by Jeff Buick
“There’s something else, Gordon. Some of the accounting practices at Veritas are questionable. They are shifting everyday expenses into the research-and-development sector, setting themselves up to receive unearned government tax incentives.”
“Sounds like the Enron scandal.”
“Oh, this is far enough removed from that to keep the forensic auditors at bay. For a time, at least. And I get the feeling that Andrews is banking on that-having enough time to fix whatever damage is being done.”
“Well, it wouldn’t surprise me if the snake had something up his sleeve.”
“No, I suppose not,” she said.
She let her neck muscles relax and gently set her cheek against his chest. She felt safe with him and, despite their predicament, glad to be exactly where she was. It had been many years since a man had stirred the feminine side in her. Many years since she had felt happy to be a woman. But Gordon was lighting some sort of long-dormant fuse inside her, and somewhere along that fuse was the true happiness that accompanies two people totally at ease with each other.
Gordon’s cell phone rang, and he looked at the call display, then answered it. Jennifer could hear a muffled voice but couldn’t make out what was being said. “Yes, I was employing him. Why?” He listened, then said, “I’ve never been to his office. He was a referral from a mutual friend.” Again the other voice, then:“I’ve been in Montana, and I’m in Richmond right now.” A moment of silence. “Yes, I can prove where I was at that time.” The voice on the other end of the line spoke for a minute, and Gordon said okay a couple of times, then said, “Okay, thank you for calling.” He closed the phone, a serious look on his face.
“Wes Connors, the private detective I hired, is dead.”
“What happened?” Jennifer asked.
“He was shot in his office. The police have no idea who’s responsible. They’re just going through Wes’s files and calling all his clients who currently have him on retainer. They’re probably checking to see if he had any pissed-off clients, and to let his clients know he won’t be sending out any more reports.”
“You think Andrews had him killed?”
Gordon shrugged. “I don’t know what else Wes was working on, but my guess would be that this is Andrews’s doing. Wes Connors has been in the investigative business for years, and suddenly someone kills him. The timing is a little suspect. I thing Bruce Andrews is sending me a message.”
“Nice message,” Jennifer said.
“Yeah, from a real nice guy.”
“What happens now?” she asked, resting her cheek back on his chest.
“Well, going home or to work is out of the question. If Andrews tried to kill you once, he’s not going to back off now. We’ve got to stay out of sight, find some proof that Andrews ordered that guy to kill Kenga and Albert Rousseau. And you.”
“How?” she asked.
He shrugged, and her head moved with his body. “There has to be some way to find that guy. Or something in the police files on Kenga and Albert that points toward either Andrews or the killer.”
“I’m not so sure,” Jennifer said. “Andrews is going to cover his tracks very well. He’s not stupid.”
She lifted off him and sat up. A small piece of paper that had been caught in the folds of her shirt fluttered to the ground. She reached over and picked it up. Her eyes scanned over what was written on the scrap, then she said, “Well, now I know how I survived.”
“What do you mean?”
“I was arguing with the killer, trying to persuade him that Veritas was shutting down the brain chip program and that he was being used. I thought I was getting through to him, but the last thing I remember is him clamping the chloroform over my face and telling me, ‘I’m sorry, I don’t believe you.’ I was sure he was going to push the car over the cliff.” She held up the paper so he could read what was written on it. “I guess he had a change of heart.”
Gordon focused on the paper. On second thought, I do believe you.
“Well, that change of heart won’t get him in Andrews’s good books,” Gordon said. He propped himself against a nearby tree and watched the sun hover over the landscape. Completely out of nowhere, he wished he had a camera with him, the view was so spectacular. Then the thought of where they would stay washed over him. “You know any tasteless hotels in Richmond?” he asked.
“Tasteless? Why tasteless?”
“I don’t think using a credit card would be wise. Cash only. And you know what kind of place that gets you.”
