Transhuman
Page 21
Calming somewhat, Villanueva asked Hightower, “How is Angie? Is she okay?”
“The doctors say that her cancer’s gone.”
“Thank God!”
“There are some side effects, though.”
“Side effects? What?”
Shannon Bartram came through the door that led into the building. She looked tired.
Hightower introduced Villanueva to her.
“Where’s my daughter? I want to see her.”
“Certainly,” said Bartram, although her voice sounded less than enthusiastic to Hightower.
She led the three men into the building’s central hallway, telling them, “We ought to pick up Professor Abramson along the way. He can explain about Angela’s condition.”
“Condition? What condition?” Turning to Hightower, Villanueva said, “You told me she’s been cured.”
“Side effects,” Hightower murmured.
Bartram stopped at a door marked CONFERENCE ROOM C and tapped on it.
After a few seconds, Paul Rossov opened the door.
“Mrs. Bartram, what a sense of timing you have,” Rossov said, with a plastic smile. “We were just about to phone you.”
Luke got to his feet, his expression somewhere between pained and resigned. “Hello, Del,” he said, walking to the doorway.
“Luke. Where’s Angie?”
“She’s all right. She’s going to be fine.”
“What the hell have you done to her?”
“Cured her. She’s cancer-free.”
“But what else?”
Luke pushed between Del and Hightower, out into the hallway. As he started toward Angela’s room he began to explain about progeria. The others stayed silent while Luke talked.
“It’s temporary, Del. She’s already improving.”
“Like an elderly person? Is she crippled? Sick?”
“No, her body’s just reacting to the treatment that killed the tumors. She looks old. Somatically, she is old. Like me.”
“You don’t look so old.”
“That’s another story.”
They reached the door to Angela’s room. Shannon hesitated, then turned to Hightower and the others. “I think it would be best if Professor Abramson and the girl’s father went in without the rest of us. No sense turning this into a mob scene.”
Rossov glanced up at Hightower, then said, “You’re right. Let’s wait in your office.”
Bartram looked less than happy about that but nodded agreement.
Hightower laid a heavy hand on Luke’s shoulder. “You ought to know that there are a couple of Bureau cars out along the road. If you try to skip out, they’ll stop you.”
Luke almost smiled at him. “I’m not going to skip out on you. My running days are over.”
“Good.” Hightower turned to Bartram and said, “Let’s go to your office.”
Luke watched them walk down the hallway. It looked as if Shannon were being escorted by a contingent of guards.
“Well, come on,” Del urged.
Luke grasped the doorknob, hesitated. “Remember, she’s going to look old.”
“You already told me that.”
“And, uh, she’s got a cast on her left forearm.”
“A cast?”
“She broke her wrist, chasing a rabbit.”
“What?”
“She’ll be fine, Del. The bone is healing normally.” Silently, Luke added almost.
“I want to see her.”
“Right.”
Pulling the door open, Luke ushered Del into the room. Angela was sitting by the window, bent over her smartphone. Tamara Minteer was on the other side of the room, tapping on a laptop.
Rising to her feet, Tamara called out, “Angie! Look who’s here!”
Angela turned. Her eyes went wide and she jumped up from the chair she’d been sitting on, her smartphone falling to the carpet.
“Daddy!” She flew to Del’s arms.
Del saw his daughter, but she looked like an eighty-year-old, wrinkled and painfully thin. And there was a cast on her left wrist.
“Angie!” he gulped, wrapping his arms around her. “My little Angel.”
Luke stood in the doorway and watched the two embrace. Don’t squeeze her too tightly, he warned mentally. Her bones are still pretty brittle.
Tamara came to Luke’s side, her eyes glistening with tears.
Breathlessly, Angela told her father, “I’m getting better, Daddy, I really am. Grandpa says I’ll be able to go home soon.”
Del glanced up at Luke, then said, “We should call your mother. She’d like to hear your voice.”
“Good idea,” said Luke.
