“Well done!” Perlmutter said. “And my heartfelt thanks.”
Signora Maggi kissed Perlmutter on both fleshy cheeks, and be- fore long he and Nocci were driving through the suburbs of Flo- rence. Exhausted by the activities of the day, Perlmutter took a nap and awoke just in time for dinner. He and Nocci dined on the ter- race. He had regained his gustatory equilibrium and had no trouble downing his veal and pasta dishes. After finishing up with a spinach salad and a simple doici of fresh fruit, they watched the sun go down, silently sipping on glasses oflimoncello.
The phone rang and Nocci went to answer it, while Perlmutter sat in the dark, savoring the smell of earth and grapevines, carried to his tulip nose by a light evening breeze. Nocci appeared a few minutes later and summoned Perlmutter into a small state-of-the-art com- puter room.
Noting his guest's upraised eyebrow, Nocci said, “Even a business as small as mine must use the latest in communications in order to survive in the global market. That was Signora Maggi,” he said, sit- ting down in front of the monitor. “She apologizes for the delay, but the document you requested had to be retrieved from the Museo Storico Navale, the naval museum, where it had been languishing. Here,” he said, and rose to give up his seat.
The sturdy wooden chair creaked in protest when Perlmutter set- tied in. He scanned the title page, on which the author declared the iournal to be “an account of an unwilling mercenary in the service of the Spanish Inquisition.”
Perlmutter leaned forward, stared into the screen and began to read the words that had been written five centuries before.
NUMA 4 - White Death
22
THE BEER TRUCK rounded a sharp curve, and the driver slammed on his brakes to avoid hitting the battered wreck in the road. The car that lay on its side a few yards from the edge looked as if it had been dropped from a great height. Two more wrecks smoldered at the bottom of the drop-off hundreds of feet below. The driver hurried from his truck and peered into the car window. He was surprised to discover that the people inside were still alive.
The trucker called for help on his CB radio. The rescue crew had to use mechanical jaws to extricate the Trouts, and then the couple was taken to a small but well-equipped hospital. Paul suffered from a broken wrist, Gamay had a concussion, and they were both covered with bumps and bruises. They spent the night under observation, went through another exam the next morning and were pronounced fit to go. They were signing out at the front desk, when two men wearing rumpled suits arrived, identified themselves as provincial police and asked to talk with them.
They settled into an unoccupied visitors' lounge, and the Trouts were asked to tell what happened. The senior man was named Mac- Farlane. In a classic good-cop, bad-cop pairing, he was the friendly one who tut-tutted, while his partner, a man named Duffy, was the belligerent officer who tried to pick holes in their story.
After replying to a particularly pointed question, Gamay, who could never be mistaken for a shrinking violet, stared at Duffy and gave him a smile. “I may be wrong, Officer, but it sounds as if we're being accused of something.”
MacFarlane fidgeted with his hands. “It's not that, ma'am, but look at it from our point of view. You and your husband arrive in town from out of nowhere. Within twenty-four hours, a fisherman you were seen with goes missing, along with his boat. Then four men are killed in a very unusual accident.”
“Damned bloody death plague if you ask me,” Duffy growled.
“We've told you everything,” Paul said. “We were on vacation, and went out with a fisherman named Mike Neal, whom we met at a waterfront restaurant. You can check with the bartender. Mr. Neal was looking for work and offered to take us out for a cruise.”
“Pretty expensive cruise,” Duffy sneered. “The boatyard says you paid offNeal's bill of nearly a thousand dollars.”
“We're both ocean scientists. When we learned about the problems the fishermen had been having with low catches, we asked Mr. Neal to do some survey work.”
“What happened next?”
“We stayed overnight at a bed and breakfast. The next morning, we learned that Mr. Neal and his boat had been lost. We were con- tinuing our trip, when we were caught between two very bad driv- ers driving two very big cars.”
“From what you said,” Duffy said, making no attempt to hide his
skepticism, “it sounds like these folks were trying to run you off the road.”
