The Green Trap (10 page)

“You are Lionel Gould?” Sandoval asked.

“Yes, yes, I am indeed Lionel Gould.” He spread his arms and indicated the wooden chairs in front of the desk. “Please sit down. Make yourselves comfortable. I regret that I can't offer you refreshments; this facility has been closed for some time now. I intend to reopen it, perhaps as early as next year.”

Sandoval went to one of the heavy oak chairs and sat in it. From her rigid posture, though, Cochrane could see she was far from comfortable. He sat next to her.

“What's this all about?” he asked.

Gould pulled a florid handkerchief from his back pocket and mopped his face. “Desert heat. Can't say I like it.”

“What's this all about?” Cochrane repeated, a trifle louder. “Why have you kidnapped us and brought—”

“Kidnapped?” Gould looked genuinely alarmed. “Heavens, no. I merely told Mr. Kensington that I wanted to talk with you. In person. In private. You're free to leave whenever you wish.”

“He killed Mitsuo Arashi,” Sandoval said flatly.

“In self-defense, I'm sure.”

“And he killed my brother, too, didn't he?”

“That he did
not
do,” Gould replied sternly. “I assure you. As I said, your brother was about to enter into a partnership with me. Many millions of dollars were involved.”

“I don't understand any of this,” Cochrane said. “What was Mike doing with you? What was worth millions of dollars?”

Gould's brows squeezed together. He stared at Cochrane, hard, as if trying to penetrate to his soul.

“Are you telling me that you don't know what your brother was working on?”

“All I know is that a helluva lot of people seem to be interested in it, whatever it was.”

“I don't like the sound of that,” Gould muttered.

“It's something to do with BMAA, I'm pretty sure,” said Cochrane. Sandoval glared at him.

Gould considered this for a moment. “What on earth is BMAA?”

“A nerve toxin. Certain species of cyanobacteria produce it.”

“Cyanobacteria,” Gould mused. Cochrane realized that the man had heard the term before; it wasn't new to him.

“Mike was doing research on cyanobacteria,” Cochrane said.

“What was the basis of your partnership deal?” Sandoval asked.

Gould smiled coldly at her. “If you don't know, why should I tell you? I brought you here because I need to know what you know. Not vice versa.”

Cochrane looked at Sandoval, who had frozen her face into an impassive mask. Then he turned to Gould, who was frowning.

“We appear to be at an impasse,” Gould said. “Which is not good.”

“Who murdered my brother?” Cochrane demanded.

“How should I know?”

“What was he doing that was worth millions to you?”

Gould shook his head. “No, it doesn't work that way, Dr. Cochrane. I'm perfectly willing to exchange information with you, but you seem to have nothing to exchange with me.”

“Look,” Cochrane said, feeling exasperated, “all I'm interested in is finding Mike's murderer. I don't give a damn about whatever it was that he was researching.”

“I'm afraid you don't make much of a detective, then,” said Gould. “If you can uncover the details of his latest work, you will undoubtedly find his murderer. The two are inextricably linked, I'm convinced of that.”

Sandoval said softly, “So we get back to the question of why you were willing to offer Michael Cochrane millions of dollars for a partnership deal.”

Gould leaned back in his desk chair and thought about that for a few moments. “Yes, that's exactly where we get to.”

“Was it about BMAA?” Cochrane asked. “Was Mike working on some new biological weapon?”

“Hardly that,” Gould replied. “Although, I must admit, if one of the spin-offs from this research is a useful bioweapon, that in itself could be of considerable value.”

“Suppose,” Sandoval said slowly, “Paul and I agree to work for you and find his brother's research results—the material you were going to pay him for? What would that be worth to you?”

“What would I pay you, you mean?”

“You were willing to pay Paul's brother millions, you said.”

“For the results of his research, yes,” said Gould. “An exclusive partnership. Exclusive.”

“And if we could dig out the results of his research?” she asked. “How much would that be worth to you?”