Del whipped out his cell phone and punched a speed-dial key. In a moment, he said into the phone, “Norrie, it’s me. I’m with Angie. She’s right here.”
Then he handed the phone to Angela, who began chattering into it, happy as only an eight-year-old could be.
Luke said to Tamara, “I’m going to Shannon’s office and try to get things straightened out. Do you mind staying here with Angie?”
“Not at all,” Tamara replied. “She’s overjoyed.”
But Luke saw the expression on Del’s face. He looked bitterly angry.
Plan of Action
THE SECRETARY OUTSIDE Shannon’s office looked up as Luke came into the anteroom.
“Mrs. Bee said she didn’t want to be disturbed.”
“I’m the guy they’re talking about,” Luke said, without stopping. “I won’t be disturbing them.”
Before the secretary could say anything more, he opened the door to Shannon’s office and went in. She was at the round conference table, with Rossov, Hightower, and Novack.
“… so it’s open and shut,” Rossov was saying. “We find a suitable facility for Abramson and his grand—”
They all turned to look at Luke as he entered the room.
“You find a suitable facility for me and Angela,” he echoed, “and then what?”
Rossov tilted his head slightly. “Then you do your research without any hindrances.”
Shannon gestured to one of the unoccupied chairs, but Luke remained standing.
“And once Angie’s finished with the progeria, she can go home.” Luke said it flatly; it wasn’t a question, it was a statement.
Rossov put on a smile and answered easily. “Sure.”
Shannon said, “I don’t see why they can’t stay right here. We have the facilities and the staff Luke needs.”
“No, we need a secure facility,” Rossov said. “A place where Professor Abramson can work without any outside interference.”
“Wait a minute,” said Novack. “The Fisk Foundation is funding the professor’s work. Mr. Fisk himself is very interested in what he’s doing.”
Rossov’s smile froze in place. “I’ll meet with Mr. Fisk and explain the situation to him. I’m sure we can work something out.”
Novack hmmphed. “Lotsa luck.”
“So for the time being,” Luke said, “we stay here.”
Shannon nodded and Rossov said, “For the time being.”
“What about Dr. Minteer?”
“Her credentials will be restored.”
“She can go back to Massachusetts, then?”
“Once the little girl is fit to return home. Until then, the three of you ought to stay together.”
“Makes sense, I suppose,” Luke murmured.
The intercom on Shannon’s desk buzzed. Frowning, she got up from the conference table and hurried to her desk.
“I told you I wasn’t to be disturbed,” she said sharply into the phone console.
Her secretary’s voice sounded agitated. “It’s Mr. Villanueva! He says he’s taking his daughter home and he’s not stopping for anybody or anything!”
Del Villanueva
TAMARA MINTEER STOOD defiantly between Angela and her father.
“You can’t take her out of here,” she said to Del, half tenacious, half pleading.
“But—”
Dropping into a crouch, Del held his arms out to his daughter. She stepped to him and let him embrace her once more.
“You want to go home, don’t you, Angie?”
“Yes,” in a tiny, almost mournful voice.
“Well, Daddy’s going to take you home. Today. Mommy’s waiting to see you.”
“I miss Mommy.”
“You’ll be back home tonight.” Looking up at Tamara, he said, “Help me pack her things.”
Luke entered the room, followed by the two FBI agents, Mrs. Bartram, and a slick-looking guy in a three-piece gray suit.
“Del, you can’t take Angie away,” Luke said.
“The hell I can’t.”
“She’s still under treatment, for God’s sake!”
“You can treat her in Boston.”
“I’m afraid that won’t be possible,” said the slick guy, stepping up beside Luke.
“Why not? And who the hell are you to tell me I can’t take my own daughter back to her mother?”
Very deliberately, Rossov answered, “My name is Paul Rossov. I’m a special assistant to the President of the United States.”
Del straightened up. He towered over Rossov. “I don’t give a damn if you’re God Almighty. I’m taking Angie home.”
