The Adamas Blueprint

by Boyd Morrison

  Erica examined the inside of the door, hoping she could lock herself in the chamber until whoever was using the room returned. The door was actually composed of two sections, one that swung into the outer room, and a second insulating door that swung into the chamber. It was covered on the inside by more of the foam wedges. Both doors had handles on the inside, but neither had eyelets for a padlock. She could close the doors, but there was no way to lock them from the inside.

  Faintly, she heard pounding outside the chamber.

  * * *

  Franco had stopped at the top of the stairs, seeing the door slam on the room at the end of the hall. He removed the walkie-talkie while wiping his eyes with the sleeve of his jacket and repeatedly pressed the button calling Wilson.

  “Wilson here. Go ahead.”

  “It’s her. Goddammit! The bitch maced me!”

  “What! You idiot! I told you not to contact her without me.”

  “She made me when she came out of the library,” Franco had lied. “She started to run. I had to go after her.”

  “Did she get away?”

  “No, I’m in the physics building. I’ve got her trapped in one of the rooms on the second floor, but it’s going to be tougher getting her to the car now. Get over here and help me out.”

  “On my way.”

  Franco had run down to the room, pulling out his Glock 19. With the automatic raised, he gently pushed down on the lever. He heard the click of the latch disengaging and pushed the door slightly. No deadbolt.

  He threw the full weight of his body against it, ready to crouch and duck another mace attack. He’d shoot her, but not to kill, much as he’d like to. Expecting to hit a yielding door, he wasn’t ready for the sudden stop almost immediately after the door had begun to open. His head smacked against the steel with a resounding thud, and he almost fell to his knees again.

  Holding his head, he shook out the stars. Maybe his aim would be off just this once, and there would be a fatal accident. Lobec wouldn’t like it, but tough shit. Franco had had just about enough of Erica Jensen.

  He threw his shoulder against the door, this time anticipating the shock. On the third try, the door gave slightly. Three more times and it flew open.

  He crouched as he’d originally intended, but no mace came. A quick look around the room. She wasn’t in sight.

  Then he heard it. A faint, almost nonexistent, beeping. It was coming from the direction of the open door of a large metal chamber in the opposite corner of the room. The sound of a doctor’s pager. It abruptly stopped, and he realized the hospital must have paged the med student. Tough luck for her. It didn’t matter, though. He would have found her anyway.

  He eased over to the door and opened it wider. He peeked around the corner. The chamber was faintly lit, but he could tell that the Jensen woman was not in view. He crept up the stairs, his back to the door, the Glock held at arm’s length.

  As he stepped onto the wire mesh, he still couldn’t see her. But he knew where she was. A 4 by 8 sheet of plywood leaned against the far corner, plenty of room for someone to hide behind.

  “Miss Jensen, why don’t you come out? I don’t want to hurt you, but I will if I have to. And if you spray me again, I will hurt you.”

  No response. This bitch was tougher than he thought. He slowly walked over to the plywood, then hooked his foot under it and kicked it aside.

  The woman wasn’t there. Only two things sat on the wire mesh: a pager and a key.

  Shit!

  He whipped around to see the door swinging shut.

  * * *

  Erica pulled on the chamber’s outer door as hard as she could, but the enormous metal frame was as heavy as it looked and only with effort started to shut. She didn’t dare look into the chamber, but she heard the police impersonator curse as he realized what happened. The lock in her hand poked her skin, but she pulled harder.

  The door was almost closed, traveling at a tremendous rate, when a hand shot through the opening. The man’s weight fell against the other side of the door, but it wasn’t enough to halt the inertia of the door’s massive bulk. His hand was crushed as the door slammed it against the jamb. He let out a scream, and the weight momentarily lifted. The hand disappeared into the chamber.

