Unacceptable Risk sw-2 Page 24

  Then as they walked to the plane, he reconsidered. The whole thing was a carefully orchestrated mind game to throw him off balance, to make impressions about important themes. He just hadn't figured it out yet.

  "I will have to ask you to enter the plane one at a time. I regret it, but we will need to search you for weapons," Jack said.

  Baptiste went first into a posh business jet that would seat comfortably perhaps ten people. There was a curtain across the middle of the jet and two armed men sat on their side of the curtain. Jack did a thorough pat down, apologizing once more for the inconvenience. They used a sort of electronic wand to check for microphones and another to check for metal. Baptiste and Figgy took seats facing the two men and the curtain.

  "Welcome," said an electronically scrambled voice.

  Baptiste should have known they would neither hear nor see Gaudet directly. Recording such a voice would be useless even if they had managed to smuggle a microphone on board the jet.

  "Good afternoon," Baptiste replied in English.

  A stewardess rose from the backseat of the plane, closed the heavy exterior door, and brought a tray of French pastries. They appeared to Baptiste to be of the finest quality. Figgy took one of the delicious-looking chocolate eclairs. Baptiste declined. The engines spooled up and the plane began the long taxi. The man on the other side of the curtain did not speak. As the plane taxied toward the runway, the stewardess and the two men went forward on the far side of the curtain.

  "This jet is very fast," Figgy explained. "The fastest pri vate jet. Something like Mach. 92. That's even faster than the new Gulfstream."

  "So, you are interested in airplanes," said the electronic voice.

  "May I assume that you are Mr. Gaudet?" Baptiste said.

  "You may assume anything you like. But I am not the man."

  Then a cabinet in the back wall of the plane opened up and a TV screen appeared. On it was a man whose face was largely shadowed. He had a beard, but it was difficult to make out features.

  "Please put on your headphones," said the man on the far side of the curtain. On the arms of their chair were large headphones with a microphone, the sort of headset that a pilot might wear.

  "I am Gaudet," said the man on the screen in another electronic voice speaking into the headphones. "I am pleased to meet you. I regret that I can't join you, but I'm not particularly fond of airplanes. I merely tolerate them and I wouldn't actually put myself inside a heavily secured area like an airport for a meeting."

  "Just out of curiosity, why the burka?"

  "She is an intermediary between myself and the Swiss es crow company where we will do business if we make a deal. I understand from Benoit that the escrow is a must. Like me, my intermediary prefers not to be known and not to be photographed."

  Baptiste figured it was either an escrow agent or a trusted lieutenant of Gaudet's. The rest were no doubt contract mer cenaries.

  "Let's get down to business," Baptiste said as they shot down the runway for takeoff.

  And so the negotiations began. First it was peripheral mat ters and the bragging by each side of all that they were bring ing to the table. They talked about the financial terms and there was haggling, but the end result was much as Benoit had suggested. A $200,000,000 purchase by France, with a kickback to everyone on Baptiste's team of $5,000,000 in cash. They agreed on how exactly they would communicate with the escrow company, security codes for the communications, and other related matters. An additional $5,000,000 in cash was to go to the Eviral Trust and various other trusts and corporations as dictated by Gaudet. For some reason Gaudet found some humor in the dispersal, but it escaped Baptiste.

  "There are two more matters," Baptiste finally said. "We have heard that Benoit, acting through you, may be able to deliver copies of Bowden's 1998 journals to the French government. You will need to speak with Benoit about that. We realize that there is no guarantee for the French government that Chaperone is in those journals, but circumstantial evidence suggests it may be."

  "Hmm. I am envious. How did you manage to pull off getting the journals?"

  "That would be Benoit's doing. Take it up with her. You should get some additional money from the French government and we should get half."

  "You're greedy bastards. You blame the theft on me and get half the money."

  "Much will already be blamed on you… what is one more thing?"

  Gaudet actually chuckled.

  "The second issue is that Cordyceps must not come too quickly after delivery of Chaperone."

  "Five days," Gaudet said.

