Тесс Герритсен – Whistleblower (страница 8)

Swallowing the urge to turn and flee, Victor propelled himself forward, past the squad cars and through the loose gathering of onlookers, only to be stopped by a uniformed officer.

“I’m sorry, sir. No one’s allowed past this point.”

Dazed, Victor stared down and saw that the police had strung out a perimeter of red tape. Slowly, his gaze moved beyond the tape, to the old Datsun parked near the carport. Was that Catherine’s car? He tried desperately to remember if she’d driven a Datsun, but last night it had been so dark and he’d been in so much pain that he hadn’t bothered to pay attention. All he could remember was that it was a compact model, with scarcely enough room for his legs. Then he noticed the faded parking sticker on the rear bumper: Parking Permit, Studio Lot A.

I work for an independent film company, she’d told him last night.

It was Catherine’s car.

Unwillingly, he focused on the stained gravel just beside the Datsun, and even though the rational part of him knew that that peculiar brick red could only be dried blood, he wanted to deny it. He wanted to believe there was some other explanation for that stain, for this ominous gathering of police.

He tried to speak, but his voice sounded like something dragged up through gravel.

“What did you say, sir?” the police officer asked.

“What—what happened?”

The officer shook his head sadly. “Woman was killed here last night. Our first murder in ten years.”

“Murder?” Victor’s gaze was still fixed in horror on the bloodstained gravel. “But—why?”

The officer shrugged. “Don’t know yet. Maybe robbery, though I don’t think he got much.” He nodded at the Datsun. “Car was the only thing broken into.”

If Victor said anything at that point, he never remembered what it was. He was vaguely aware of his legs carrying him back through the onlookers, past the three police cars, toward the road. The sunshine was so brilliant it hurt his eyes and he could barely see where he was going.

I killed her, he thought. She saved my life and I killed her….

Guilt slashed its way to his throat and he could scarcely breathe, could barely take another step for the pain. For a long time he stood there at the side of the road, his head bent in the sunshine, his ears filled with the sound of blue jays, and mourned a woman he’d never known.

When at last he was able to raise his head again, rage fueled the rest of his walk back to the highway, rage against Catherine’s murderer. Rage at himself for having put her in such danger. It was the film the killer had been searching for, and he’d probably found it in the Datsun. If he hadn’t, the house would have been ransacked, as well.

Now what? thought Victor. He dismissed the possibility that his briefcase—with most of the evidence—might still be in his wrecked car. That was the first place the killer would have searched. Without the film, Victor was left with no evidence at all. It would all come down to his word against Viratek’s. The newspapers would dismiss him as nothing more than a disgruntled ex-employee. And after Polowski’s double cross, he couldn’t trust the FBI.

At that last thought, he quickened his pace. The sooner he got out of Garberville, the better. When he got back to the highway, he’d hitch another ride. Once safely out of town, he could take the time to plan his next move.

He decided to head south, to San Francisco.

CHAPTER THREE

FROM THE WINDOW of his office at Viratek, Archibald Black watched the limousine glide up the tree-lined driveway and pull to a stop at the front entrance. Black snorted derisively. The cowboy was back in town, damn him. And after all the man’s fussing about the importance of secrecy, about keeping his little visit discreet, the idiot had the gall to show up in a limousine—with a uniformed driver, no less.

Black turned from the window and paced over to his desk. Despite his contempt for the visitor, he had to acknowledge the man made him uneasy, the way all so-called men of action made him uneasy. Not enough brains behind all that muscle. Too much power in the hands of imbeciles, he thought. Is this an example of who we have running the country?

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Black?” said his secretary. “A Mr. Tyrone is here to see you.”

“Send him in, please,” said Black, smoothing the scorn from his expression. He was wearing a look of polite deference when the door opened and Matthew Tyrone walked into the office.

They shook hands. Tyrone’s grip was unreasonably firm, as though he was trying to remind Black of their relative positions of power. His bearing had all the spit and polish of an ex-marine, which Tyrone was. Only the thickening waist betrayed the fact that Tyrone’s marine days had been left far behind.

