Element 42

by Seeley James

  Violet fought the urge to say, Fuck you. Instead, she took a deep breath and glanced at the handsome American, Ed Cummings.

  “As a matter of fact,” she said, “there were a few unfortunate terminations. As I am sure you are aware, in a dress rehearsal for biological warfare, danger is the point, and side effects are unavoidable. However, I assure you, the local Kayan tribal elders have already accepted our generous restitution for their regrettable losses. In addition, they have signed confidentiality agreements. Nothing will point back to Windsor—” she looked at Chen “—or our investors.”

  Violet’s phone buzzed on the table where she’d left it. The noise caught the group’s attention for a split second as everyone’s gaze fell to the incoming text lighting her screen. A second later, a buzz from Marco Verratti’s phone, then Ed Cummings’s, distracted the group.

  Chen Zhipeng gave them each a contemptuous glance before addressing Violet in his clipped Chinese accent. “There were no intrusion by outsider or detection by authority?”

  Chen’s inability to enunciate plurals grated on her nerves. “I understand one of our board members paid an unscheduled visit this morning.”

  Chen counted heads around the table. She waited until he figured it out for himself. His gaze came back to her. “Wu Fang?”

  “I’m afraid so,” she said.

  “I will speak to him.”

  Verratti, the portly Italian, held up a hand briefly. “This is a tremendous success, Signorina Windsor. I admit that I hesitated to invest the Collettivo’s resources in a woman so young, leading a company so new, but you’ve exceeded my expectations. Brava, young lady, bravissima!”

  He rose to his feet and applauded. After a moment’s hesitation, the others stood and joined in. Last to rise was Chen, who applauded faintly as he cast a suspicious eye on Verratti.

  Violet took a bow with a beaming smile. As the congratulations died down, the attendees—mostly Windsor’s senior staff plus Chen and his entourage—picked up their pads and tablets to leave.

  She accepted congratulations at the door, shaking hands and thanking each person for his or her contribution.

  When his turn came, Chen Zhipeng bowed slightly. “Very good, as your friend said, Ms. Windsor. Such excellent result impress me very much. In fact, I want to know all detail. Prepare a full report, including the ‘regrettable loss’, at your earliest convenience. Be in my Beijing office tomorrow at three.”

  Chen strode out the door. His assistants nodded curtly and scurried after their boss.

  Last to leave were Verratti and Cummings. They stood at the far end of the room, bent forward with their hands on the chrome railing, looking at the cityscape below. She picked up her Hermes purse and walked toward them, ignoring her stump-pain with every step.

  She edged herself in between them, putting an arm around each. “Gentlemen, we’re about to make a whole lot of money.”

  The two men straightened up and turned to form a triangle, their stern faces hardened.

  “Element 42 is even better than expected,” she said. “It’s especially effective for people over sixty. The older they are, the faster it acts. As well as people with immune deficiencies or other pre-existing conditions.”

  She studied their grave faces. The younger, leaner Cummings glanced sideways at Verratti. Neither man spoke.

  “Why so glum, boys?”

  “You haven’t read Teresa’s text,” Cummings said. “Take a look.”

  Before she could read it, Verratti said, “Pia Sabel visited the test site a few hours ago.”

  Violet staggered back, her face pale.

  “I thought you gave Mukhtar strict orders to eliminate anyone who stumbled on them,” Cummings said. “I don’t know what went wrong, or why he didn’t—”

  “Because he recognized her,” Verratti said.

  “Why? Who is she?”

  “Washington’s darling,” Violet said. “Everybody pities her because her parents were murdered, yet she went on to win a gold medal. Like she was some kind of inspiration. Big deal. They forget she was adopted by a billionaire.”

  “Do you mean Alan Sabel? Sabel Industries, Capital, Technologies, Satellite, all those companies? So what? Why didn’t Mukhtar take care of it?”

  Violet gave Cummings a disdainful look. “The search party would bring a tsunami of investigators.”

  “Well, that’s the least of our worries,” Cummings said. “What the hell was Chen doing here? Who let him in?”

