More Deaths Than One

by Pat Bertram

  “Even if you’re right and there was some sort of conspiracy, it’s nothing new. Soldiers have often been played with and manipulated in the name of science.”

  Harrison drained his beer. “I know. In the forties and fifties, they sent soldiers to the Nevada desert where they did the bomb tests. The scientists wanted to see first hand what effect radioactive fallout would have on humans. It’s not that big a leap from purposely putting soldiers in harm’s way to physically doing experiments on them.”

  Bob’s brows drew together. “You are, or were, an investigative journalist. You discovered a drug connection with the CIA that affected a heck of a lot more people than these hypothetical experiments could have. Why is this so painful for you?”

  “Maybe because I’m getting old. Or perhaps because it’s personal.”

  “Personal how?”

  Harrison responded with a shake of his head.

  “If, in fact, someone experimented on soldiers in the Philippines,” Bob said, “it happened a long time ago. Finding out now what had been done to them could only bring them more grief.”

  Harrison stared at Bob for several seconds. “Do you believe that?” he said at last.

  “Yes. I do.”

  Harrison yawned and rubbed his eyes. “We’ll have to continue this discussion another time. I’m beat. I have a long flight tomorrow, and then the book tour, so this might be my last chance for a good night’s sleep.” He sighed heavily and lumbered to his feet. “I’ll stop by to see you tomorrow before I leave.”

  ***

  Bob was in the courtyard, cutting flowers for a banquet to be held later that evening, when he heard Harrison’s voice inside the restaurant.

  “Is Bob around?”

  “He’s out by the lotus pool,” he heard Hsiang-li answer.

  Bob watched Harrison walk out the door, look around, shrug, sit, remove his boonie hat, drop it on the table, then look around some more. He noticed that the writer looked old and tired, as if he’d aged ten years overnight.

  When Bob finally stepped forward, Harrison glanced at him, then fixed his widened eyes on the knife Bob had been using to cut the flowers.

  “Is something wrong?” Bob asked.

  Harrison’s gaze returned to Bob’s face, and Bob could see the recognition dawning in his eyes.

  Harrison’s shoulders slumped. “I didn’t recognize you, Bob. I thought . . .” He shook his head, looking bewildered. “I didn’t see you come through the door.”

  “I’ve been out here the whole time.”

  “You have?” Harrison took a deep breath, and peered at Bob. “There’s something different about you.”

  “I didn’t sleep very well last night.”

  “Maybe that’s it.” He sighed. “I couldn’t sleep either.”

  “Did you eat? We’re not open yet, but I can fix you something.”

  Harrison massaged his neck, then dropped his hands between his knees, and stared at them. After a moment he raised his head. “I don’t have time to eat right now. I have to go catch a plane. I came by to tell you . . .” He glanced at Bob, then averted his eyes. “I came to say goodbye.”

  He pushed himself off the chair. Bob accompanied him outside where they made their final farewells.

  Harrison walked away. He stopped abruptly and looked back at Bob. They stared at each other for the space of several heartbeats, then Harrison turned and shambled off.

  When Bob went back to get his basket of flowers, he found Harrison’s boonie hat lying forgotten on the table. He grabbed it and dashed back outside, but Harrison had already disappeared.

  ***

  Bob blinked, trying to bring the present into focus.

  “I thought you were asleep,” Kerry said.

  “No.”

  “Where did you go?”

  “The past. Harrison. He played a big part in my life. One time in Da Nang, I got in a spot of trouble and he rescued me in his own oblique way.”

  She nodded. “A couple of guys beat you up in the men’s room. I remember.”

  “How . . . oh, right. Harrison’s book. It’s so strange that you know almost everything about me and I know almost nothing about you.”

  She shifted her gaze from the road to him, then back again. “There’s nothing to tell. For as long as I can remember, I lived for some mythical future where fantastic adventures awaited me. I never had a present, only that longing.”

  “Still, something must have happened to you in your thirty years.”