  "That is very fast," Baptiste said.

  "That is all you get. I can't wait around. As it is, my in vestors won't like it. When Chaperone and related documents, including Bowden documents and all vector technology doc uments, are in escrow, you will have five days' notice of Cordyceps."

  "What if we need time to authenticate before closing?"

  "You do that on your own clock. My five-day clock starts running when I have everything you're buying in escrow. If we and Benoit working together take too long getting Chaperone into escrow, then we will so notify you and the deal is off."

  "But we have no control over that."

  "How right you are. But you don't have to spend your money if we don't deliver the product. And that, gentlemen, concludes our business."

  Chapter 14

  A hungry man will risk a bad oyster.

  — Tilok proverb

  "There goes our boy Figgy," Sam said to Jill on the cell phone. Sam was sitting in an FBO at Teterboro next door to the establishment hosting the Citation X. Sam doubted that Gaudet would be on the plane despite the intercepted mes sages that called for a "meeting." There had been what looked to be a woman in a burka and Sam's mind was churn ing over who it might have been. Gaudet? Doubtful. Again, he would not likely be present.

  The question he couldn't answer was what they might be discussing. It had an ominous feel to it. When the plane taxied toward the runway, he engaged an entire group on a conference call. On the call were several private detectives, Grogg, and others on Sam's staff.

  "How was the picture?" Sam asked.

  "Better than CNN," Grogg said. "Great show."

  "Anybody get anything while they were sitting at the FBO?"

  "Nothing. They talked about airplanes."

  "Who was under the burka?" Sam asked.

  One of the private eyes spoke up. "It was a hundred feet from the Bonanza to the Citation. He or she took fifty steps to cover it. By the stride, I'd say it was a woman. He or she put out a hand when she climbed the stairs. Woman-size hand, although it was gloved. Height we guess at five feet eight inches. He or she is accustomed to airplanes because he or she didn't hesitate for even a second as would someone unfamiliar with private jets. But he or she is not accustomed to the burka because he or she slightly misjudged the added height and just touched the header on the entryway to the jet. We got just a glimpse of the shoes as he or she climbed the steps. They were upscale and they were female-size feet. So we think it's a she and not a he."

  "Well, not to put too fine a point on it, but that could bring it down to a few thousand since not many woman with nice shoes and a normal build are used to climbing in and out of private jets. Assuming, of course, we're right about the jets," Grogg said.

  "Did anyone notice the fingers of her right hand?" Sam asked.

  There was silence.

  "Play the tape again." Everyone watched. Sticking down out of one sleeve were the gloved fingers of a hand. They moved like cilia on a sea creature but very slowly.

  "Get a signer who knows signing for the deaf."

  "That won't take long; we have someone," Jill said. While he waited, Sam used his cell to call people in the flight con trol center tracking the jet. It was headed for Martha's Vineyard. Then Jill came back on.

  "Got it. You won't believe it. She signed STOGETH- ERBM and I would take that to mean 'Sam together Benoit Moreau.' "

  "R
esourceful," Sam said. "In more ways than one. She's out of jail and in the U.S.? What game are the French playing?"

  "Figures one of the French is wired into the deal, probably illicitly," Jill said.

  Grogg added the punctuation: "Surprise, surprise, surprise."

  Sam found Michael and Grady in a booth at a tavern in Gramercy Park nearby the bed amp; breakfast, apparently having sat with their beers for some time. There were six bodyguards spread around the place and their roving eyes created an odd sensation, but it didn't seem to interfere with busi ness. Grady had taken Anna's tragedy hard, but she was weathering it in the presence of the strong calm that was Michael Bowden. It had been two days since the airport incident and Figgie hadn't said a word.

  "You've got to get out of New York," Sam said to Michael, not in the mood for circumlocutions.

  "What are you thinking?" Bowden asked.

  The words didn't contain attitude, but Sam thought the tone did. "Look what they've done to try to get those journals. Gaudet has almost killed you, Grady, me, and Anna. What more do you need to see?"

