The Biofab War (Biofab 1)

by Stephen Ames Berry

  Chapter 3

  John reached Oystertown just before five. Once a sleepy Nantucket Sound fishing village, it had been transformed by Leurre’s endowers into a gentrified summer colony, a cobblestoned, yacht-slipped enclave for anyone with the money and taste for what The Boston Globe had dubbed Louisburg Square-by-the-Sea.

  Doric-columned brick townhouses lay astride pristine lanes that ran like wheel spokes to Oystertown’s centerpiece, a tidy gas-lit town center with a tastefully tarnished bronze fountain, cast as a vaulting dolphin. The Institute fronted on the marina at the end of the square. A rambling old brick-and-stone warehouse that had once stunk of tar and salted fish, it had been gutted and rebuilt by the Leurre Founders Committee, a consortium of energy corporations. At one end was a small pub, at the other a cozy bistro, Chez Nichée.

  Dedicated to Aiding in the Exploration and Utilization of the Oceans for the Betterment of All according to the brass plaque set in the entrance way, the Institute was a major research facility for much of the nation’s undersea energy and mineral extraction.

  Parking the shattered Buick under the “Visitors” sign, John repaired himself as best he could, combing his hair, drying his face, and shucking his sodden raincoat.

  Once in the foyer, the Institute’s nineteenth-century mercantile façade vanished, replaced by the gleaming modernity of chrome and glass.

  “Hello,” he said to the lean poker-faced guard behind the reception desk’s teak expanse. “I’m here to see Dr. Langston.”

  “Your name, sir?” The black-uniformed guard appeared not to notice John’s dishevelment.

  “Harrison. John Harrison.”

  “Just a minute, Mr. Harrison.” He murmured softly into a small microphone, nodding to the voice that responded in his earpiece. “Please have a seat, sir. Dr. Langston will be right down.”

  Fred Langston was an affable, suave scientist-administrator. Fortyish, black, nattily attired, he quickly got John a fresh change of clothes, making sympathetic noises at his story of a flat in the rain.

  Seated in Langston’s tasteful office, John sipped a Scotch and water, admiring the small Klee above the fireplace.

  The Director leaned back in his leather Scandinavian desk chair, quietly appraising Harrison. Behind him a big bay window overlooked the wharf, lit by antiqued gas lamps, and the dark sea beyond.

  “Sutherland called me this morning,” said Langston. “Warned me you’d be coming up today. He said you were an old friend who’d been retained by Royal. I wish I could be of more help, but”—he spread his hands helplessly—“you know as much about that man’s murder as I do.”

  “Frankly, I’m only concerned with the murder because it may have some connection with the delays in the Royal project. Antonucchi’s death makes the whole thing look like sabotage.”

  Langston nodded, toying with the dolphin-capped stirrer resting in his gin and tonic. “It does. At first we thought it was staff incompetence. No one’s immune from personnel problems. So I had several people borrowed from Royal transferred back to Louisiana, yet the problems continued. Then we lost Argonaut. Until we can get another submersible with her capabilities, we’re stymied. If this is sabotage, Mr. Harrison, believe me, it’s working. You can imagine how Royal is taking all this.”

  “Poorly.”

  “Very.” He lightly drummed the stirrer on the rosewood desk. “They’re considering moving the entire operation to New Bedford, building the docking and refinery facilities there, rather than up the coast from here at Goose Cove. We could survive without Royal’s contracts and annual grant, but once one major corporation loses faith in you, it becomes pandemic. Old school tie, you know.”

  “May I look around, talk with your people?”

  “Sure. But the state police and Sutherland’s crew have gone all through that.” He rose. “If I can be of any help, don’t hesitate to ask.”

  The rain had stopped. It made the short drive to the Beachcomber Motel cool but dry. A note in Zahava’s hand awaited him at the desk.

  John,

  Registered here this A.M., but at lunch one of the staff invited me to stay with her. (Her boyfriend’s been deported.)

  Directions to an address in nearby Goose Cove Village followed.

  Twenty minutes later, he was knocking on the door of a cedar-shingled cottage on a quiet pine-treed lot. A cute, barefoot blonde in her mid-twenties opened the door, wearing only shorts and a halter-top, despite the cold.

  “Hi. You’re John, aren’t you? I’m Cindy. Zahava!” she called over her shoulder.

