housing, and a very generous stipend—far more than our governments would ever give us. Look at other graduate students and tell me this is not true.”
“I am not doing this for money,” Jengo said.
“Nor am I,” Habib said.
“This is not about money for any of us,” Pasha said, “and that is why we must not allow this one small setback to discourage us from our goal. We have made great progress—we must not lose sight of that. The toxin is the only thing that matters, and Jengo has done his work well. All we need now is a new method of delivery—and our patron has agreed to allow us to develop our own.”
“Do you have an idea?” Habib asked.
“Yes, I do.” He took two business cards from his shirt pocket and handed one to each of them.
Habib read from the card: “Carolina Pharmaceutical Research.”
“The address is in the Research Triangle Park. Do you know where that is?”
They nodded.
“The day after tomorrow at midnight. Tell your wife, Jengo—you’ll be home
late.”
11
The halogen bulb in the light above Nick’s kitchen table made all the books and papers that surrounded him glow a brilliant bluewhite. The rest of the house was dark. It was the way Nick had always preferred to study: That single searing light penetrating the darkness seemed to help him eliminate all other distractions and focus his mind on the subject before him—and the subject before him had him very confused.
Nick had pored over the literature for hours but had found nothing—not even a single reference to a previous interdicted drug shipment infested with insect eggs. It seemed impossible. Marijuana was always thoroughly dried and packed in tightly compressed bales—usually shrink-wrapped in plastic to exclude moisture and prevent the product from flaking off. Marijuana was a very expensive commodity, and the risks involved in smuggling the stuff tended to make “merchants” very careful about the quality of their wares—but this had to be the poorest-quality product in the history of drug smuggling. Some of the cuttings were actually moldy—possibly from exposure to the elements in Kathryn’s tomato field, but the extent of the mold growth suggested that the mold had started growing long before that. Molds prefer a warm, dark, moist environment, suggesting that the moisture content of the MJ was much too high when the stuff was originally packed. What kind of an idiot would make a mistake like that?
And what about the insect eggs? That was really bizarre. Nick knew of no insect that would be tempted to deposit its eggs in moldy marijuana, especially in those numbers—that meant the eggs must have been present when the marijuana was shipped. But what drug smuggler would overlook something so obvious? Don’t these people bother to check their product before they risk their lives smuggling it into the U.S.? These guys must be the worst drug smugglers on earth.
Suddenly Nick heard a knock at his door. He glanced at his watch—it was late. He slid a thick copy of the Journal of Medical Entomology on top of the textbook in front of him to hold it open and walked to the door. He opened it to find Alena Savard staring up at him. Standing beside her was the mottled gray dog with only three legs.
Alena smiled. “Hi.”
“Hi.”
“Surprised to see me?”
“Yes—but then I find women inherently unpredictable.”
“You’re probably wondering how I got your address, since you didn’t give it to me.”
“I didn’t?”
“No, you didn’t. I Googled you.”
“I’ll never get used to that expression,” Nick said. “It sounds inappropriate somehow.”
Alena waited. “You’re supposed to invite me in. Even I know that.”
“Oh, right. Would you like to come in?”
Nick moved aside and Alena stepped into the small entryway with the dog following close beside her.
She squinted into the darkness. “Forget to pay your electric bill?”
“Sorry. Let me hit some lights.” He reached around a corner and flipped a few switches and lights came on in the surrounding rooms. Straight ahead was a family room with an old natty sofa that faced an empty fireplace. The furniture, what there was of it, didn’t match. There was a coffee table in front of the sofa piled high at both ends with books and file folders, and an open laptop computer occupied the center.
Alena made a face. “You weren’t kidding. This place isn’t any better than mine.”
“Told you so.”
“Don’t they pay you at that college?”
“I could have hired a decorator, but I preferred to make a personal statement.”
“I could care less?”
“That’s the one.”
Alena looked to her left. The walls of that room were lined with metal utility shelves, the kind usually reserved for workshops and garages. Each of the shelves held at least two glass terrariums. Some of the terrariums glowed an eerie green, and misty water vapor clouded the glass sides.
“What’s in there?” Alena asked.
“That’s my arthropod collection. Would you like to see it?”
“Why?”
Nick blinked. “I never know how to answer that one.”
“Isn’t that supposed to be a dining room?”
“Why would arthropods need a dining room?”
She shrugged. “What was I thinking?”
Neither of them said anything for a minute.
