The Green Trap (9 page)

“Back to work,” he muttered softly to himself. No coffee; grinding the beans might awaken her. He poured himself a glass of grapefruit juice and then sat at the computer once more.

The first hint that she had woken up was the click of the bathroom door closing. Then he heard the shower turn on. Smiling, he plowed on through the reports his brother had sent to Dr. Tulius. Cryptic, he thought. It's almost like Mike was writing in code. Both Mike and Tulius knew so much about what the reports dealt with that they could communicate in a sort of shorthand jargon that was fairly baffling to an outsider.

He heard the coffee machine grinding away briefly and soon smelled the aroma of brewing coffee. The juice glass at his elbow had been empty for some time when Sandoval, wearing only one of his shirts, placed a steaming cup of coffee beside it. He looked up at her and she smiled down at him.

“Anything?” she asked.

Cochrane noticed that it was 9:49
A.M
. He shook his head unhappily and pushed the little wheeled chair away from the desk.

“Far's I can make out, Mike was measuring the oxygen output of his cyanobacteria. Some emitted a lot more oxygen than others, but there doesn't seem to be any pattern to it that I can find.”

She went to the sofa, sat down, pulling his shirt around her. “There must be something more. There's got to be.”

“Something called BMAA,” Cochrane said. “Several of Mike's memos talked about BMAA.”

“What's that?”

“Damned if I know.”

“Can you find out?”

He reached for the coffee, blew on it, then took a scalding sip. “I can try.”

Almost an hour later, Cochrane looked up from his computer screen again, feeling grim and frustrated. Sandoval stepped out of the bedroom, dressed in her own slacks and blouse once again; she looked fresh, glowing.

“So?” she asked. “What is BMAA?”

He made a wry grin. “That depends. It could be the British Microlight
Aircraft Association. They deal with ultralight airplanes; you know, like those powered hang gliders you see puttering around the sky.”

Sandoval shook her head. “That wouldn't be it.”

“Or some agency for refinancing home loans.”

She frowned.

“Or the Bucks-Mont Astronomical Society, in Pennsylvania.”

“That doesn't seem likely, does it?”

“Or it could be something called b-N-methylamino-L-alanine.” Cochrane stumbled over the pronounciation.

“What on earth…?”

“It's a rare neurotoxin some biologists discovered in a plant species in Guam and New Guinea.”

Her brows shot up. “A neurotoxin? You mean, like a nerve poison?”

Cochrane said, “I think so.”

“Was your brother working on a nerve poison?”

“The last few memos he sent to Tulius talked about BMAA being excreted by some of his cyanobacteria. It looks to me like Mike thought the stuff was a by-product, a waste product, not what he was looking for.”

“Tulius might have felt differently.”

“Maybe,” Cochrane conceded.

“I'll have to talk with him again,” she said, more to herself than to Cochrane.

“What about Arashi? And this Kensington guy?”

“I promised Mitsuo that I'd cut him in on anything we found from Tulius's files.” She went to her purse, pulled out her cell phone.

“And Kensington?”

“The best thing to do about Kensington is to avoid him,” she said, pecking at her phone's tiny keyboard.

Cochrane got to his feet, stretched, then bent over and touched his toes—almost. He felt mentally drained and physically weary. He smiled to himself as he remembered an old line from his high school days: Too much bed, not enough sleep. Yeah, well, it was worth it. She's something else.

Watching her as she held the miniature phone to her ear, Cochrane saw all over again how truly beautiful she was. And she hopped into bed with me. With me! But a cautioning voice warned him, It was too easy. It didn't mean anything to her; she's using you. Yeah, he replied, and damned well, too. Don't let it go to your head, the voice insisted. He almost giggled. It isn't my head that it's going to.

Sandoval clicked her phone shut with a disappointed little frown. “Mitsuo's not answering.”

“Maybe he's in the shower.”

“At eleven in the morning? That's not like him.”

“Is his phone off?”

“No. It's ringing. He's just not answering. No voice-mail message, either.”

Cochrane shrugged.

“Well,” she said, “I can't tell him anything if he doesn't have his voice mail turned on.”

