“But your hands are tied. If you can’t even get into the place, there’s no way you can figure out what they are doing. It’s as simple as that. Frankly, right now, I don’t even want to think about it anymore.”
“So I’m on my own. Is that what you’re telling me?”
“Of course not. I didn’t say that. I will help you get a good lawyer. I know lawyers. In fact I know the scariest lawyer in Boulder who happens to be involved in labor law. He’d be perfect. As soon as he calls, they’ll roll over and give you whatever you want.”
“I want access to my lab.”
“A lawyer is not going to be able to get you access if Nano doesn’t want you to have access. Be reasonable. Let’s talk about something else.”
“Will a lawyer be able to make them tell me why they tried to kill us?”
Paul let out a sigh. “No, Pia, that’s not going to happen. Nor do we know for sure that they had anything whatsoever to do with the accident. I just have this imprecise recollection of a vehicle behind us just before we went off the road. But I’m not sure about that. You’re not going to get anywhere trying to reopen that can of worms. Because there are no worms!”
“I’ll never accept the idea that I just ran off the road. It’s absurd.”
“You are entitled to your idea, but I’m telling you that you can’t keep on with this monomania. It’s like Moby-Dick.”
“What?”
“Never mind. Do you still want to come down to Denver with me? We both could use a diversion. Come on, Pia, what do you say?”
“I’m good,” said Pia. “I’m not in the mood.”
“You sure?”
Pia nodded. She wasn’t in the mood for socializing and small talk at all. And she’d had enough wine for the night.
“Hey, Paul,” she said. She sounded brighter. “Do you still have that camera you borrowed from your friend? The one we fooled around with that time?”
“Yeah, it’s still here. Why?”
“Can I borrow it?”
Paul hesitated. He tried to look Pia in the eye, but she quickly looked away. “Why do you want to borrow it?”
“I don’t have a real camera, and I feel like going hiking tomorrow while you’re in the ER. I think my ribs can take it. I want to take some pictures of the wildflowers that are blooming in the foothills.”
“Pia…?”
“C’mon, Paul, don’t be so suspicious. I’d use my phone’s camera, but I have in mind to make large blowups for all those bare walls in my apartment you’re always complaining about. So I need the high definition.”
“Exactly what’s brewing in that mind of yours?”
“Nothing,” Pia said casually. “I just feel like being creative, seeing as I have all this free time. What do you say? Or do I have to go out and buy one?”
“Okay. I’ll get it,” Paul said. She could be so damn willful.
“And can I have that cord that connects it to the Mac, too?” Pia called after him. “You’re an angel.”
“I know,” said Paul. “And probably a fool,” he said under his breath.
CHAPTER 40
Zach Berman clicked off the Web site he had been looking at on his computer. The Tour de France had finished that day, won by the Spanish rider who finished the last stage among the leading procession of riders enjoying the final ride down the Champs-Élysées. But Liang Dalian had taken his place on the dais during the awards, wearing the red polka-dotted jersey of the King of the Mountains, the rider with the best record on the hills over the whole race. He was lauded as the first Chinese to win a stage at the Tour, and the first to win one of the prestigious in-race competitions. Liang was featured for a minute or so on the cable TV coverage of the race (“Was China about to invade the sport?”), but there was far more about his triumph online.
Berman saw an interview with Liang, conducted through the same translator he had met numerous times with the team. Liang was well coached in his responses. He was delighted and amazed at his own achievement. He humbly thanked his teammates and the sponsors and his trainers. He explained that coming to Europe to race was difficult for him and his teammate Bo because neither of them had been outside of China before. He concluded by saying that he hoped this was the first victory of many for his fellow countrymen — and he said perhaps he could win the whole Tour next year, who knows?
Alas, that wasn’t going to happen, Berman thought. Berman guessed that there was some teenage peasant riding his bike for fun in a far-off province who would get that honor, and he would be raised in China and trained in China and be a professional who could be a star in the new China if he wanted to. But the risks with persevering with Liang were too high lest his true biography came to light, and Berman knew that something would happen to him in the next few months that would wreck his dream.
Berman located another Web site he felt he needed to check on. The opening ceremony of the World Athletics Championships in London was now less than a week away, and he would be in town, waiting for the competition with the same anticipation he felt for the Tour, only doubled or tripled in intensity. It was coming down to this watershed event. Berman’s whole future rested on just one race. But the trainers told him repeatedly not to worry. They said the same things Liang’s personal trainer told him one morning somewhere in France during the Tour. Berman had nothing to worry about — the rider was performing extremely well, even though he was utilizing only about 85 percent of his physical capacity. The trainer said Liang could win the whole race if necessary, and with ease. In London, they said the same. The problem wasn’t going to be winning, it was winning by too much.
Berman took heart from all the comforting words, but still he was unable to relax. So for the umpteenth time, he visited the Web page for the Chinese athletics team. It was the biggest team of any coming to London, and it was stacked with medal prospects. He found the marathon team, and there was the familiar face of Yao Hong-Xiau, a late entrant who had missed the trials in March but who had put up a stunning time in a private race in June. Berman knew strings had been pulled to get Yao in the race, but his name was still there. Yao would be running in London.
Berman’s concentration was gradually interrupted by a strange sound. It was a distant noise that had seemingly taken some time to penetrate the thick walls of his post-and-beam and stone house with its triple-glassed windows. Looking away from the computer screen so that he could concentrate, he strained to listen. The sound was just beyond his hearing threshold, but it was definitely there.
“It’s a goddamn car horn!” Berman said out loud. “Where the hell is that coming from: the East Coast?” He scraped back his chair. Leaving the den, he passed through the foyer and entered the monitoring room.
“Well, well, what do we have here?” One of the monitors had halted its sweeps to stop at the view of the driveway gate. The system was programmed to zero in on any significant movement beyond the swaying of tree branches in the wind. There in full view was Pia Grazdani, looking directly up into the camera, eyebrows raised expectantly. She was sitting in the driver’s seat of a sedan with the driver’s-side window down. Berman could see that she was leaning on the car horn.
“Looks like manna from heaven,” Berman said, answering his own question. His heart beat a little faster and a sense of excitement quickened in the reptilian centers of his brain. Pia had come to see him, and it seemed her timing was immaculate. He was in the mood to celebrate, and he couldn’t think of anyone he’d rather celebrate with than Pia Grazdani. He was going to make up for having passed out on the occasion of her previous visit.