“No, not really, but I’ll take your word for it.” She twisted so she could see the view. “You know, when I was a kid I used to make things up. Like if I was walking to school and it was snowy, I’d be trying to get there before the polar bears caught me. If a song came on, I’d be Diana Ross, singing into my curling iron.”
“Don’t think that’s too abnormal. I played a little Van Halen air guitar in my time.”
She laughed.“No, more than that. I really tried to transfer myself to somewhere else-anyplace but where I was. I didn’t have a happy childhood. Something changed when my little brother was born. I got downgraded to second fiddle. And after being the princess for so long, that’s a pretty tough demotion. God, I really didn’t want to be me.”
He stared at her for a minute, then asked, “So what happened? Why is Jennifer Pearce so okay now?”
“I think she learned the world isn’t perfect and that her parents didn’t mean to hurt her. She learned to forgive. And she learned to appreciate the things that she did have in her life.”
“She’s a lucky woman.”
She smiled, and for a moment the anxiety and fear were gone, replaced with a feeling that life had brought her to where she should be. What the reason was or whether she would even live through this were unknowns. And instead of that scaring her, it excited and intrigued her. Having faced the very real possibility of dying and then having survived, she felt more alive than ever before. And just being close to Gordon gave her a sense of belonging that had eluded her for so long. He calmed her and at the same time made her feel that what she had done with her life was important. She liked that feeling. And she liked Gordon Buchanan.
In fact, she really liked Gordon Buchanan.
46
“Are you positive?” Bruce Andrews asked, reclining in his leather chair, the Richmond skyline visible out his office window. Clouds had crept in and intermittent rain threatened.
“Absolutely, Mr. Andrews,” the technician said. “They definitely logged in under Dr. Pearce’s ID.”
“What time?” He finished the last of his coffee and set the mug on his desk.
“Two-thirteen RM. About forty minutes ago.”
“Where did she sign in from?”
“The main branch of the public library.”
“And you said she accessed the accounting files for her department, the brain chip department, and the White Oak labs.”
“Yes, sir. That and every open file the legal department has on Triaxcion. She was inside some personnel files as well: the files on Kenga Bakcsi and Albert Rousseau. That’s how we saw that she was in the mainframe-she’s not authorized to access those files.”
“Then how did she get into them?”Andrews asked, perturbed.
“She bypassed the firewall somehow. We’re not sure at this point, but it appears she knew the IP address and somehow came up with a port number. She would appear to be a very resourceful woman.”
“Yes, very resourceful. Thanks-that’s all for now. And please don’t mention this to anyone. This is highly confidential.”
The man nodded that he understood and left the office. Bruce Andrews picked up his private line and placed a call. “It would appear Jennifer Pearce is still with us,” he said.
“What? I thought your guy had taken care of her,” the voice said.
“I thought so too. It’s Wednesday afternoon, so she’s been running around for at least twelve hours getting into God only knows what.”
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“What do you want me to do?”
“She signed into the company mainframe from the main branch of the public library about an hour ago. Take a photo of her with you and ask around. Be discreet. Find out if it was really her using the computer. And if she’s still with us, I’d like you to fly out to Denver tonight.”
“I’d be glad to. Ziegler should have been gone a long time ago. I told you that son of a bitch would be trouble.”
“Well, looks like you were right. Now you get to take care of it.”
“Like I said, I’d be glad to. I’m off to the library.”
“Thanks,” Andrews said, and hung up. He thought about that for a minute and realized it wasn’t often that he thanked people for doing things. But this time his colleague deserved it. It was he who had said bringing in Evan Ziegler was a bad idea. Retired navy SEALs were a different bunch, deadly and often tired of taking orders. And now he was relying on the man who’d said Ziegler was bad news to terminate him. Strange how things worked sometimes.
In retrospect, teaming up with his clandestine partner had been an excellent idea. Because of his position, the man had provided services most people wouldn’t even dream existed. He was capable of opening doors-or shutting them, for that matter-when the timing was right. The organization he worked for had resources beyond imagination, and on a few occasions they had relied on those resources to keep things on track. And they were still on track.