“There’s more involved here than you realize, Mr. Villanueva. Professor Abramson is doing some very complicated research. He can’t go back to Boston, not just yet.”
“She can go with us,” Del said, pointing to Tamara. “She’s Angie’s doctor; she’s been taking care of my daughter all along.”
Rossov shook his head and started to say, “You don’t understand—”
Novack came up to Del with an easy smile on his face. “Let’s all stay calm. I’m sure we can work this out. Mr. Villanueva, would you step outside with me, please?”
Suspiciously, Del asked, “What for?”
“Just a little talk, one on one. Before everybody gets too excited.” Nodding in Angela’s direction, he added, “You don’t want to upset the little girl, do you?”
Del glared suspiciously at them all: his father-in-law, the big Indian with his ponytail, the chubby woman who apparently owned the place, Angie’s doctor, the guy who claimed he was from the White House. All their eyes were on him. Then finally he looked at Angela herself. Angie seemed almost frightened, her eyes wide in her old woman’s face.
“Come on,” Novack coaxed. “Just you and me. We can work this out.”
“Okay, I guess,” Del replied warily. To Angela, he said, “I’ll be right back, honey. You help Dr. Minteer pack your clothes.”
And he walked uncertainly out into the hallway with Novack.
Luke watched them go, thinking, Novack must be a snake charmer.
Angela stood in the middle of the room, her eyes fixed on the door that her father had gone through.
Tamara knelt beside her and said softly, “He’ll be back in a few minutes.”
Angela nodded silently.
“Come on,” Tamara coaxed, “let’s get your suitcase and start packing.”
Luke wanted to tell her not to do that, but he said nothing.
Shannon sat on the bed, looking perplexed.
“I’ve never had such a crazy day,” she muttered, as if talking to herself.
Luke turned to Hightower. “I thought you were his boss.”
Hightower shook his head slowly. “He’s not with the Bureau. He works for the Fisk Foundation.”
“I thought—”
“I’m pretty sure he works directly for Fisk himself.”
Looking toward the open door to the hallway, Luke wondered, “Then what the hell’s he doing with Del?”
* * *
NOVACK SAUNTERED SLOWLY along the hallway, with Del beside him, trying to keep his long legs from outpacing the shorter man.
“I’d like you to consider the big picture here,” Novack said.
Del snapped, “The only picture I want to consider is seeing my daughter reunited with her mother.”
They came to the end of the hallway and a steel door marked EXIT TO ROOF. Novack pushed it open. “Well, that will happen, don’t worry about it. It just isn’t going to happen today.”
“The hell it’s not.”
Novack started climbing the bare concrete stairs, his footsteps echoing hollowly. Following behind him, Del demanded, “Where the fuck are you going?”
“No place special,” Novack answered easily. “It’s just easier to talk here in the fire escape. Nobody else but us two. No snoops.”
“Listen,” Del snapped, “I’m taking my daughter home and not you or the whole FBI is going to stop me.”
They reached a landing between floors. Novack turned to Del and said, “I can give you five thousand reasons to back off.”
“What the fuck are you talking about?”
“Five thousand bucks.”
“Five thousand dollars?”
“Five thousand in your hand today,” Novack said smoothly, “and another five thou for every week the kid’s kept away from home.”
“You’re trying to bribe me! An FBI agent offering me a bribe! I’ll report you.”
Novack made a shushing motion with one hand as he said, “Take it easy. I’m not with the FBI. I work for Quenton Fisk.”
“Who the hell is Quenton Fisk?”
“One of the richest men in the country. And he can make you rich, too, if you’ll play along.”
“That’s my daughter we’re talking about. Keep your fucking money!”
“I’ll make it ten thousand. Ten now and ten for every week the kid’s away from home.”
“Go shove it up your ass.”
Del started toward the stairs, but Novack had maneuvered himself between Del and the steps. Del tried to push him aside; Novack brushed his arms away.
Del looked down at this wiry little guy. He was smiling, sort of, as he blocked access to the stairway.
