The Green Trap (28 page)

 

A
s his limousine splashed through the darkening rainy evening toward Washington, Senator Bardarson leaned back in the black leather rear seat, clicked his cell phone shut, and tucked it back into his pocket.

The poor fool, he thought. Cochrane's in this way over his head. He doesn't have a clue. Poor naive fool.

The senator reached for his unfinished scotch and soda. After one sip, though, he thought: Or maybe he's not such a fool after all. Maybe he's negotiating with one of the other energy giants. Maybe he's realized that he could get a fortune for the information he has.

Bardarson sipped again and shook his head wearily. A man could get himself killed playing that game.

I
want this business finished, once and for all,” said Elena Sandoval.

“So do I,” said Lionel Gould. “So do I, most emphatically.”

Gould looked her over appreciatively. A beautiful woman, he thought. Very attractive light blue silk blouse with a darker knee-length skirt. Sensible attire, yet on her it looks enticing. Which is good. He especially enjoyed the way her skirt fit snugly on her hips. But she's more than beautiful. She's intelligent. And determined. Which could be either good or bad, depending on how she's handled.

He rose from his high-backed swivel chair and came around the dark mahogany desk toward her. Sandoval stood her ground, although she gave away her nervousness by clasping her hands together.

“Come,” Gould said, gesturing toward the delicate inlaid table by the windows and the pair of upholstered chairs on either side of it. “We might as well be comfortable while we discuss the situation.”

Staying an arm's length away from him, Sandoval went to the table
and sat. Through the window she could see Central Park, a misty island of green in the rain, surrounded by the cold gray towers of the city.

“I agreed to come here voluntarily,” she said as Gould eased his bulk into the other chair. It creaked slightly as he made himself comfortable. As usual, Gould was in his shirtsleeves, his vest unbuttoned, his tie pulled down from his open collar. The room felt frigid to Sandoval, yet still Gould was perspiring freely.

“It's all very simple,” he said, leaning slightly toward Sandoval. “I must have Dr. Cochrane's data in my hands. There must be no other copies anywhere.”

“Paul can do that,” she said.

“I'm sure he already is. My man Kensington told me that Cochrane agreed to cooperate fully.”

“Good.”

“He believes that you are in some degree of danger,” said Gould, with a slight smirk.

“Am I?”

“Not in the slightest! Of course not.” Gould hesitated a heartbeat, then added, “As long as Cochrane cooperates.”

“I don't want him hurt,” she said.

“An admirable sentiment. Apparently he feels the same about you.”

“Yes,” she murmured. “He would.”

Gould spread his arms. “So there we are. I get the hydrogen process and no one gets hurt. A happy conclusion to our business.”

Sandoval looked doubtful. “Senator Bardarson's brought the National Academy into this. Paul might not be able to stop them from issuing a report.”

“Yes, so I've been told.” With a shrug and a sly grin, Gould said, “I'll deal with Bardarson. I don't hold you or Cochrane responsible for what the National Academy of Sciences does.”

He saw recognition instantly change her expression. “You and the senator—”

“That's politics,” Gould said. “It's of no concern to you or your Dr. Cochrane.”

Sandoval appeared to think it over for several moments. At last she said, “There's one more thing.”

“Yes?”

“Paul wants his brother's murderer brought to justice.”

Gould leaned back in the fragile chair, pursed his lips. “That, I'm
afraid, is completely out of my hands. I have no idea who murdered Dr. Cochrane's brother.”

“It wasn't Kensington?”

“Emphatically not. Michael Cochrane was about to conclude a deal with me. Why would I want him murdered and his data stolen?”

“Which brings up the matter of our financial arrangement,” Sandoval said.

“Ah, yes.”

“We were talking about ten million.”

“That was when I had no inkling of where the late Dr. Cochrane's data was.”

“I did my part,” she said. “I've brought the data to you.”

“It's not yet in my hands.”

“It will be. Paul will deliver it to you.”

“In exchange for your safety.”

Her lips tightened into a grim line. “Yes,” she admitted.