“It seems that way.”
“That's what we can't figure,” Duffy said, scratching the stubble
on his chin. “Why would they try to kill a couple of innocent tourists?”
“You'll have to ask them,” Paul said.
Duffy's ruddy face went an even deeper red. He opened his mouth to respond.
MacFarlane raised his hand to shush his partner. “Those folks are in no condition to answer questions,” he said with a wan smile. “But you see, this presents another problem. The young lady here stopped at a general store and asked about a fish plant in town. The four gentlemen who were killed were all employees of the same plant.”
“I'm a marine biologist,” Gamay said. “My interest in fish is noth- ing odd. I don't mean to tell you how to do your job,” she said, in a tone that indicated that was exactly what she was doing, “but maybe you should talk to someone at the plant.”
“That's another funny thing,” Duffy said. “The plant's closed.”
Gamay hid her surprise with a shrug and girded herself for more questions, but just then, MacFarlane's cell phone rang, saving them from another round of the third degree. He excused himself, got up and moved into the hall, out of earshot. A few minutes later, he came back in and said, “Thanks for your time, folks. You can go.”
“I won't argue with you, Officer, but could you tell us what's going on?” Paul said. “A minute ago, we were public enemies one and two.”
The worried expression that had been on MacFarlane's face ear- lier was replaced by a friendly smile. “That was the station. We made some inquiries when we saw the ID cards in your wallets. Just got a call from Washington. Seems like you two are pretty important peo- ple at NUMA. We'll prepare a couple of statements and get them to you for additions and signatures. Anywhere we can take you?” He seemed relieved at the resolution of a difficult situation.
“A rental-car agency might be a good start,” Gamay said.
“And a pub would be a good finish,” Paul said.
On the drive to the car rental office, Duffy dropped his bad-cop act and told them how to get to a pub where the beer and food were good and cheap. The policemen, who were going off-duty, invited themselves along, too. By the time they got into their second pint, the detectives were very talkative. They had retraced the Trouts' foot- steps, talking to the B-and-B owners and a few regulars around the waterfront. Mike Neal was still missing, and the man named Gro- gan had also disappeared. There was no telephone number for the Oceanus plant. They were still trying to contact the corporation's in- ternational office, but were having little luck.
Gamay ordered another beer after the police officers left. She blew off the foamy head and, in an accusatory tone, said, “That's the last time I take a drive in the country with you.”
“At least you didn't break any bones. I have to drink my beer with my left hand. And how am I going to tie my bow ties?”
“Heaven forbid you use snap-ons, you poor boy. Have you seen the dark circle under my eye? I believe it's what we called a mouse when I was a kid.”
Paul leaned over and lightly kissed his wife on the cheek. “On you, it looks exotic.”
“I suppose that's better than nothing,” Gamay said, with an in- dulgent smile. “What do we do now? We can't go back to Wash- ington with nothing to show but a few lumps and repair bills for a nonexistent boat.”
He sipped his beer. “What was the name of that scientist Mike Neal tried to contact?”
“Throckmorton. Neal said he was at McGill University.” “Montreal! Why not drop by a
nd see him, as long as we're in the neighborhood?”
“Brilliant idea!” Gamay said. “Enjoy your beer, Lefty. I'll update Kurt on our plans.”
Gamay took her cell phone to a relatively quiet corner of the pub and called NUMA. Austin was out, so she left a message saying they were following the Oceanus trail to Quebec and would be in contact. She asked Austin's secretary to track down a telephone number for Throckmorton and to see if she could put together a flight to Mon- treal. Several minutes later, the secretary called back with the phone number and two reservations on a flight leaving later that day.
Gamay called Throckmorton. She said she was a NUMA marine biologist and wondered if he had any time to talk about his work. He was delighted and flattered, he said, and would be free after his last class. Their Air Canada flight landed at Dorval Airport around midafternoon. They dropped their baggage off at the Queen Eliza- beth Hotel and caught a cab to the McGill University campus, a clus- ter of gray granite older buildings along with more modern structures on the side of Mont Royal.