“I don’t want to hurt you,” Del said, clenching his fists.
“I wouldn’t at all mind hurting you,” Novack said, his grin widening. His arms remained at his sides. He looked relaxed, at ease.
Del grabbed for his shoulders, intending to push the smaller man out of his way. Novack ducked under his reaching arms and planted a solid right fist in the pit of Del’s stomach. The air gushing from his lungs, Del staggered back against the bare concrete wall. Novack drove two more punches into Del’s midsection. The pain was incredible; Del’s legs began to fold.
“Not yet,” Novack muttered, pinning Del against the wall. He grabbed a fistful of hair and smashed the back of Del’s head against the concrete. Del’s vision blurred.
Dragging Del’s half-collapsed body to the edge of the stairway, Novack rammed a vicious punch into his right kidney, then kicked Del’s legs out from under him. Del went tumbling down the bare concrete steps and sprawled unconscious on the landing below.
Novack stepped lightly down the stairs, stooped to check Del’s breathing, then went out into the hallway, heading back to the kid’s room.
* * *
LUKE WATCHED TAMARA and Angie placing the child’s clothes in the suitcase they had bought for her during their brief shopping spree in Portland. Women, he thought. They fold each piece just so, and lay it in the suitcase like it’s made of crystal. The clothes will get all rumpled during the trip, but they still have to be so neat, so precise.
Shannon was still sitting on the bed, looking weary. It’s been a hell of a day for her, Luke realized. The FBI, this White House guy, and now Del.
“I still don’t see why Professor Abramson can’t stay and continue his work here,” Shannon was saying.
Rossov, sitting beside Luke, shook his head. “We need a secure facility, Mrs. Bartram. A place where the professor can work without distraction.”
“Like where?” Luke asked.
“
I have people checking federal research facilities,” Rossov said. “I don’t know which ones, off the top of my head.”
Hightower stood by the door, arms folded across his chest, like a cigar store Indian. Silent and still. But his eyes were alert. He doesn’t miss anything, Luke thought.
The door burst open and Novack stepped in, looking flustered. “There’s been an accident.”
Luke jumped to his feet. “What?”
Novack said, “Your son-in-law, he fell down a flight of stairs.”
“Daddy?” Angela bleated.
“It’s all right,” Tamara said, placing a restraining hand on the child’s shoulder. “Your grandfather will take care of it.”
Luke headed for the door, Hightower and Rossov right behind him. Over his shoulder, he told Tamara, “Stay with Angie.”
The four men hurried down the hallway. Novack was explaining, “We went into the fire escape, for privacy. He got all excited and started swinging at me. We scuffled, and he fell down the stairs.”
Luke opened the fire door and there was Del, semiconscious, moaning, a gash on his forehead bleeding down his face.
Kneeling beside his son-in-law, Luke muttered, “He might have a concussion.”
Rossov said, “Good thing we’re in a medical facility.”
Pointing to the intercom phone on the wall out in the hallway, Luke commanded, “Phone Shannon—Mrs. Bartram. Extension one.” He figured that Shannon’s secretary would know the number of the phone extension in Angie’s room.
Rossov dashed to the wall phone. Hightower knelt beside Luke, then looked up at Novack, his face like a carving made of ice.
The White House
PAUL ROSSOV FELT grungy. He had flown from Portland to Seattle, bumping a disgruntled businessman off the flight, then taken the redeye from Seattle to Washington, D.C.
Years earlier he had taught himself the knack of sleeping on an airplane: put a pillow behind your neck, crank the chair as far back as it will go, close your eyes, and think of erotic fantasies. So he was reasonably fresh by the time his plane landed.
But his clothes were wrinkled and sour-smelling. He needed a shower and badly needed a shave. Still, he told the chauffeur that was waiting for him at the Baltimore/Washington airport to drive him directly to the White House.
I can shower and shave there, he told himself as the limo weaved through the morning traffic. I’ve got a couple of fresh shirts in my office.