“Yes, it does,” Reeve said.
“It should be angry. We dump so much dangerous trash into it. Our rivers trickle mercury and other poisons into it. You wouldn’t think you could kill an ocean, would you? But we’ll do it one day. That’s how negligent we are.”
“Is CWC negligent?”
“Monstrously so.”
“Why haven’t you spoken out about it?”
“To protect my career, for one thing. I discovered early in my professional life that I was a coward, a moral coward. I might seethe inside, but I’d do nothing to upset the status quo. Later, after I’d retired, I could have done something, but that would have meant admitting my silence, too. You see, I’m just as culpable as anyone. Preece was a psychiatrist, not a scientist; it was easy for him to believe that the cause of certain diseases might lie in the mind itself. Even today there are people who refuse to acknowledge the existence of ME as a valid disease. They say it’s psychosomatic. But Preece’s group, the scientists—we had proof that pesticides and certain neurological diseases were causally linked.”
“You had proof?”
“And we let them cover it up.”
“Who’s them?”
“CWC.” He paused, gathering himself. “Kosigin primarily. I’ve never been sure whether those above him knew about it at the time, or are any wiser now. He operates within his own sphere. Those above him allow him this leeway . . . Perhaps they have an inkling of what he’s like, and want to distance themselves from him.”
“What is he like, Doctor?”
“He’s not evil, that’s not what I’m suggesting. I don’t even think he’s power-mad. I believe he thinks everything he does is in the genuine interests of the company. He is a corporation man, that’s all. He’ll do all he can—anything it takes—to stop damage being done to CWC.”
“Did you tell him about the journalist, James Reeve?”
“Yes, I did. I was frightened.”
“And he sent men to guard you?”
“Yes, and then he told me to take a short vacation.”
“There’s still a man guarding your house, isn’t there?”
“Not for much longer. The threat has disappeared.”
“Kosigin told you that?”
“Yes, he told me to put my mind at rest.”
“Do the guards work for CWC?”
“Oh, no, they’re policemen.”
“Policemen?”
“Yes. Kosigin has a friend in the police department.”
“Do you know his name?”
“McCluskey. If there’s any trouble, any problem, I can always phone this man McCluskey. You know something? I live about a half a mile from the ocean, but I’ve never heard it sound so angry.”
“They’re just waves, Dr. Killin.”
“You do them an injustice.” He sipped undoped water. “We all do.”
“So let me get this straight in my head, Dr. Killin. You’re saying you were part of a cover-up instigated by Kosigin?”
“That’s right.”
“And you’re not sure whether anyone higher up in CWC knew about it at the time, or knows about it now?”
The old man nodded, staring out of the window. Reeve recorded his face in profile, the face of a sad old man who had little to be proud of in his life.
“We’re poisoning everything. We’re poisoning the very food we eat. All over the world, from the biggest agribusiness to the smallest sharecropper, they’re all doing business with the chemical companies, companies like CWC. In the richest countries and the poorest. And we’re eating the results—everything from daily bread to a nice juicy steak. All tainted. It’s like the sea; you can’t see the damage with the naked eye. That makes it easy to hide the problem, easy to cover it up and just deny, deny, deny.”
Slowly, methodically, Killin started to beat his forehead against the side window.
“Whoa,” Reeve said, pulling him away. “It’s not your fault.”
“Oh, but it is. It is!”
“Look, everything’s going to be all right. You’re going to forget all about this.”
“I can’t forget.”
“Well, maybe not, but trust me on this. What about Agrippa? What does it have to do with any of this?”
“Agrippa? Agrippa has everything to do with it, don’t you see? Agrippa has several patents pending on genetically engineered crop strains, with many more patents to come in the future. Do you realize what those will be worth? I don’t think it’s an exaggeration to say billions. Genetics is the industry of the future, no doubt about it.”
Reeve nodded, understanding. “And if Kosigin’s dirty tricks came to light, the licensing authorities might take a pretty dim view?”
