Dollar Down (14 page)

"Does China have much bitumen?"

"About ten billion barrels, less than one percent of
Venezuela's reserves. That might be enough to try to develop
some day, but I doubt they could get the cost as low as
Venezuela's in the foreseeable future. If they can't do that,
there's not much point."

"You should read the translation. It says that China has
developed a cheap extraction process based on the bug's
ability to lower the viscosity of bitumen in the ground."

Alexandra's mental gears were changing again, but this
time she was shifting down to kindergarten level, so little Mick
would understand.

"China could do the engineering for something like that,
but it doesn't have the infrastructure to extract and transport
petroleum from the source on any significant scale. That
ignores the personnel development it would need. Besides, ten
billion barrels in reserves is an estimate that doesn't
necessarily equate to the actual volume that they could
extract."

"A patent would be valuable."

"Assuming one could be enforced, I expect it would be
worth a great deal. Once you introduce bacteria into a
large-scale process like that though, it would be hard keep them
from spreading either by nature or by theft."

David had said there were fewer bugs than the sample
should have been able to support. "What if they were shipped
with a substance that killed them after a certain period? They
would have to be reintroduced periodically, like genetically
engineered seeds that can't be produced by the plants they
grow into."

"That might be possible in a lab, but in the field I doubt
it. I'm no expert."

It was a point that didn't seem to matter in the
investigation, but all I could think to do now was fill in pieces
of a puzzle at random and hope to see a pattern.

I called David. "Can you check the sample again and
estimate how many bacteria per cubic micron or how they
compare to the density in, say, a friendly Petri dish? It might
help."

"No."

"I'll pay you for your time. I should have done that
earlier."

"I can't check because I don't have the slides. I put
them in my desk in the lab when I went to the café to tell
you what I'd found. When I got back they were gone."

Bad. "Who did you tell?"

"No one."

Very bad. "He doesn't have the samples," I told
Alexandra after I disconnected.

"He washed the slides?"

I shook my head. "They went missing."

"Uh oh."

The first person I thought of was the student from the
China mainland who had given me a hard time and intimidated
the guys from Hong Kong. Was he being a hard case just for fun,
or did he really believe that China's intellectual property was
being stolen? With a father highly placed in the party, there
could be other implications. What they might be was a wild
guess.

I took Alexandra to lunch and told her I had to see
someone alone. The odds that she was actually pouting were
slim, but she gave a good imitation. "When are you going to
start introducing me to your friends?"

"When they become less dangerous."

After we parted, I went to a different café near
David's school, where I had asked Pascal to meet me. While I
waited, I called David and found out the mainlander's name. He
said he would try to bring him by the café. No need to go
in, I said, just look toward the window, blink twice and walk on
by—slowly.

Pascal arrived with recordings from his bugs in the
apartments of the PDVSA team members. I described David
and told Pascal the plan. Just wait for a blinking Taiwanese. I
left him and went back to Sabine's flat. Alexandra met me at
the door.

"You're back soon. Did you miss me?" The marble
goddess as coquette. My cue for a rakish bon mot.

"You're here?"

Alexandra's smile faded at one corner. "Am I
being—"

"I'm glad to see you." I brushed her cheek. "It's such a
nice day. I thought you might have gone somewhere."

"I wanted to be here to help. It makes me
uncomfortable to be involved in something that I don't
understand? We should work together."

I doubted she could plant a bug or pick a lock, but she
did have a point.

"Do you understand, Spanish?"

"
Mas o menos
, I might be able to translate
from Spanish, but don't ask me to translate anything into
it."

"Listening comprehension, that's all you need. There
are two recordings that I just received from a colleague." I
turned on the sound. After she'd listened for a while, her eyes
got wide. "I recognize the voice. It's the head of the client team
for the Orimulsion study."

"Don't ask how I got the tape, just listen. The recorder
is voice activated. Some of what you hear will probably be one
side of telephone conversations, so it might be hard to follow.
Also, these guys are from Venezuela. If you learned Castilian,
there could be regional idioms that you might not understand.
Just try to get what you can and summarize it."

"You said not to ask how you got it. I won't, but I have
to say I'm very curious."

I left it at that and went to my bedroom to call the
Houston rig supplier.

"I know diddly about analyzing samples. You probably
need a mud-logging type. I might be able to help you contact
someone, but I can't do anything myself. Have you thought
about contacting Schlumberger? It's a French company and the
best there is in analytics. You're closer to them than you are to
me."

"No I hadn't, but I want to keep this as confidential as
possible."

"Give me some time. You want to know where the oil
came from and an ID on the bacteria, correct?"

"Yes, how long?"

"If you don't hear from me by tomorrow morning my
time, proceed without me."

"Thanks,
amigo
. "

Until then, I would go on the assumption that the
bacteria in the sample was what we were looking for. I could
also assume the vials were the only thing that linked the deaths
of Trevor and Sabine. I got a pencil and paper and started
making notes.

1. The samples were hidden, so someone
wanted to keep them secret.

2. If they were secret, they must have
value.

3. A possible value was that they
contained genetically engineered bacteria that
could reduce the cost of refining extra heavy
oil into high-grade petroleum products.
Assume item 3 to be true:

a. The patent on the bacteria
could be worth a lot.

b. A patent would have legal
protection and no company that had
the technology to reverse engineer
the bacteria's DNA modifications was
likely to violate patent laws and risk a
huge settlement.

c. The bacteria might have a
built-in death mechanism to prevent
conventional culturing to grow more
of the modified bugs.

Conclusion: The sample had value enough
to keep secret, but protecting intellectual
property rights was probably not the
issue.

If not about a patent, then what? As regards Trevor
and Sabine, I was back to murderous jealousy.

I still needed to talk to Burroughs, but it was a bad
time of day. I checked in with McNulty.

