Dark Alchemy (Dr. Sylvia Strange Book 5)

by Sarah Lovett

  "The feds screwed up," Dexter was saying. The pronouncement was delivered in a derisive near-whisper. "But so did my guy on protocol." Equally derisive. "He should've kept Palmer at the door and contacted me. It won't happen again. As of thirty minutes ago, he's out of a job."

  Sweetheart grunted. Not good enough. He knew firsthand what Palmer was capable of—don't touch, don't get burned. Several times tonight he'd considered taking Dexter down verbally—Sylvia and Palmer had made contact because Dexter's security had performed badly—but a takedown wouldn't win points, not in the end. He said calmly, "I'd consider it a personal favor if you keep this number at hand. If Palmer makes a move, any move—"

  "You hear it ASAP," Dexter said, the drawl thicker than usual.

  "Quantico will finish the formal pathology report on Doug Thomas in the next day or so," Sweetheart said, casting out a line—information on the death of Dr. Thomas—as a return of favor.

  After he'd disconnected, he reached across the night table for his Palm Pilot and sent a message. Forty minutes later he received a response.

  The message waited for Rikishi, "Strong Man." It came from Toshiyori, the "Elder," a man whose elite position in Washington made him an invaluable source for extremely sensitive intelligence.

  Encoded data led Sweetheart to two newpaper articles: an announcement of the employment of the American scientist Dr. Douglas Thomas by a Hong Kong biologicals company in 1990; the other, a brief article about a business consortium in Hong Kong—a company that dealt with biologicals—and possible connections to the Triads.

  Sweetheart closed his eyes again, exploring the jagged pieces of the puzzle. It never looked simple, but in the end it always was.

  His mind strayed back to Japan, back to the incessant rain and the fact that Masuma Hayashi had served the village elders and the children first. The complex answer: the desire to annihilate the innocent and the old.

  The simple answer: serving children and elders first was considered polite.

  If she was anything, Masuma Hayashi was polite.

  Sylvia barely slept the few hours until her alarm went off, but when she rose, she found Matt already gone. There was no note. A miserable start to a new day, the new case.

  As she showered, she thought about a conversation she'd had with Rosie Sanchez just last week, after she and Matt had argued over—what? She couldn't remember anymore. Something trivial and unimportant, no doubt.

  He: "Don't leave a sink filled with last night's dishes and cold, greasy water."

  She: "Throw your dirty clothes in the hamper, not on every available piece of furniture."

  They rarely argued over anything major. They were compatible. So why, when it came to marriage and children, did she still have those shadowy doubts?

  She reassured herself they'd work through this; they'd have a serious talk—and make love and make up—as soon as she returned from London.

  She packed her bag: an extra pair of black slacks, sweater, tuxedo shirt, shorts and running shoes for the treadmill (although experience told her the Brits weren't fixated on their gym experience the way Americans were), umbrella and slicker. She almost forgot her underwear and her passport.

  She had two hours of work to complete in town, and then she would be on her way to the airport. Sweetheart had mentioned their flight was booked through Houston.

  It was barely six-fifteen when she stowed the garment bag behind the front seat of her truck and drove off the property. The sun seemed to struggle to rise over the Sangre de Cristos.

  She pressed autodial on the cell phone—waiting while it rang—until a sleepy voice said, "Hello."

  "Serena?"

  "Sylvia?"

  "I woke you up, honey. Sorry."

  "That's okay." The yawn was audible. "What time is it?"

  "Early. I'm on my way to London for two days. I wanted to give you the skinny myself."

  "Is Matt going with you?"

  "No, this is work."

  "What kind of work? Are you going alone? What about the wedding? Your dress, Sylvia." Serena drew out the last syllable on a plaintive note.

  Sylvia was amazed at the abrupt transformation from sleepy child to attentive adult. She said, "I'm going with Edmond Sweetheart—you know, the Professor."

  "Professor Sumo!" She yelped excitedly and so loudly that Sylvia jerked the phone from her ear. Serena had actually attended a sumo match in L.A.; she'd seen Sweetheart in a yokozuna tsuna, the ceremonial belt—quite a sight. When she'd regained her calm, Serena asked, "When will you be back exactly?"