  "I know the whys. Why I should run. Why Gaudet wants me. What I don't know is what you're suggesting. I want him out of my life and everyone else's, out of commission, whatever. Dead. Right? Aren't we more likely to catch him if I'm visible than if I'm hiding?"

  "You're right, and I don't disagree. But think about it first. It's not just your life we're talking about."

  "Grady should not be with me until this is over. I know that."

  "Don't I get a say in that?" Grady had had enough.

  Sam and Michael looked at each other.

  "Get used to it, Michael. Hey, you have to admit she's not doing bad." Sam drained his drink and leaned forward, el bows on the table. "Look, if you're in, that's fine with me. I have a thought as to how we might lay a trap. But you have to be sure."

  "I'm not dying to be a staked goat, but it's better than doing nothing."

  Sam looked at Grady, who glowed with pride at her men tor's earlier remark. Behind the glow, though, her face showed her disquiet. In her eyes he saw both the undaunted determination of a woman with a plan and a smart person afraid for her life. And Michael's.

  "All right at least let's move you to a bed-and-breakfast over in Greenwich Village. They'll have to find you again."

  "That's fine," Michael said and Grady nodded.

  "First, I have a big piece of news," Sam said. "We re ceived an e-mail today from France. We think they are relay ing messages from one Benoit Moreau." Sam briefly explained her history with Grace Technologies and her imprisonment. "She seems to be out, and possibly in New York. Apparently she will want a meeting; an attorney ready to attend and most interesting, a fake 1998 journal copy that looks real but is entirely a forgery."

  "What?"

  "That is totally weird," Grady said.

  "I do not know why that request and she hasn't said when she wants a meeting or why. It could be to work her own scam or it could be because she wants to help us. If they think they have the journal, they lay off you. I think she wants me to believe she is on our side. I should mention that the attorney is to be an expert in immigration."

  "Should I make a journal with incorrect latitudes and longitudes and with altered descriptions of the material? Mis-describe flora, fauna?"

  "It couldn't hurt. But I'm sure it would be a lot of work."

  "A whole year's worth of actual data? Maybe. But if I got Lyman and some honest graduate students…"

  By the next day, a full twelve days after his arrival in New York, Sam had set up temporary offices. Every morning that he could, he would stop by to see Anna and he called Anna's mother or the nurse Lydia at least twice a day. Here he could work the phones and brainstorm with the investigators feeding Big Brain. It wasn't glamorous, but unlike the LA office, he could be near Anna. He had a better chance of finding Gaudet from the computer room than he did walking the streets, because from the office he could greatly multiply his efforts using contract investigators. A new priority was learning why the French were having secret meetings with Gaudet and who had hired the grad student to steal Michael's jour nal.

  Back at the bed-and-breakfast he kissed Grady on the cheek, clasped her hand, and left her with Michael. His instincts were talking to him again. Grady and Michael were assuming he'd go back to LA. He didn't bother to correct the impression, although there were various ways they might find him out. Since he always took calls on his cell, it wasn't always easy to determine his whereabouts and people were very used to not knowing.

  Preferring anonymity he stayed over in Greenwich Village, in the apartment of a retired FBI agent. The man was travel ing.

  On the way to the office he stopped by the hospital. In mid- afternoon the hospital was getting ready for a shift change. Nurses were standing around flipping through charts and talking in low tones. Anna's room was a good walk down a long corridor filled with people with serious problems. There was a faint antiseptic smell and somehow it didn't help his mood. As he neared the door, the deep reserve of sadness that was always with him these days took over his mind. When he entered, he noticed that the monitor was now silent and each beat was only a line on the screen. Sitting by Anna's bed, her mother held her hand, and it made him feel good and it made him feel guilty all at the same time. When he ap proached Anna's mother, he noticed that her face was drawn and that deep fatigue had set in. The vigil was taking its toll.

  "I will leave you alone," she said quietly.

  Nothing had ever made him feel so helpless.

  Anna's face revealed nothing and it seemed to Sam that she was very far away.

