Last Gasp (26 page)

Lebasse, thank God, had had the sense to seek another opinion before decisions were made and money allocated. A small mercy that it only existed on paper and in the warped minds of a bunch of military psychotics. Such a scheme would take many years of research supported by a multimillion-dollar budget. Which the secretary of defense, with the backing of the president’s senior scientific adviser, would never sanction.

Lucas could feel the sweat prickling his scalp. The receiver was slippery in his hand. He fed a quarter into the slot, checked again to make sure of the number, and pressed the sequence on the touch-sensitive digital pad.

Come on, come on, he fretted, listening to the burring tone. Somebody answer. Through the glass he noticed that the four customers were sitting upright, staring at the TV screen. It was one of the old flat-screen models, not 3-D, and from this angle Lucas’s view was of an elongated announcer, like somebody out of a Modigliani picture.

His attention zoomed back to the phone as the burring stopped.

“Hello? Hello? I called earlier. I was told to call back. Could I speak to—"

The name stuck in his throat like a peach stone. He found himself staring goggle-eyed at a face on the TV screen, a familiar face even at this sharp angle.

Lucas struggled with the door and forced it open.

“… apparently having fallen from his office window at the Pentagon. In a brief statement released a few minutes ago, an aide is quoted as saying that Defense Secretary Lebasse seemed perfectly all right during the morning, having participated in a full schedule of meetings, and that there was no reason to suppose ...”

The voice in Lucas’s ear said, “Are you there? Hello? Who is this?” He listened stupidly to the voice and then put the receiver down and came out of the booth and walked the length of the bar to the door.

The barman called to him, and when Lucas didn’t respond: “You ordered this beer, fella!”

Lucas walked along G Street in the direction of the White House, massing purple clouds above, oblivious to the large warm spots hitting his face. The threatened thunderstorm was nearly upon them.

His mind kept repeating numbly, Lebasse is dead. I have the dossier. Lebasse is dead. I have the dossier and Lebasse is dead....

And then the thought that made him stop cold in his tracks, the rainwater coursing down his face and over his small compressed mouth with its neat gray moustache.

Holy Mary, Mother of God. What now?

Cheryl was lying full-length on the couch wearing a loose halter-neck dress, her brown arms and shoulders bare. They had eaten a pleasant dinner together. Chase felt warm and relaxed, and now she had to spoil it by badgering him.

“It was you, remember, who told me about the dioxin poisoning,” Cheryl said, waving her wine glass at him. “You set the hare running and yet you don’t want to do anything about it—” The wine spilled and she tossed back what was left in one gulp.

Chase put his coffee cup down and picked up his brandy glass. “What am I supposed to do about it? I agree that we know—or suspect—that JEG Chemicals is up to something. And you’re right, a story like that is just what I’m looking for. After seven weeks all I’ve got is a briefcaseful of background material. Worthy but dull. You don’t have to convince me.” He swirled the brandy and drank.

“So let’s do it,” Cheryl said, filling her glass.

“How?”
Chase said, his expression pained. “You think a chemical company busily manufacturing 2,4,5-T is going to welcome a journalist poking his nose in? ‘Oh, I just happened to be in the vicinity and I heard you’re supplying a highly dangerous banned chemical to the U.S. Army. Mind if I look around?’ ”

“You keep telling me you’re a science writer, not a journalist,” Cheryl said, pointing an accusing finger.

“I am,” Chase said with a sigh. “Which still won’t get me into the JEG plant. They probably won’t let
anybody
in.”

“They might.”

“Who, for instance?”

“There are ways.”

“What ways? You keep saying that. Don’t be so damned infuriating.” Cheryl lay back and gazed at the ceiling, a small smile on her lips. She was enjoying herself. Not just the teasing, but the company, too. Her social life had been nil since Frank had gone, if you discounted Gordon’s pestering.

“Suppose you were an accredited member of the staff of the Scripps Marine Life Research Group.”

“Well?” said Chase warily.

“You could fix an appointment. Pay a call and say you were interested in purchasing supplies. And then you’d have the chance of looking around the place.” She raised her head to see his reaction and his expression made her stop short. “What is it?”

“Banting,” Chase said.