  "Thursday night exactly."

  "As long as you're back by Friday." Serena waited, letting the point settle. "You remember what's happening Friday, don't you?"

  "Absolutely." Sylvia searched her brain for enlightenment; she heard her foster daughter inhale just as it came to her—the presentation for Students Against Drugs. "I'm speaking to students at your school."

  "SAD's even putting an ad in the paper," Serena said proudly.

  "I wouldn't miss it for the world."

  "Sylvia?"

  "Yes, honey, what is it?"

  "Matt's not happy about this going-away stuff, is he?"

  "No, he's not." Sylvia's eyes widened; sometimes the child was too perceptive. "But he's okay."

  And then Serena turned into a grandmother, wagging a verbal finger, saying in a wise voice, "Is this one of those adult things, when you pretend it's work but it's really being afraid?"

  Sylvia opened her mouth to say no.

  Instead, she took another breath and shook her head.

  "Everything's A-okay. I'll be back by Friday to talk to the kids at Cristo Rey. And the weekend after that, I'll be at the church to get married to Matt, with you and Rosie as my maid and matron of honor. Deal?"

  "Deal."

  PART II

  Chemeia, Chumeia

  CHAPTER

  8

  redrider: working late again?

  alchemist: you too

  redrider: you can do better than that

  alchemist: enlighten me

  redrider: you're fishing / need my time zone just ask

  alchemist: ??

  redrider: not yet

  alchemist: name?

  redrider: let's establish rapport

  alchemist: is this blackmail?

  redrider: never/ oh god / you misunderstand

  alchemist: what then?

  redrider: homage / worship

  alchemist: boring

  redrider: . . . then you'll welcome no contact for a day or so

  alchemist: ?

  redrider: preparing for visitors

  alchemist: explain

  redrider: let the facts speak for themselves

  Chapter

  9

  At 8:55 A.M. on Tuesday, in front of baggage claim in Gatwick Airport, a rather sheepish-looking little man stood holding a cardboard sign inscribed with one word: SWEETHEART.

  "Isn't that nice," Sylvia teased, stifling a yawn. "Wherever we go, people love you."

  The little man introduced himself as Eddie and explained (in an almost incomprehensible Cockney accent) that he would collect their luggage and stow it in the boot. He steered them vaguely toward a hired car parked at the curb outside the terminal before disappearing in the crowd.

  As they dodged pedestrians, Sylvia found herself longing for an icy Coke or a very black, very tall cup of espresso, but there were no food purveyors in sight, not even vending machines. In lieu of caffeine, she discovered a battered stick of Juicy Fruit in her coat pocket. She stopped in front of the exit doors, stripped off the wrapper, and popped the gum into her mouth. She caught Sweetheart watching her, and she made a face as they stepped out into the damp English air.

  While Sweetheart appeared inhumanly alert, she felt muzzy and sleep-deprived. (The slight drizzling rain didn't help.) The flight had been turbulent, warm, airless, and it had offered few opportunities for discourse with her traveling companion. Sweetheart had been t
ight-lipped, in another world, during all but takeoff and landing.

  At least she could think of one plus: the undisturbed and inescapable confinement had allowed her to focus all her restless energy on Palmer's thick case file, as well as a chilling text on the investigation of criminal poisoning—a text edited by none other than Palmer herself.

  She'd come away with wary respect, even more than she'd already gained from the Riker investigation, for the poisoners' craft. It was adaptable—death could be virtually painless or so excruciating that it made a gun or a knife seem merciful. It was versatile—the toxin of choice could be mundane, as in cyanide-based rat poison, or exotic, as in radioactive P-32. It was flexible: death could take months or minutes.

  As they approached a line of vehicles at the curb, Sweetheart pulled up short, and Sylvia saw that he was reacting to a tall, gaunt cipher of a man who had seemingly appeared from nowhere and was now intent on intersecting their path.

  "Follow me," the man hissed in a low whisper.