  Erica used the opportunity to latch the door. As she tried to thread the lock through the handle mechanism, gunshots rang out, and she almost fell from the stairs in surprise. She looked down and saw with relief that the bullets, unable to penetrate the thick door, only made small protrusions on her side. Her fumbling hands finally got the lock in place just as the man began pounding on the other side, and she closed it with a satisfying click.

  Suspecting that she didn’t have much time before his friends arrived, she collected her purse and headed for the exit. The impersonator’s muted curses faded quickly as she ran down the hall.

  CHAPTER 12

  Clay Tarnwell leaned into the drive, never taking his eyes off the ball, following through with the form he’d learned at Pinehurst. As soon as the ball left the tee, he knew he’d sliced it. The ball curved gracefully away from the center of the fairway and toward the stand of ashes lining the right side of the rough. It bounced once and then came to rest a good 200 yards from the green. He’d be lucky to make a bogey on this hole, let alone par. It was a perfect shot, exactly where he’d wanted it.

  A white-haired gentleman sporting a straw hat, lime green pants, and a well-rounded paunch started laughing as soon as the ball hit the ground.

  “If I didn’t know you any better, Clay,” said the sweating man as he took his driver from the bag in the back of the golf cart, “I’d say you shanked that one on purpose.”

  “You’re right, Rex,” said Tarnwell, trying to sound disgusted. “And the next one is going in the left sand trap if I can make it. What do think? Would a 3 iron do it?”

  Rex Hanson laughed again, and then lined up at the tee. After taking sufficient time to level his swing, he drove a beautiful shot at least fifty yards past Tarnwell’s directly down the fairway.

  Tarnwell shook his head as if to curse his luck, but he could have easily beaten his companion, probably by at least eight strokes. He played a four handicap but he had intentionally been missing the harder shots on the previous 12 holes. Now he was coming even with Hanson again and saw a good chance to stay behind for a while, so he took it.

  Not that Tarnwell wasn’t competitive. He was. Very. But only at one thing. Making money. All this he-man stuff was bullshit. Sure, he was good at it. A natural athlete all his life, Tarnwell had been gifted enough to play linebacker at the University of Michigan until a knee injury ended his career. He’d gotten a lot of sympathy at the time, but one thing nobody seemed to realize was that he didn’t really care.

  Football was a means to an end, the method of putting himself through school, his major in both business and chemistry. That was the ticket out of his father’s shadow, the way to make even more than the vaunted Bernard Tarnwell ever dreamed of having. All his life, Clayton Tarnwell saw the pot of gold at the end of the rainbow, and he couldn’t care less how beautiful that rainbow was. If it could lead him to the pot, fine. Otherwise, it was just in the way.

  And losing to this shithead was just another means to that end. If he had to lose a few rounds of golf, so be it. As long as it made Rex Hanson happy and ready to close a deal, he’d piss into the wind for all he cared.

  They climbed into the cart with Tarnwell driving. Another of Hanson’s little ways of attempting to show who was in control. He never drove his own cars, preferring to leave that menial chore to his underlings.

  Tarnwell was glad to drive, owning six vintage Ferraris himself, often driving one of them to work. Besides, he knew it would make Hanson happy.

  “So, Clay,” said Hanson as they drove, “you really think you can pull this merger off? If you don’t, there’s no way I could help save you or your company. Your credit would be ruined. You wouldn’t be able to get a five dollar loan with t
en dollars collateral.”

  Tarnwell thought he would get this response, which is exactly why he was trying to butter the old man up by losing.

  “Rex, I know what I’m doing. I’ve given this a lot of thought, and there’s just no way I can lose. Not with my ace. When the banks realize what this new invention means, they’ll be throwing money at me.”

  “Clay, the only reason I’m here, letting you pretend you’re losing to me, is that your father was a good friend of mine. You were always a suck-up and a cheat. But you were also loyal to your father and extremely good at making money. I never understood why Bernie didn’t leave you his company. I suppose it was his attempt to teach you some values, late as it was, most likely the same reason he made you pay for your own education, but I was probably as surprised as you were. Now you’ve built up your own company, almost as successful as your father’s. I just don’t want to see you blow it, son.”