  The Israeli—sensibly outfitted in denim blouse and trousers—came off the back screen porch. Planting a wet kiss on John’s lips, she led him into the small living room. The décor was pure Sears, a relief after the Leurre’s oppressive modernity. He sank into a battered armchair, the day at last catching up with him.

  Cindy—secretary to Zahava’s new boss, Larry Levine’s—had met Zahava that morning and offered to share her rented house. She was still pining over the loss of her previous roommate, Greg Farnesworth. Greg, the story came out over macaroni and cheese, was a geologist with Royal. He’d been on loan to the Institute for two months, until Fred Langston had cleaned house two weeks before. Greg had been abruptly returned to his home base in Shreveport.

  After dinner, John walked Zahava to the shattered rental car parked beneath the pines. He quickly briefed her, adding, “I’m going over to the rental agency in Hyannis now to complain about vandals. I’d invite you along, but there’s still so much glass on the seats . . .”

  “What about the man who tried to kill you?” she asked as he eased himself into the car.

  “What man?” John said, shutting the door with a faint tinkle. “It was a phantom—when I got there—ten seconds, maybe—he was gone. I should have bumped noses with him or at least seen him. All I saw were some .223 caliber casings brass and a sort of green ooze. I’d swear I hit the bastard, though.” He started the engine. “And if blood were green, I’d know I had.”

  “Be safe,” she called as he drove off into the foggy night, knowing how stupid it sounded.

  He answered with a wave.

  The rental manager didn’t buy it. Belligerent, he was dialing the police when the account number on the contract caught his eye. Hanging up the phone, he shook his head. “You guys,” he sighed.

  Five minutes later, John pulled out in a new red Jeep. The manager inspecting the Buick looked up from his clipboard. “Can we have this one this one back in better shape, please?” he called.

  It took twice as long to get back to Goose Cove Village. The fog had closed in, making it hard to see beyond the headlights.

  A new car was parked in front of the cottage. John saw from the sticker that it was also a rental.

  Gathered on the comfortable old braided rug before a crackling fire were Zahava, Cindy and a sandy-haired man in his early thirties. The stranger drew his lanky frame up to greet John with a crisp, dry handshake.

  “You must be John. I’m Greg Farnesworth.”

  “Up for the weekend?” John asked, joining them on the rug.

  “For the week. Corporate largess,” said the geologist, sipping his beer. “I took some vacation time to plead my case.” He squeezed Cindy’s knee.

  She pouted, crinkling her freckles. “I’m stuck here for now—my mother.” Her mother, she explained, was in assisted living, frail and unwell, Cindy her only child. Any move would be traumatic.

  “Okay,” Greg said. “I’m buying a house, down on the bayou, complete with swamp and ‘gators and housekeeper. There’ll be a separate apartment for your mother. I promise, no more hurricanes.”

  Cindy accepted with a hug and a kiss.

  John exchanged they’re crazy glances with Zahava.

  After congratulations toasted with brandy hoisted high in Styrofoam cups, the topic turned to the Institute and Greg’s job. He’d been in charge of surveying the Goose Cove site. The cove proper, as distinct from the village, was sch
eduled to be enlarged and dredged, serving as a port facility once the Georges Banks’ wells began producing.

  “Geologic sampling is part of the EPA site requirements. I’d gotten as far as sampling strata along Goose Hill—it overlooks the cove and was going to be blown up and carted away—when Langston suddenly declared me and my team bumblers and shipped us back to Shreveport inside of four hours.” He sipped his brandy, staring pensively into the waning fire. Cindy put a comforting hand on his shoulder. “Happily, there’s a shortage of qualified petroleum geologists.”

  “You’re still with Royal?” John asked.

  He nodded. “I’d rather leave on my schedule than theirs.”

  “Why do you think Langston got rid of you?” asked Zahava.

  “Probably afraid of what I’d find up on that hill. Something that could end the entire operation, cause him to lose his grants, his imposing home, his nice office.”

  “And did you?” asked John.

  The geologist gave him a hard look. “You’re not working for Royal,” he said flatly. “Not their type. Government?”

  “Sort of.”

  Farnesworth nodded. “Yeah, I found it.”

  Before going to bed, John made two calls, one to Sutherland, the other to McShane in Boston.