  To Sylvia's surprise, Sweetheart did, urging her toward a battered Bentley that was double-parked beyond the hired cars. "Paul Lang," he informed her, just as the tall man ducked behind the steering wheel of the car.

  "What—?"

  "I'll explain later."

  Sweetheart took the backseat. As Sylvia slid breathlessly into the worn leather passenger seat, she found herself staring directly at Lang's armband, a black stripe encircling his soiled gray sleeve, a symbol of mourning worn six months after Samantha Grayson's death.

  "Who's she?" Lang demanded, eyes in the rearview mirror on Sweetheart.

  "Dr. Strange is my colleague—a profiler from America."

  "FBI?"

  "Free-agent."

  "What the hell took you so long?" Lang barked, shifting gears and accelerating into airport traffic. His hands were trembling on the wheel, his pallid complexion had the dull sheen of old sweat, and though he wore a tailored gray suit and a hand-painted silk tie, he smelled—the odor a combination of cigarette smoke, perspiration, and something faintly chemical. As he cut across lanes, Lang amazed Sylvia by inquiring politely and incongruously about their flight, jet lag, and any plans to see the sights of London.

  "We slept on the plane," Sweetheart said.

  "Speak for yourself," Sylvia said, glancing over her shoulder, already knowing she would find that curiously intent gleam in her colleague's eyes—sure enough, like diamonds in onyx. She tried to catch his attention, wanting to know what the hell was going on, but he kept his focus on Lang.

  Sylvia mentally reviewed the files she'd accessed on Samantha Grayson's fiancé: thirty-four (although he looked older), never married, a ten-year employee of MI-6, the British agency responsible for monitoring foreign intelligence. Lang had no glam job; he was no James Bond; his specialty was intelligence analysis (usually from behind a desk), and according to all accounts, he did his job well and was respected by his colleagues.

  Up until a few months ago, when he'd gone off the deep end. His reaction to Samantha Grayson's violent death had been so intense—depression, paranoia, insomnia—that MI-6 had placed him on medical/compassionate leave.

  Oncoming traffic streamed past, and Sylvia experienced a sense of displacement. Why did the Brits stubbornly insist on veering to the left instead of driving in the right lane like most of the civilized world? She was startled when Lang's voice filled the car's interior.

  "I need your schedule."

  "Our first stop is BioPort," Sweetheart said, naming a private for-profit company so closely tied to England's most famous chemical and biological defense establishment, Porton Down, that its headquarters was on government grounds.

  BioPort also happened to be the institution where Dr. Christine Palmer had completed her last research project, and presumably where Samantha Grayson had been exposed to the toxic organism that caused her death. Those thoughts raced through Sylvia's mind as Lang interrogated Sweetheart. "Porton Down? How'd you get access? Not through the FBI's legal attaché—"

  "I worked with one of their people in Hong Kong, a sticky case involving black market biologicals. Turned out for the best."

  "And they owe you a favor." Lang had a feverish glow. "What are they offering?"

  "Interviews with personnel."

  "The place was tight as a drum—you won't get near the secure lab, but check out the working proximity between Palmer and Sam." Without glancing at the side mirror, Lang changed lanes abruptly. His maneuver was greeted by horns, but he seemed oblivious to the noise outside the Bentley. "PD's in Wiltshire County, that's roughly a hundred fifty kilometers west of London. Lots of traffic. What time are you due?"

  "Eleven hundred hours."

  Lang cut in front of a massive truck. "I won't keep you much longer."

  "What have you got?" Sweetheart asked.

  Lang reached beneath his seat, produced a manila envelope, held it over the seat in front of Sweetheart.

  "What's this?"

  "Not yet," Lang said, pulling the envelope out of reach just as Sweetheart tried to take it, then sliding it back under the seat. "First things first. What do you know about Porton Down?"

  It took Sylvia a few seconds to realize the question was directed at her, and she stumbled a bit, then caught her breath. "It's military; biological and chemical research; controversial—at the moment because somebody discovered a series of tests performed on human subjects during the nineteen fifties; at least one soldier died from sarin gas exposure. And now there's a question if the experiments on humans spanned other decades."