Professor Throckmorton was wrapping up his lecture as the Trouts arrived, and emerged from his classroom surrounded by a flock of chattering students. Throckmorton's eye caught Gamay's stunning red hair and took in Paul's tall figure. He shooed away the students and came over to greet the newcomers.
“The Doctors Trout, I presume,” he said, pumping their hands. “Thank you for seeing us on such short notice,” Gamay said. “Not at all,” he said warmly. “It's an honor to meet scientists from NUMA. I'm flattered that you're interested in my work.”
Paul said, “We were traveling in Canada, and when Gamay learned about your research, she insisted that we make a detour.”
“Hope I'm not the source of marital discord,” he said, bushy eye- brows jumping like startled caterpillars.
“Not at all,” Gamay said. “Montreal is one of our favorite cities.”
“Well, then, now that we've got that settled, why don't you come up to the lab and see what's on the slab, as they say.”
"Didn't they say that in The Rocy Horror Picture ShowY Gamay said.
“Correct! Some of my colleagues have taken to calling me the mad scientist Frank N. Furter.”
Throckmorton was ofshorter-than-average height, chubby rather than plump, and the roundness of his body was repeated in his moon- shaped face and his circular eyeglasses. Yet he moved with the quick- ness of an athlete, as he led the way to the lab.
He ushered the Trouts through a door and into a large, brightly lit space and motioned for them to sit down at a lab table. Comput- ers were scattered at stations around the room. Aerators bubbled in a series of tanks on the far side of the lab, and a briny smell of fish filled the room. Throckmorton poured three lab beakers of iced tea and sat down at the table.
“How did you hear about my work?” he said, after a sip from his beaker. “Something in a scientific journal?”
The Trouts exchanged glances. “To be honest,” Gamay said, “we don't know what you're working on.”
Seeing Throckmorton's puzzled expression, Paul jumped in and said, “We got your name from a fisherman by the name of Mike Neal. He said he had contacted you on behalf of the men in his fleet. Their catches were off, and they thought it might have something to do with an odd type of fish he and the other fishermen in his town were landing.”
“Oh, yes, Mr. Neal! His call was directed to my office, but I never talked to him. I was out of the country when he called, and I've been too busy to get back to him. Sounded quite intriguing. Something about a 'devilfish.' Maybe I can give him a call later today.”
“I hope you get good long-distance rates,” Paul said. “Neal is dead.”
“I don't understand.” “He was killed in a boat explosion,” Gamay said. “The police don't know what caused it.”
A stunned expression crossed Throckmorton's face. “Poor man.” He paused, then said, “I hope this doesn't seem callous, but I suppose now I'll never know about this strange devilfish.”
“We'll be glad to tell you what we know,” Gamay said. Throckmorton listened intently as Gamay and Paul took turns describing their trip with Neal. As each detail unfolded, the cheer- fulness drained from Throckmorton's rosy-cheeked face. He gazed solemnly from Gamay to Paul. “Are you absolutely certain of every- thing you told me? You're quite sure of the size of the fish and the strange white color. And its aggressiveness?”
“See for yourself,” Paul said, producing the videotape shot on Neal's boat.
After viewing the tape, Throckmorton rose, solemn-faced, from his chair and paced back and forth, hands clasped behind his back. Over and over, he muttered, “This is not good, not good at all.” Gamay had a disarming way of cutting to the chase. “Please tell us what's going on, Professor.”
He stopped his pacing and sat down again. “As a marine biologist, you must know about transgenic fish,” he said. “The first one was de- veloped practically in your backyard, at the University of Maryland Biotechnology Institute.”
“I've read a number of papers, but I can't say I'm an expert on the subject. From what I understand, genes are spliced into fish eggs to make them grow faster.”
“That's right. The genes come from other species, even from in- sects and humans.”
