Delivering Caliban (11 page)

Nineteen

New York City

Monday 20 May, 6.10 pm

‘
Wrong approach,’ Purkiss said.

They were clustered in a near-derelict office Nakamura had taken them to on the Upper West Side, with no air conditioning and the breeze of the Hudson River filtering through the cranked windows. There were a few chairs, a desk, a couple of cupboards with doors hanging off their hinges. Berg said it was FBI property awaiting useful employment.

She’d brought a laptop with her from the car and set it up on the desk, using a dongle to get web access. There was no question of using their usual Midtown office, she explained. Their boss had ordered them off the case, and they’d be noticed.

‘
But accessing FBI facilities electronically will get you noticed, too,’ Purkiss pointed out.

Berg shook her head. ‘I’m not going in using my passcode.’

‘You’re hacking your own networks?’

Nakamura: ‘Sure. All of us do it from time to time. Usually it’s to modify records we’re not allowed to officially change.’

Berg hissed at him over her shoulder.

Kendrick lounged at the window, alternately paying mild attention to the group at the desk and gazing down at the street, tense and coiled as a cat. Purkiss stood behind the two agents, watching the screen as Berg’s fingers flashed over the keyboard.

After half an hour he turned away to pace.

‘
Wrong approach, how?’ said Nakamura.

‘
You’re looking for patterns. Patterns in these people’s movements, their behaviour. Ways and places and times they might have interacted.’

Berg had entered the names of Pope, Jablonsky, Taylor and Grosvenor into the database she’d accessed and the screen was scrolling though the links. None so far, other than the obvious one, namely that they were all recognised intelligence operatives, the first a British agent and the last three CIA. They’d visited some of the same locales but not at the same time, as far as was known. At thirty two Pope was the youngest; the Americans’ ages ranged from middle forties to late fifties.

‘And you’d go about it how exactly?’ Nakamura again.

‘
Whatever their connection, it’s unlikely to be something overt, something that would find its way on to a database. The link’s going to be something more tenuous. Counterintuitive.’ Suddenly Purkiss remembered his conversation with the local Service man, Delatour, in the park. The bang on his head shortly afterwards must have done the equivalent of knocking the memory down the back of the sofa.

He said, ‘Finances. Can you check that on them? Investments, stock portfolios, that kind of thing?’

‘Hell yeah.’ Berg tuned back to the laptop and tapped away happily.

Purkiss left her for a moment and went over to Kendrick. ‘Any problems at the airport?’

‘Should there’ve been?’

‘
Not really.’ Purkiss had been half-expecting Kendrick to get pulled out at the passport desk, but not because his face was on a database of known foreign operatives like Purkiss’s. In his dirty jeans and outsized camouflage jacket, and with his yellow pallor and khaki teeth, Kendrick looked like a drug addict.

‘
First time in New York?’ said Purkiss.

‘
Yeah,’ said Kendrick. ‘Done Disney in Florida before, though. Sean.’

Kendrick had a seven-year-old son from a long-defunct relationship. The boy’s mother had unhappily ceded fairly generous visiting rights. Purkiss preferred not to speculate as to why, or what pressure might have been brought to bear.

At the desk Berg called, ‘Got something.’ Purkiss walked back over, Kendrick in tow.

She nodded at the screen. ‘A match, kind of. All three Company people had stock portfolios. Not Pope, or if he does or did, there’s no record. Obviously there’s a lot of common companies they own shares in.’

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.

‘
You Crosby?’ said Nakamura.

‘
What do you want?’ the man said again.

‘
You need to put the gun down, sir.’ Berg put a hand on her hip in a practised gesture, the movement partially opening her jacket to display the shoulder holster.

‘
God damn it.’ The man turned and went back through the screen door.

Purkiss glanced at Berg, who nodded. The four of them made their way up to the door. Purkiss half expected a dog to start barking.

The two agents positioned themselves on either side of the door, Berg motioning Purkiss and Kendrick to keep back. She called, ‘Mr Crosby, we’re going to come in now. I need to know you’re not waiting for us with the shotgun.’

‘
Yeah, yeah.’ The reply was barely audible. An instant later the screen door creaked open. Crosby stood there, holding it. The gun was nowhere to be seen. He jerked his head.

Purkiss and Kendrick followed the agents into the cabin. It was dim and dingy and smelled of cigarette smoke, stale clothes and fried food. The shotgun was on a rack on the wall below a hunting rifle. Propped against the back of a dilapidated sofa was a home oxygen cylinder, its attached tube hissing quietly.

‘Just god damn do it,’ said Crosby, his arms held out in front of him.

‘
Do what?’ said Berg.

Purkiss glanced about the room. There was no sign anybody else was there, no tell-tale noises from the other rooms.

‘Take me. At least I’ll get decent hospital care inside. Fuckin’ Medicaid.’

‘
Inside?’

Nakamura pointed at the couch. ‘Sit down, man.’

Crosby lowered himself, wheezing, into the sagging seat. He groped for the oxygen tube and fitted the nubs into his nostrils.

Berg said, ‘Why do you think we’ve come to arrest you?’

Crosby shook his head. ‘Don’t play games with me.’

Purkiss said, ‘Holtzmann Solar.’

The agents glared over at him.

Crosby wagged a finger in his direction. ‘See? Told you.’

He pulled a pack of cigarettes out of his breast pocket and shook one out, put it between his lips. Nakamura snatched it away.

‘
There’s oxygen around.’