  "What else?" Lang asked harshly. Over the course of the last few miles, he'd grown increasingly tense, as if his inner timing mechanism had been notched up and his synapses were carrying more volts.

  "It's also where Ms. Grayson was exposed to the neurotoxin—"

  "Bloody bullshit."

  Adenaline jolt. Sylvia realized she'd reacted physically to Lang's outburst. She took a breath, glancing at Sweetheart, but he offered no guidance, refused to run interference.

  Now Lang seemed to be sulking, and he kept silent until Sylvia began to wonder if he was going to speak at all. Where was he taking them? The traffic had thinned, and the streets were lined with light industrial warehouses, shipping offices, machine shops. The few pedestrians had the numb expressions of people who work long hours repeating themselves.

  "You know where Sam and I met?"

  Quickly, Sylvia refocused her attention on Lang. Apparently he'd decided to let her be the sole contestant in his personal production of Survivor meets Weakest Link.

  Bzzzzzz! Are you stupid? She'd gone blank, couldn't remember if she'd seen anything in the file, shook her head.

  "Basson investigation. Bloody bastard, Basson."

  She nodded, shifting in her seat, making an unsuccessful attempt to find a tolerable posture for her long body. Her underpants were trapped between her butt cheeks, her mouth had gone dry, and she recognized the first strokes of a headache. In the next lane, a goggle-eyed child peered down at her from a double-decker bus.

  "The South African general," Sweetheart interjected. "In two thousand he was tried for his participation in Nazi-type experiments and assassination attempts against antiapartheid leaders. Basson and his people were experimenting with cholera, anthrax, and assorted biological agents—and they showed a preference for human test subjects."

  "MI-6 was tracking Basson for years," Lang said. His attention was now focused on Sweetheart; he seemed to have forgotten that he was driving, and his voice faded as he said, "Bioterrorism is an incestuous world . . ."

  "Weren't Basson's suppliers black marketeers, pharmaceuticals, governments?" Sweetheart was trying to jar Lang back to the present. It worked.

  "That's right." Lang shook his head sharply, as if he had to physically adjust, get back on track. He'd come down a notch. "The investigation made everyone damn nervous. But Samantha was just beginning her postgraduate stint when we approached her, and she welcomed the chance to c
onsult on some of the scientific and technical data. She was assigned to my division."

  "If it was risky, why did she agree?" Sylvia asked, realizing too late that this might set him off again.

  But Lang was oddly distant now. "Sam liked risks; she was easily bored." He turned toward Sylvia. "Do you know Christine?"

  She shook her head, frowned, gave a half-nod. "I've met Dr. Palmer—once."

  Lang returned his eyes to the road. He'd taken his foot off the accelerator and the Bentley coasted slowly along the almost deserted street. "Then you know her," he said finally. "The same way you know a cobra when you meet it."

  The car rolled to a stop. He switched off the engine. Sylvia was acutely aware of the sound of the ticking engine. Sweetheart seemed primed for just about anything.

  Anything but the matter-of-fact delivery: "I became familiar with Christine Palmer when she was still at Lawrence Livermore." Lang spoke as if, after the slightest pause, he'd picked up a thread in an ongoing conversation. While his voice revealed shadings of weariness and sadness, he sounded completely controlled, perfectly sane. (Or would have, Sylvia thought, if he hadn't been working up to a frenzy just minutes before.)

  He ran long slender fingers through his every-which-way hair. "She provided data for an analysis—we were tracking bioweapons. I'm familiar with anyone working with rare biological agents, especially when their work, like Palmer's, is cutting edge." He sighed—"Incestuous world"—then paused, possibly reviewing the chronology in his head.

  "Sam started at Porton Down just after we'd become an item," he said. "She'd admired Palmer's work, had applied for projects before, worshiped her, in fact. For the first few months everything went well."

  "What changed?"

  "Palmer changed. Bloody nightmare. Logical one day, a row over nothing the next. She blamed Sam for everything: mistakes in protocol, measuring and recording data. The other team members noticed, and it undermined morale." He shook his head. "Sam even thought about resigning."