  The line about being almost as successful as his father grated on Tarnwell, but he managed to hold back a sneer. His father had built up a mining company from scratch and then sold it for $200 million. When his father died in Clayton Tarnwell’s senior year of college, the will left him with a pittance, less than $500,000, with the rest going to charity. Tarnwell was furious, betrayed by his own father to whom he had shown unwavering devotion. He had used that money to start his own company, Tarnwell Mining and Chemical, just to show the world he was even better at making money than Bernard Tarnwell. Now he was a week away from proving that point.

  “This buyout is important,” Tarnwell said. “If it doesn’t come through, it’ll take me two years to get up to full production on Adamas. Forrestal Chemical has the facilities I need now. I’ve been trying to buy those facilities, but they won’t sell. If I had them, I could be producing in two months. The only other choice is to buy the company. And without your support, I’ll never get the loans I need for the leveraged buyout.”

  “You’re sure this Adamas process works? How has testing been?”

  Tarnwell pulled to a stop near his ball. “Final validation is taking place as we speak. We should know the results by Tuesday. But I’ve seen the process myself. It works. Tarnwell Mining and Chemical already has an invention disclosure out, and the patent process will be well under way this week.”

  “I certainly trust your business sense if nothing else. I know you wouldn’t do anything to con me.” Hanson looked at Tarnwell as if posing a question.

  “Of course not. This is the wisest investment you’ll ever make.”

  Hanson paused and then nodded. “I leave on a business trip Monday afternoon. Come to my office first thing Monday morning. We’ll talk to Wayne Haddam over at First Texas. I’m sure we’ll be able to work out a favorable agreement.”

  “Thanks, Rex,” Tarnwell said as he climbed out of the cart. “You won’t be disappointed.”

  “I better not be.”

  CHAPTER 13

  Kevin looked around nervously as Erica punched her code into the ATM. The vestibule was partially enclosed, but he could see Kirby Drive easily from his position, as easily as the passing motorists could see him. He didn’t like being exposed like this, especially when using an electronic device that could be traced.

  Erica removed the maximum $300 from the receptacle and retrieved her card.

  After she had picked Kevin up and told him what had happened at the university, they’d agreed that the people they were dealing with were probably resourceful enough to trace their credit cards. They hadn’t discussed what to do next, but it seemed like a good idea to have as much cash on hand as possible, so they headed to an ATM that Erica didn’t normally use. Since Barnett and Kaplan had taken Kevin’s wallet, there was no way to get the $86 in his checking account.

  “It’ll be another 24 hours before I can take any more out,” Erica said.

  “I hope you don’t mind that we’re doing this,” said Kevin, as they walked toward the Honda.

  “I’ve got some extra saved up. We’ll be OK.” He thought that the last phrase meant more than the money, perhaps trying to reassure herself that the entire situation would be all right. He could tell that she was still unnerved by her close call.

  When they were back in the car, Erica sat staring at the steering wheel as if in a trance.

  “What now?” she said. She had already called the hospital and told them she couldn’t come in for her ER rotation this afternoon, making up the excuse that there was a death in the family. Which almost came true.

  “Start driving,” Kevin said. “If they’ve tapped into your account, they may know we just made a withdrawal from this location.”

  Erica started the car and turned south onto Kirby. “What do you think the chances are that they’ll find this car? They probably know my license plate number by now.”

  “As long as we stay away from anywhere we usually go,” Kevin said, “it’ll be coincidence if they see us. And if they find us on some random street, then either our luck is incredibly bad, or they have so much intelligence or manpower that we’ll never get away from them. The question is, how do we get into that safe deposit box on Monday?”

  Erica seemed to come back to her senses and looked at him. “Ever since I found the key I’ve been thinking about that. And I only came up with two possibilities. We can either give the key to the police…”

  “No way. As soon as we say it’s from Ward, it’ll get back to Robley. They’ll just think it’s another prank.”