“So close now,” Andrews said to himself. “So close.”
Andrews busied himself with damage control on the accounting problem. If Jennifer Pearce had noticed the deviations in standard accounting practices, moving operating expenses across to the research side of the ledger, then the forensic auditors wouldn’t be far behind. And right now the last thing he needed was any attention drawn to the company. Time was a nebulous factor, an unknown. But one time frame he had to operate within was the expiry date on his options to purchase three million common shares of Veritas. And that date was looming in the near future. December 15 wasn’t that far away, and time had a habit of sneaking by when you weren’t looking. The phone attached to his private line rang and he picked up the receiver.
“It was definitely her,” the man said. “The librarian positively identified Jennifer Pearce. And guess who was with her?”
Andrews’s hand tightened on the phone. “Buchanan?”
“Yes. She ID’d him from a picture I pulled from the Montana DMV database. Not a great picture but she was sure.”
“How did Buchanan get from Montana to Richmond without you knowing about it? I thought you were monitoring the airlines, watching for his name to appear on a manifest.”
“We were and we are. I have no idea how he got to Virginia. The only plausible explanation is that he chartered a private jet.”
“That’s a bit of a stretch, don’t you think?” Andrews said.
“Not really. The man is wealthy-the cost of hiring a Lear or a smaller Gulfstream would be well within his reach. It would give him anonymity and speed, either of which may have been important to him at the time.”
“Check it out. Find out how he got here. But get to Denver first and take care of that problem. Things are starting to come unglued, and I want to tie up loose ends before everything unravels.”
“Denver is not a problem. In fact, I’ll quite enjoy it.” The line clicked over to a dial tone.
Bruce Andrews sat back and smiled. Evan Ziegler had been a useful cog in the wheel for a while, but that usefulness was over. And since that was over, so was his life. Perhaps it was just morbid curiosity, but Andrews found himself wondering what method his associate would use to kill Ziegler. Certainly, a great deal of caution was necessary when dealing with someone as dangerous as Ziegler.
Killing the killer-what an excellent title for a book.
47
J. D. Rothery took the call on his cell phone as his driver turned onto Pennsylvania Avenue and approached the entrance to the White House. The caller was Tony Warner, and the NSA man had an update for him on the efforts of the big pharmaceutical companies in their quest to find an answer to the virus.
“Be quick, Tony,” J. D. said. “I’ve got about two minutes, then I’m on the hot seat in the Oval Office. For some reason, the president wants to hear the latest directly from me.”
“Okay, I’ll be fast. The news is not entirely bad. Three of the companies we got packages out to have had some success identifying the nucleic acid genome inside the capsid. One of the three has already isolated the envelope.”
“What’s an envelope?” J. D. said, scratching notes as the car pulled up to the main security gate. “I’m not a viral specialist, but I’ve got to know what this terminology means when I pass this information along to the president.”
“Some viruses are encapsulated with an envelope, which is a membrane of virus-encoded proteins, with either DNA or RNA genomes. Identifying these genomes is crucial to finding a drug that can penetrate the membrane.” “So how close is this company to finding a drug that might work against the virus?”
“No idea at this point, but the CEO is positive they’re on the right track. He thinks this virus is beatable, not like Ebola.”
“That’s excellent news, Tony. Which company is it?”
“GlasoKlan. I’ve been speaking directly with Eric Stallworth, the head of North American operations, and he thinks this is doable.”
The car passed through the security checkpoint and drove slowly along the winding drive toward the White House. “Call Stallworth and ask him to be near the phone in case the president wants to speak with him.”
“Okay. Here’s Stallworth’s number at the office.” Warner recited the number to the CEO’s direct line, which bypassed the automated voice mail that answered incoming calls.
“You said there were three companies having success with the virus. Which are the other two?”
“Marcon and Beringer Ingels. Both are major players in the pharmaceutical business.”
“I know who they are,” Rothery snapped, immediately wishing he could have the comment back.
