Bug Man Suspense 3-in-1 Bundle (104 page)

Pasha looked at him coldly.

“An American magazine says I am worth twelve billion dollars. Did you know that?”

“No, Dedushka.”

“Liar. And you think I'm going to just hand it to you like a boar's head on a silver platter so you can become a prince like one of the Romanovs; so you can live a life of luxury; so you can waste it on those tramps you collect.”

Pasha said nothing.

The old man shook his head. “You will be a prince when I think you are ready—not before.”

“I'm ready now,” Pasha said. “I took care of Nikolai Petrov for you. I've done everything you've asked of me.”

“Not yet. Your education is incomplete.”

“Then send me to school, not prison.”

“The White Swan is a school. What did you learn there?”

Pasha didn't reply.

“I didn't send you there to learn to do laundry or mend shoes,” the old man said. “I sent you there to learn
business
—just as I learned business in the gulag at Solikamsk.”

“There is no business in prison,” Pasha said. “Just time.”

“Did you learn to survive? Did you learn to recognize your enemies while they were still friends?”

“Yes.”

“No school of business can teach you that. I learned those lessons at Solikamsk and I wanted you to learn them too.”

The old man reached out and took a silver pen from Pasha's shirt pocket. He held it up and examined it, then twisted the shaft and unscrewed it into two separate pieces. He inverted one of the pieces and a small bullet fell out into his cupped hand. He looked at Pasha. “Did you make this?”

“I excelled at metal shop.”

“Good—it shows ingenuity.” He replaced the bullet and reassembled the two halves. “Does it work?”

“What good would it be if it didn't?”

The old man pointed the pen at the ground. He pulled back a small lever with his thumb and released it; there was a sharp
crack
and a tuft of grass lifted from the ground. He nodded approvingly and handed the pen back to Pasha. “Have you used it?”

Pasha paused. “Yes. I have.”

“Even better.”

“What do you want from me, old man?”

Semchenko nodded to one of his bodyguards, who stepped forward and handed Pasha a folder.

“What's this?”

“I'm sending you back to America.”

“Why?”

“To complete your education—and to do business for me.”

Pasha opened the folder. The top sheet of paper was an acceptance letter to a PhD program at an American university. He read the top line:
North Carolina State University, Raleigh
. He looked up. “Where is North Carolina?”

“Don't worry, I'm sure they have women there. But I'm not sending you there to study women, Pasha—remember that.”

“What will I be studying?”

“Insects, Pasha. I want you to learn about bugs.”

Pasha's thoughts were interrupted by the trill of his cell phone. He looked at the glowing LED screen and saw the 011-7 prefix—
Russia.
He patched the phone into the car's Bluetooth speaker system and answered. “Dedushka—what are you doing up at this hour? It's the middle of the night there.”

“Old men rise early, Pasha. It will happen to you one day.”

“What's on your mind, old man?”

“Business, as always. How did our little test go?”

“We must be careful, Dedushka. You called my personal phone—this signal is not encrypted.”

“I tried your business line. You didn't answer. You're with a woman, aren't you?”

“You misjudge me. I simply went for a drive.”

“What about our test?”

“
Your
test was a failure—as I predicted.”

There was a pause on the other end. “What went wrong?”

“I told you, the product cannot be delivered in this way. We must find a more reliable method of delivery.”

“Did the product arrive intact?”

“I cannot be certain.”

“Why not?”

“Because the customer opened the package before I could reach him. He was very dissatisfied with our product, so he disposed of it. I told you this might happen.”

“Did you contact the customer?”

“Yes.”

“Were you able to recover the shipment?”

“Some of it. Not all.”

Another long pause. “That could be bad, Pasha—very bad.”

“I dealt with the situation,” Pasha said. “I met with the customer. We agreed it would be best to part company. I ended the relationship.”

“You ended it?”

“Yes.”

“Will there be hard feelings?”

“No.”

“What about our other customers?”

“Our other shipments never arrived. They were intercepted, just as I told you they might be. The test was a complete failure. This strategy of yours cannot succeed. I tried to warn you.”

“Remember who you're speaking to, Pasha.”

“And remember whose ‘career' is on the line, Dedushka. You work in a comfortable office; I am in the field. You think up these clever ideas and you decide to try them without even asking for my opinion or approval. You send me to America to do business, but you ignore my business advice. And when your clever ideas fail, I am the one who must clean up the mess—
your
mess.”

The pause that followed lasted so long that Pasha thought perhaps they had been disconnected. Finally a voice said, “What do you suggest?”

“The problem is not with the product,” Pasha said. “Our product is very effective—my colleagues assure me of this. The problem is with our packaging, Dedushka: The package is too expensive and too risky. There is too great a chance that our product will never reach the customer. Do you understand?”

“What should we do?”

“The method you suggested must be abandoned. I have a strategy of my own—one that will succeed and will even allow us to remain on schedule.”

“What is this strategy?”

“A business not far from here has gone bankrupt. I want to bid on their facilities and equipment. I want you to send me the money.”

“How much money?”

“A million, a million and a half—that should do it.”

“What kind of business?”

“One that can deliver a product like ours.”

“I would like to know more, Pasha.”

“And I would like you to trust me for once. You sent me here to do business for you, Dedushka. Am I nothing but an errand boy? Send me the money. Let me prove myself to you—let me buy my business. I will get you the results you want.”

