The admonition to remain incognito was what struck Chad when they saw the Subaru turn into the entrance gate of a well-to-do subdivision after having been parked for more than an hour at their old stomping ground at police HQ.
“Why did you stop?” said Eric after Chad pulled over. The Subaru had gone ahead out of sight.
“Look at this place. Rows and rows of houses, no traffic. They’re going to spot us right away.”
“So what?”
“So the boss told us not to get spotted, dumbass. We’re not paid to think, which is a damn good thing in your case. It would be hard to live on six dollars a week.”
“Very funny.”
“So you better start walking,” said Chad.
“What?”
“Get in there and see if you can see them. I’ve been here before. This is the only entrance. I’ll radio base and tell them where they went, see if they can figure out who they might be visiting.”
“The radio still works if the car’s moving, you know,” said Eric.
“Out!”
“Goddamn this job,” said Eric out loud ten minutes later. “Who’d live out here anyways? Streets all the same, no one around. Half these places look empty.” Of the Subaru, there was no sign, which was little surprise, given the size of the development. But McKenzie walked on, overheating in the afternoon sun. He cursed having to wear his sport coat in the heat of the day, too, so that the pistol he wore wouldn’t be visible.
His radio connected to an earpiece crackled to life.
“Eric, where are you?”
“Dunno, I’m on a street that looks the same as the last one.”
“Well, find a cross street and tell me what it’s called. The geniuses back at HQ have figured out who these knuckleheads are here to see.”
“Okay, I’m at Franklin and Jackson.”
“Okay, don’t move. See you in five.”
• • •
WEARING THE LATEX GLOVES, George went through Mariel’s apartment methodically. He found some files in an unlocked drawer, but they were all personal, one for the car, one for the washer-dryer, and so on. George’s phone rang and he dropped the file.
“Find anything?” said Paul.
“Is she coming?” said George.
“No, no one’s coming, I’m just checking in.”
“Well, don’t. I nearly jumped out of my skin. I’m still looking.” George ended the call.
• • •
ERIC STOPPED THE CAR down the street as far from Mariel’s house as the doctor’s car, which was parked on the other side. Through his binoculars, he could see someone sitting in the Subaru.
“There’s one in the car, so I guess the other one’s in the house. Must have got in. They said these guys were doctors or something. I didn’t think doctors did break-ins.”
“So why did you stop down here?” said Chad. “Let’s just grab the guy.” He was always ready for a fight.
“Hold your horses,” said Eric. “I’m going to call it in to Nano.”
“How boring is that?” said Chad, who fidgeted in his seat while Eric had a quick conversation with the head of security.
“We’re going to call the police,” he told Chad after finishing the call. “Those are our instructions. The boss said there’s nothing incriminating at this house—the woman is too careful to bring anything important home with her. So the guy can stay in there and search as long as he wants, he won’t find anything. If the police catch them, they’ll be arrested, and that should stop them playing amateur detective. If we go in there and sort them out, it’ll just make them look harder. If they have the balls. These guys really have no idea what they’re doing.”
“Well, that’s disappointing.”
“Sure, I know. If they don’t give up, then it’s our turn to have a word next, so don’t sulk about it. Now, call your pal in the department and give them the details. This is the address.”
Chad handed Eric a piece of paper.
• • •
PAUL LOOKED AT his watch and shifted in his seat, George had been inside about twenty-five minutes. Paul checked his mirror—there was a car parked down the street that hadn’t been there a minute earlier, which stood out since there had not been any traffic whatsoever. How long had it been there? Paul strained to see if anyone was sitting in the car. He thought he could see at least one figure in the car. He called George again.
“George, a car pulled up down the street behind me and parked. Actually I didn’t see it come. Just noticed it now.”
“In front of here?”
“No, but I think there are two men in the car. I think. Actually I can only see one for sure. But it seems a little worrisome.”
“But they’re not moving?”
“No.”
“There has to be something in here,” said George. “This woman is involved in it up to her armpits.”
“George, get out of there. You’ve been in there too long.”
“One more minute,” George said, and clicked off.
Paul was beside himself. The one minute stretched to two, then three, then five. Paul was perspiring heavily. He turned on the engine to get the air conditioner going. He thought he could hear the car down the street follow suit. Paul was fixated on watching the other car in his rearview mirror. Then, in the distance, he could see another vehicle approaching. Paul had a sinking sensation in the pit of his stomach. He knew it—it was a police car. He quickly speed dialed George again.
George was stretched out on the floor, his arm extended way out, reaching under the couch. His phone rang again and he was exasperated—Paul was being a real pain. He stood up and glanced out of the window and saw movement. As he walked toward the front of the room, he saw the police cruiser pull up right in front of Mariel’s walkway out to the street.
“Oh, shit,” he said, and raced back toward the kitchen door, moving as if his life depended on it, running down the yard and out into the wooded area behind Spallek’s house. Despite the undergrowth and young trees, he tore along, making good progress. After a couple of minutes, he stopped and looked back the way he had come. He called Paul.