“Now you ask me to sit down,” she said. “You don’t get a lot of visitors, do you?”
“Oh. Sorry—come on in.”
Nick led her into the family room and gestured to the sofa. He took a seat in a tan corduroy recliner to her left.
“Are dogs allowed on the furniture?” she asked.
Nick looked at her blankly. “Who would I ask about that?”
“I mean, is it okay with you?”
“Oh, no problem. Her hygiene can’t be any worse than some of my students’.”
Alena snapped her fingers and touched the seat cushion; the dog bounded silently onto the sofa and lay down beside her with its head in her lap.
Nick looked at the dog. “It’s ‘Trygg,’ isn’t it?”
“Amazing. You remembered.”
“Why wouldn’t I?”
“It just seems like you’ve forgotten a lot of things since I saw you last.” She scratched the dog behind the ears. “You might not want to pet her right now.”
“Why would I want to do that?”
“Just thought I’d warn you. She’s not in a very good mood tonight.”
“Is she ever in a good mood?”
“Maybe it was the drive down here. Five hours in a truck—that’s a long time. Or maybe it’s the change of environment. I don’t think this is what she expected.”
“Oh? What did she expect?”
Alena shrugged. “I don’t know. Something more . . . personal, maybe.”
Nick let out a sigh. “Look, Alena, I’m not very good at subtext. If there’s something on your mind, I wish you’d just say it.”
She frowned. “I shouldn’t have to tell you this.”
“Because if I cared I would already know.”
“Are you making fun of me?”
“No—just drawing on my limited knowledge of women.”
“When you called me to come down here, I thought it might be for something else.”
“I told you on the phone that I needed a narcotics dog team.”
“I know. I heard you. But I was hoping you meant—you know—something more.”
“More than what?”
She glared at him. “How dumb can you be?”
“When it comes to women? The sky’s the limit.”
“Nick—do you remember the last time we saw each other?”
“Of course I do.”
“Do you remember the last thing we said?”
“Um . . . good-bye?”
“We talked about maybe seeing each other again. You know—personally. At least I thought we did. Did I get it wrong?”
“No, that’s what we said.”
“Well?”
“Well what?”
“Why haven’t you called me?”
“I meant to.”
“Meant to doesn’t cut it, Nick. Either you called me or you didn’t. You didn’t.”
“I guess I just came back and got busy—but when the Sampson County police told me they needed a narcotics dog team, you were first on my list.”
“Thanks for the recommendation, but what about the other part? Weren’t you looking forward to seeing me . . . personally?”
“Sure I was. It’s just hard for me to focus on more than one thing at a time, that’s all.”
She frowned. “You mean more than one woman.”
“What do you mean by that?”
“You know what I mean.”
“Here we go with the subtext again.”
“Don’t act stupid. Where do you know her from?”
“Are we talking about Kathryn?”
“Are you all caught up now? Yes, I mean K
athryn. When you gave me that address on the phone I thought it would be to your place—I didn’t think it would be a job site.”
“I thought you’d want to get right to work.”
“Why?”
“Well—doesn’t everybody?”
“How do you know her?”
“Kathryn? We just worked together once, that’s all.”
Alena narrowed her eyes.
“What’s the matter?”
“You just worked with me once, that’s what.”
“Look, I knew her a long time ago.”
“Not that long.”
“What does that mean?”
“C’mon, Nick, I can tell there used to be something between you. Why do you think she called you? Are you the only forensic entomologist in the phone book?”
“Actually, I am.”
“You know what I mean. Maybe it’s just a job to you, but maybe it’s more to her.”
Nick blinked. “You think so?”
Alena shoved the dog aside and stood up. “I’m going back to Virginia.”
“Now wait a minute.”
“Why should I? You can only focus on one thing at a time, and obviously it’s not me.”
“Don’t go,” Nick said. “I need you here.”
Alena slowly sat down again. “That sounded good. Keep going.”
“I need to search the rest of that tomato field. I need to find out if there’s any more marijuana out there, and I need to know if it’s infested with the same insect eggs.”
“So you just need a dog team.”
“No, I need you. I’ve worked with you before and I know what you can do.”
Alena slowly shook her head. “It’s always work with you, isn’t it? Work is your whole life.”
Nick shrugged. “I guess I’m just not very good at . . . stopping.”
“Maybe you just never had anything to stop for before.” She got up from the sofa. “I’ll get started in the morning. How do you want me to work the field?”