His grandfather considered. “With trust comes responsibility, Pasha. Do you understand? Errand boys are not held responsible.”

“And errand boys seldom become rich. I accept the responsibility, Dedushka—now will you send me the money or not?”

“It will be deposited in your account. Keep me informed, Pasha. Trust is not the same as license.”

“Go to bed, old man—rest easy.”

The phone call ended just as Pasha pulled into the Dan Allen parking deck at NC State. He made the short walk to Gardner Hall, home to the NC State Department of Entomology, and entered through the front door. He was greeted by a laser-printed banner that read: WELCOME GRADUATE STUDENTS.

6

T
he meeting room was crowded with faculty, graduate students, and family members. On the far side of the room the chairman of the department, Dr. Noah Ellison, was introducing members of the entomology faculty.

“Thank you, Dr. Bradley,” Dr. Ellison said. “Now I'd like you all to meet a distinguished member of our faculty, Dr. Sherman Pettigrew. Dr. Pettigrew is a professor of Applied Insect Ecology and Pest Control. Dr. Pettigrew, please—say a few brief words to our graduate students.”

There was polite applause as Dr. Pettigrew stepped to the center of the room. Pasha instantly recognized him; he was the only member of the faculty that Pasha did recognize, because Pettigrew happened to be his faculty advisor. Pasha didn't like the man—he found him strange and embarrassing. Pettigrew was a large man, probably in his late fifties, and he went to great lengths to unsuccessfully disguise his age. He dressed much too young, and he dyed his thinning comb-over a glaring chestnut color that screamed for attention. Pettigrew was soft in appearance, with a childlike face, and he spoke with an affected Southern lilt that Pasha thought existed only in bad American movies. Pettigrew was divorced, according to the departmental secretary, and he was obviously trying to appeal to much younger women. He reminded Pasha of some decrepit old caribou that the young bulls had driven off into the wilderness. All he could do now was wander and bellow pathetically at the herd.

Pettigrew said a word of welcome and then went on to describe in excruciating detail the history and contributions of Applied Insect Ecology and Pest Control. By the time he finished, the younger children were nodding off and the adults were all glancing at their watches.

“Thank you, Dr. Pettigrew,” Dr. Ellison said. “I'm sure everyone found that very . . . thorough. Last of all, I'd like to introduce one of the lesser-known members of our faculty, Dr. Nicholas Polchak. Dr. Polchak has an unusual area of expertise—but I'll let him tell you about that. Dr. Polchak?”

Nick took one step forward, nodded to the audience, and stepped back again.

“Oh, come now, Nicholas, you can do better than that. Tell everyone what you do.”

Nick reluctantly stepped forward again. “I'm a forensic entomologist.”

“A
forensic
entomologist,” Ellison repeated. “And that is?”

“I study necrophilous arthropods—insects whose larvae feed on decomposing tissues.
Diptera
mostly—blowflies, flesh flies, dung flies, things like that. I also study several species of
Coleoptera
—your carrion beetles, hide beetles, rove beetles, and so on.”

“And why did you pick this specialty, Nicholas?”

“Because ‘Applied Insect Ecology and Pest Control' is so mindnumbingly boring that it can suck the brain right out of your skull—as everyone here can testify.”

The audience laughed; Pasha smiled as well. He liked this man. There was something very down-to-earth about him—something almost Russian.

Sherman Pettigrew stepped forward again. “Really, Dr. Ellison, I must protest—”

Nick rolled his eyes. “C'mon, Sherm, look at the audience—the kids are holding their parents up. Let's face it, you're the Ambien of the academic world.”

“I don't intend to stand here and take this kind of—”

“Gentlemen,” Dr. Ellison interrupted. He smiled brightly at the incoming students. “This is the kind of spirited academic dialogue we encourage here at NC State.”

Pasha looked Polchak over. Polchak was strangely dressed too, but in exactly the opposite way from Pettigrew. Polchak seemed to give no thought at all to his appearance. He had on a pair of wrinkled khakis that puddled around his sandaled feet and a square-cut cotton button-up that hung open over a white Penn State T-shirt. Pasha shook his head. Pettigrew was trying too hard, but Polchak wasn't trying at all.

Then Pasha looked at his face. Polchak wore the thickest eyeglasses he had ever seen—the lenses were so powerful that they distorted his eyes, making them appear to flash on and off like signal beacons.
Strange
, Pasha thought—Polchak seemed to resemble one of the very insects he studied.

Dr. Ellison tried to get the meeting back on track again. “Dr. Polchak, you were explaining to us about your unusual discipline.”

Nick blinked. “I thought I did.
Diptera
,
Coleoptera
—that about covers it. Oh—also isopods and a few species of cockroach. Thanks for coming, folks, and good night.”

“I'm sure some of our students are unfamiliar with the forensic applications of our science. Perhaps you could illustrate—maybe from a case you've worked on.”

Nick groaned. “Well . . . I just got a phone call today from the Sampson County police. A man was murdered—a farmer—he was shot twice in the back in his own tomato field.”

Pasha straightened.

“I was asked to give the police a PMI—a postmortem interval. That's an estimate of the time elapsed between the moment of death and the discovery of the body.”

Pasha started working his way to the front of the crowd.

“I collected some maggot specimens from the victim's wound sites and brought the specimens back to my lab here. I'll rear them to eclosion, then calculate the approximate time the murder took place.”