The Green Trap (30 page)

People were jammed three and four deep at the bar, kids mostly. They
looked like American students, laughing, flirting, guzzling beer and margaritas, wearing jeans or cutoffs, the girls mostly in tank tops or halters. Brown bodies and bright teeth. Not a care in the world, Cochrane thought. They've got more money than they know what to do with. They ought to be home studying for their finals or looking for jobs but they're here having fun, getting drunk, getting laid, no worries about gasoline prices or wars in the Middle East. No worries about a woman being held in New York until I can find Vic and wrestle his goddamned notebook off him.

Pushing through the laughing, shouting, singing throng, Cochrane at last forced his way to the bar.

And saw Vic Cardoza working on the other side of it, pulling down the lever to fill a glass with Corona, his face set in the old crafty smile that Cochrane remembered so well.

He's working here as a bartender! Sonofabitch, Cochrane said to himself.

The sight of Vic's sly, shrewd, cunning face unleashed a flood of memories. Cochrane remembered that Vic had been their ringleader, head honcho of the Four Musketeers, the guy who thought up the tricks that they still laughed about decades afterward. The three of us got blamed for the mischief while Vic smiled and shook his head and thought up still more shenanigans. And there he was, working behind the bar in a Mexican tourist hotel down at the ass end of the Baja Peninsula.

Cardoza slid a foaming glass of beer to a flat-chested blond student in a tank top that barely covered her, then turned to Cochrane.

“ 'Bout time you got here, Paulie,” he said, loud enough for Cochrane to hear him over the noise of the crowd. “Whatcha do, walk in from Washington?”

“No, Vic, I flew.”

Cardoza looked Cochrane over, sizing him up. “So is all this shit you told me really true?”

“It's real, Vic.”

“You're in deep shit, huh?”

“They killed Mike,” Cochrane said tightly. “They're going to kill a woman if I don't deliver your computer to them.”

With a shake of his head, Cardoza said, “Have a drink. On the house.”

“I need your computer, Vic.”

“Yeah, sure.” He slid a brandy glass half filled with golden tequila across the wooden bar to Cochrane. “After this dump closes.”

Cochrane sipped at the tequila. It tasted smoky, warming. I'd better go
easy on the booze, he told himself. Still, he knocked back the rest of his drink gladly.

Cardoza worked his way along the bar, taking orders and filling glasses. When he finally got back to Cochrane he said, “Next one you pay for.”

“Make it club soda.”

The expression on Cardoza's face turned pitying. “You're still the pussy, ain'tcha?”

“With all the trouble I'm in, I need to stay sober.”

“Whatsamatter, don'tcha trust me?”

“Sure I trust you, Vic. But I trust you better sober.”

Cardoza laughed and said, “The soda spritzer won't work without electricity, and—”

At that instant the lights flared on. The crowd gasped, then roared its approval. The big stereo speakers on either end of the bar started blaring mariachi music. Couples paired off and began dancing.

The noise from the amplifiers was overpowering. Cochrane reached across the bar to grab Cardoza's arm. “I'm going back to my room. Meet me there when your shift's finished.”

“What number?” Cardoza hollered over the noise.

Cochrane fished the hotel key from his pocket. “Three-fifteen.”

“Gotcha.”

“And bring your computer!”

Cardoza grinned his old, sly, scheming grin.

Cochrane made his way back up the curving staircase to his room, never noticing the tall, dark figure of Kensington standing at the other end of the bar, watching him.

T
he pounding bass beat from the bar made Cochrane's room shudder. The room's door was thick enough to blot out most of the laughter and the higher-pitched tones of the overloud music, but the bass rumbled through.

No way I can sleep through this, he thought. So he opened his laptop and checked his e-mail. Three messages from Grace Johanson, back at the university, and one from the dean. He didn't bother to open them. The rest were notices, junk mail. Cochrane yawned and glanced at his mussed bed. It looked awfully good to him. Vic probably won't be finished until the bar closes down; god knows what time that'll be.

As he started to shut down the computer, a new message appeared on the list. From
[email protected].

Suddenly wide awake, he opened Elena's message.