“CWC could lose existing patents and be banned from applying for others. That’s why the cover-up is imperative.”
“Because it’s good for the company,” Reeve muttered. He made to switch off the camera.
“Aren’t you going to ask me about Preece?”
“What?”
“Preece. That’s what the reporter wanted to talk about.”
Reeve stared at Killin, then put the viewfinder back to his eye and watched as the lens refocused itself on the old man. “Go on, Doctor. What about Preece?”
“Preece had a reputation to think of. You think he’d have worked for Kosigin, covered everything up, and signed his name to the lies if there had been an alternative?”
“There wasn’t an alternative?”
“Kosigin had information on Owen. He’d had people do some digging. They found out about Preece and his patients. The ones at the hospital in Canada.”
“What about them?”
“Preece had for a time advocated a kind of sexual shock treatment. Sex as a means to focus the mind, to pull it back to reality.”
Gordon Reeve swallowed. “Are you saying he raped patients?”
“He had sex with some of them. It was . . . it was experimental. He never published anything, naturally enough. Still it was never the best-kept of secrets. These patients were unpredictable. Preece had to have orderlies in the room to hold them down.”
“Jesus Christ.”
“The psychiatric community got to know about it, and the stories spread out until even people like me heard them.”
“And no one kicked up a stink?”
“These patients were incarcerated. They were fair game for experiments.”
“So Kosigin found out and used the information as a lever?”
“Yes. He had a private detective work on Preece’s history.”
“Alliance Investigative?”
“I don’t know . . .”
“A man called Jeffrey Allerdyce?”
“The name sounds familiar.”
Reeve thought for a moment. “My brother knew this?”
“Your brother?”
“The reporter.”
“Yes, he knew some of it.”
“How could he know?”
“I take it he’d talked to a few people. As I said, it was not the world’s best-kept secret. If the reporter had been looking into Owen’s past, he would have stumbled on it eventually. I mean, he would have known about Owen and his patients.”
And would have put two and two together, Reeve thought. Jim hadn’t only been trying to blow the pesticide story open, he’d made things more personal. He’d been homing in on Kosigin as manipulator and blackmailer. Kosigin wasn’t protecting CWC, he was protecting himself. Reeve turned the camera around so it was pointing at him, and waited for the autofocus to pick out his face. Then he spoke.
“This is being kept nice and safe, a long way from you,” he said. “I drugged the old man, that’s why he’s been talking. The drug’s called burundanga; it’s Colombian. You can check on it. You might even want your R & D people to do something with it. But listen to this; if you do anything to Dr. Killin I’ll know about it, and a copy of this tape goes straight to the police. And I don’t mean the San Diego PD. We know now how muc
h of that outfit you own, Kosigin. Okay?”
Reeve sought the right button and turned the recorder off. He wound it back a little and pressed Play. Peering into the viewfinder again, he saw his own face, muddy but definable. His voice came from the small built-in speaker.
“You can check on it. You might even want your R & D people to —”
Satisfied, he switched off the camera and laid it on the passenger seat. “Dr. Killin,” he said, “I’m going to take you back now.”
They drove in silence, Killin nodding off in the backseat, his head sliding lower and lower down the backrest. Reeve stopped the car three streets away from Killin’s bungalow, opened the passenger door, and pulled the back of the passenger seat down. Then he shook Killin awake.
“Get out of the car, Doctor. You’ll know where you are. Just walk home and go to bed. Get some sleep.”
Killin staggered out of the car like he was drunk. He stood up straight, staggered a little more, and looked around him like he was on the moon.
“Look at all the stars,” he said. There were plenty of them up there. “So many,” he said, “you’d never think you could poison them all.” He bent down to peer into the car. “But give us a chance and we’ll do it. There are hundreds of tons of space junk flying around up there already. That’s an excellent start, wouldn’t you say?”
Reeve closed the passenger door and drove off.
