Capitol Reflections (55 page)
“That’s entirely correct,” said Karn, “and I don’t think anyone in this room would be surprised that I advocate the regulation of many substances—not just coffee—to ascertain what is called the ‘mechanism of action’ for various chemicals in genetically modified foods, just as we do with drugs.”
“Mechanism of action?” said Mark.
“How a various chemical acts and metabolizes within the body. The effects it produces, if you will. Unfortunately, I and a few others are lone voices crying in the wilderness.”
Mark didn’t want to hear about politics at a time like this. “Pequod’s is getting people hooked by mimicking an amphetamine. That’s way over the line. You’re telling me we can’t skewer them for this?”
“The argument,” said Gallagher, “would no doubt be that the drug is doing what it always does, just in a slightly different manner.”
“Then why the bloody hell can’t a warning be issued alerting people to the dangers of using the two together?” asked Peter.
Jan shook her head. “Issue a warning saying that drinking coffee and smoking are dangerous to your health? Assuming Americans would even care, the coffee and tobacco lobbies would be all over the government agency that will dare to float that little gem.”
Mark could barely stay in his seat any longer. “Then we crush Randall and Tassin.”
Karn held up a hand. “Mark, I don’t think you’ve been listening to—”
“I get it, the legal system lets scumbags slip through the cracks. That’s not exactly a newsflash. You’re forgetting, though, that we have something at least as damning on Randall and Tassin.”
Mark looked around the room as the others smiled in memory of the information they’d gathered on the sex slave business. There were no legal vagaries there.
“I only wish we could have busted Broome with the same thing,” he said, returning their smiles.
“That would have been something to see,” Rick said, practically rubbing his hands together. He had never said anything about it to Mark, but Mark guessed the congressman had experienced the senator’s “political will” more than once during their time in Washington.
“Trust the guy to go out in a way that’ll leave people scratching their heads forever,” Mark said. “Suicide or aviation tragedy—we’ll never know. Could be that the pressurization failed at altitude and the pilots didn’t recognize it in time to react. Could be that they just forgot to pressurize the cabin. Could be explosive decompression at altitude. Only a very few know just how convenient it was for Henry to exit the stage at this precise moment. History will certainly treat him with more care than if he had put a gun in his mouth or stood trial for murder. The irony is that his coffee empire will feed the next four generations of Broomes even if Pequod’s loses its competitive edge.”
“We’ll certainly have to run all of this by the attorney general,” Rick said. “But my guess is that Broome got tipped off that Spangler had been released. He then put two and two together and realized he had more problems than just coffee to worry about.”
Several people around the room nodded.
“I think our first order of business,” Rick continued, “is to talk with the attorney general again and get his thoughts on all this. He said he was going to be in touch with the secretary of health. Let’s see what he says when we lay the entire story out.”
“I’ll be here if anyone needs me,” declared Gallagher. “This is fascinating stuff. I’m going to keep working on it until somebody tells me to stop.”
Jan and Peter laughed, but Karn leaned forward conspiratorially.
“I wouldn’t be surprised, Ted, if your phone rings in the next few days and somebody tells you exactly that.”
78
Gregory Randall liked to do favors for people. They always paid off in the end and you could never anticipate how. Who would have known, for instance, that agreeing to give a clerical job to the idiot son of a lawyer in the attorney general’s office would lead to a tip that kept Randall out of jail? Lane Chase could try to indict him for his part in the “Asian Beauties” program, but Randall had far more friends in high places than Chase ever would. Of course, he would give Chase something to make him go away—that was always part of the deal. Dieter Tassin wasn’t really necessary anymore, anyway. Chase could have had Henry Broome as well, but Broome had already turned himself into fish food.
It seemed as though they were going to leave Pequod’s alone, though they wouldn’t have had much of a case anyway. QuantumSheet had taken care of all of that. The titration thing might be harder to do in the future if Randall sacrificed Tassin, but he’d put a team of people on it. Worst came to worst, they’d get by without the “Proprietor’s Roast.” Pequod’s had so much momentum that it hardly mattered anymore.
His moment of contemplation gone, Randall called in his assistant and dictated a memo to his PR department. His newly acquired AC-IV processing chip would be seeing the inside of more and more businesses and homes every single day. The coffee empire would pale by comparison. Might be time to start a new food company, however.
Maybe chocolate …
The old woman in Apartment 5G beat her eviction notice thanks to the kind young lawyer who had died in May. The judge had just said, “I’m prepared to put this issue to rest,” and then Marci slumped to the floor. In the commotion that followed, Anh didn’t get to hear what the judge intended to say that day. But someone at Marci’s firm got a continuance and when they went back to court, Anh heard the judge chastise her landlord for violating building codes and attempting to break Anh’s lease. The judge told the landlord that he had “a great deal to be ashamed of—and not only in this case.” Anh had no idea what he meant by that. All she knew was that she won. She only wished Marci could have been there to enjoy the moment with her. She was safe in her home, even though it often seemed gloomy and empty.