PAUL: I
'
M FINE. PLEASE DON
'
T WORRY ABOUT ME. BUT IT
'
S IMPORTANT THAT YOU BRING THE THIRD COMPUTER TO MR. GOULD
.
HE
'
S WILLING TO LET US GO ONCE HE GETS THAT THIRD COMPUTER. PLEASE DO IT, PAUL. I
'
M WAITING TO SEE YOU AGAIN. LOVE, ELENA

His fingers shaking so badly he mistyped several words, Cochrane replied:

DEAR ELENA: I
'
LL OBTAIN THE THRD COMPUTER TONIGHT, OR RATHER TMORROW MORNING, BEFORE DAWN. IM IN MEXICO. SHOULD BE BACK TOMORROW OR NEXT DAY, DEPEDING ON FLIGHT SCHEDULES. I LOVE YOU TOO. PAUL.

He sent his message, then stared at the laptop screen for the better part of an hour, waiting for a reply. Nothing.

The music from the bar was still pounding away. Cochrane stretched out on the bed, closed his eyes, tried to close out his mind. But he saw Elena. With Gould. And Kensington. She said she's okay, he told himself. She said he hasn't harmed her. But is it true? Or is he making her say that?

Unable to sleep, he went back down to the bar. The crowd was noticeably thinner, but Vic was nowhere in sight.

Don't panic! Cochrane commanded himself. He's probably gone back to wherever he's living to get his computer.

He ran back up the steps and unlocked his door, half expecting to see Cardoza already in the room. He wasn't.

The bedside clock said 12:18. Cochrane paced for an hour before it clicked to 12:19.

A rap on his door, impatient, urgent.

Cochrane yanked the door open and there stood Vic Cardoza, a black computer satchel hanging from his shoulder.

“So, you gonna let me in?”

“Yes, sure, come on in,” said Cochrane, backing away from the door.

Cardoza stepped in, looked around as if inspecting for roaches, then kicked the door shut. He did not take the computer bag off his shoulder.

“Lemme get this straight,” he said, his eyes shifting from Cochrane to the laptop still open on the desk and back again. “You sent me this message with Mike's science stuff in it.”

Nodding, Cochrane explained, “And the people who are after me want that information.”

“They killed Mike?”

“Somebody did. Most likely them.”

“And they're holding your girlfriend until you give 'em what they want.”

“That's right. They want your computer, the hard drive. They want to make sure—”

“How they know I haven't already copied the material?”

Cochrane wanted to yank the computer off Cardoza's shoulder and push him out of his room. Instead he answered, “They don't. I guess they assume that since you don't know what this is all about you haven't sent copies to anybody.”

Looking craftier than ever, Cardoza went to the only chair in the room and sat down, clutching the computer in his lap with both hands.

“So, Paulie, what's this all about?”

“You don't want to know.”

“Sure I do.”

“You don't want to get involved, Vic. They could kill you, too, just like they killed Mike.”

Cardoza's brows rose slightly. “It's that important to them?”

“Yes.”

He drummed his fingers on the computer bag for an agonizing moment. Then, “So how much is this worth to you?”

Cochrane blinked with surprise.

“How much…?”

“Money.
Dinero.
Yankee dollars. How much're you willing to pay for my computer?”

Holding back a sudden urge to spit, Cochrane said, “Christ, Vic, I'll buy you a new computer.”

Cardoza laughed scornfully.

“For god's sake, Vic, there are lives at stake!”

“I gotta think of my life, pal. You think I
like
hidin' out down here? Tending a friggin' bar?”

“But Vic—”

“How much is my computer worth to you, Paulie? Ten thousand? A hundred thousand? What?”

Cochrane stared at the man. “You always were a prick, you know that?”

“I'd say a hundred thousand,” Cardoza said, unruffled. “Your girlfriend worth a hundred thou to you, Paulie?”

“You sonofabitch.”

“Make it two hundred thousand.”

“Vic, I don't have that kind of money!”

“But the people who want my computer do, don't they? They must be loaded. Who are they, Arab oil sheikhs? Texas billionaires?”