He took another sip of coffee. “So what's our next move?”

“I've got to see Tulius and ask him about this… what is it again?”

“BMAA.”

“BMAA. If it's a nerve poison it might be what's behind your brother's murder.”

“But Mike—”

“Can you drive me back to the inn? I'll call Tulius from there.”

“And Arashi?”

“Him, too,” she said lightly, as if it weren't important.

“Okay,” Cochrane said. “My car's down in the garage.”

As they went to the apartment's front door, Sandoval mused, “I'll probably have to go to Palo Alto again. Tulius won't want to talk about this on the phone, I imagine.”

“I'll go with you,” Cochrane said as they stepped out into the hallway. He turned to lock the deadbolt.

“It would be better if I went alone, Paul,” she said.

“What do you mean?”

“I need you to collect all the information you can on this BMAA stuff: where it comes from, who's involved in producing it. Everything you can find.”

The elevator doors slid open.

“But I thought we were in this together,” Cochrane said.

“We are, Paul. But we can accomplish a lot more working separately right now.”

“You want to go to Palo Alto without me?”

“Please believe me, Paul. You can do more here,” she said, looking slightly distressed.

He fell silent as the elevator descended to the garage. One night in bed and then it's
You stay here, Paul,
he thought, fuming. She's an actress, he realized all over again. An actress. She was probably acting in bed.

And she wants to see Tulius alone. Without me. Cochrane remembered the expression on Tulius's face when he'd first seen her: like a pirate looking at a chest full of treasure.

The elevator doors opened and a tall, broad-shouldered man in a dark suit stood in front of them.

“Ms. Sandoval, Dr. Cochrane,” he said in a deep, rumbling voice.

“Kensington,” Sandoval whispered.

Blue-green algae (also known as cyanobacteria) are probably the most widespread and ancient life-forms on earth. They can produce a toxin called BMAA, which is biochemists' shorthand for b-N-methylamino-L-alanine. BMAA is linked with nerve-wasting diseases such as Alzheimer's and an illness similar to Lou Gehrig's and Parkinson's diseases.

Ninety percent of the more than forty cyanobacteria species studied by an international team of microbiologists produce BMAA. The researchers believe that under the proper conditions all cyanobacteria might produce the nerve toxin. The neurotoxin has been found in blooms of cyanobacteria in the Baltic Sea and in ocean waters, which means that the microbes could be releasing deadly quantities of BMAA.

Water pollution and rising global temperatures trigger such algal blooms (such as red tide) that can cover thousands of square kilometers. Scientists believe the health consequences for aquatic life such as fish and sea mammals, as well as humans, could be significant.

—
S
CIENCE
M
ONTHLY

M
r. Gould wants to see you,” Kensington said to Sandoval. Turning his slate-gray eyes to Cochrane, he added, “You come along, too.”

“And what if we don't want to see Mr. Gould,” Cochrane said, “whoever the hell he is?”

“That doesn't matter.”

“Doesn't it?”

Neither Cochrane nor Sandoval had stepped out of the elevator cab. She seemed frozen, like a small animal caught in the glare of a speeding car's headlights.

“Look, Doc, I don't want to play games.”

Kensington was a couple of inches taller than Cochrane, and he appeared to be solidly built. His face was hard, humorless, a stubble of beard darkening his heavy jaw. His hair was thick, jet-black, combed straight back off his broad forehead. He probably has a gun, Cochrane thought.

“Do what he says, Paul,” whispered Sandoval. But she made no move to leave the elevator cab, as if she could not willingly take a step toward this dark, menacing man.

On an impulse, Cochrane tried to punch the “close door” button, but Kensington's reflexes were faster. He grabbed Cochrane's wrist in an iron grip that shot a hot streak of pain all the way up his arm.

“No games, Doc,” Kensington said, his lips pulled apart in a grim rictus that might have been a smile.

“Mitsuo Arashi knows we're here,” Sandoval said. “We were on our way to see him. If we don't show up—”

“Arashi's not going to worry about it,” Kensington said. “He's past all his worries now.”

“He's dead?”