“Humans?” “I don't use human genes in my experiments. I agree with the Chinese, who are heavily into biofish research, that using human genes in this manner is unethical.”
“How are the genes used?” “They produce unusually high levels of growth hormones and stimulate the fish's appetite. I've been developing transgenic fish with the Federal Department of Fisheries and Oceans lab in Vancouver. The salmon grown there are fed twenty times a day. The constant feeding is essential. These super-salmon are programmed to grow eight times faster, forty times larger than normal in the first year. You can see what a boon this is for a fish farmer. He brings a fatter fish to market in a fraction of the time.”
“Thus ensuring a larger profit.” "To be sure. Those pushing to bring biofish to market call it the
'Blue Revolution.' They admit they'd like to increase profits, but they say they have an altruistic motive as well. DNA-altered fish will pro- vide a cheap and plentiful source of food for the poorer nations of the world."
“I think I heard the same arguments in favor of DNA-modified crops,” Gamay said.
“With good reason. Genetically modified fish were a logical out- growth of the biotech food trend. If you can engineer corn, why not do the same for higher living organisms? This is likely to be far more controversial, though. The protests have already started. The oppo- nents say transgenic fish could mess up the environment, wipe out the wild fishery and put the small fisherman out of business. They're call- ing these biotech creations 'Frankenfish.' ”
“Catchy name,” said Paul, who had been listening with interest to the conversation. “Can't see it selling too many fish.” “Where do you stand on this issue?” Gamay said. “Since I created some of these fish, I have a special responsibility. I want to see more study before we start raising these creatures on fish farms. The push to commercialize what we've been doing worries me. We need extensive risk assessment before we trigger what could be a disaster.”
“You sound very worried,” Gamay said.
“It's what I don't know that concerns me. Things are spinning out of control. Dozens of commercial operations are pushing to bring their own fish to market. More than two dozen fish species are being researched in addition to salmon. The potential is enormous, al- though some fish farmers are turning away from transgenics because of the controversy. But big corporations have been moving in. There are dozens of patents for gene changes in Canada and the U.S.”
“An economic and scientific juggernaut like that will be hard to stop once it gets going.”
“I feel like King Canute trying to shout down the ocean.” The frustration was apparent in his voice. “Billions of dollars are at stake, so the pressure is enormous. That's why the Canadia
n government funds transgenic research. The feeling is that if we don't lead the way, others will. We want to be ready when the dam bursts.”
“If there is so much pressure and money involved, what's holding back the biofish tide?”
“A potential public relations nightmare. Let me give you an ex- ample. A New Zealand company called King Salmon was develop- ing biofish, but word about two-headed and lump-covered fish leaked out, and the press whipped the public into a frenzy. King had to stop its experiments and destroy everything, because people were worried that these Frankenfish might escape into the wild and start mating with normal ones.”
“Is something like that a possibility?” Gamay said.
“Not with contained fish-farming, but I have no doubt that trans- genic fish would escape if they were placed in open-water cages. They are aggressive and hungry. Like a convict who yearns for free- dom, they'd find a way. The government fisheries lab in Vancouver is as tight as Fort Knox. We've got electronic alarms, security guards, double-screened tanks to keep fish from getting away. But a private company might be less cautious.”
Gamay nodded. “We've had invasions of foreign species in U.S. waters, with potentially damaging results. The Asian swamp eel has been found in some states-it's a voracious creature that can slither across dry land. Asian carp are in the Mississippi River, and there are worries they can get into Lake Michigan. They grow up to four feet long, and there have been stories of them jumping out of the water and knocking people out of boats, but the real worry is the way they suck up plankton like a vacuum cleaner. Then there's the lion fish, a real cutie. They carry spines that can poison humans, and they com- pete for food with native species.”
“You make an excellent point, but the situation with transgenic fish is even more complicated than a competition for food. Some of my colleagues are more worried about the 'Trojan gene' effect. You recall the story of the Trojan horse, naturally.”