  “I’m not thirty.” She craned her neck to look at herself in the rearview mirror. “You think I look thirty?”

  “You don’t look a day over twenty, but that’s beside the point.”

  “Not to me it isn’t.”

  “Were you a cheerleader? I picture you as the girl on top of the pyramid who jumps fearlessly off into some brawny guy’s arms. Or maybe you were a homecoming queen.”

  She giggled. “Not even close. I was too much of a daydreamer to get involved in school activities, and no one ever thought of me as one of the beautiful girls.”

  He studied her for a minute, taking in her glossy black hair, radiant skin, and eyes that sparkled like a clear midnight sky. “The kids in your class must have been blind.” He gave her a sly smile. “I’ve seen better looking women than you. The girls in Chiang Mai are considered to be the most beautiful girls in the world, but you’ll do in a pinch.”

  She reached over and pinched his cheek. “So will you.”

  Suddenly they were both laughing, though Bob did not know why. The exchange hadn’t been that funny.

  She stopped laughing. “I had a lot of boyfriends, but none of them were worth anything. One of my very first memories is of cuddling a sweet little baby chick against my face. It was so soft, the softest thing I had ever felt. Then it pecked me. It taught me that the world may be soft and cuddly, but it could still peck. And that’s all I’ve met in my life, a bunch of peckers.”

  He didn’t know whether she wanted him to laugh or commiserate, so he nodded, but she stared at the road and didn’t look his way. He glanced out the window and realized they were far from the city. Long stretches of open field alternated with new housing developments. The air smelled of diesel fuel and onions.

  “Where are we?”

  “On the Valley Highway heading for Wyoming. I thought we could cash a few of your traveler’s checks in Cheyenne. Lay a false trail.”

  Bob nodded reflectively. “Good thinking. Then what?”

  “Circle back, I guess, unless you have a better idea.”

  “No. Besides, I have to return to ISI.”

  A breath caught in her throat. “Why?”

  “I met a girl—a young woman—who seemed inordinately interested in me. I need to find out why.”

  “I wish I could come with you.”

  “I’ll be better on my own. You’re too much of a distraction.”

  “It’s supposed to rain.”

  “Then I know what we’ll buy in Cheyenne. Khaki pants, a plain white shirt, a blue jacket, and maybe a clip-on tie and non-prescription eyeglasses.”

  “I see. You want to be able to keep changing your appearance like you did in Vietnam so people won’t notice you hanging around the cafeteria all day.”

  “You know me much too well.” He tried to sound severe, but he could hear the smile in his voice.

  Chapter 15

  It rained all day Monday.

  Although Bob spent the day in a corporate cafeteria in the United States instead of an NCO club in Vietnam, he had a strong sense of continuity, as if the intervening years had simply vanished. He kept glancing at the door, expecting Bill Harrison to come breezing in to enliven the room with his ready laugh and his steady stream of stories.

  No Harrison, of course, and no sign of the in-tense young woman, either.

  After a tasteless meal from a fast-food restau-rant, Bob checked into a motel.

  He sat on the bed, propped against the headboard, squeezi
ng the pink rubber ball, first with one hand and then another. Squeezing. Squeezing. Squeezing.

  In the early morning hours, still not tired but knowing he needed to rest, he put away the ball and turned off the light. He laid his head on the pillow, pulled the covers to his chin, and fell instantly asleep. It was as if, in some remote past, he had trained himself for such a contingency.

  ***

  Tuesday dawned bright and clear.

  Bob thought he detected a hint of pine in the air, blown down from the mountains on a rain-washed breeze. His fingers ached to lay on canvas the images the scent evoked, but he closed his mind against the desire and went on the prowl at ISI.

  Around noon, he sat at a picnic table, letting himself be seen. Shortly afterward, the young woman laid her tray on a nearby table.

  She glanced at him. He gave her a nod.

  She dropped her gaze to her plate and ate her food as if it were the last meal she’d ever consume.

  When she finished, she walked by Bob’s table and tripped over her high-heeled shoes. She landed at Bob’s feet, the contents of her tray strewn around her.

