“Who?”
“All of the large multi-national pharmaceutical firms have intelligence branches these days.”
“As do many of the smaller ones,” Charlie said.
Anna nodded. “Yes. There’s too much at stake not to have them. It’s become a trillion-dollar industry, and there’s a huge amount of industrial espionage. We need someone who can go inside the industry and find anomalies. And answer our questions.”
“But if we go to someone who’s any good, wouldn’t we set off alarms?”
She smiled quickly. “I thought you would say that. I know someone, who’s not in the business anymore. Someone they probably wouldn’t look at right away. Maybe you can check him out before I make contact.”
She gave him the name.
“What would you ask him?”
“The four or five most important questions that we can’t answer ourselves. The ones you asked me.”
“Okay.”
“The only problem is it wouldn’t be cheap.”
Charlie shrugged. The government was paying his company big money to go after Isaak Priest and not requiring itemized expense reports. “I think I can swing it,” he said. “Let’s decide on the questions.”
They did, over dinner on Promenade des Anglais. The incongruity of their topic and the beauty of the Mediterranean wasn’t lost on them. The gravity and secrecy of the project had become an aphrodisiac, the way war could be an aphrodisiac. They made love slowly that night and shared stories in the dark about their lives. In the morning, Charles Mallory looked at the calendar. He picked the date and the place where they would meet next. With someone who could answer the questions they couldn’t answer themselves.
But he felt a deep longing when she left, knowing that he had to go forward but at the same time yearning for something else, something that felt akin to a “normal” life.
TWENTY-SIX
Saturday, September 26
CHARLES MALLORY DROVE HIS rented Chevy Blazer into the winding autumn hills around Asheville, toward the home of “R. Steen.”
The house was set back in the woods on the side of a mountain. A narrow gravel drive wound down from the house. Mallory drove past the driveway and turned around, finding a pull-off spot in the pinewoods, a private drive to someone else’s house. He was about a half mile from the “Steen” house, thirty yards from the main road. He eyed the place with binoculars, waiting. Wanting Quinn alone. The air was still and smelled of wood smoke. He heard squirrels scrambling in the trees, branches creaking, leaves rustling, occasional voices from the open windows of a nearby house.
After about fifty minutes, an elegant-looking white-haired woman walked across the yard, carrying something. Mallory watched as she filled a bird feeder. Robin Steen, probably.
Twenty-three minutes later, he heard the garage door engage. An SUV emerged and slowly negotiated the gravel drive to the road.
Charlie waited until the SUV whooshed past, and then he shifted into gear and began to follow at a distance. The other vehicle—a silver Ford of some kind—picked up speed on the winding two-lane road, headed toward town, then braked and turned into a Home Depot lot. Charlie parked and watched from across the lot as the driver got out. A slight, balding man, probably sixty-five or seventy, who walked quickly with an energetic shuffle. There was nothing unusual or striking about him. Charlie turned off his engine. He found Quinn standing in an aisle of window and door sealants, looking at the instructions on a package of acrylic caulking.
He didn’t seem to notice as Mallory stood beside him.
“Peter Quinn?”
The man’s face brightened, as people’s faces do when someone says their name in a certain tone. But there was no recognition in his eyes.
“It’s Charles Mallory,” he said, and waited. “You worked with my father. Stephen Mallory.”
“Oh!” He was surprised. Not displeased, but guarded. “Well,” he said. “And what brings you here?”
Charlie shrugged. Quinn finally extended his hand.
“You look a little like your father,” he said, trying on a grin.
“I wanted to talk with you for a couple of minutes. About my dad. Are you free right now?”
“Oh. Well.” He smiled uneasily. “I suppose I am. Just need to buy a couple of things for the house.” He pointed at something on the shelf. “We’ve had a problem with leaky windows this year. Lots of rain this fall. Makes the leaves turn earlier than usual.” Charlie watched him. He was stalling, he could tell, making his decision as he talked. “What did you have in mind?”
“Go for a drive?”
“Oh. Okay.” He frowned. “But can you give me a half hour? I’ve got something in the car, some seafood my wife is waiting on. I’d like to get that home first. I’ll tell her I forgot something and have to come back into town.”
Charlie shrugged.
As they walked toward the register, Peter Quinn said, speaking softly, “Did you come here just to talk with me?”
“I did.”
“Why? What’s it about?”
“My father. I’ll tell you when you return. How about if I meet you outside, in front of the McDonald’s in half an hour.”
Quinn looked at his watch. “Okay.” He nodded. “Okay. Sure.”
Charlie walked out of the store. Sat in his rental and waited. He watched Peter Quinn emerge, his eyes scanning the lot but not finding him. Then he saw Quinn drive away among the shedding trees, back toward his house on the mountainside, and wondered if he would return.
PETER QUINN’S ESCAPE showed up nine minutes late. Charlie walked across the parking lot, opened the passenger door, and climbed in.
“This is a bit of a surprise,” Quinn said. He cleared his throat and coughed unnecessarily. “Nothing funny going on here, I hope.”
“How do you mean?”
“I mean, this isn’t some kind of set-up or anything, is it?”
“What are you talking about? What kind of set-up?”
“Any kind.”
Charlie saw that his hands were nervous. There was a large worn padded envelope on the seat between them. “No,” he said. “I’m just trying to gather some information.”
“Mmm hmm.” Quinn shifted gears. They drove for a while in silence, Charlie surveying the sidewalks and the woods. “Why now? What’s the occasion?”
“I’ve been thinking about my father’s death,” Charlie said. “And the project he was working on.” Quinn was silent. “The Lifeboat Inquiry.”
“Mmm,” he said. “What’s your interest?”
“Personal, mostly. I think what my father was looking at threatened some people. Caused some to want to silence him.”
“Mmm hmm.” Quinn cleared his throat.
“And I think maybe he was killed because of it.”
“Really?”
“Really.” Charlie watched the scenery, letting that settle. “He was concerned in particular that so much of Project Lifeboat was being outsourced. And that some of the people involved had been recruited by pharmaceuticals researchers, for a separate project.”
“Yes. That’s right.”
Quinn was gripping the wheel with both hands.
“Why would a pharmaceuticals company be interested in genetic engineering of the flu virus, do you think?”
“Vaccine research always interests them. Anticipating the next diseases, I guess. It’s obscene the way that industry has grown. The biggest growth going forward, of course, will be in emerging nations. Where it’s going to be easier to sell illegal drugs and cut corners on regulation.”