• • •
WHEN GEORGE DIDN’T ANSWER his last call and two uniformed police officers got out of the car and walked up toward Mariel’s front door, Paul pulled away from the curb very slowly. He looked back, and the Malibu that had been parked behind him followed at a distance. Paul expected sirens to blare and to be pulled over, but it didn’t happen. He now thought the Malibu was an unmarked police car. He was holding the phone in his hand when it went off.
“George!”
“I’m out back in the woods. What’s going on?” George was out of breath.
“The cops went in the house and I’m being followed by that car that showed up. But they can’t be cops, because they’d have stopped me.”
“Just drive toward home. They must be Nano security.”
“Why do you say that?”
“Who else could it be? Look, I need to keep walking.” George terminated the call. He pushed through the undergrowth for another ten minutes before reaching a minor road. He followed the sun and after twenty minutes of walking in the shadows came to a junction. He called Paul again, who answered, using his hands-free device.
“I’m at a road,” said George. “No one’s coming for me, it doesn’t look like.”
“Thank God!”
“Are you still being followed?”
“I don’t know, George. I don’t see that car. This is making me feel totally sick. And I’m supposed to be at work in an hour.”
“You go,” said George. “I can get my coordinates from the phone. I’ll call a cab and see you later.”
“You’re very calm about all this,” said Paul.
“I think we learned a lot just now. Someone is following us, right? It has to be Nano. If Pia wasn’t right about there being a conspiracy going on there, why would they bother?”
“So you have a plan for what we should do next?”
“No. But we need help.”
“Obviously. But who’s going to help us?”
“I don’t know, Paul, I really don’t.”
55.
THE OLD VICARAGE, CHENIES, U.K.
THURSDAY, JULY 25, 2013, 2:10 P.M. BST
Pia felt as if she were swimming in molasses. Without another sedative injection, it had taken her an age to fall asleep, but once she did, she fell hard. It was obvious to her that she still had some of the drug on board. As she slowly awoke, Pia wondered how much time she had lost. She hadn’t seen Berman since he had left her in the underground cell after making his big speech about nanotechnology. It was impossible to keep track of time. She had been denied the usual diurnal cycle; the light in the room was always on. When was it that she saw Berman? Yesterday? Last week? It might have been last year, for all she knew. Pia’s head was throbbing and her vision was blurry. She felt terrible, but she had to try to focus on what was happening to her.
However much time had passed, Pia hadn’t had much of an opportunity to think about her situation because of the drugs she’d been given, but now, as she passed through her mind whatever details she could recall, she came to an understanding. Berman had told her too much for her release to be a viable proposition. Her position was extremely precarious. She’d have to submit to Berman or face the consequences.
It took only seconds for Pia to look around her room. An IV ran to a bag that hung on a plastic drip stand for hydration. There was nothing else she could use as a weapon, even if she could reach it, as she was still loosely restrained.
As Pia tried to clear her head a little, a slot in the door that she hadn’t noticed opened, and then closed quickly. The lock on the door was activated and the doctor came back in. Pia sat up, ready to fight him again.
“I come to look at your arm. They want you healthy.” The man avoided making eye contact with Pia.
“So you do speak English. They want me healthy for what? What do they plan to do with me? And who are ‘they’? If you are a doctor, you have an obligation to help me.”
The door swung open and a powerful-looking guard came in, closed the door, and silently faced forward, an intimidating presence.
“Where is Berman, the American . . . ?”
“You cannot talk, miss.”
The doctor took hold of Pia’s bad arm. In addition to her muddy brain, her arm was hurting. Pia knew enough about bone fractures to understand that ideally she should have been holding her arm in the sling to maintain the proper alignment for it to heal. But she had been spending most of her time prone, and she may even have been lying on the arm, she didn’t know. However much she hated the doctor, she let him manipulate her arm gently. She didn’t want a nonunion, meaning the shaft of the humerus would not reconnect to itself, or a misalignment if they connected but did not line up properly. Both situations would require operations to rectify.
“How does this feel?”
“It feels okay. I mean, there is some tenderness but it’s not overwhelming.”
“You know this could be a problem if you do not look after it.”
“I’m being held prisoner somewhere shackled to a bed. It’s not like I have a lot of say in the matter. You’re too much, telling me it is my responsibility.”
“If it doesn’t heal, your arm may be bad forever.”
“Like that is the worst of my problems.” Pia realized she was not in the best of shape, and she wondered if that was the reason Berman hadn’t forced himself on her. “I’m rather vulnerable on a lot of fronts,” she added.
The man said nothing.
“Maybe being infirm has its advantages. Maybe that’s why I haven’t been taken advantage of by the wealthy American.” No sooner had the comment escaped her lips, than a dreadful thought crossed her mind.
“Unless he has. He hasn’t, has he?” Pia thought not, but when she was awake she couldn’t remember much, and when she was out of it, she wouldn’t know, as heavily as she’d been sedated. But she’d feel something, and Berman would have bragged about it. Wouldn’t he?
“You know what kind of man you are working for, don’t you?” she said to the doctor.
