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  The thin hands fluttered like a bat at dusk on the prowl. “I am not the one who can answer this question, Mr. Cardone.”

  “Please. Call me Joe.”

  The Indian winced at the brash American familiarity, but took it in stride. “Well, Joe, I am not the one you need to ask. I would imagine, however, that Herr Hass would look favorably on such an idea, but you must speak with him.”

  “No problem.”

  The hands calmed down again and disappeared into Singh’s lab coat pockets, the thin lips stretching wide in what Nova assumed was a smile. “If the article gains Herr Hass’s favor, I will do all I can to assist you.” Singh halted in front of a door, then indicated they should follow him. They entered a laboratory full of smells. Fascinating smells. Every lab bench seemed to have a different scent. Mint. Then jasmine. Even sweaty socks. Then coffee.

  First her mind jammed at the word, then the tips of her fingers tingled and her thoughts caught fire. The pipeline employee had mentioned the smell of coffee to Dr. Graywing. A coincidence? The CIA didn’t believe in coincidences, and neither did she.

  “The work we do in this and in the next building will lead to future products. I cannot say more than that. But I can say that the delivery of drugs can be accomplished in several ways. The most common and most desirable to date is orally—by mouth. But of course, some must be taken as suppositories, or intravenously, or injected intramuscularly. We are working on ways to allow the body to absorb drugs by inhalation. At present, this is only rarely possible because the vast majority of therapeutic drug molecules are too large to pass nasal and other membranes. But we are hopeful.” Singh grinned. “As are several of our competitors. This is an area of very keen interest.”

  Nova’s pulse thrummed in her throat. Interest? Or already a success?

  Singh steered them back outside, past a door leading into the fourth building, saying there was nothing different to be seen in the fourth structure. She knew Joe had to be thinking what she was. What’s behind door number four?

  Chapter 21

  After the royal tour, Joe returned to his bungalow and went straight to the phone. He dialed the admin office. The operator informed him that Hass’s office was in the mansion, then she rang through. Hass answered immediately. “Hass hier.”

  Joe explained his idea for an article on Hass Chemie as a nonpolluting pharmaceutical. After assuring Hass that he would not slight his work on Jean Paul’s campaign, Hass agreed that Joe could have a pass, even to the secure areas. “You may pick it up from the secretary in the administration building. As for interviews, limit them to me or Doctor Singh and only to those employees who have green and yellow clearances. In any case, those with orange clearances will not talk with you.”

  Joe thanked Hass and hung up. He strolled back to the chemical facility. From the north end of Research Building No. 1—green security patch—he reentered the complex and walked down the central hall toward its southern exit. His hand was on the door to the outside when a red patch, plastered onto the wall just to the left of what appeared to be a stainless-steel, elevator door, caught his attention. Except for color, the patch was identical to the other security patches, but there was no slot beneath it. Instead, at waist height, a gray metal tube jutted a few inches out from the wall.

  The tube made a forty-five degree upward bend, and set horizontally on it, like a rectangular plate, was a black-glass panel, about four-by-eight inches. The door resembled a stainless-steel elevator but it had no call button and nothing indicating floors.

  Something definitely did not compute.

  Once outside, something even more interesting became obvious. The steel door with the red security patch led, not into another building, but into the domed hill. He was sure the pass that Hass was arranging for him wouldn’t include clearance into this red zone.

  “Darf ich Ihnen hilfen?”

  Joe nearly jumped clean out of his skin. He whirled around to find an armed guard in brown pants and a green shirt giving him the evil eye. On a leash at the guard’s side was a German shepherd.

  The dog’s amber eyes stared intently at Joe, but suggested no hostility. Nor was the dog’s tail stiff or his lip curled. Joe flashed a sincere smile. “I am Herr Hass’s houseguest,” he said quickly in English. “Just looking for the administration building to pick up a security pass.” He repeated, “Administration building.”

  The man waved an arm with bulging biceps toward the administration building and said, “Administration.”