“A considerable sum.”

“Millions?”

“Millions.”

“Ten million?”

Gould pursed his lips. Then he nodded. “Ten million dollars. For the data I want. Payment on receipt of the information.”

She glanced at Cochrane, then said, “I think we can get the information for you—on those terms.”

Gould slowly rose to his feet and extracted a stiff white calling card from the pocket of his unbuttoned vest. He handed the card to Sandoval. “That will be good. That will be excellent!”

K
ensington sipped on a Diet Coke and stared out at the endless expanse of gray cloud far below. He didn't like flying; he much preferred to keep his feet solidly on the ground. But he had to admit, if you've got to fly, Gould's personal executive jet was the way to do it. Beats standing in airport lines and jamming your butt into an overcrowded airliner.

The Citation VII could accommodate eight passengers, but Kensington and Gould were the only two aboard. Up front in the cockpit were the pilot and copilot. No flight attendant. Kensington thought that a cute and willing stewardess would be a fine addition to the luxuries of this flight. These seats are big enough for two, he thought. Especially when you crank them back. Almost as big as a bed.

Gould was sitting in the facing chair, on the telephone, as usual: a plug in one of his tiny pink ears and a pinmike practically touching his whispering lips. He's either on the phone or on the computer, Kensington
said to himself. I could be screwing two stewardesses right in front of him and he wouldn't even notice.

So he was surprised when Gould plucked the plug out of his ear and said to him, “You look unhappy.”

“Me?” Kensington shrugged his broad shoulders. “I got no complaints.”

“None whatsoever?” Neither man had to raise his voice. The cabin's acoustic insulation was so good that the noise of the plane's twin jet engines was little more than a background purr.

“None whatsoever,” said Kensington.

“What do you think of this man Cochrane?”

“The one with Sandoval?”

Gould leaned forward in his seat, his cold brown eyes focused intently on Kensington's face. “Yes, him.”

“He looks like a wimp, but I think maybe he's got some guts. He's smart enough to know when he's overmatched.”

“And Sandoval?”

“She'd make a good hooker.”

Gould made a sound that might have been a grunt, or perhaps a stifled laugh.

“You really offered her ten mil to find what you're looking for?” Kensington asked.

“If the deceased Dr. Cochrane actually found what he claimed to have found, the results could be worth hundreds of millions,” Gould said fervently. “Thousands of millions. The results could change the entire world!”

“If the guy really found it—whatever it is.”

Gould smiled slyly. “Yes. Whatever it is.”

“You know what it is, don't you?”

“I know what the late Dr. Cochrane promised to deliver to me. A breathtaking breakthrough. Absolutely breathtaking.”

“If it's real.”

“Yes.” Gould nodded. “If it's real.”

“You think they already know what it is? Sandoval and the stiff's brother?”

“No, they appear to be totally ignorant about the man's research work.”

Kensington considered that for a moment. “I could find out how much they know. Wouldn't take more'n a half hour or so.”

“The way you found out how much Arashi knew?” Gould shook his head hard enough to make his wattle quiver.

Kensington sank deeper into his seat. “You're the boss,” he muttered. But he thought about what it would be like to interrogate Sandoval. Could be fun. All sorts of fun.

S
andoval had been absolutely silent while Kensington had driven her and Cochrane back to the apartment block. Nor had Cochrane much to say.

Now, though, as they stepped through the front door of his apartment, Cochrane asked, “Ten million dollars? On a handshake?”

She dug her cell phone out of her handbag, then dropped the bag on the slim table by the door. “It must be worth enormously more to Gould,” she said, tapping on the phone's tiny keyboard.

“Who're you calling?”

“Airline. I've got to see Tulius again. He knows more than he's told us. A lot more.”

“We're going back to Palo Alto?”

“I am. I can get more out of Tulius alone than I can with you along.”

Cochrane froze in the middle of the living room. Yeah, he said to himself, and I know just how you'd do it.