Dulwater sat on his bed, watching the television. He’d boosted the brightness and adjusted the color and contrast. There was nothing wrong with the sound. Dr. Killin was on the screen, saying his piece. Dulwater was watching the performance for the third time, and saying “This is fucking unbelievable” for the seventh or eighth.
The tape that was playing was simultaneously being recorded onto the third blank tape of a box of five.
“Fucking unbelievable,” Dulwater said.
Reeve watched the tape counter. Dulwater’s room was three floors down from his own. He’d been nervous coming here, but none of the staff had recognized him. It was a big hotel after all, and he’d done nothing to make himself memorable.
“Of course,” Dulwater said, “you could never use this in a court of law. Killin’s obviously been drugged.”
“You already said we’d never get Kosigin into a courtroom anyway.”
“Well, that’s true, too.”
“I don’t particularly want him to stand trial. I just want him to know I have this on record.”
They’d come to the bit where Killin asked if Reeve didn’t want to hear about Preece.
“Anyway,” said Reeve, “what do you care? You’ve got what you wanted right there. Your boss compiled one of his famous dossiers on the dark side of Owen Preece’s history, and this opened Preece up to blackmail.”
“Yes.”
“You should be happy. You’ve got something on your boss.”
“I suppose so.” Dulwater swung off the bed and went to the table. He had a bottle of whiskey there, and helped himself to another glass. Reeve had already refused twice, and wasn’t going to be given a third chance. “What about you?” Dulwater asked between gulps. “What’re you going to do with the tapes?”
“One for me, and one for Kosigin.”
“What’s the point of sending him one?”
“So he knows I know.”
“So what? He’ll only send that buttfuck Jay after you.”
Reeve smiled. “Exactly.”
“Doesn’t that bastard have a surname?” Dulwater sounded three-fifths drunk.
“Jay is his surname.”
“You really know him then?”
“I know him. Tell me again about the bar.”
Dulwater smiled. “Half the damned police department must have been there. You told McCluskey you wanted one on one? You got a hundred on one. Cars, vans, armed to the teeth. Man, he was ready for you and then some. You should have seen how angry he was when he figured it was a no-show. And his pals weren’t too happy with him either.”
“He’ll be worse when he finds out I’ve walked into Killin’s house after he pulled the guard away.”
“Oh, yeah, he’ll pop some blood vessels. And then Kosigin’ll pop him.”
“I hope so.”
The tape was coming to its end, Reeve’s face on the screen. Dulwater finished his drink and crouched in front of the machine. “You know, Gordon, I called the Radisson. I thought it was pretty dumb of you to stay in the same place you stayed last trip. But you’re not that dumb, are you?”
“No, I’m not,” Reeve said. He was right behind Dulwater, arms stretched out, when Dulwater stood up. As Dulwater turned, slowed by the alcohol, Reeve brought his hands together in what would have been a sharp clap, had Dulwater’s ears not been in the way. Dulwater’s face creased in sudden excruciating pain, and his balance went. He bounced off the bed and crumpled onto the floor, trying his best to rise again quickly.
Reeve kicked him once in the head and that dropped him.
“No, I’m not,” he repeated quietly, standing over Dulwater. He didn’t think he’d hit him hard enough to burst an eardrum. But then it wasn’t what you’d call an exact science. The Nietz-sche quote came to him: “Must one first shatter their ears to teach them to hear with their eyes?” Well, maybe he was one of Nietzsche’s gentlemen after all.
He spent a few minutes getting everything ready. Then he called McCluskey.
“Hey, McCluskey,” he said.
“You sonofabitch, where were you? I waited hours.”
“Well, leastways you weren’t lonely.”
There was a pause. “What do you mean?”
“I mean all your boyfriends.”
Another pause, then a sigh. “All right, Gordon, I admit it—but listen, and this is a friend speaking now, you’re on Interpol’s list, man. It came through after we spoke. The French police want to talk to you about some murders. Hell, when I read that I didn’t know what to think.”
“Nice story, McCluskey.”