  “Help me up,” she said out of the corner of her mouth, “but act like you don’t know me.”

  “I don’t know you,” Bob said.

  “That’s real good. Keep pretending.”

  As Bob leaned over to give her a hand, she said, “You’re not the new guy in marketing, are you?”

  “No.”

  She stood and brushed herself off. “That’s what I thought. You’re here to investigate Doug Roybal’s murder, aren’t you?”

  “Yes,” Bob said, agreeing as he usually did. He stooped to retrieve her dishes and utensils.

  “Meet me at Pignoli’s at five o’clock,” she said. “It’s on One Hundred and Twentieth Avenue, just past the highway.”

  She picked up her refilled tray and strode off, good-naturedly parrying jeers and catcalls from the witnesses to her tumble.

  ***

  At four o’clock, Bob entered Pignoli’s, ordered a draft beer, and took it to a table at the rear where he had an unimpeded view of the entire bar and its patrons.

  Pignoli’s, decorated with dead animal heads, seemed a strange choice for an office worker, especially a woman. The bar seemed to cater to construction workers, day laborers, and old men with grime permanently imbedded in the wrinkles of their leathery skin. No one who crossed the threshold had the pampered arrogance of Evans’s men or the soft hands of a corporate drone. No one exhibited any interest in Bob.

  The young woman entered at five o’clock exactly. Bob remained seated and watched her. She perched on the edge of a barstool, facing the door. After a minute or two, she shrugged, turned around, and ordered a beer. She drained it in long gulps.

  An old man slapped a bill on the table. “Another for the lady.”

  “No thanks,” she said. “I can get my own.”

  “Aw shucks, honey. Humor an old man for once.”

  She smiled. “All right, Mr. Tonetti, you win, as always.”

  “I keep telling you to call me Tony,” he said.

  When her second beer arrived, she took a long pull. “Do me a favor, will you, Tony? I’m meeting a guy I don’t know very well. Will you watch to make sure nothing happens?”

  Tony puffed out his meager chest. “Sure, honey, you can count on me.”

  She slid off the barstool, mug in hand. “I’ll be in a booth at the back if anyone comes looking for me.”

  “Okay, I’ll keep an eye out.”

  Bob continued to watch awhile longer. No one but Tony showed any interest in the young woman. When the old man’s attention wandered, Bob crossed the room and slipped into the seat across from her.

  Her eyes widened. “I didn’t see you come in.”

  Bob gestured with his head. “I was sitting over there.”

  “I didn’t see you.” She nodded in approval. “You’re good at what you do.”

  “You’re not so bad yourself.”

  She narrowed her eyes. “What’s that supposed to mean?”

  “The tumble you took at lunch today looked artistic.”

  “Oh, that.” She laughed. “Ten years of gym-nastics and all I have to show for it is the ability to trip over my own two feet.”

  “What do you want with me?” Bob asked.

  “I want to help you with your investigation into Doug’s murder. No matter what anyone says, he didn’t die in a rock climbing accident. He was afraid of heights. I know Issy killed him.”

  Bob studied her, noting the determined tilt of her chin, the fierceness of her expression. “What’s your name?”

  “Tracy.” She made a sweeping gesture. “This was our place, Doug’s and mine. Nobody from Issy would ever be caught dead in a place as unsophisticated as this, so we felt safe here.”

  “Safe from what?”

  “Issy and their stupid corporate policy. If two employees are dating, they have to sign a letter of intent. Supposedly, it protects the company if the romance goes sour and one of the employees decides to sue the other for sexual harassment. Doug and I wanted to keep our love away from Issy’s prying eyes, so we had to sneak around. If Issy found out about us, we’d both be fired.”

  Her eyes filled with tears. “We were going to get married this Sunday.” A single tear brimmed over and slid down her face. “I can’t believe he’s gone.” She rubbed her eyes with her fists like a little girl.

  Mr. Tonetti hurried over to them and glared at Bob. “He bothering you, Tracy?”