"All I can say is Mumby is a workaholic. He's at his
bank from nine to nine most days."

"Has he been meeting anyone?"

"Not since we scared him into running to the LIFFE
systems chief. He set up an appointment with someone named
Dago, though. It's the only name I heard."

"What's the agenda."

"Don't know. I have a time and place. Next Wednesday
at 8:30 p.m."

"That's six days away. The day before Trevor's notes
say the dollar tumbles."

"Yeah, you want to join us?"

"Maybe." I thought that over for a few seconds. I'd like
a clearer identification on Mumby's guest. It might be someone
I know. "Are you sure Mumby said 'Dago'? Could it have been
'Diego'?"

"Same, no?"

"No, Di-e-go." I said it slowly.

"What Mumby said could have been one or the other,
now I think about it. Not much of a linguist, is he? Me
neither."

"If it was Diego, the odds that I'll be there just went up.
It's the first name of Cervantes, Maduro's enforcer "

"Hurry on then. I'm bored out of my mind here. Why
don't you find a footballer for me to follow. Better yet, a babe
rock star."

"And get you nicked for stalking?" McNulty was more
of a linguist than he admitted. I hung up before he finished his
soliloquy in Gaelic. My ears were starting to burn.

I called Jorge Gavizon.

"
Buenos noches
."

"¿
Noche?
It should be morning
there."

"I was just about to go to bed, and not for no siesta,
Mick. What do you want?"

"Can you find out Diego Cervantes's schedule for next
Tuesday? I need to know if he's going to be in London."

"Always Cervantes. You can't get enough of that guy
can you?"

There was a rolling slur to Gavizon's speech that
worried me. "Do you have a pen?" I asked.

"A pin? You want me to stick somebody?"

Gavizon laughed. I could almost see the red in his
eye.

"Write this down. 'Where will Cervantes be next
Tuesday?'"

"Don't you get it? You said 'pin' not 'pen'—you know,
stick somebody. Your English sucks."

The slur was thick. "Pardon my Texan, Jorge. Just
write."

I tried to call Burroughs, but all I got was his answering
machine. I left my name and number.

Alexandra was transcribing the recording of the
PDVSA guy's conversation. She looked up and waved when I
came into the room.

"How's it going?"

"I'd say I'm good for ninety percent of it. You did say it
was voice activated, didn't you."

"Yes."

"There are two blank areas. They aren't very long, and
as far as I can tell, nothing was cut out. You'd better listen for
yourself though."

Something was missing, at least from the shorter blank.
It didn't cut off in the middle of a sentence, but the
conversation didn't flow naturally.

Alexandra looked upset with herself. A little of her
marble chill was coming back. I'd rather it didn't. I tried to get
her to relax. "There'll probably be more blanks. This stuff isn't
state of the art."

"Let's hope we got the good bits at least, whatever they
might be. I'm still not sure what to listen for."

I looked over her shoulder at her notes. They would
have been easier to read if my eyes hadn't been distracted by
strands of light brown hair brushing the slope of her shoulder.
"You're doing fine," I said. "Just fine."

"Did you talk to your friend about the oil?"

"Yes, but he's not sure if he can help. He said he would
call soon if he can find someone."

"You're just going to wait? If you really think it's
important, I might be able to find someone to analyze it."

"He actually suggested we try Schlumberger, but I
want to maintain as much control over confidentiality as
possible. My friend knows a lot of independents in the business,
who are damn good and you can trust on a handshake."

Before Alexandra could respond, my phone rang. It
was Pascal. I told her I had to go.

"Shall I go with you, or is it another dangerous
friend?"

"Same friend as before, and he's still dangerous."

The bar was almost in the neighborhood, just around
the corner from the artist's square at Montmartre. A piano
player in a black dress that draped her thighs like a second skin
had just played the intro to "Moanin'" when I walked in. I
nodded to Pascal. He must have sixth sense, because he
returned the nod without taking his eyes off the musician. He
was at a table for two. I sat across from him. "Hi." He touched
his finger to his lips. All right, I sat silent and joined him in his
reverie.

The piano player had blonde hair that touched the keys
when she leaned forward and bore down on elaborate
embellishments that flowed faster than a mountainside rill.
When she hit the two-note accents at the end of each line of the
theme she locked her wrists and shoulders and seemed to play
with the full weight of a pro wrestler. Grace and power. I was
glad Pascal had told me to shut up.

When she finished, she turned toward us and bowed to
Pascal. He beamed as he applauded.

"Magnificent, no?"

"Yeah, you know her?"

"Not yet. I just tipped her twenty euros to play that."
He called a waiter. I ordered a beer and Pascal handed him a
note for the entertainer. When she got it, she looked our way
and smiled with her eyelids at half-mast.

"Guess you'd rather I didn't hang around until the
place closes."

He shrugged. "That Chinese guy I followed is very
rude."

"You approached him?"

"Of course not, I mean he was rude to the Taiwanese.
He was scowling and stabbing his finger toward the guy's face
when he talked. They didn't stay together very long. When they
separated, I followed the mainlander to his home. He has a
better place than I do, a lot better."

"What was David's reaction?"

"He looked scared. Who is this guy? He's pretty rich for
a Communist."

"Two classes of rich folk in China—party-leader
Communists and capitalist insiders. The mark's father is one of
the former. Do you have his address?"

Pascal handed me an envelope. "It's in there, along
with his phone number and photos of finger-pointing. That's all
I have."

"Good timing." The set ended, and I gave my seat to the
piano player. Pascal was a highly focused man. He didn't even
say good-bye.

It was late, but I called David from outside the bar to
find out why the Commie had been angry and what their
conversation had been about. Even more, I wanted to know
why David had been afraid. He answered on the second ring.
"
Allo.
"