  Joe nodded and smiled again. “Danke schön.”

  From behind the counter inside the administration building, Hass’s secretary slid the pass and a pen across to Joe. She pointed with her own pen. “Sign your name here.”

  “Sure. No problem.”

  He scanned instructions on the back of the pass and, finding no mention whatsoever of a red security zone, smiled. Scratching his signature, he said, “I just ran into one of your guards with a German shepherd. They make great guard dogs.”

  He finished the signature, his eyes met hers, and a nice rosy glow spread on her face. She straightened the collar of her blouse. “That would be Bruno,” she said in a thick German accent. “He’s not a guard dog. He’s our sniffer. We’ve had bomb threats.”

  “My mistake. Next time I meet Bruno I’ll give him a big pat.”

  He asked where there was a public phone. Using the phone in his bungalow was out of the question; he wouldn’t be surprised if all the Compound’s phones were tapped and the rooms bugged, as well. The public phone also posed some risk, but he and Nova had agreed with Cupid on a set of conversations that would allow them to report their general status.

  He found the phone and punched in the number given to him. They were using the name, but not the number, of a Turm shop that carried electronic equipment and photographic supplies. He let the contact know they were personally okay and that some significant information had been uncovered and it would be put in the agreed-upon nightly drop.

  On the way back to the bungalow, he saw a couple jogging around the lake. The path turned out to be dirt and wood chips, ideal for running. He picked up speed, eager to change into sweats and charge up the old heart.

  In his bones, he felt they were close to pay-off time. These experiments involved something that smelled like burned coffee, as John Wiley with the steel plate in his head had so aptly described it.

  The jog did more to relax him than a double shot of Scotch. By ten to eight, he was dressed and on his way to the mansion.

  A light, warm breeze stirred the leaves of the trees. A few low lights illuminated the brick path. At the point where the path emerged from trees and began a gentle climb to the mansion, he caught up to Nova and König. She looked as inviting as a Popsicle on a hot day, all cool in an icy-pink sleeveless dress. König wore a white, lightweight suit.

  Joe couldn’t help but wonder what made the bastard tick. He had it all. Intelligence, looks, power. Some of the man’s pie-in-the-sky ideas even sounded good. Too radical, but going in the right direction. And Joe could see that if König was all that hot for the world to change, he was going to be highly frustrated. Things weren’t going to happen as he wanted. König could persuade many, but he could never persuade enough.

  He’d answered his own question. That’s where the blackmail came in. Those who couldn’t be persuaded had to be forced.

  Hass greeted them and led them down the hall to a living room as darkly tapestried and paneled as the entry. With Nova and König, Joe made himself comfortable in the overstuffed chairs of one of four conversation areas. Hass served them cocktails.

  Peter Grund lumbered in and dumped himself into a chair. Soon Braunwin Hass and the two boys joined them. As she had earlier in the day, Braunwin seemed allergic to Nova and devoted herself to König. The two boys hung close to the politician, young eyes bright with intense interest. To Joe’s surprise, the dour butler escorted Dr. Singh through the wide door. Hass hadn’t mentioned that the flighty sci
entist would be sharing their evening meal. Well, well, the cast of characters continued to enlarge.

  “Come in, come in, Sanjiv,” Hass murmured as Nova took another tiny sip of her gin and tonic. “Now we are all here. Your usual?”

  Sanjiv Singh nodded. Hass poured him a glass of sherry.

  Nova sipped her drink, studied the four men’s faces. A looked had passed between them, a shared signal of being in at the beginning of something big. She took a moment to reconsider the possibility that The Founder was really a front name for a group of men—these men.

  Joe and Grund conversed about soccer. Braunwin started an awkward exchange with Nova about painting; Nova listening with only half attention. After a few minutes, Nova experienced her “What’s wrong with this picture?” feeling.

  She gave herself a second and the discrepancy clarified. She would have expected König to be the focus of everyone’s attention. Instead, while Singh seemed only interested in what Braunwin was saying to Nova, Grund and König deferred to Hass.