  “I did,” Violet said. “He put more money into this venture than you ever dreamed of—and he might run China someday. He goes to any meeting he wants.”

  “That’s the last thing we need right now.” Cummings clenched his teeth and scanned the room. “You’ve got to get rid of him.”

  “I know. I know. But he wants me in Beijing tomorrow to deliver a full report.”

  “Why? Do you think he knows?”

  “You mean about Sabel or Philadelphia?”

  “Either.”

  “He has spies everywhere. He knows something. Don’t worry, I’ll handle it.” Violet paused and caught the gaze of each man. “I always do.”

  “What about Wu Fang?” Verratti asked. “Why was he on Borneo?”

  “I don’t know. I made damn sure he knew nothing about the field trial.”

  “Looks like he found out. Did Sabel have anything to do with it?”

  “She showed up hours after he left.”

  “What about Mukhtar? Will he keep quiet?”

  Violet texted Mokin’s lead security man. “There, I just promised him a big bonus to keep his mouth shut, but he works for Anatoly. So, your guess is as good as mine.”

  “We should hold up the operation,” Verratti said.

  “Absolutely not,” Cummings said. “We’ll deal with this, but we have to keep it moving forward.”

  Violet’s phone buzzed with another text. A second later, Verratti and Cummings received the same text.

  “Holy shit,” Violet said.

  “What’s the big deal?” Cummings asked. “So what if we’re missing three vials? That’s nothing.”

  “It could prove Element 42 existed before Philadelphia,” Verratti said. “They would figure out it’s not a natural occurrence.”

  “Fucking Sabel,” Violet said. “Goddamn do-gooder’s probably taking them to the CDC or NIH to find a cure. She won’t let anything stand in her path to sainthood.”

  “You know her?” Cummings asked.

  “I know people who know her.”

  “We need to get those back right away,” Verratti said.

  “What should I do, call her up and say, ‘Hey Pia, did you run off with three vials of blood from a super-secret clinic where a whole bunch of people died?’”

  Verratti ran his fingers through his thick black hair. Cummings glanced away and straightened his Harvard tie.

  “I’m open to ideas, gentlemen.” No one spoke. “I don’t need to remind you, if anything leaks before Philly, we have to halt the operation. If we stop the operation, Windsor’s stock won’t soar, and if Windsor’s stock won’t soar, we won’t see the returns we need.”

  “The Collettivo expects big returns. Very big.” Verratti scowled at her. “I have some friends in the US. I’ll have them take care of the vials.”

  “Be careful, she’s dangerous. Her daddy gave her Sabel Security for a birthday present.”

  “Here comes more trouble.” Cummings nodded toward the front of the boardroom.

  Anatoly Mokin’s voice boomed across the space. “Ah, you have board meeting without me? You not have quorum.”

  “We were just chatting,” Violet said. “Join us.”

  Anatoly approached them with a swagger. “Were you chatting about bribing Mukhtar?”

  Violet inhaled. Verratti and Cummings tensed.

  “Whatever do you mean?” Violet smiled.

  “Mukhtar is loyal. When someone tries to bribe my people, they call me. You should not do this. Very
bad. By the way, Pia Sabel is pizda. Whore. You told Chen about her?”

  “Not yet.”

  “If you want good advice, hold nothing back from Chen.” Anatoly turned and walked away. Over his shoulder he said, “No bribing my people. You pay Mukhtar big bonus anyway.”

  The three didn’t breathe until he left the room.

  “I hate that guy,” Violet said.

  “Hire someone else for security,” Cummings said.

  “Find me an alternative. Who can poison aborigines in some godforsaken jungle without asking questions?”

  Cummings watched Verratti.

  “Not the Mafia,” Verratti said, spreading his hands wide. “I can get the vials back, not … the other thing.”

  “I know some people,” Cummings said.

  “Edwin Harold Cummings, IV—you ‘know people’?” Violet laughed. “Has the hedge fund business turned so rough that you need to ‘know people’?”

  “CIA contractors. I got them capital after the fiasco in Iraq. They run top-secret, black-budget operations for the intelligence community.” He paused. “Their work comes with a certain amount of immunity from prosecution.”