Without consciously deciding, Cochrane swung his right fist into Cardoza's face, knocking him out of the chair and sprawling on the tiled floor. He grabbed at the computer case; its strap was still twisted around Cardoza's shoulder. The two men grappled on the floor, gasping, throwing punches.

Cochrane felt a strong hand clutch the back of his neck, squeezing so hard the pain almost made him black out. Then he was lifted to his knees and tossed aside like a crumpled wad of paper. He banged painfully against the bed and saw Kensington lifting Cardoza to his knees with one hand under his jaw as he slipped the computer case's strap off Cardoza's shoulder.

Letting Cardoza drop to all fours, Kensington hefted the computer in one massive paw.

“You boys shouldn't be fighting over this,” he said, grinning viciously. “I thought you guys were old buddies, high school sweethearts, huh?”

Cochrane rubbed the back of his neck. He could barely move his head. Still on all fours, Cardoza scuttled away backward until he bumped against the wall.

“Now, you be good little boys,” Kensington said, still grinning. “Don't fight.”

Tucking the computer case under his arm, he left the hotel room, shutting the door softly behind him.

Cardoza sat with his back to the wall, legs bent beneath him, his eyes wide with fear and pain. He rubbed his left side, wincing.

“Who the hell was that?” he asked, his voice hollow.

Cochrane tried to move his head from side to side. It hurt ferociously, and his neck was stiff as concrete.

“He works for the people who want your computer,” he replied.

“Jesus Christ.”

“Sorry I got you involved in this, Vic.”

“I'm not involved anymore,” Cardoza said. “I'm out of it!”

“Wish I could say the same,” Cochrane said.

Hydrogen production remains a major stumbling block on the road to the hydrogen economy, a muchtouted successor to the current oil-based economy. Today, hydrogen supplies are derived largely from fossil fuels, such as oil, via processes that produce carbon dioxide. Yet it's this global-warming gas that a switch to hydrogen is supposed to curtail. Hydrogen can be split from the oxygen in water using electricity, but that process requires a great deal of energy.

Mahdi Abu-Omar of Purdue University in West Lafayette, Indiana, says that he and his team weren't looking to produce hydrogen in their fundamental studies of a catalyst made of the metal rhenium. In one set of experiments with a solution of water and an organic liquid called organosilane, however, hydrogen started to bubble up from the fluid soon after the researchers added a small piece of rhenium to the mixture. The solution was at room temperature and of neutral pH, conditions that normally wouldn't have produced hydrogen.

“It was truly a serendipitous discovery,” says Abu-Omar.

After performing the reaction, the researchers studied how the reaction works. They found that the water's oxygen atom bonds to the silicon atom of an organosilane molecule, leaving behind a hydrogen molecule composed of one hydrogen atom from water and another from the organosilane. The hydrogen yield is proportional to the water used. In essence,
Abu-Omar's group has found a new means of splitting water.

There are many hurdles on the way to making this hydrogen-production process practical, Abu-Omar stresses. For one thing, researchers will have to determine whether the reaction works on a large scale. And organosilane is expensive enough that the economics of the process would be prohibitive.

—Aimee Cunningham

S
CIENCE
N
EWS

September 17, 2005

W
hat do you mean, you don't have it?” Cochrane shouted.

Lionel Gould looked like a fat Buddha, sitting in his high-backed desk chair, arms folded over his belly. Except that he was wearing an open vest and a wrinkled shirt rather than saffron robes. And he was frowning unhappily, not smiling.

“Just what I said,” Gould replied, his voice a low growl. “Which is not good.”

Cochrane had flown to New York on the first available plane and gone straight from JFK to the Gould Trust headquarters. Rain clouds were building up in the twilight sky as he was ushered into Gould's office. Sandoval was nowhere in sight and Gould angrily demanded that he turn over the computer hard drives.

“Kensington took the third computer from me last night,” Cochrane explained. “You mean he's not here yet?”

“I mean,” Gould rumbled, “that I have seen neither Mr. Kensington nor any of the three computer drives. Nothing.”

“He's got them,” Cochrane insisted. “All three of them.”