“Very.”

Cochrane stood there, seeing the terror in Sandoval's eyes as he tried to rub the pain out of his arm.

“Let's go,” Kensington said. “And remember: no games.”

Cochrane followed Sandoval and Kensington to a blocky black Lexus SUV that was parked in a space marked DELIVERIES ONLY. He pulled the sliding rear door open and Sandoval climbed in. Cochrane followed and sat beside her. Kensington slid the door shut, then walked calmly around the truck and climbed into the driver's seat.

“Fasten your seat belts,” he said, looking up into the rearview mirror. “Lotta crazy drivers out there.”

They rode in silence up Campbell Avenue, then across to Highway 77 and northward.

“Where are you taking us?” Sandoval asked.

“You'll see.”

“What happened to Mitsuo?”

“He thought he was a kung fu master. I had to teach him otherwise. Guess the lesson went too far.”

“Who's this Mr. Gould?” Cochrane asked.

“You'll see,” Kensington repeated.

They headed toward the town of Oracle, but turned off at a sign that pointed to Biosphere 2. Both sides of the turnoff road were filled with housing developments so new that much of the land was still raw, not yet landscaped, an open wound in the desert where still more houses would be planted. They looked like expensive homes to Cochrane, all neatly laid out like brand-new chess pieces on a board. Scrawny young trees planted
precisely the same distance apart from each other lined the road on both sides. They're putting in grass lawns, in the desert, Cochrane saw. Their water bills will be astronomical, he thought.

Biosphere 2 was a collection of weird-looking white and glass buildings, including a big dome-topped tower and a stepped-back pyramid, with more conventional wooden barracks-type buildings running up a flanking hillside. Cochrane remembered that the place had been built to simulate various ecological regions of earth: tropical rain forest, desert, they even had a miniature ocean inside one of the buildings. All completely sealed from the outside world. A group of volunteers had tried to live for a year inside this artificial world; they lasted only a few months. Or was it weeks? Cochrane couldn't remember.

Kensington parked the SUV in front of a brick two-story building just inside the compound's gates. Cochrane slid the door on his side open before Kensington could get out of the driver's seat. Looking out at the bleak expanse of brown hills baking in the morning sunshine, he realized there was no sense trying to run, nowhere to run to. So he climbed down onto the gravel of the parking lot and helped Sandoval get out of the Lexus. The heat of the desert sun felt like an iron weight on his shoulders.

Wordlessly, Kensington led them into the building. The lobby was empty; the entire building seemed deserted.

“No one here?” Sandoval asked.

“We're here,” said Kensington. Then he nodded toward a closed door at the end of the corridor. “And Mr. Gould is in there, waiting for you.”

Feeling a little like a kid who'd been sent to the school principal's office, Cochrane led Sandoval down the corridor. He rapped once on the unmarked door, then opened it.

Inside was a small office, air-conditioned so heavily it sent an instant shiver up Cochrane's spine. Sitting behind the desk was a heavyset man with thinning gray hair. His jacket had been thrown carelessly on the couch by the window, his vest unbuttoned, his shirt collar open and florid tie pulled loose. Still the man's fleshy face was sheened with perspiration. He was staring intently into the screen of a laptop, opened on the desk. He didn't bother to look up when Cochrane pushed the door shut behind Sandoval and himself.

Despite the air-conditioning, the room smelled stale, dusty, as if it had been sealed shut for a long time. Cochrane saw a parade of dust motes dancing in the sunshine slanting in through the window at one side of the desk.

They stood there uncertainly in the bitingly chill office for several long seconds. Finally the man behind the desk nodded hard enough to
make his cheeks waddle, then snapped the laptop shut. He looked up at them and smiled without showing his teeth.

“Ms. Sandoval,” he said, in a slightly rasping voice. “And you must be Dr. Cochrane. My condolences on your brother's untimely demise.”

“Did you have something to do with it?” Cochrane snapped before he could stop himself.

“Me?” The man's thin gray brows shot toward his scalp. “Heavens, no! Why should I want him dead? We were partners—or we would have been if he hadn't been killed.”