Last Gasp (27 page)

“None of which is suitable.”

Merrik stared at him, frowning. “No?”

Chase raised his eyebrows with an air of mild apology. “We’ve been through all the commercial and industrial catalogs and can find nothing to fit the specification. You see, what we’re after is a special herbicide that is effective in deepwater conditions at extremely low temperatures.”

Merrik closed the manual with a snap. “You mean specially formulated for that purpose? As you most likely know, Dr. Benson, research and development costs of producing a completely new chemical herbicide are substantial, from hundreds of thousands to millions of dollars. For what you have in mind the cost could be prohibitive.”

“Oh, let’s not worry about that,” said Chase airily, waving it away. “Cost isn’t of prime importance. No indeed. Research organizations from all over the world are contributing, so money is the least of our problems,” and was gratified to see Merrik’s eyes gleam with interest. “And if the technique is successful,” Chase said, piling it on, “it could become standard procedure for marine biology institutions throughout the world.”

Merrik was leaning forward, smiling now, hands clasped on the desk, thumbs weaving. “Is that so?” This was looking bigger and juicier than he’d supposed. This kind of contract could be worth millions. Still beaming, he reached out to the intercom. “I think at this point it would be most fruitful for you to meet our senior research chemist, Dr. Hilti. I’m sure you could have a most profitable—er, that’s to say, worthwhile—discussion in respect to your precise requirements.” His eagerness was touching.

“Before we get to that, Mr. Merrik—”

“Burt.”

“There’s one thing I ought to mention, Burt. Some of our people at Scripps expressed doubts that JEG Chemicals has the facilities and resources to undertake a project such as this one. To be frank, Burt, it was suggested that I get in touch with Dow or Monsanto and let them have a shot at it.”

Merrik looked distressed and leaped in at once, keen to reassure him. “Have no fears on that score, Dr. Benson. We can handle it all right. True, we’re not as big as some of the others, but we’re still one helluva size. We’ve got the R and D facilities, the laboratories, the staff. Take my word for it, we can do it. Yessir!”

“I wouldn’t dream of doubting it,” Chase said. “You’ll appreciate, Burt, that I have to satisfy the people at my end. Internal politics and so on. You know how it is.”

“Yes, I do. Absolutely.” Merrik spread his arms wide, sandy eyebrows arched above his green spectacles. “Anything I can do to help, Dr. Benson. Just put a name to it ...”

“Are your labs here, in this plant?”

Merrik nodded. “Yes, all our research facilities are based right here. Look, why don’t I arrange a tour, here and now, and then you’ll be in a position to make a full report to your people at Scripps? How does that sound?” He waited anxiously while Chase glanced at his watch and deliberated. “Shouldn’t take more than, say, forty, fifty minutes. And if you can spare the time, why not stay and have lunch?”

His face lit up when Chase nodded at last. “I guess I can manage that, Burt. I know they’ll feel happier if I can say I’ve seen your labs for myself.”

After being conducted by Merrik and Dr. Hilti around the three-story building with its large brightly lit laboratories and being shown everything he asked to see (including a perfect zero vacuum chamber which alone must have cost half a million dollars), Chase expressed himself more than satisfied. He had no need to fake his admiration; the facilities, as promised, were impressive.

Dr. Hilti was a tall spare man in his early sixties with the austere, scrubbed look of someone who lived his life to a rigid, unswerving discipline. He wore a spotless white coat and had a prominent Adam’s apple supported by a blue-and-white-checked bow tie. Here was a different caliber of intelligence to Burt Merrik’s, and Chase knew he’d have to be extra careful: That piercing stare and tight prudish mouth advertised to the world that Dr. Hilti was nobody’s fool.

Chase was less than happy, however. He hadn’t expected to come across hard evidence that they were producing a banned chemical at the plant, but he knew that the manufacture of 2,4,5-T on a commercial scale required continuous laboratory monitoring and ultrahigh levels of precaution. Nowhere had he seen anything to set the alarm bells ringing. And Merrik and Dr. Hilti seemed quite willing to take him through the labs, floor by floor, never once hesitant or in the least evasive.