“You are worth more than ten million dollars to him.”

“I've earned that money,” Sandoval insisted.

Gould swung his head in an emphatic negative. “The dynamics of the situation have changed dramatically. I can get the information from Cochrane for nothing more than your freedom.”

“You said I was in no danger. I went along with you just to get Paul to deliver his brother's data. I don't want him hurt.”

“Yes, so you said. And he doesn't want you hurt. So why should I spend any of my hard-earned money on either of you?”

Sandoval bristled. “We had a deal!”

“Had, my lovely young lady. Had. Past tense. The situation has changed and so has our deal.”

Her face set into an angry scowl, but only for a moment. She took a breath, and Gould noticed how alluringly her blouse moved.

“So what is our deal now?” she asked, her voice low, accepting defeat.

Gould smiled at her. “I think one million is fair. Generous, even. One million dollars, tax-free.”

“One-tenth of your original offer.”

“Yes, but this is money you'll be able to spend. Not talk. Not promises. Cash. Which is good.”

“One million,” Sandoval repeated.

Gould folded his hands over his belly.

“All right,” she said. “One million dollars.”

“When I get the data from Dr. Cochrane.”

“It's probably on its way to you.”

“And all copies of the data have been either destroyed or delivered to me.”

She nodded, then said, “The National Academy…”

“As I said, I will deal with that aspect of the situation.”

“And Paul won't be hurt,” Sandoval said.

“Not in the slightest.”

“Then that's it,” she said, almost in a whisper.

Gould nodded, but then said, “There's one additional proviso.” Leaning forward to pat her knee, he repeated, “One additional proviso.”

C
hrist, Cochrane thought, I'm pacing the floor like a caged animal. But that's exactly what I am, he realized. A caged animal, stuck in this room, trapped, in prison.

It was full night outside, still raining. The lights of the city were smeared into tears flowing down the hotel room's window. Cochrane had spent the whole day trying to reach the three men he'd sent copies of the data to, his desperation ratcheting up each time he got the same answering machine replies or the robotic voice of the telephone company's automated “out of service” message about Cardoza.

His room was a mess: bed still unmade, dishes from his room service lunch scattered over the coffee table and sofa. He forced himself to shave, although his hands trembled so badly he feared he'd slice himself.

Where is Elena? he kept asking himself. What are they doing to her? Kensington said she'd be all right if I delivered the data to Gould. Okay,
I've e-mailed him everything I've got from Mike. No reaction from Gould. No call from Elena. Maybe they killed her. Maybe that Kensington monster…

No, he warned himself. Don't go there. Don't start painting pictures in your head.

Did Esterbrook really wipe his files? Or did he just tell me he did and sneak his report to Bardarson anyway? Why haven't Don or Sol returned my calls? Jesus, I must have called them a dozen times now. Where the fuck is Vic? How can I reach him?

His phone started playing Mozart.

Cochrane swiveled his head, looking for the cell phone. On the sofa, next to the tray that lunch had come on. He scooped it up with shaking hands.

“Hello!”

“Hi, Paulie. It's me, Don.”

Don Mattson. Cochrane felt a flood of relief surge through him.

“Don! Hang on a minute. Let me put you on my laptop screen.”

The laptop was open on the mussed-up bed. Cochrane tapped keys until Mattson's face appeared on its screen.

“Hey, Paulie. How are you? What's going on?”

“You got my message,” Cochrane said.

“All sixteen of 'em. And the e-mails, too. What's going on? You sound kind of frantic.”

Cochrane hadn't seen his friend since Jennifer's funeral. Mattson had a long, bony face. He wore plastic-framed eyeglasses. For the first time, Cochrane realized that Don's hairline had receded noticeably. He remembered in high school Don wore his sandy hair down to his shoulders. Now it was cropped stylishly short, like a businessman or some executive.

“I'm in a… a situation, Don. I need you to erase that first e-mail I sent you. The one with the attachment. It's important.”

“Can't do it, pal.”

Cochrane flared, “Whattaya mean you can't? You've got to!”