The doctor did not respond, but scribbled some notes in a small book, pocketed it, and left the room. A moment later he came back with a bowl and a bottle of water. He had a manila folder tucked under his arm.
“This is soup. You should eat. And water. The American boss man wants you to read this.”
The man left the soup on the floor, where Pia could reach it, and left. The folder contained a document about ten pages long. It was stamped CONFIDENTIAL in red and had a serial number printed like a watermark on each page. Pia skimmed through before tossing the document on the floor in the corner of the room. It was a business prospectus for potential investors outlining plans for Nano’s expansion through the year 2020. He’s trying to impress me, she thought. And a prospectus is supposed to prove that he’s a legitimate businessman. Do legitimate businessmen do this? she asked herself holding up a shackled arm. Pia’s head hurt too much for her to read what she was sure was Berman’s self-aggrandizing BS.
“If you want me to read this crap, let me out of here,” she yelled at the door.
Pia lay back on her bed and stared at the ceiling. She didn’t feel well but didn’t want to sleep anymore. Some time passed and Pia remembered the soup the man had left her. She sat up, which made her head pound anew. After a minute her head cleared a little and she ate the cold soup. With her foot she pulled the prospectus to where she could pick it up. Out of sheer boredom, she read through it.
According to what Pia read, nanotechnology was going to change medicine forever. Tell me something I don’t know, thought Pia. Nanobots could eat plaque and fix clogged arteries. They could consume even the most rapacious of cancers and infection. They could attack the sites of inflammation; seal wounds; clean teeth, even.
One application was given more prominence in the document than any other. Nanobots could have an impact on the buildup of proteins in the brain of a patient with early-stage Alzheimer’s; they might even have prophylactic properties that would ensure a person at risk of the disease could be treated before the onset of any symptoms. Berman had told Pia about his mother suffering from the disease while she lived out her life in an assisted-living facility near Nano.
Of course, thought Pia in a moment of clarity, this is why Berman is taking so many chances, cutting so many corners. This is why he was desperate to get a ten-year march on his competition. Berman was how old? Late forties? If he was susceptible himself, the first changes may already be taking place in his brain. In ten years, they might be irreversible. Pia felt sure she was right. But what could she do with this information?
Pia thought about Berman’s motivation. Working to cure Alzheimer’s was a legitimate reason to pursue research. It could be vitally important, even noble work, but not when it was carried out as Berman was doing it. Pia finished her meal and drank some water. She knew there was nothing she could do until she saw Berman again.
56.
INCENSE NIGHTCLUB, MAYFAIR, LONDON
FRIDAY, JULY 26, 2013, 2:27 A.M. BST
Jimmy Yan never ceased to amaze Zach Berman. Berman was barely able to keep his eyes open while Jimmy sat in the VIP area of this expensive nightclub in Mayfair, deep in conversation with a stunningly beautiful Chinese woman who was at least six inches taller than he. The other woman, who had sat down next to Berman when they arrived, had lost interest and wandered off a half hour previously. The club throbbed with beat-heavy music and was thronged with young, attractive men and w
omen. Try as he might to join in, Berman just wanted to go to bed.
“You are not enjoying yourself?” asked Jimmy, shouting to be heard above the noise.
“I can hardly hear you,” said Berman, cupping a hand to his ear.
“But you like places like this. We went to places much like this in Milan.”
“I know. But it’s late, and I’m tired.”
What Berman truly wanted was to have Pia there by his side. Try as he might he couldn’t get her out of his mind, knowing she was back at the vicarage wasting away. He had fully expected to have heard through the Chinese doctor that she wanted to see him, but it hadn’t happened. Berman had asked the doctor directly, but he had insisted that Pia had not said anything of the kind. It was, in Berman’s mind, a kind of Mexican standoff, both accustomed to getting their way. He cursed her doggedness while recognizing it was part of her allure.
Berman yawned, and he covered his mouth to try to conceal it. There was no doubt he was tired. He and Jimmy had been on the go all day. The difference was that Jimmy still looked as bright as he had that morning. They had driven in an official car from the vicarage in Chenies to the Olympic site in east London where the international championships were taking place, a journey of forty miles that should have taken an hour but took three in nightmarish traffic, which was bad by local standards.
Jimmy Yan took Berman to the apartment where the marathoner Yao Hong-Xiau was staying. Berman had been pestering Jimmy relentlessly to be allowed to see the man who carried his future on the soles of his size-eight shoes. Lying on the bed in his small apartment room, Yao seemed calm and well prepared. He didn’t go out much, he told Zachary and Jimmy, there were too many distractions, and he was sticking to his light training schedule and resting.
Later, Berman told Jimmy that Yao was right about the distractions. London was in full summer mode. Jimmy had abandoned the car with its driver in Stratford, where the championships were taking place, and had taken Berman on the Underground—the London subway, something Berman hadn’t done since he was an undergraduate at Yale on the grand tour—back into the center of the city. The small subway cars were packed with people. Berman heard a multitude of tongues, and two-thirds of the occupants appeared to be tourists. A busker started singing a Sinatra song, badly, and was shouted down by a gaggle of Australians clutching beer cans.