  Her lower lip quivered. “I’m okay, Tony. Really.”

  He didn’t leave, but continued to glare at Bob.

  “Thanks, Tony,” she said. “I can handle it. I’ll let you know if I need you.”

  Mr. Tonetti walked away slowly, turning around several times to stare at Bob.

  “Why do you think ISI killed Doug?” Bob asked.

  “A friend of his, Will Turnow, hacked into Sven Berquist’s home computer. A couple days later, Issy sent Will to Boston for a seminar, and nobody ever heard from him again. Doug thought someone at Issy murdered Will, and he tried to find out what Will learned that got him killed.” An unreadable emotion flared in her eyes. “I guess he found out.”

  “Who’s Sven Berquist?”

  “Director of Research and Development at Issy. I remember Will laughing when he told Doug that this powerful man didn’t even bother to put any security features on his computer. A simple password, but nothing else, like he couldn’t imagine anyone breaking into his computer. Mostly he used it to write his memoirs, Will said, so maybe Berquist didn’t care.”

  “Do you know what Will learned from the memoirs?”

  “Some. Usually I tuned out when Will and Doug got on the subject of computers, but I wanted to hear about Berquist. Until Will hacked into his computer, I didn’t know anything except he’s nearing retirement age, he’s still tall and imposing, and his eyes are a bright, piercing blue.”

  Bob leaned back and waited for her to tell the story in her own time.

  “Will said Berquist is a Swedish Jew who attached himself to the OSS during World War Two. An interpreter, I think. At twenty years old, Berquist knew he was meant for great things, and he saw the OSS as a means of getting there.

  “Then he met the guys from Issy. Issy had sent some people to Sweden to see if they could meet German scientists who’d be willing to share the secrets of their research into biological warfare. Berquist arranged the meetings. After the war, Issy offered him a job, but he kept his ties with the OSS people. He built the Research and Development Department into a vast private intelligence agency modeled after the CIA.”

  She covered her face with her hands. Bob thought she was crying, but when she took her hands away, her eyes looked dry and feverish.

  “I didn’t know,” she said. “None of us did.”

  “Didn’t know what?”

  “The kinds of things Issy is involved with. They’ve got scientists all over the world work
ing for them, and they own controlling interest in all kinds of businesses, especially research laboratories and think tanks. They’re like a huge octopus sitting on the world, tentacles reaching everywhere.”

  “What kinds of things are they involved with?”

  “I just know about old projects. Berquist didn’t get further than the Korean War in his memoirs. Doug found out about some of the more current projects, like what’s going on at the Rosewood Research Institute, but he wouldn’t tell me. He said it was too dangerous.” She flexed her biceps. “As if I couldn’t take care of myself.”

  “Yet Doug is dead,” he reminded her.

  “Don’t you think I know that?” she said, a throb of anger in her voice. After a long pause, she continued in a more subdued tone. “I haven’t been able to do much work since they found his body, so I stare out of my office window a lot. A few days ago I noticed you. You’d be there, and then you’d seem to vanish, kind of like those blinking eyes that used to come in Cracker Jack boxes. That’s when I realized you must be working undercover, investigating Doug’s death.”

  “What are the old projects ISI worked on?” Bob asked.

  Tracy frowned. “Why do you want to know about that?”

  “No reason. Just curious.” Then, remembering something the man from the State Department had told him long ago, he added, “In an investigation, it’s important to look for the unusual, even if the unusual has nothing to do with the matter at hand.”

  She nodded slowly. “I can see that.” She ran a finger around the rim of her beer mug. “The subject of one project was a man who’d been hypnotized, then sent to wait tables at a very secret, very important dinner for some of the key people during the Korean War. In his hypnotic state, the waiter could remember everything everyone said and did. After he parroted it back, they erased his memory and brought him out of the trance. He resumed his normal life without ever knowing what he’d done. I remember Doug and Will joking about a secret agent so secret he himself didn’t know he was an agent, but I thought it sad. And creepy.”