Reeve knew now the purpose of the password. He typed in CWC, but it didn’t work. He tried Co-World, then PrP, then Prion-to no avail. He tried Killin and Preece. Nothing.
So then he tried Kosigin.
And suddenly he wasn’t in Gumball Gulch anymore. The bottom of the screen told him he was reading page one of twenty-eight. The print size was small; Jim had crammed a lot in. Single-spaced, too. At the top was a message in bold:
I’ll let you get back to the game soon, Gordon. I’m assuming it’s you reading this, and if you are reading it then I’m most probably dead. If I am dead and if you are reading this, then you’ve probably been sniffing around and I thank you for your concern. The following may be of help. I’d dearly love to get it published. A friend called Marie in France may help; I’ll give you her address at the end. But first, I have a story to tell you…
And what a story. Reeve already knew it, of course, but Jim had more information than anyone had suspected. There was the stuff about Preece’s history, his “revolutionary” shock-sex therapy, and Kosigin’s hiring of Alliance Investigative to dig up the details. Kosigin’s blackmail of Preece had been implicit, but Jim’s report made it explicit by actually interviewing two ex-investigators at Alliance who had worked on the job, as well as members of the original research team headed by Preece.
Including a Dr. Erik Korngold.
Jim had had two very cordial meetings with Korngold. It was Korngold who had admitted the blackmail. Preece had spoken to him about it at the time. But then Dr. Korngold had turned up dead, leaving Jim pretty well stuck unless he could get corrobo-ration. The only other scientist he knew of from the original research team was Dr. Killin. So he’d started pestering Killin, and Killin had gone to Kosigin.
And Kosigin had decided the reporter had to be taken out of the game.
Jim’s research was impressive-and scary. He detailed countries around the world where neurological diseases were on the increase, and showed how these increases correlated to the introduction of CWC herbicides and pesticides onto those countries’ farms. There were snippets of interviews with farmers and doctors, agrichemical experts and environmentalists. Farmers everywhere were getting more and more ill. Stress, the skeptics had said. But Jim had found out different. And when the police did start to get curious about pesticide side effects, CWC simply shifted spheres, concentrating on third world countries.
Jim found a correlation with tobacco companies who, as western markets contracted after health scares, merely opened up new unsuspecting markets-Africa, Asia… CWC was doing the same thing with chemicals. What was more, Jim had been getting, at the time of writing, inklings of crooked deals to introduce pesticides into third world countries. Deals were done with governments, regimes, and dictators, money slipped into secret bank accounts, and import barriers suddenly disappeared. Jim hinted at links between CWC and the CIA, since the CIA wanted a presence in countries that CWC was opening up. It was a global conspiracy, encompassing governments, the scientific community, and everyone who had to eat.
Jim had worked hard and fast building up his case. He did so for a simple reason, one he stated towards the end of the file: “I think some people would kill to keep this secret, because while bits and pieces are well-enough known, certainly among the environmental pressure groups, no one has really been able to link it globally. They say you are what you eat. In that case, we’re poison.”
At the end, Jim gave Marie Villambard’s address, and beneath that were some instructions. They told Reeve where he would find the “hard evidence.” Jim had hidden all the documents-transcripts, notes, archive material, and tapes of interviews. They were in a box at Jilly Palmer’s farm outside Tisbury. Jilly Palmer: Reeve remembered her long braid of chestnut hair, her rosy-red cheeks. Jim had been introduced to her by Josh Vincent, and had trusted her from the off. He’d asked her to store a large box for him, and to say nothing to anyone about it unless they told her they’d read about it on the disk.
“I’m keeping copies of some of the stuff with me,” Jim concluded, “so that if any burglaries suddenly and mysteriously occur, they’ll think they got what they came for.”
Then a final message: “To access the next game level, press Ctrl+N. To quit, press Esc.”
Reeve hit the Escape button and shut down the computer. The story had been here all the time, here under his own roof. His legs weren’t the steadiest as he got to his feet. He couldn’t think, couldn’t concentrate on anything but his brother. He got down to the kitchen somehow and made himself a hot drink, then sat at the table sipping it, staring at nothing.
The mug was one-third empty when he started to cry.
He planned to call Jay’s hotel that evening, which gave him a full day to prepare. High on his list was sleep, but first he had to re-turn to the boat.
The early-morning waters were calmer, and the dawn made navigation easier. He made good time back to Mallaig. He could tell Creech had been sleeping, but he was awake now, looking miserable. Even so, he studied the boat carefully as Reeve brought her home.
“Not a scratch on her,” Reeve said, clambering out with his stuff. He checked Creech’s wrists. They were red-ringed, the skin broken at a couple of points. “Trying to escape, eh?”
“Wouldn’t you?” Creech snarled. Reeve had to agree. “Man my age and condition, trussed like a Christmas turkey.” Reeve untied him and told him to put the kettle on. When Creech came back, Reeve was laying out bank notes on the workbench.
“What’s that for?” Creech tried not to sound too interested.
“I need your help, Kenneth. I’m sorry I had to tie you up, but to be honest I’d very little option. If I’d taken you with me, you’d‘ve had to walk from Loch Eynort to Stoneybridge and back. But now I’d like you to help me. If you do, you pocket this money for starters.”
Creech eyed the money. “How do you mean, starters?”
“I’ll give you some passengers. They’ll pay you whatever you ask. They’ll just want to take one of your boats, perhaps both. Like I say, you can name your price.”
The kettle was boiling. Creech didn’t go to switch it off.
“What do I have to do?” he said.
There were old wooden boards lying around the place. It wasn’t difficult to find two or three the right size, along with some fixing poles. They used the taupe paint to put a few words on the boards and, when it was dry, used a hot-air gun to peel some of it back off. Creech got some earth and rubbed it into the boards. In the end, they looked fairly authentic.
Then Reeve dipped into his bag and brought out a packet of red powder he’d brought from his workshop. It was like powdered paint, but mixed with a little water, it produced a thick bubbly liquid which looked just like blood. He used it some weekends, laying a fake trail for his soldiers. He didn’t tell Creech what it was, or what it was for.
They stopped for more tea. Creech kept asking about these men who’d want to hire his boats. How did Reeve know about them? When would they come?
“I’ll tell you later,” Reeve said, standing up. “First though, I’m going to borrow your mattress for an hour or two. Okay?”
Creech nodded vigorously. Reeve lifted the Beretta out of the bag, waved it at Creech, and took it and his tea with him to the mattress.
Creech decided not to move from the table until Gordon Reeve awoke, no matter how long that took.
Reeve took Creech with him when he went to make the telephone call. Not because he didn’t trust Creech, but because Creech didn’t trust him. Creech wanted to hear him make the call.
They squeezed into a telephone box at the end of a farm road, and Reeve made the call.