Purkiss ran his eyes down the list. Software companies, health insurance providers, banks. Internationally recognised names.
‘But here’s the thing,’ Berg went on. ‘Grosvenor and Taylor both had significant shares in Holtzmann Solar. And I mean significant. More than half their portfolio, in both cases.’
Purkiss knew Holtzmann Solar, or at least the name. A pharmaceutical company, one of the heavy hitters if not quite in the top league in terms of turnover. Born in Zurich but with its global headquarters now right there in Manhattan, if he wasn’t mistaken.
‘How about Jablonsky?’
‘Not that I can see. Still, though. It’s a link.’
Purkiss thought for a moment. ‘Okay. How about searching for other Company operatives with similar investments.’
‘Done. Database is working on it right now.’
He’d told the two agents everything, back in the car: how he’d been summoned to Amsterdam because Pope’s name had been mentioned in the phone conversation between Jablonsky and Taylor; his walking in on Pope killing Jablonsky; the wild goose chase to Hamburg, including the surveillance at the airport by Americans. Berg had listened expressionlessly — Purkiss hadn’t been able to see Nakamura’s face as he was driving — but she’d glanced across at her partner, once, and Purkiss had understood the look: we’re getting in deep here, into something that might destroy us.
Berg had run a separate search on Holtzmann Solar and it yielded results first. She scanned it, scrolling down rapidly. ‘Its global revenue was a little over ten billion dollars last year, putting it in the top twenty pharma companies worldwide. Products across the board, for both human and veterinary use. Its biggest sellers look to be cardiac drugs and psychotropics. Antidepressants, antipsychotics, that kind of thing.’
Purkiss said, ‘Any government contracts?’
‘Not that I can see. The usual drug trial contracts with the state hospitals, emergency departments and that kind of thing. Hold on.’ Berg brought up another window. ‘Here we are. No other Company employee on our records has anything like the same investment in Holtzmann Solar. But here’s an ex-employee who sold his stock in the firm ten years ago. Dennis Crosby. Retired now, lives in rural Jersey.’
The face staring out from the screen was fleshy and nondescript. The man could have been anywhere between thirty-five and fifty. Purkiss said, ‘Looks young to be retired.’
‘Health grounds. Let’s see. Nope, doesn’t say why. That means the Company’s taken special care to keep it a secret. And believe me, they try and keep everything from our prying eyes, so it says something when they actually succeed.’
Purkiss looked at her, then round at Nakamura. ‘Looks like I’ll be taking that road trip, after all.’
*
Crosby was listed as living in Sussex County in north-western New Jersey. Berg estimated the trip at ninety minutes, tops. Before they left the office, Nakamura slipped his hand inside his jacket pocket, drew out a handgun. He stripped it on the desk, reassembled it quickly.
Kendrick watched. ‘Glock 23?’
‘Yeah.’
‘Rifle man, myself.’
Nakamura stared at him. ‘Not much good in your average FBI situation. Believe me.’
‘Why not? Scares the hell out of people. That’s half the battle won already.’
Nakamura snorted.
Kendrick said, ‘So do we get guns, or what?’
‘No chance,’ said Berg. ‘We’re operating outside our zone already. If we let foreign civilians carry firearms we’re finished.’
Kendrick muttered, ‘Ironic though, isn’t it?’
‘What’s ironic?’ said Berg.
‘Well, the enemy are armed, but Purkiss and I don’t get to carry weapons.’
‘That’s not what irony means,’ said Nakamura.
‘Americans don’t understand irony,’ said Kendrick smugly. ‘Well-known fact.’
‘Tell you what,’ said Nakamura. ‘You send us some of that swell irony appreciation of yours, and we’ll send you some of our dentists.’
Kendrick smirked; though with his mouth closed, Purkiss noticed.
Purkiss debated calling Vale but decided against it, just as he’d decided not to consult him earlier before telling Berg and Nakamura the full story. Vale allowed him a lot of latitude, and it was the way Purkiss preferred to work: close support to begin with, but once he was deep into the job, a hands-off approach.
They emerged into the street and climbed into the Taurus, Nakamura again taking the wheel.
Twenty
Sussex County, New Jersey
Monday 20 May, 7.40 pm
As always Purkiss was struck by America’s contrasts, the suddenness with which the metropolis gave way to colossal wildness. His image of New Jersey was that of seaside resorts and decay, so he was taken aback to find himself surrounded by soaring pine forest, lengthening shadows casting darkness across the road as the car wound round the side of a mountain.
Kendrick said, ‘Bloody woods again.’
Berg’s eyes appeared in the mirror. ‘Problem?’
‘He prefers cities,’ said Purkiss.
Berg said, ‘Jersey’s where I’m from originally. Newark.’
‘Small town girl,’ said Nakamura.
‘Yeah, yeah. Danny’s from the Bronx, as you can probably tell. Though you’re British, you may not know accents.’
‘I thought you didn’t sound Chinese,’ said Kendrick.
Purkiss winced.
Nakamura said, ‘How’s that again?’
‘I said, I didn’t think you sounded Chinese. You sound American.’
‘Why would I sound Chinese?’
‘Well — ’ Kendrick glanced at Purkiss for help. Purkiss shook his head.
The silence drew out for twenty seconds, to breaking point. Then Nakamura laughed. ‘Ah, for Christ’s sake. My grandparents were Japanese.’
‘Right.’ Kendrick didn’t look embarrassed, just a little bewildered.
The satellite navigation system indicated that Crosby’s address was a standalone property part of the way up a mountain in the Skylands area. He’d retired a decade earlier at the age of forty-two, around the time he’d offloaded his Holtzmann Solar stock; Purkiss presumed the cashing in had helped fund whatever retirement home he’d bought himself. He’d been single with no children at the time he’d left the Company. The FBI database said nothing more about him.
‘Here,’ said Berg. Nakamura braked more sharply than he’d probably been intending. The gate was set back in a stone wall to the right of the road. An unkempt driveway scrabbled up a slope towards a log cabin, barely visible in the dusk through a dense thicket of trees.
Purkiss got out. The gate was a normal one, not electronic, and slightly gone to rust. He unlatched it and opened it to let the Taurus through.
They parked halfway up the driveway and walked the rest of the distance. A battered pickup truck squatted in front of the cabin. The front porch was illuminated by a single bulb.
Kendrick muttered: ‘Boondocks.’
When they were ten yards from the front door it opened and a man emerged, a shotgun in his hands.
*
‘What in the hell do you want.’
Purkiss’s first thought was: this man is dying. He was skinny to the point of emaciation, the skin drooping off his face like wax down a candle. His shirt hung off bony coat-hanger shoulders, and his trousers were cinched in so severely that the waistband was bunched and folded. The shotgun over his forearm looked too heavy to be supported, like a steel girder draped across a broom handle.
Berg stepped forward, shield held out before her. ‘FBI. We need to speak to Mr Dennis Crosby.’
Purkiss saw it in the man’s eyes, which had appeared small and blue before but were now large in contrast with the rest of his face. He was Crosby, the man from the photo on the FBI database.
‘What about?’ The voice was a whispered rasp. Purkiss could see his fingers, burnt yellow by nicotine.