“What?”

He’d forgotten Ivor Banting’s connection with the JEG Corporation until just this minute. And Banting had been most accommodating to the U.S. military in getting the Russian scientist transferred to McMurdo Station. He told Cheryl about it and she said, “Astakhov, Boris’s old colleague?”

Chase nodded. It seemed to him as though invisible strands were slowly tightening, being drawn together to form a noose of conspiracy. Cheryl was right. The JEG plant at Bakersfield was a loose end, a stray thread that might unravel the tangle and lead to the truth.

He sipped his brandy and said, “I’ll cable my editor in the morning. If I’m going to do this I’ll need a few more days. How long will it take to set up?”

“Are you sure you want to go through with this?”

“A minute ago you thought it was a great idea.”

“It could be risky, that’s all.” Cheryl lay on the couch looking at him, the lamplight gilding her hair and forming pools of shadow above her collarbones. It was as if the air were filled with an emotional charge. They both felt it humming in the silence.

Chase fiddled with his empty glass, wondering if this would complicate or simplify things. The line of demarcation between their professional and personal relationship had been, until now, clearly marked and tacitly observed.

“What do you think about Lebasse?” he said in a clumsy attempt to fill the silence.

“There were rumors that he had cancer. It could have been suicide.”

“Do you think so?” Chase was skeptical. “Why choose that way when there are a dozen other ways, all less painful? The whole thing stinks to me.”

“What do you want me to do?”

Chase cleared his throat and blinked at her. “What about?”

“Do you want me to fix an appointment for you? Bakersfield is about six hours drive from here. I could try for the day after tomorrow, which wouldn’t delay you too much, and in the meantime you could stay here.” She was watching him with a feline slyness that was disconcerting. Then her head fell back on the cushion, her large breasts jouncing and trembling inside the loose halter-neck. He realized that she was convulsed with silent laughter.

“What’s the joke?” he said mildly. He was stirred and trying hard not to show it.

“We’re the joke, Gavin. You and me.”

“Are we?”

“Sure. You don’t want me to think you’re the kind of man who’d take advantage of a dinner invitation to make a pass and I’m being so goddamn careful not to let you know that I know you’re not the kind of man to take advantage of a dinner invitation.”

“If I could follow that I might agree with you,” Chase said, getting up. He went over to the couch and took the glass from her hand. Cheryl raised her head, her impish expression suddenly vanishing.

She looked almost startled but didn’t move as he reached over either side of her neck to undo the halter strap. The front of the dress fell away and he saw that the tan extended evenly all the way to her navel. Her breasts rose and subsided voluminously in the lamplight. He eased the shiny dress over her hips and pulled it free and slipped off her briefs so that she lay naked, arms by her side, her lower lip dry and quivering slightly. He could see her heart beating.

He deliberately didn’t kiss her, which in a curious way heightened the excitement. Cheryl was breathing heavily, her eyes half-closed as his hands moved with gentle insistence over her body. She arched her back and said huskily, “Christ, I want you so much,” and when he leaned forward to kiss her she responded fiercely, pulling him onto her, wanting to feel his weight crushing her.

They made love and when the moment came she moaned and writhed beneath him, her breasts pressed spongily against the dark hairs of his chest, her head twisting from side to side.

“We must have been crazy to have waited so long,” Cheryl said as they lay entwined in a warm contented huddle.

Chase kissed her smooth brown shoulder. “I think I was intimidated,” he said, no longer caring whether this complicated or simplified things. What the hell did it matter? It felt right and he felt good; no need to excuse or explain.

“You thought I was intimidating?” Cheryl said, looking at him quizzically from under fair brows. “Seriously?”

“Absolutely.” Chase said, straight-faced.

“Bastard,” Cheryl murmured and snuggled closer. She felt happy. The months of loneliness in the silent empty house were swept away. She thought of Gordon Mudie and a shudder passed through her. Strange how two men could excite such totally different reactions within her.

“What’s the matter?” Chase asked.

“Nothing. Not a thing.” She stuck her tongue in his ear. “I was just thinking how glad I am that you’re here. You in particular, I mean.” Her tongue flicked the lobe of his ear.