He’d done as much as he could. Cheryl was going to have to dream up some other way of finding out what JEG Chemicals was up to—if indeed the company was up to anything.

He followed Dr. Hilti, erect and ramrod straight, back to the chemist’s office on the ground floor, and with Burt Merrik chattering in his ear nearly didn’t see the side corridor leading to a pair of steel doors with portholes in them and a sign above reading marine experimental chamber.

Chase halted. Still talking, Merrik carried on a few paces. Chase started off down the corridor before Merrik realized what was happening.

“Say, this looks interesting, Burt!” Chase exclaimed. “This would impress my people no end.”

“Dr. Benson!” Dr. Hilti called out sharply.

A smaller red-lettered sign said
AUTHORIZED PERSONNEL ONLY.
Chase’s breath quickened a little. Was this it?

“Not in there, I’m sorry,” said Dr. Hilti stiffly. “We’re conducting a series of tests.”

Chase looked at Merrik rather impatiently, then shrugged with sad resignation. Merrik in turn scowled at Dr. Hilti. “You do realize how important this could be to us? It would be unfortunate if Dr. Benson felt unable to recommend us because he was denied the opportunity of seeing all our research facilities.”

Chase smiled inwardly. Well, well. There was a streak of defiance lurking inside that mild exterior after all.

Dr. Hilti thrust his hands into the pockets of his white coat. His bow tie jerked from the motion of his Adam’s apple and he said, “If it’s that important”—he laid emphasis on this, as if warning Merrik that it better had be or else—“I don’t suppose a few minutes will do any harm.”

Chase grinned in a harmless sort of way and followed Burt Merrik through the steel doors, the tall gaunt-faced chemist following behind.

It was like entering a shimmering green undersea cave.

Enormous glass-sided tanks were ranged on either side of a central aisle. The only illumination, a gently shifting green light, came from the tanks themselves. A layman might have mistaken it for an aquarium. The bottoms of the tanks were faithful replicas of different seabeds, some with sand and silt, some with small rocks and pebbles, some with fantastic coral architecture, and everywhere a profusion of plant life, their fronds rippling rhythmically to an unseen current.

Exactly like an aquarium, Chase thought. Except that there were no fish, no marine creatures of any description.

Down at the far end of the chamber a circular metal staircase led up to a railed gantry. Chase thought he detected movement up there, but in the shifting green patterns it was hard to tell and he was probably mistaken. He concentrated on his other senses, primarily smell: Most herbicides had a distinctive odor that he would have known instantly. He inhaled deeply, trying not to sniff.

“Water purification and treatment of effluents,” explained Dr. Hilti, close by his side as they moved along the aisle. “New methods of water pollution control.”

If it was a lie it was smoothly and plausibly done. So far Chase had no cause to doubt he was telling the truth. Aside, that is, from the words
Authorized Personnel
Only. Because why forbid entry to these innocuous tanks containing seawater, sand, rocks, and plants? Maybe they were afraid of industrial espionage. It was a pretty large “maybe.”

He couldn’t smell herbicides, but something stank.

“I’m more than ever confident I can put in a strong recommendation to my head of department,” he said, nodding approvingly at Burt Merrik, who wore a happy green smile.

“And who’s that?” Dr. Hilti inquired.

“Dr. Detrick,” Chase said without thinking, and immediately cursed himself for being such a fool. Why couldn’t he have invented a name— any damn name?

But Merrik was obviously overjoyed. “I sincerely hope we can help you with this project, Dr. Benson. We haven’t had dealings with Scripps before, and I’m being totally frank when I say we welcome this opportunity. We’re very grateful, believe me.”

They came to the bottom of the metal staircase and turned back. As they did so somebody entered through the main door at the end of the aisle. Chase tried not to stare at the greenish light reflecting off the bald head and quickly looked away as if something in one of the tanks had caught his interest.