A persistent knock on the door drew her out of her thoughts. She kept the chain latched on, but opened the door, tentatively peeking without her glasses through the small crack. In the dark hallway waited two figures, tall and slim, carrying suitcases. “Who are you? What do you want?” she asked.
“Mama, it’s Tuyen.”
“Tuyen? Is it possible? Is it really you?” Anh removed the chain and opened the door. She put on her glasses to see the figures better, as if suspect of their motives.
Tuyen and Mai stood before her, small suitcases in their hands and tears in their eyes. “Mama, it is us. We are home.”
“Dieter,” she whispered in rapid Hmong dialect. “He will find you. I love you, but save yourselves. Hurry. Go quickly.” Anh began to close the door.
“But we’re free, Mama,” Tuyen said. “Dieter can’t hurt us anymore. No one can. Men with badges from—”
“From the FBI,” said Mai.
“Yes, men from the FBI threatened the man who kept us. They told him he could face imprisonment if he didn’t let us go.”
“You free now? You stay with Anh?” With that, Anh opened the door wide and pulled her daughters inside, hugging them to her. Having her daughters return was nothing short of a miracle. In whatever years she had left, she might yet learn to be happy.
Dieter Tassin stepped off the plane in Lima. Peru would serve as home for the immediate future. He’d settle on somewhere more permanent after he’d had a chance to consider new opportunities.
He wasn’t surprised to discover through one of his many sources that Gregory Randall had ratted him out to the feds. He’d had a long working arrangement with Randall, but it had always been a relationship built on mutual distrust. What did surprise him was that Randall thought he could get away with it. Not only had Dieter gotten out of America before the FBI could track him down, but he also left a little “time bomb” as a present for Randall. He’d keep a close watch on the American media to ascertain when it went off.
He would have no trouble finding employment as a roastmaster in South America if he so chose. Even though his escape forced him to change his identity, thus preventing him from trading on his resume, he knew that he was a wizard with coffee beans and that someone would want his services. Or he might finally retire … from that business, at least. South American women were dark, sultry and mysterious. Maybe it was time to cultivate an appreciation for a different ethnicity.
He took a taxi to his new villa. It was cool, open, and fully furnished, as promised. A computer was set up on a wide desk of teak wood, booted up and ready. He decided unpacking could wait. He sat down at the desk and started a new file, labeling it “Señorita.”
Absentmindedly, feeling the rumbling in his belly, he reached inside his suitcase and found the box of rice pastries the girls had thoughtfully packed for him. Parting had indeed been bittersweet and their gesture convinced him that they had cared for him more than they could comfortably reveal.
The pastries were delicately formed, perfect miniatures of fish and crustaceans in bright, true-to-life colors. They looked almost too good to eat, but Dieter’s sweet tooth was far more powerful a force than his artistic sensibility. He popped a brightly colored one that resembled a puffer fish in his mouth, savoring the combination of sweetness and spice that is unique to Asia. He’d miss this and other Asian pleasures now that he was in Peru—but he’d get used to it.
There was a hint of another, vaguely familiar flavor in the treat, but for a moment, he couldn’t place it. Dieter surfed the Internet for a while, enjoying his snack and his search for local action, which was always titillating. When he began to notice a slight fuzzy feeling in his lips, he put down the pastry in his hand, and put his finger to his mouth.
The odd buzzing in his lips was spreading quickly, and now numbness followed, all the way to the tip of his tongue. He tried to swallow, but it was difficult. Had he caught a flu bug on the way down? His eyes fell on the pastry box, its pretty wrapping, the ribbons undone.
He grabbed for the box. His hand managed to grasp the lid, but now it, too, had become useless and it fell heavily to his side.
Far too late, Dieter remembered the subtle flavor he had tried to place. One of Mai’s specialties was the preparation of fugu, the Asian puffer fish. A delicacy in Japan and elsewhere, the fish protected itself from predators by manufacturing a potent neurotoxin, concentrated in its liver and ovaries. A careless chef could contaminate a slice of fish with enough poison to wipe out a whole restaurant with one slip of the knife. The most sought-after fugu chefs knew how to put a miniscule amount of toxin on each serving—just enough to make the lips tingle for a few minutes. Belatedly, Tassin remembered the shape of the fish pastry he had just eaten, and Mai’s now-too-obvious, falsely teary, good-bye. That one always did have a rather wicked sense of humor.
Part of Dieter wanted to grin at the joke of it all, but those muscles were no longer working. He pined for a breath of fresh air, but those muscles also refused to cooperate. As he slid to the floor, a little air managed to seep into his lungs, but exhaling was now impossible. His chest began to burn as his lungs screamed for oxygen. He fought with all his will to breathe, but his body was deaf to his command, as immobile as cement.
Dieter Tassin silently cursed the twins in several languages, regretted that he would never know a new bounty of available beauties, and, as darkness descended, wordlessly slid into death.
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