  The butler announced dinner.

  The aroma of fresh bread filled the spacious dining room. Hass walked to the head of the table. He indicated that Nova should take the seat to his left, Joe to her left, König to his right. Braunwin stood behind the chair at the foot of the table. Grund took up a place opposite the boys and Dr. Singh moved opposite Joe.

  Two young women appeared and began serving. Joe attacked the onion soup and warm bread with a fervor suggesting he could put away a ten-ounce steak. The butler poured wine with practiced smoothness.

  Hass smiled. The White Praying Mantis seemed in remarkably good humor, as though he’d already been fed. “I decree we will not talk of politics tonight.”

  Peter Grund countered. “Please allow me only the luxury of saying I saw today the figures from our latest poll. We should eat heartily in the knowledge that Jean Paul is favored to win Bavaria. We can’t let our guard down, of course, but perhaps the only man as popular in all of Germany is the chancellor.”

  “Marvelous news, indeed,” Dr. Singh twittered, his glance going to Braunwin Hass.

  “If we’re not to talk politics,” Nova said, addressing Hass as soup was replaced by salad, “perhaps you could tell us a little more about Hass Chemie. I understand your grandfather founded the company.”

  Hass shifted cold eyes to Nova. There was an eerie pause. Hass let his eyes rove over her face and breasts and she felt her skin crawl as though his glance were a physical touch. She glanced away and noticed that Joe was observing Hass, his lips compressed into a hard line. It wasn’t the first time she’d seen a protective response from Joe. She noted Jean Paul appeared entirely oblivious.

  She knew already that Jean Paul admired Hass. He frequently called him a great man. But this was too much. Hass didn’t feel like a great man to her. Hass felt—creepy.

  Whatever Hass had been thinking while doing his mental undressing of her, it didn’t affect an eager willingness to talk about the pharmaceutical company. By the time the main course of first-rate pork roast, rissole potatoes, asparagus tips and applesauce appeared, Hass switched to a monologue on his father.

  Braunwin, who up to this point had been quiet, said with surprising animation, “He was a visionary, much underappreciated and misunderstood by his peers.” Nova made a mental note to have Cupid look more deeply into Braunwin’s past.

  Joe nudged the topic to Earth Alliance. Grund, König and Hass did most of the talking. Singh sat like a timid mouse, his thin, fluttery hands busily bringing food to his thin, hard mouth. Braunwin ate more or less in regal silence.

  Grund was expounding. “Our species is a growing cancer in the body of the earth,” he intoned, then forked in another mouthful of pork. “Dr. Singh could explain far better than I. As a scientist he appreciates the similarities between the finite earth and its resources and the colonies of bacteria one might grow in a petri dish.”

  Grund looked at the scientist who smiled but appeared painfully unwilling to enter the conversation. To Nova’s surprise, Braunwin stepped into the awkward silence

  “That comparison is extremely apt. Human history has been like an inoculation of a few bacteria into a fresh clean dish full of nutrients. The bacteria multiply and spread, just as from Africa we have multiplied and spread to every corner of the planet. We have filled our petri dish. Eventually, though, nutrients run low, wastes accumulate. The bacteria begin to die. Finally in the dish there is no bacteria left alive.”

  Braunwin was interrupted as the main course settings were whisked away. Dessert was fresh fruit and cheese.

  “And how close do you believe we’ve come to that ominous point?” Nova coaxed.

  Braunwin hesitated. She seemed a bit flustered, as though she thought she’d made an error. Quickly she signaled to one of the waiting girls while she said, “Peter would have a better grasp of that than I would.”

  The girl bent over Braunwin’s shoulder to listen to whispered instructions.

  Peter Grund picked up the discussion. “Some resources we require, and especially many things we’ve treasured, are already scarce. But I’m convinced the dire problem isn’t lack of resources. It’s poor distribution. The difference is, of course, irrelevant if too many people are produced simultaneously. The end result is the same—death and war.”