  CHAPTER 5

  Tania kicked me awake. “Just cause you smoked Mokin in Algeria doesn’t mean you can coast forever. You’re on duty, asshole. Act like it.”

  Why I was still in love with the woman was beyond me, but I let it pass and analyzed my surroundings. The engines were stopped and the airstair had been lowered. The cockpit door stood open and the seats were empty. I smacked my lips and swept the inside of my mouth with a dry tongue. Swinging myself upright, I put my boots on the floor, took a deep wake-up breath, and looked around. Tania stood over me, arms crossed and a scowl so tight it could lead to premature wrinkles.

  Bujang the translator sat across from me, reading a book. Ms. Sabel was not in the cabin. Voices came from outside.

  Following the sound, I peeked around the bulkhead to see Ms. Sabel standing at the bottom of the airstair talking to two men in suits and one uniformed Japanese policeman. Several options ran through my head about what to say next.

  Their voices raised in volume as they tried to talk over each other.

  “No, you listen to me,” Ms. Sabel said. “You did not revoke my passport. I left Borneo four hours ago. There’s no way you got a court order in—”

  “It’s not a revocation, it’s a restriction—”

  “Then show me the court order.”

  The two men in suits—who I judged to be Americans by the rolls of fat hanging over their belts—glanced at each other. The fatter one turned back to Ms. Sabel. “We have it, just not—”

  “Do you have anything to back up your bullshit?”

  The thinner guy opened a leather binder and pulled out a waxy curled sheet. He extended it to Ms. Sabel as if it were a bloody dagger with her fingerprints. I descended the airstair and peeked over her shoulder.

  “Nice of you to join us, Mr. Stearne.” Her tone shrank me half an inch.

  The paper was an old-fashioned fax. I remembered them from my childhood. This one was written in Japanese. Or Chinese for all I knew. I glanced at Ms. Sabel and found her staring at me.

  Mercury said, Caller ID, dawg.

  “Want me to get the translator?” I asked.

  “This means nothing.” She shoved it back at the thin man.

  “It details your violent assault on the Malaysian official in question,” the thinner man said.

  Mercury said, Hello? Anybody home? Caller ID.

  He clasped his hands over the binder, leaned back slightly, and tucked in his chin as if he’d just proven her guilty of stealing the Mona Lisa. He slowly unfolded his arm to retrieve the fax. I was fighting the urge to punch him when something on the paper caught my eye.

  “Gimme that.” I snatched it from him. “This is an official complaint from Malaysia?”

  “Indeed,” the thin man said. “Straight from the Commissioner of Sarawak, Borneo.”

  I pointed at the top line with the originating phone number. “Then why did he fax it from China? The prefix 86-20 is Chinese, isn’t it?”

  I snapped a pic of the header before the Japanese officer grabbed the fax from me. He stared at it for three seconds, then glared at the men in suits. They backed up a step. He began shouting in Japanese and waving his arms. The men in suits tried to speak, but he cut them off with more shouting. The men in suits turned and walked away.

  The Japanese officer faced us and bowed several times, repeating a phrase with each dip that I took as an apology. “Moushiwake arimasen deshita.”

  “Arigatau gozaimasu.” Ms. Sabel bowed. Thank you very much.

  The officer backed up, continually repeating his phrase.

  She climbed the airstair ahead of me. “Good thinking back there. I’m un-firing you for sleeping on the job.”

  “What did those guys want?”

  “Embassy guys. They said the Pak Uban filed an assault complaint. They wanted me to turn the jet around and return to Borneo.”

  She took her seat and stared out the window.

  I took the seat facing her, the one Tania usually snapped up, and tapped my finger on the table. “The villagers you pissed off back there—how did they get the State Department to fall for a faked fax? Who are they connected to in Guangzhou?”

  She shrugged without looking at me.

  “You know,” I said, “your father might have been right when he told you not to pick a fight with President Hunter. I’ll bet she’s behind this.”

  “She’s looking for an excuse to take me down, but it’s 2:00 AM in Washington. It’s unlikely she would’ve heard about Borneo.”