  She always liked the smell of a good Cuban cigar, so in violation of all the rules he sat by her bed and smoked a few puffs. After he put out the cigar, he leaned forward and whis pered in her ear.

  Sam sat in New York in front of the video-conferencing monitor, talking to Jill in LA the way old acquaintances do, snacking, drinking, and lapsing into silence between broken phrases that called up a history of late nights at the office, long lunches, walks in the park, and even pillow talk. They had each ordered in some fried yearling oysters and Sam carefully dipped the end of about every third oyster in ketchup. He called the ketchup dunking "cleansing the palate." Jill liked the unadulterated oyster flavor and skipped the condiment. Harry sat on the conference table of the New York office watch ing every oyster that went into Sam's mouth and got about one out of four. Jill said the dog had superior taste-he'd have none of Sam's ketchup. One of Sam's staff had been kind enough to bring the lonely dog with him from LA.

  For a few minutes Jill listened while Sam tried to tell her how he felt about Anna lying unconscious in the hospital. For some reason it was hard for him to speak the right words, and yet he knew she understood.

  "I wish I were there to hold your hand," she said. There were a few moments of silence. Harry put his chin on his paws and looked disconsolate.

  "You know the way you're leaning back with those oysters, you're going to spill ketchup on your shirt."

  "Have you ever noticed how some people can't just wear their ketchup stain-even ketchup lovers like me. They have to cover it with a tie, or hold their hand on their stomach, or take the shirt off and use towels and water. In the extreme cases they have to leave the office and get a new shirt. As long as that ketchup is there, they can't stop thinking about it. The ketchup actually rules their life."

  Jill said nothing for a moment.

  "Grieving is good, Sam. It's not like a ketchup stain, so don't even think about comparing them."

  "I was talking about hypocritical ketchup lovers."

  "And I was talking about you."

  Sam thought about that. For him, was it Gaudet that was the ketchup stain? Or was it something inside? Was it his self-doubt? Was it that he had Indian blood? Or maybe it was his anonymous life. One thing he believed: nothing could be normal or right until he got Gaudet. Not grieving, not life. Maybe he could choose a public life after Gaude
t. Maybe he would have more confidence that he was good enough for Anna. Now he didn't know.

  He thought about what his mother had said about Grandfather, about the focusing of his life force. Could a man focus his life on catching another man and have a life worth living? It was a question that he shoved out of his mind almost as fast as it came. Some things were necessary, he told himself.

  "You don't think you should tell Grady and Michael you're really in New York."

  "It worked last time."

  "Yeah, Grady was almost strangled."

  "I've gotta get this man that is really not a man. He is more devil than man."

  "I guess if we're going to stop him, we better get to work."

  "Title of the file in Gaudet's mainframe was interesting," Jill said. " 'Alpha Worm.' Some kind of joke."

  "Uh-huh."

  "You're tired."

  "Not that tired. How is Figgy doing?"

  "Great. If you like would-be traitors. He has a lot of contacts and he's working them. I guess we just ignore that he seems to have had a meeting with our mortal enemy and isn't mentioning it. He has gotten information about Grace from the French, who are suddenly discovering that they knew things they supposedly didn't know."

  "Do you think he would betray the United States for some renegade French spooks?"

  "What do you think, Sam?"

  "I think we got serious trouble that I don't understand. We can't trust Figgy with anything we don't want Gaudet to know until we prove otherwise. It is possible to meet with your enemy without embracing him. We can't forget that. I would like to think that Figgy and the French are trying to trap him."

  "But you don't believe it."

  "Unfortunately, I don't."

  "You know I was talking to our Harvard guys. They just keep saying that this would be an unimaginable medical breakthrough if Grace had a way of altering the immune sys tem so that it would accept foreign cells. All of the diseases in which our bodies reject good cells could be cured. Growing and implanting replacement organs would be a breeze. We'd have pig farms growing human parts. Gene repair would be vastly simplified. You have to hear it for yourself. They make it sound like the Second Coming."