He reached out and yanked the phone out of her hand, then tossed it across the room, onto the sofa.

“What are you doing?” she asked, her eyes going wide.

“We've got to get a few things straight,” he said.

“Oh, for—”

“Last night was great. But did it mean anything to you, or was it just your way of keeping me in line?”

Her mouth clenched into a bitter line. “Don't go macho on me, Paul.”

“It's not machismo. I just need to know where I stand.”

Shaking her head, “How should I know? We just met a couple of days ago. With all this going on—”

“With all this going on you went to bed with me last night.”

“Yes,” she said, smiling slightly. “That's right.”

“And now you're going off to see Tulius.”

“Paul, don't be possessive.”

“I'm not being possessive,” he said, realizing the truth of it as he spoke. “I'm just trying to figure out if there might come a time when you and I could be serious.”

“I'm not a whore, if that's what you mean.”

“But you'll go to bed with Tulius if that's what it takes.”

“For ten million dollars? Damned right I will!”

Cochrane turned and walked slowly to the sofa, picked up the cell phone and held it out to her at arm's length. She stood there by the front door, motionless, her face unreadable.

“You know Gould's not going to part with ten million,” he said. “He'll take whatever we can dig up for him and then let Kensington or some other hired goon kill us. Just like he did to my brother.”

“I don't think he killed your brother.”

“Somebody did. And Gould thinks whatever Mike was doing is worth a lot of money.”

She seemed to soften, her face relaxing into an uncertain, almost vulnerable expression. Moving to him, Sandoval said, “Paul, I want to find out who killed your brother, too. Whether we like it or not, though, we're involved in something big. Very big.”

She took the phone from his hand.

“Last night was a beginning for us, Paul. But only a beginning. We can't build any kind of relationship while all this is going on. You can see that, can't you?”

He nodded wordlessly. But he thought, You're an actress, Elena Sandoval.
A damned good one, but an actress nevertheless. I was a damned fool to think otherwise, even for a microsecond.

“I'll talk to Tulius,” she said, clutching the phone in one hand. “Talk. That's all. I promise.”

“And I'll stay here?”

“You've got to go through those computer files that Mitsuo brought us and pull out every shred of information about your brother's work. That's vital, Paul!”

“Uh-huh. Vital.”

“I'll come back here. I'll move my things from the inn.”

Cochrane told himself, That's the deal. She'll sleep with you as long as you're useful to her.

“Okay,” he said reluctantly. “You go talk with Tulius. I'll wait here for you.”

She smiled and twined her arms around his neck. “I promise you, Paul. I'll be back as quickly as I can. If I have to stay overnight I'll phone you from my hotel.”

“Yeah.”

He went to his desk and booted up the computer while she phoned for an airline reservation. He even plugged into the Internet to print her boarding pass and hotel confirmation. Then he drove her to the Arizona Inn, where she checked out and moved her luggage to his apartment.

They went to a nearby restaurant, Le Bistro, for dinner. Cochrane hardly tasted the food. She was tense, too, knowing that he was on the edge of anger. They finished a bottle of Chablis, but that didn't help. They drove back to his apartment and went to bed. That did help.

In the morning, Cochrane drove her to the airport. By the time he got back to his apartment, two uniformed police—a man and a woman—were waiting for him out on the parking lot.

“You're Paul Cochrane?” the female officer asked as he got out of his car.

“Yes.”

“You're wanted for questioning in the homicide of some guy named Mitsuo Arashi.”

W
ASHINGTON
—Saying that “this problem did not develop overnight and it's not going to be solved overnight,” presidential science adviser Maxwell Bishop issued a call for new technological developments to help solve national and global energy problems.

The president's science adviser said that nuclear power generation, hybrid automobiles and new types of fuels to replace gasoline must all be pursued to ease the nation's dependence on oil imported from overseas. He suggested a combination of federal grants, tax breaks and other incentives to stimulate “innovation and invention.”