  “Who did you piss off in China then?” I asked.

  Her gaze snapped to me and drilled a hole clean through. “How would anyone in China know about some jungle warlord’s problems?”

  “What happened back there?”

  “Doesn’t matter.” She turned back to the window.

  Tania stepped out of the cockpit and stood in the aisle with her arms crossed. She stared at me as if I were in her seat. Then she turned to Ms. Sabel. “Pilot says wheels up in twenty. There’s a sushi bar in the executive terminal. Want me to grab some fish?”

  Ms. Sabel smiled at her, then turned to me. “Grab your things. You’re going back to Borneo.”

  “What, to get killed?”

  “You weren’t with us—the Pak Uban wouldn’t know you from any other tourist. Head to the commercial terminal and grab a flight to Sarawak. Take Bujang with you. I want to know if the Pak Uban filed charges, has any connections in China, all that kind of thing. Oh, and while you’re at it, see if the government did anything about that death camp.”

  “Want me to bring about world peace too?” I said. She gave me a dirty look. I darted to the luggage compartment to grab my stuff.

  Tania escorted me into the Executive Terminal, where we stopped at the sushi bar and placed orders to go. Bujang stayed a step behind us.

  “Who’s this Pack Urban?” I asked him.

  “Pak Uban,” he said quietly. “It means ‘white haired uncle.’ It’s an unofficial title of respect for regional and tribal leaders. Like a mayor, police chief, and judge rolled into one. There are several of them.”

  I turned back to Tania. “What happened back at the village?”

  “We learned that the local boss raped women on a regular basis. Pia messed up the guy and two of his henchmen.”

  “You couldn’t stop her?”

  Tania glanced at me as if I were spoiled milk. “Stop her? Men always think like that. I helped her.”

  Ms. Sabel had taken up boxing in high school and Tania spent several years as an Army MP. The women had themselves a feminist’s dream day. Good for them.

  Our orders piled up. Plenty of yellowtail and spicy tuna with avocado and mango were stacked in boxes on the counter.

  “So you beat them up and they decided to kill you?” I asked Tania while I watched the chef slic
e through the fish with surgical precision.

  “One of them had a knife and Pia took it away from him. She heard how you cut Kasey Earl’s ear off when he raped that girl back in Kandahar.”

  “She cut his ear off?”

  “Unoriginal,” Tania said.

  I studied Bujang for a clue. He kept his head down. I said, “By any chance, is the Pak Uban related to the guy who’s now missing body parts?”

  Bujang said, “First-born son.”

  Tania grabbed her order, lifted her nose at me instead of saying goodbye, kicked out a hip, and swiveled her way down the terminal.

  Bujang observed every swivel until I snapped my fingers in front of him.

  “We’re going to see the Pak Uban?” he asked with a lump in his throat.

  “You don’t think he’s going to be happy to see us?”

  “He knows you were with them.”

  I picked up our food and marched down the terminal, heading for the commercial airlines.

  Of course the local warlord would know everyone who comes to his fiefdom. His jungle drums have been beating a BOLO for me since dawn and, no doubt, he’d know the minute I set foot on Malaysian soil again.

  Some days, I just can’t wait to go to work.

  CHAPTER 6

  Borneo’s jungle had grown three shades darker since I left. Prama beamed a smile from under the ice pack she held to her right eye. “You gone get these guys, Jacob?”

  “Consider them dead.”

  “They pay for damage lobby first. Then you make dead.”

  I glanced across the small room at a workman who swept sawdust and shards into a trash bin. “No problem.”

  She held out the keys to her aging Nissan pickup.

  Bujang followed me outside and we waved off the chopper pilot. The Nissan creaked and clanked nicely over the rough roads while Bujang navigated.

  Long after dark, we parked the truck and walked to a clearing overlooking the Pak Uban’s village. The huts were larger than I expected—two or three rooms each, some with porches. All of them were made of unpainted boards with enough gaps between them to see clear through. I scanned the village for a long time, then handed the binoculars to Bujang and showed him how to switch from thermal to night vision.