“Wish I could, Paulie, but some sumbitch kids broke into the house last night while we were at the movies and took my damned computer.”

“What?”

“Ripped it right out of my desk, printer, scanner, microphones—the works. Took the whole entertainment center out of the living room, too, the little bastards.”

Cochrane felt a cold shudder run through him. “Took your computer?”

Mattson nodded unhappily. “That's where Trudy and I were all day: first talking with the cops and then shopping all goddamned afternoon—Wal-Mart, Circuit City, Best Buy, the works.”

Of course, Cochrane told himself. They'd want the computer's hard drive, to make certain nobody could make any more copies off it.

“They stole your computer,” Cochrane repeated.

“Sure as hell did. And this used to be a perfectly safe neighborhood. Now Trudy wants to rig the house with a goddamned burglar alarm system.”

Cochrane thought, Well, they got Don out of the picture. Without hurting him.

“What about Sol and Vic?” he asked.

“Sol and Judy took their kids to Israel. Sol Junior's bar mitzvah. They won't be back for another week.”

And when they get back they'll find that their home's been burglarized, too, Cochrane said to himself. His computer will be gone.

“Vic?” he repeated.

Mattson shook his head. “He's off in the Wild West someplace. Got fed up with Lillian and just headed for the hills.”

“But his e-mail address is still working.”

“Maybe so. But who the hell knows where he is? You know Vic, he could be anywhere.”

“Yeah.”

“Like the time he took that model down to Bar Harbor for a weekend. Remember that? Told her he was taking her out for a lobster dinner and—”

“Don, I've gotta run now. Good talking to you. Sorry about the breakin.”

Mattson looked surprised, then puzzled, then hurt. “Where are you, anyway? What kind of trouble are you in?”

“Don't have time to explain, pal. Later, when this clears up.”

“Anything I can do to help?”

“Not really,” Cochrane said, thinking, Just be glad you're out of it.

“Well… if you need anything…”

“I know, Don. I appreciate it. I really do.”

“Okay.”

“So long.”

“So long, Paulie.”

Cochrane clicked his phone shut and Mattson's image winked out on the laptop screen.

Kensington's gotten to Don and Sol, he thought. And he must be hunting for Vic.

Then a new thought struck him: How did he find out about the three of them? I haven't told anyone but Elena—

Oh, my god! They got it out of Elena! Maybe they drugged her with truth serum or… or…

His cell phone started playing Mozart again. Cochrane flicked it open and Sandoval's face lit up his laptop screen.

“Elena!”

“Hello, Paul.”

“Are you all right?”

All he could see of her was her face, filling the display screen. She seemed unhurt, no obvious marks on her, just as beautiful as ever. But somber, grave, her green eyes dull and cold, her lips pressed into a bitter line, her dark hair hanging loose, framing her face.

“Have they hurt you?”

“I'm fine, Paul,” she said, her voice flat, low. “I'm perfectly fine.”

“Where are you?”

“That's not important. Mr. Gould says he received the data from you.”

“Good,” Cochrane said. “How soon can you come back to me? Or do you want me to come to where you are?”

“They know about your three friends,” she said.

“Yeah.”

“They've gotten what they want from two of them, but they can't find the third one.”

“Vic Cardoza,” Cochrane said. “He's sort of disappeared.”

“You've got to find him, Paul. Gould won't let me go until that third copy of the data is in his hands.”

“But I don't know where he is! Nobody knows.”

She fell silent for a moment. Then, “Kensington's hunting for him. It would be better, though, if you found him first.”

“I'm not a detective, for chrissake,” Cochrane said. “How the hell can I find him?”

She shook her head, just the slightest movement, but Cochrane felt as if a load of wet cement had just been poured over him.

“Gould won't let me go until that third computer is brought to him.”

“Elena, look, I've done everything I could. I've scratched the National Academy report. I've—”

The phone connection suddenly went dead. Cochrane stared at the
empty screen, then furiously began to try to return the call. It was useless. The number was unreachable, the phone company told him.