Crosby cackled, the sound high and frightening. ‘I’ve got maybe four months left, maybe six. A little Russian roulette livens things up.’

Berg squatted in front of him. ‘Okay. We’re not here to arrest you, necessarily. We’re here to find out what exactly your connection is with Holtzmann Solar, and with two other Company operatives, Gregory Taylor and Sylvia Grosvenor.’

Crosby recoiled as though the names were pellets hurled in his face. ‘You’ve got them?’

‘They’re dead. Murdered.’

‘
You’re shitting me.’ He stared over at Purkiss. ‘Ah, Jesus.’ A bout of coughing interrupted him. Towards the end, it sounded as if he was laughing. ‘Funny how people are. Here I am, half a year left at most, and I’m scared of getting whacked.’

Berg said: ‘I think you’d better explain.’

*

‘
Jablonsky got me involved. He’d already recruited Taylor and Grosvenor. There might have been others, but I didn’t know about them.’

Crosby was pacing himself, talking in short, fast bursts between periods of wheezing and coughing. Berg and Nakamura were perched on bar stools in front of him. Purkiss leaned against the kitchenette counter off to the side, while Kendrick prowled, gazing out the windows.

‘This was early 1997. No, later. Maybe in the fall of that year. I was a rookie, two years with the Company. Still doing low-level data analysis, based in Washington. Jablonsky’s my superior. He asks me one day, how’d I like to make a little extra? I assume he means freelancing. He says, there’s a pharmaceutical company needs our help. And we need theirs.’

Coughing took over. At the window, Kendrick peered at something. He looked back, caught Purkiss’s gaze, shook his head.
Nothing
.

Crosby went on. ‘I didn’t get the details at first. Not for several months, in fact. All I knew was that he was suggesting something unsanctioned by the Company, a private project. Once I’d agreed to his proposal, my job was to clean the funds. Take them from Holtzmann Solar as they came in to various accounts around the world, process them till there was no trace of their origins, and funnel them into a final account. Jablonsky and whoever he was working for in the Company would then have access to that.’

‘
Whoever he was working for?’ Berg.

‘
Oh, yeah. He wasn’t the boss. Might have been small fry, for all I know.’ A brief cough this time. ‘Anyhow. I did that for six months. Laundered money, basically. In return I got perks. Discounted shares in the firm, and insider tip-offs about when to sell. Built up quite a nice little nest egg.

‘
Then Jablonsky started letting me in on the work he and his group were doing with Holtzmann Solar. The details, I mean. The operation was named Caliban. It involved drug trials. A new substance. Something that was going to prove invaluable in the field of interrogation, but that couldn’t be subjected to the usual process of authorised clinical trials and FDA approval.

‘
It sounded like something the Nazis did. I asked Jablonsky where he was getting the volunteers for this project. He said they weren’t exactly volunteers, that they were the scum of the earth. Prisoners, low-lifes. I got cold feet. It was okay when I was just being creative with electronic money; not so much when I learned what the money was being used for. I said I wanted out.

‘
Jablonsky laid it on thick. Was I a patriot, did I truly care about national security, blah, blah, blah. Then he got threatening. I told him I had insurance, documentary evidence of everything I’d done for him hidden away with instructions for it to be revealed in the event of my disappearance. He got shit scared. Agreed to let me get out, no questions asked, in return for my silence.’

‘
And you got out,’ said Nakamura.

‘
Yeah. But around a year after he’d first approached me – would have been the end of 1998, I guess, before Thanksgiving, I remember that – Jablonsky called me out of the blue. I was working in Syracuse by then. He just said, “If it eases your conscience, Caliban’s been terminated.” He wasn’t being nice; it was just that he probably hoped I’d be less likely to blow the whistle if I knew it was all over.’

Purkiss said: ‘You retired ten years ago. So you stayed with the CIA for, what, five years after all this?’

Crosby blinked across as if he’d forgotten Purkiss was there. ‘That’s right. Like I said, Syracuse and upstate New York generally, then a brief posting in Israel after 9/11. But my heart wasn’t in it. Early 2003, just around the time we hit Iraq, I decided to get out entirely. I was depressed, on meds. Couldn’t function. Tracked Jablonsky down and got him to pull some strings, get me retired on medical grounds. Plus a final tip-off about Holtzmann Solar share prices. I made a killing.’

Nakamura said, ‘No offence, man, but this place is a shithole.’

Crosby nodded. ‘The land cost a bit, but yeah, you’re right. Short answer, I gave the money away. Almost all of it. Had another attack of conscience, and found I couldn’t spend blood money.’ He gave another mewling laugh. ‘If I’d known I’d get emphysema, I might have kept a little back.’

Purkiss listened, thinking hard. It all suggested Pope was on a mission to take out everyone involved in Caliban. A cleaning-up operation. Did that mean he’d been hired by the CIA, or perhaps by whomever it was that had been in charge of Caliban and was now covering his or her tracks? And the men who’d come after Purkiss in Hamburg and later in Manhattan: were they Pope’s backup?

Something didn’t feel right.

Berg said, ‘What about the insurance you spoke about? The evidence you kept hidden, incriminating Jablonsky and the others?’

‘There never was any. Sure, I could keep a record of everything I’d done, laundering the money. But there was no proof of Jablonsky’s involvement, or Holtzmann Solar’s. Jablonsky was scared I had something on him – he’s Company, we’re paranoid by nature – but I didn’t. So it was all bluff.’ He shrugged. ‘I guess somebody’s calling the bluff now.’