“The British soldier?” Spears shook her head. “I had nothing to do with him. The only times I ever saw him were in those briefing sessions.”
“Security cameras are everywhere these days, Doc. You of all people should know that.” I pulled the small rented DVD player from my bag, flipped up the screen, and pressed play. The picture quality was poor, with lines and glitches. A code in the bottom right-hand corner identified the camera that had taken the footage, as well as a date and time. The subject matter was pretty dull — just a number of cafeteria-style tables occupied mostly by men of various ages, some in uniform, but most in business suits. Plenty of bald heads. In the top left of frame, Spears was clearly identifiable, sitting alone at a table for four, with a paper cup full of what I assumed was coffee, or at least what passed for it at the main Pentagon cafeteria. No sound accompanied the pictures. Suddenly, Spears got up and left, leaving her coffee behind. The picture jumped to footage from another camera. It showed Staff Sergeant Butler standing in a hallway. The date was identical to the first view, the time pushed barely seconds forward. Spears joined him. They shook hands. A third view — same day but two minutes later — captured them getting in a cab together. The Pentagon Police would trophy my nuts if they knew I'd copied their disks and edited this little show together.
Freddie Spears took some ice in her mouth and crunched it. “I'm calling my attorney,” she said.
“Relax, Doc, I can't arrest you. I'm OSI and you're not in the military. And even though you told Butler to kill me, I'm not the kind that bears a grudge.”
Spears leaned forward, elbows on her knees, fingers laced. She'd dropped the act. If I wasn't going to arrest her, that left only one other alternative, didn't it? “So, what do you want?” she asked, very casually.
I leaned back and crossed one leg on top of the other. Bingo. “Fifty percent of what you left Moreton Genetics with,” I replied. “According to my research, that makes my share worth around twenty mill.”
Spears's eyes narrowed. “That makes Chris Butler and me minority shareholders. What do we get for that?” Her fingers were still laced, only now she was wringing them.
“With any luck, around twenty years.”
“What?” she said, bewildered by the sudden change in direction.
Much of what I was saying was guesswork and gut instinct. No way could Boyle have pulled off the theft from Moreton Genetics without someone on the inside helping out. And then there was Butler. He was already a rotten apple, but someone had to have planted the seed in his head to turn the Phunal mission into an investment opportunity.
Spears was clever, and no doubt the team of lawyers she'd hire would be, too. All the evidence, even the bank transfers to Boyle and to Cooke, could conceivably be presented as something innocent. With Boyle and Butler both dead, there wouldn't be much of a case. The only way to nail her was to get an admission made freely to someone who wasn't an officer of the court — specifically, a civilian court. An admission made to someone like me.
The doorbell rang right on cue, making a sound like Big Ben.
I went to the door and opened it. I was surprised to see Chalmers standing there, leering with that stupid grin on his face, his crutches updated with a cane. Behind him were several FBI types; behind them my backup marshals; and behind them, the doorman with my ten bucks. “Special Agent Cooper,” said Chalmers, stepping inside. “Bumbling along as usual?”
“What are you doing here, Chalmers?”
“Come to help collect the latest addition to the FBI's witness protection program — mostly to make sure there are no problems with you. And maybe, well, maybe to gloat just a little …”
A half-dozen humorless types filed in behind Chalmers, filling the expensive room like a flood in a blue suit. Along with the old doorman, the marshals kept to the outside hallway, but peered in to satisfy their inquisitiveness.
I checked this invasion with Spears, glancing over my shoulder as a black guy the size of a locomotive put his hand under her arm and hoisted her to her feet. From the look of uncertainty on her face, this was all news to her.
“You planted that wallet at the Four Winds,” I said to Chalmers. “And then you used my presence on the scene to legitimize its discovery.”
He took a step toward Spears.
“We both know it couldn't have been the bombers, those Pakistani glass blowers; it had to have been someone who'd come along later,” I said. “I might actually have fallen for it if you'd had the thing properly deep-fried.”
Chalmers was still looking smug. If he'd had a nail file, he'd have pulled it out and used it. “The evidence could have been better prepared, I suppose,” he agreed.
“So you going to tell me why?” I asked.
“Why what?”
“Playing dumb comes naturally to you, Chalmers.”
I wanted to hit him, knock the supercilious smirk right off his face, but I resisted the temptation. “So now you've got Doc Spears over a barrel,” I told him. “She'll have to cooperate with you or go to prison for a very long time.” I wondered what Spears had that Langley wanted so badly. Then it hit me like a slap. “All the missing research on this bug. You people think Spears knows where it is.”
Chalmers shrugged eloquently.
“Who wants it upstairs, Chalmers? Norman? Your boss is determined to do a little empire building, is he?”
The smugness fell away. “I'm through playing twenty questions with you, Cooper.”
I'd hit a nerve. With Tanaka and Boyle dead, Doc Spears was the last link to technology the CIA wanted for reasons I didn't want to think about — a bargaining chip, or leverage, maybe. Or perhaps the intention was to sell it, like Boyle had tried to do. Hell, even as a sewage treatment it was potentially worth billions, wasn't it? The Company could support a whole portfolio of clandestine ops with that kind of money. And with Boyle dead and all evidence under their control, the CIA had Spears exactly where they wanted her. Basically, if she had nuts, they'd be in a vise.
“Did you have anything to do with putting Butler and me together on that mission to Phunal?”
He shook his head. “Can't take credit for that, I'm afraid, though I wish I could. Just a bit of good luck.”
Chalmers turned to the FBI types. He said, “Let's wrap it up here.”
Spears was on her feet and still bewildered, only now she was moving toward the front door as the filling in an FBI sandwich. There were no handcuffs.
“Before you go, Chalmers… that leg of yours. How'd you break it?”
“Leaving now, Cooper,” he said without looking over his shoulder.
“Al Cooke was a big man — past his prime but still powerful. Did he put up more of a struggle than you expected? Is that when you slipped on the Natusima's deck, on all those cigarette butts he'd been tossing?”
“Fuck you, Cooper,” said Chalmers, calling on his stock answer to questions he didn't like. He leaned on his cane as he limped toward the door.
I was left alone in the room and even though everyone had gone, it still felt crowded. A movement caught my eye. It was the old doorman, still hovering outside in the hallway. I hoped he wasn't expecting another tip. I called out, “I'll lock up when I leave.”
He nodded, tipped a finger to his cap, and disappeared.
My fingers closed around the small metal box in my jacket pocket, the digital recorder, the one Anna had given me. I took it out and held it up where I could see it, to make sure its beautiful red LED recording light was flashing. I clicked the off switch, picked up my glass of Glen Keith, and took a sip. The ice had melted. Watered-down Scotch reminded me of a bar I used to frequent back in my drinking days. I put the glass down and walked out, closing the door behind me.