“Anything else?” Warner asked, his voice cool.
“No, just keep me in the loop with their progress.”
“Good luck with the president.”
“Thanks. Stay next to your phone in case I need to patch the president through. He may want to speak with you directly for an update from NSA.”
“Okay,” Tony said, his voice back to normal. The line went dead.
J. D. Rothery exited the car clutching his leather attache case. He was ushered through security, joined by two serious-looking secret service agents, and whisked down the wide hallway toward the Oval Office. There was an urgency to their stride, and Rothery was pressed to keep up with them. He reached the outer door of the nation’s most hallowed sanctuary and stood quietly as they got clearance to enter. One of the
agents touched his earpiece, then turned to him and asked, “Are you ready?”
“Ready as I’ll ever be,” Rothery said. How could you ever be ready to face the president with the news that a lethal, contagious virus was being unleashed on the nation by an unknown enemy? The door opened, and he followed the agents into the room.
48
Thursday.
Two days since he had left Jennifer Pearce teetering over the edge of a cliff in the Shenandoah Mountains. Two days with no contact from Bruce Andrews. Two days of sitting on a powder keg with one burning question that had yet to be answered.
Was Veritas really terminating its brain chip program?
Evan Ziegler had no idea if what the woman had told him was true. And he had no way of finding out, save calling Bruce Andrews and asking him. And that was not going to happen. He had searched the Internet, using every keyword he could think of, to see if there had been any press releases about Veritas phasing out the program. Nothing. The only proof he had that Andrews was using him was the word of a woman facing certain death. And he knew that w
hen a person was placed in such a predicament, integrity went out the window. Even the most honest person would lie if she thought it might save her life. He knew this from firsthand experience. Not knowing the answer to that question was killing him.
On top of that, Evan Ziegler’s mind had been consumed with Jennifer Pearce’s fate over the last 120 hours. She had been drugged and asleep when he left the scene, and still alive. But her car had been perched precariously on the lip of the dropoff. And the result of the car going over was not in question- she would die. A sudden gust of wind, an updraft surging along the cliff face, a small animal running across the hood of the car-all were insignificant events that could cause the vehicle to slide slowly into the valley. Jennifer Pearce could not possibly survive such a crash.
There had been no word from Richmond since Wednesday morning, and he took the silence as an indication that she had not survived. If Jennifer Pearce was alive and Bruce Andrews had found out, all hell would be breaking loose. Andrews would have called on the private line with questions. Questions that would be difficult, if not impossible, to answer. But that had not happened. And as time progressed, he had to assume there was only one possible scenario.
Jennifer Pearce was dead.
But the other factor that was weighing on his mind was the sudden appearance of Gordon, whoever the hell that was. Some guy who had talked Kenga Bakcsi into providing him with information on that Triaxcion drug. What had he been doing at Pearce’s house early Sunday morning? Had he managed to find her before the car went over the cliff? And if so, why had he not heard from a pissed-off Bruce Andrews? Nothing was making sense.
And what had she said about both Albert Rousseau and Kenga Bakcsi being innocent victims? Had Bruce Andrews asked him to kill these people for other reasons? He’d been adamant that both Bakcsi and Rousseau were threats to the brain chip program. But Andrews could have been lying.
He glanced at the clock on his desk. Three-thirty. He shut down his computer and told his receptionist he was leaving early. She often closed the copier office when he was out on sales calls or enjoying a midweek round of golf. Traffic was light for a Thursday afternoon, but he figured that was probably because he was an hour ahead of the peak hours for commuters heading home. He pulled into his driveway and killed the engine. His wife’s van was parked on her side of the drive, the side that allowed her to load Ben’s wheelchair in through the sliding doors. He pocketed his keys and entered the house, a slight gust of cool air exiting through the open door. It was strange, he thought, for his wife to have the air conditioner turned up that high. It wasn’t that warm out today. He took a few steps into the house and stopped. Something was wrong. He had felt this before, many times. He felt the presence of death.