  “We could drop it off anonymously,” Erica said.

  “What if the police just mail it to the bank? Who knows what’ll happen. It’s too risky.”

  “Then the only other option is for you to use the key and open the safe deposit box.”

  “Me?”

  “Well, they’re not going to think I’m Michael Ward.”

  “And you think I’ll do better?”

  “One time you told me that you filled out so many forms for Dr. Ward that you probably signed his name better than he did.”

  “That’s true, but so what? You think I’m going to walk in there and just sign my name and they’ll let me in? Come on!” Kevin threw his hands up.

  “Why not? Banks are so big nowadays that the odds of the bank officer knowing any one customer are 100 to 1. And I’ve had a safe deposit box before. All they make you do is show them your ID and sign your name.”

  “Hello McFly! One of those two is missing. I don’t even have my own driver’s license, let alone one that says Michael Ward.”

  Erica rolled her eyes and gritted her teeth. “Fine. What do you want to do?”

  Kevin started to say something and then stopped and closed his mouth.

  “Are you through?”

  Kevin knew he was letting his temper get out of hand. She was right to make him stop ranting and start thinking.

  “I’m sorry,” he said. “I’m just not in this kind of situation very often.”

  “Me neither. But ER rotations make you deal with stress as efficiently as possible. Now, as I was about to say, we need to go get you a driver’s license, Dr. Ward.”

  “And I guess you know how to do that,” Kevin said. He wasn’t being sarcastic. He knew she must have some sort of plan.

  Erica just nodded and turned left, pointing the Honda towards the Astrodome.

  * * *

  As they passed the retracting gate of the Beechwood Manor apartment complex and entered its parking lot, Kevin’s thoughts returned to the flight from his own complex. So much had happened already that it seemed as if days had passed since he’d heard of Dr. Ward’s death. He glanced at the digital watch on his wrist. It had only been seven hours.

  As they got out of the car, Kevin noticed a superficial similarity between his complex and this one. Perhaps they had been built by the same developer. But that’s where the similarity ended. The buildings here looked as if they hadn’t been painted in ten years, and the pool they walked past was dirty and full of leaves. He was amazed that the elec
tric gate had still been working.

  He still wasn’t sure that coming to this seedy area east of the Astrodome was a good idea. After leaving the bank, Erica had stopped to phone the guy they were about to meet to make sure that he was home. His name was Daryl Grotman, a University of Houston student she had treated a month ago for burns. Apparently, he had been concocting a contact explosive out of iodine and ammonia, one that was pressure sensitive. Kevin was familiar with the compound. Ammonium triiodide, powerful stuff.

  Daryl said he had heard about it from another student and wanted to see if he could make it. During the mixing, which he conducted in his bedroom, he had the doors to his apartment open for ventilation and a breeze slammed the bedroom door shut. The change in air pressure was enough to detonate the explosive. Luckily, he had been across the room at the time and only suffered burns to his arms. Still, the firefighters insisted that he go to the emergency room.

  The guy didn’t get out much, going on and on about every detail of his life as Erica bandaged him. He bragged to Erica about his side business and told her that if she ever needed any help, just call him. Erica hadn’t taken it seriously. Patients often professed that kind of gratitude and made up all kinds of stories. But she couldn’t forget the number Daryl had told her. 555-FAKE.

  Luckily, Daryl had been there to answer their phone call. When she told him who she was, he remembered her immediately and said that there would be no problem helping them out. All they needed to do was stop and get a passport photo taken of Kevin, which they did on the way over.

  As they walked up to 215G, they heard heavy metal blasting from the apartment. Kevin didn’t recognize the band, but it was fairly hardcore. He wondered if the neighbors ever complained. Probably not.

  After banging on the door three times, Erica tried the knob. It turned easily. She pushed it open.