“Now wait —”
“I’m gone.”
Reeve dropped the receiver onto the bed. He could hear McCluskey asking if anyone was still there. To drop a bigger hint, Reeve put the TV volume up. It was the insomniacs’ shopping channel. It would take McCluskey time to trace the call, once he figured the phone had been left off the hook. Time enough for Reeve to check out of the hotel and into another. He took three copies of the video with him, leaving just the one.
He knew that if McCluskey and Dulwater sat down to watch the video together, they might find out it was better all around to destroy it. Or rather, McCluskey would want it destroyed, and he’d tell Dulwater that if he didn’t let him destroy it, then Mr. Allerdyce might be appraised of the situation—such as what Gordon Reeve had been doing phoning from Dulwater’s hotel room, and what part Dulwater had played in the videotaping . . .
So in all, Reeve felt he needed three copies. One for himself, one for Kosigin.
And one just to let Allerdyce know the score.
TWENTY
REEVE HEADED NORTH OUT of town on I-5, citing a “family crisis” as the reason he had to leave the Marriott at such an odd hour. On the way down from Los Angeles, he had picked out a number of dreary-looking roadside motels, just off I-5 on the coastal road which ran parallel with it. He checked the mileage as he drove, and came off the interstate near Solana Beach. He was twenty miles out from the Marriott. The motel had a red neon sign which was making a buzzing sound as he parked beneath it. The reception was all locked up, but there was a sign drawing his attention to the machine attached to the wall alongside. It looked like a cash machine but was actually an Automated Motel Reception. Reeve slipped his credit card into the slot and followed the onscreen instructions. The key which appeared from another slot was a narrow plastic card with holes punched in it. The machine flashed up a final message saying it wished him a pleasant night’s sleep. Reeve wished the machine a pleasant night, too.
The rooms were around the far side of
the building. Reeve drove slowly and picked out his room number with his headlights. There were four cars parked, and about twenty rooms. Reeve guessed they weren’t doing great business at the Ocean Palms Resort Beach Motel. He also guessed that resort and beach were misnomers; the motel was a tired motorist’s overnight stop, nothing more. The 1950s cinder-block construction told its own story. The building was in a gulch, closer to I-5 than any beach. The Cinder-Block Last Resort Motel would have been a more accurate name.
But the locks on the doors were new. Reeve slotted home his card, turned the handle, and pulled the card out. He had his bag with him and slung it over a chair. He checked the room over, tired as he was—just the one door and one window. He tried the air-conditioner and wasn’t surprised when it didn’t work. The lightbulb in the lamp fixed into the wall over the bedhead was dead, too, but he took out the dud and replaced it with a working bulb from the ceiling light. He went back out again, locking his door, and prowled the area. There was a small well-lit room at the end of the row. It had no windows and no doors and a bare concrete floor. There were humming machines in there, one dispensing cold drinks, another snacks, and the last one ice. When he lifted the lid he saw there was no ice, just a small metal paddle on a chain. He looked in his pocket for quarters, then went back to the Dart and found a few more. Enough for a can of cola, a chocolate bar, and some potato chips. He took his haul back to the room and settled on the sagging mattress. There was an ugly lamp on the table beside the TV, so he moved it where he couldn’t see it. Then he switched on the TV and stared towards it for a while, eating and drinking and thinking about things.
When he woke up, the morning programs were on, and a maid was cranking a cart past his door. He sat up and rubbed his head. His watch told him 10:00 A.M. He’d been asleep the best part of six hours. He ran a tepid shower and stripped off his clothes. He stayed a long time in the shower, letting the water hammer his back and shoulders while he soaped his chest. He had fallen asleep thinking, and he was thinking now. How badly did he want Kosigin? Did he want Kosigin at all? Maybe Dul-water was right: the proper torment for Kosigin was to give someone else—Allerdyce, in this case—power over him. It was a right and just fate, like something Dante would have dreamed up for one of the circles of Hell.