That had torn the whole fucking thing to shreds. Banting—large as life and twice as ugly. He was bound to be recognized. It had been eight years since last they’d met, but of course Banting would know him in an instant.

Chase stooped and bent close to the glass wall of the tank. He could hear Banting’s footsteps, muffled in the confined space between the tanks. He tensed, his neck muscles aching, as the footsteps came right up, and over his shoulder heard Dr. Hilti mutter, “Good morning, Professor.” Was he going to introduce Chase as a potential customer? By the way,
Professor Banting
, I’d
like you to meet
...

Chase held his breath. There was only the grunt of a monosyllabic reply, and the footsteps kept right on going, and a moment later he heard them on the metal treads, a hollow shuffling rattle.

Breathing out, Chase straightened up and moved unhurriedly to the double doors. That could have been very nasty, he thought, following Merrik into the corridor. The air seemed cool, almost cold, against his face, which he hoped wasn’t perspiring too heavily.

He shuddered inwardly and had to summon up his concentration as Merrik asked him something. Lunch? No, thanks all the same. He had to be getting back. Yes, pressure of work, and so on. But thanks, some other time.

No lunch today, not here, with the chance that Ivor Banting might be at the next table. He wasn’t going to tempt fate twice. He thanked Burt Merrik and Dr. Hilti and went.

Arms braced against the gantry rail, his hatchet face bathed in shimmering green light from the tanks below, Lloyd Madden said in a low dangerous voice:

“Of course I’m sure. I met him at Hailey Bay. He was one of your marine biologists. The point, Ivor, is, What is he doing here and what does he want? Can you tell me? Can you answer that?”

The train left Moscow at four o’clock on a rainy afternoon and arrived in Riga at eleven-fifteen the following morning, having been delayed at Ludza on the Latvian border for almost three hours. No one had bothered to explain why, and for Boris and Nina it was the one bad moment of the journey. Boris had carefully rehearsed the reason why they were traveling to the Baltic port and had made sure their papers were in order, though the explanation lacked plausibility even to his own ears. The Gulf of Riga was not noted as a vacation spot—certainly not a kurort, or health spa, so popular with Russian vacationers—and the capital itself was hardly a tourist attraction, with its shipping and textiles and telecommunications industries.

Thankfully the stop at the border hadn’t been to check papers. At least they assumed so, because they hadn’t seen any police, and the guards on the train didn’t interrupt their naps, as if the delay were a routine occurrence.

Boris sat gripping his wife’s hand and staring out at the ethereal dawn landscape, which consisted of trees in endlessly regimented rows marching down the hillside. In a way he was glad they hadn’t been able to get a sleeper (reserved for party officials and petty bureaucrats) because it meant they could stay close together instead of being in separate bunks. At long last the train moved on; they breathed easily again, and had a nip of brandy from Boris’s flask to celebrate and take the chill from their bones.

In Riga they took a taxi to a small boardinghouse overlooking the river Dvina where a room had been booked for them by somebody in the underground organization; they were to remain here until contacted. Boris had no idea whether they would have to wait hours or days, no clue as to what was to happen next or where they would be sent. The extent of his knowledge was confined to this shabby cheerless house in a city he had never visited before and where he didn’t know a solitary soul.

He had taken everything on trust, as he had to, praying that these people knew what they were doing and wouldn’t let them down. It was only now he realized what a blind, foolhardy gamble it all was: entrusting their lives, his and Nina’s, to an organization he knew nothing about. Actually not even an organization but just one person—Andrei Dunayev, a student of his from the old university days who years ago had happened to mention that he knew of ways to get dissidents out of the country. Boris had lost touch with his ex-student and then quite by chance had run across him in, of all places, the furnishings department of GUM, Moscow’s mammoth department store. They had chatted for a while and Boris had learned that Dunayev was working as a cleaner on the railways.