  He waved his knife to signal he wanted more wine, but kept right on talking. His tone grew so sober the room seemed to hush. “A great dying off is already on us. But like any patient in the early stages of terminal illness, we cling to denial. We possess technology that could let us build a virtual utopia. Instead we have famines and diseases of epic proportions. The great celestial experiment of sapient beings on planet earth rushes toward a nasty conclusion.”

  Grund’s knife clinked loudly in the quiet room as he laid it on his china plate. “Unless a leader emerges with the power to transform the hearts of millions, we’re surely doomed. I believe Jean Paul is that leader. That is why I help him.”

  König’s face lost color. His eyes were fixed on Grund. Everyone else at the table stared at König.

  Braunwin broke the silence. “That is why we are honored to have you visit us, Jean Paul. Peter has simply stated forcefully why we feel your election now and your success in the future are so vitally important. You are our great hope.”

  König pulled his shoulders back slightly. “Thank you Peter, Frau Hass. I suppose I must thank you.” He smiled a wry, almost sad smile. His eyes went to Nova. “No one man can do what you’re wishing. But together, backed by Earth Alliance, I do believe we can alter the course of history in a positive way.”

  “Boys,” Braunwin said, “it is time for you to be in bed.” She stood and the boys followed her example. “Young men, say good evening to our guests.”

  After excusing themselves, Hass’s wife and sons left. Nova accompanied Joe, Grund, Singh and König back to the living room. The men said yes to brandy. Nova passed; she asked for soda water.

  After perhaps another hour of conversation, Singh excused himself. “I have a full schedule tomorrow.”

  Joe then said, “I’ll be going, too. It’s been a long day.” He insisted to Hass he could find his own way out. Nova knew what he had in mind and approved, but still the room felt suddenly, disconcertingly, lonely.

  Halfway to the door Joe met the butler who hightailed it ahead of him back to the door and opened it. “Good evening, sir,” the butler said.

  Singh wasn’t very far down the path. Joe fiddled with his jacket pockets as though he’d forgotten something. When the scientist reached the stand of trees and disappeared, Joe began walking fast. Time now to start filling in the blanks on Sanjiv Singh.

  Singh passed the bungalows. He was striding toward the public buildings. At this late hour? Joe pursued, keeping far back.

  Singh never broke stride. He made a beeline for Research Building No. 1, nestled into the shoulder of the dome-shaped hill.

  When he entered and paused in front of the stainless
-steel doors with the red patch, Joe was surprised—and not surprised. Here it was, almost eleven-thirty at night and Singh was seeking out the red zone. Joe’s every instinct said that whatever was rotten here involved this red zone.

  He suddenly realized that if the steel doors opened, he was at the wrong angle to see what lay behind them. He sprinted to a bush with a better view.

  The scientist unbuttoned and rolled back the left sleeve of his shirt and laid the underside of his forearm over the horizontal black-glass panel to the left of the door. Some kind of individual ID implanted under the skin?

  With a movement so sudden that Joe imagined he heard them swish, the doors parted.

  There wasn’t much to see inside, just more hallway. But one thing was certain: the steel doors didn’t lead to an elevator to the basement. Hass had spent big money, when plenty of available flat land lay all around, to excavate into the side of a mountain.

  Singh went in. The shiny doors enveloped him.

  Joe returned to his bungalow, changed into sweats, set his alarm for one-thirty, put the travel clock under his pillow and fell into bed.

  At one-thirty the muffled alarm jerked him awake. He silenced it and flicked on the bedside lamp. He started water running in the bathroom sink. The false-bottom compartment of his travel bag yielded to a light touch in the right spots and he fished out one of the many waterproof capsules.

  He composed a note to Davidson, put it into the capsule and then put the capsule into a discarded cola can. He slipped out of the bungalow and, at the point where the brick compound wall came nearest to the residential bungalows, he threw the can over the wall. At three o’clock it would be picked up by a young man wearing black who was an excellent cross-country runner with a good eye for patrol vehicles.

  Chapter 22