“How was the flight from Washington?” inquired Black as they sat down.

“Terrible service. I tell you, commercial flights aren’t what they used to be. To think the average American pays good money for the privilege.”

“I imagine it can’t compare with Air Force One.”

Tyrone smiled. “Let’s get down to business. Tell me where things stand with this little crisis of yours.”

Black noted Tyrone’s use of the word yours. So now it’s my problem, he thought. Naturally. That’s what they meant by deniability: When things go wrong, the other guy gets the blame. If any of this leaked out, Black’s head would be the one to fall. But then, that’s why this contract was so lucrative—because he—meaning Viratek—was willing to take that risk.

“We’ve recovered the documents,” said Black. “And the film canisters. The negatives are being developed now.”

“And your two employees?”

Black cleared his throat. “There’s no need to take this any further.”

“They’re a risk to national security.”

“You can’t just kill them off!”

“Can’t we?” Tyrone’s eyes were a cold, gun-metal gray. An appropriate color for someone who called himself “the Cowboy.” You didn’t argue with anyone who had eyes like that. Not if you had an instinct for self-preservation.

Black dipped his head deferentially. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of…business. And I don’t like dealing with your man Savitch.”

“Mr. Savitch has performed well for us before.”

“He killed one of my senior scientists!”

“I assume it was necessary.”

Black looked down unhappily at his desk. Just the thought of that monster Savitch made him shudder.

“Why, exactly, did Martinique go bad?”

Because he had a conscience, thought Black. He looked at Tyrone. “There was no way to predict it. He’d worked in commercial R and D for ten years. He’d never presented a security problem before. We only found out last week that he’d taken classified documents. And then Victor Holland got involved….”

“How much does Holland know?”

“Holland wasn’t involved with the project. But he’s clever. If he looked over those papers, he might have pieced it together.”

Now Tyrone was agitated, his fingers drumming the desktop. “Tell me about Holland. What do you know about him?”

“I’ve gone over his personnel file. He’s forty-one years old, born and raised in San Diego. Entered the seminary but dropped out after a year. Went on to Stanford, then MIT. Doctorate in biochemistry. He was with Viratek for four years. One of our most promising researchers.”

“What about his personal life?”

“His wife died three years ago of leukemia. Keeps pretty much to himself these days. Quiet kind of guy, likes classical jazz. Plays the saxophone in some amateur group.”

Tyrone laughed. “Your typical nerd scientist.” It was just the sort of moronic comment an ex-marine like Tyrone would make. It was an insult that grated on Black. Years ago, before he created Viratek Industries, Black too had been a research biochemist.

“He should be a simple matter to dispose of,” said Tyrone. “Inexperienced. And probably scared.” He reached for his briefcase. “Mr. Savitch is an expert on these matters. I suggest you let him take care of the problem.”

“Of course.” In truth, Black didn’t think he had any choice. Nicholas Savitch was like some evil, frightening force that, once unleashed, could not be controlled.

The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Gregorian’s here from the photo lab,” said the secretary.

“Send him in.” Black glanced at Tyrone. “The film’s been developed. Let’s see just what Martinique managed to photograph.”

Gregorian walked in carrying a bulky envelope. “Here are those contact prints you requested,” he said, handing the bundle across the desk to Black. Then he cupped his hand over his mouth, muffling a sound suspiciously like laughter.

“Yes, Mr. Gregorian?” inquired Black.

“Nothing, sir.”

Tyrone cut in, “Well, let’s see them!”

Black removed the five contact sheets and lay them out on the desk for everyone to see. The men stared.

For a long time, no one spoke. Then Tyrone said, “Is this some sort of joke?”

Gregorian burst out laughing.

Black said, “What the hell is this?”

“Those are the negatives you gave me, sir,” Gregorian insisted. “I processed them myself.”

“These are the photos you got back from Victor Holland?” Tyrone’s voice started soft and rose slowly to a roar. “Five rolls of naked women?”

“There’s been a mistake,” said Black. “It’s the wrong film—”