“Keep doing that and you’ll get more than you bargained for.”

“Is that a firm promise?”

Chase let his hand slip down to cup her breast, which weighed heavily in his palm, the nipple stiffening against his thumb. “Yes,” he said, feeling the heat starting to rise again. “A very firm promise.”

Chase drove north along Interstate 5, skirting the fringes of the Los Padres National Forest. The few remaining acres of what had been a sizable timberland were being encroached upon by the sprawl of Los Angeles from the south and the ever-greedy Vandenberg Spaceport devouring hundreds of square miles inland from the coastal strip. He brought to mind his conversation with Binch and Ruth Patton. The JEG plant was conveniently near Vandenberg—too damn conveniently near for comfort. Was this fanciful paranoia on his part or was there some actual link between them? If so, he couldn’t think what.

Once past Wheeler Ridge he turned onto highway 99 and headed for Bakersfield. The ridged folds of ocher-colored hills—twenty years ago bare and now dotted with houses—shimmered in the heat. The car’s thermometer registered an air temperature of 102° F. Chase drove in shirt sleeves, with the windows fully wound up against the searing blast, and blessed the marvels of modern technology. He felt as cool as a freshly picked mint leaf.

In Bakersfield he looked for the JEG Chemicals’ sign and was directed by an arrow underneath a huge silver conch shell along a smaller road that followed the meanderings of the Kern River. The plant was eight miles the other side of Bakersfield, toward Lake Isabella, and clearly visible a good three miles away: gleaming multicolored aluminum domes, silver towers, and abstract sculptured pipework, resembling a lunar colony. In the distorting heat waves it looked surreal.

At the gate he showed his Scripps ID card, in the name of Dr. David Benson—a name Cheryl had either borrowed or invented, he wasn’t sure which. The guard checked a clipboard and waved him through.

In the large semicircular reception hall he was asked to wait while they contacted Mr. Merrik’s office. Chase spent the few minutes looking at an illuminated display framed in heavy molded bronze that took up a complete section of wall. Next to each name was a symbol, a kind of hieroglyph in bas-relief, supposed to represent that particular company’s products and services. An oil derrick. A space probe. A truck, and so on. Chase let his eye roam over the family tree, impressed by the JEG empire in all its splendor:

JEG Electronics

JEG Thermoplastics

JEG Petroleum

JEG Data Systems

JEG Aerospace

JEG Ranching

JEG Lumber

JEG Realty

JEG Transport

JEG Video

JEG Communications

JEG Franchising

He counted more than forty major companies, many of which branched into miniconglomerates of their own. It was big and rich and powerful, Chase reflected, and it would have influential friends in high places.

Merrik was of medium height with short sandy hair and a fledgling ginger moustache, wearing spectacles with heavy green frames that clashed badly with his coloring. Chase got the immediate impression that the moustache and glasses were an attempt to lend authority to what were essentially a babyish face and timid, retiring manner.

They shook hands across the desk and Chase sat down and fussily crossed his legs. He smiled in a bright, vague way, hoping to give the impression that he was all at sea in the mundane commercial world— more the academic used to grappling with the higher reaches of conceptual thought. So much the better if Merrik thought him naive; it might just make him relax his guard.

And Merrik was apparently quite willing to accept him at face value, as an English marine biologist working at Scripps. He listened politely as Chase explained how the Marine Life Research Group was mounting a deepwater expedition (this Cheryl’s brainchild) “to investigate the systematics, evolution, and spatial distribution of the benthic foraminifera.”

Merrik’s alert nods became perfunctory and his expression bemused, and after a while he raised both freckled hands. “Forgive me, Dr. Benson, but I’m afraid you’re losing me. Way outside my field.”

Chase showed surprise, as if benthic foraminifera were a topic of conversation in every supermarket. This was the reaction he’d hoped for. “Well now,” he said, scratching behind his ear as he gazed at the ceiling, “how best can I explain it? Let me see, yes. One of our requirements is a certain specialized type of flora control agent.”

“A marine herbicide?” Merrik broke in with evident relief, at last getting the drift. “Oh, sure. We’ve got more than twenty patented brands.” He reached confidently for a plastic-bound manual and flipped it open.