“How could I not? I’m, like, this side of things is completely firewalled from, you know, your uncle’s other business interests, but I’ve been catching it from all sides. You were right about the shit hitting the fan, then Brill turned up with her usual calm head on and sorted most of it out, but they’ve been running me ragged and I haven’t heard anything from you, you could have written! So what’s going on in fairyland?”
“Politics, I think. First they dragged me over there full time, then they wouldn’t let me back out. I’ve been out of the loop so long: I mean, I’m frightened. Anyway, now I’m running some errands for them in New Britain they’ve eased up a bit. I get to cross over here and make phone calls, y’know, like prisoner’s privileges? But that’s all I can do right now, until they’re sure nobody’s made me. I’m officially in France, at least that’s what the INS think. Anyway, I am going to get them to clear me so we can do lunch and start putting things back together, soon. Trust me on this, right? Tomorrow I’ve, well, I’ve managed to wangle a week in New London. I’m supposed to be moving carpetbags of confidential letters about, but I’ve figured out a better way. So I get to drop by the works and see who’s holding it together, or not as the case may be, bang heads and kick ass, that kind of thing. Then let’s do lunch, hey?”
“Sounds like a plan, babe.”
“Well, that’s most of the plan, anyway. There is something else. Two somethings, actually. Tell me no if you don’t want to get involved, okay?”
“Miriam, would I?”
“Just saying. Look, one of them’s probably not an issue. I want you to round me up a prescription for a friend. Nothing illegal but he can’t get to see a doctor—he’s out of the country—so if you could order it from one of those dodgy Mexican Web sites and mail it to me I’d be ever so grateful.”
“Um, okay. If you say so. What’s it you’re wanting?”
“Um. Two packs of RIFINAH-300 antibiotic tablets, one hundred tabs per pack, not the small twenty-tablet bottles. They should only set you back a few bucks—it’s dirt cheap, they use it all over the third world. As soon as you’ve got it, mail it to me via your, uh, contact. Family postal service should reach me soon enough.”
“Okay, I think I’ve got that, RIFINAH-300, a hundred tablets per pack, two packs. That it?”
“Well, there’s the other thing. But that’s the one I think you might want to punt on.”
“Hmm. Tell me, Miriam, okay? Let me make my own mind up?”
“Okay, it’s this: I want all the information you can find—public stuff, company financials, profiles of directors, that sort of thing—on two companies. The first is the Gerstein Center for Reproductive Medicine, in Stony Brook. The second is an outfit called Applied Genomics Corporation. In particular I’m interested in any details you can find about financial transfers from Applied Genomics Corporation to the Gerstein Center—and especially about when they started.”
“Applied Genomics, eh? Is this—is this like our old friends at Proteome?”
“Yes, Paulie. That’s why I said you could say no. Just walk away from it and pretend you never heard from me.”
“I couldn’t do that.”
“Yeah, well, couldn’t and should are—look, Paulie, I’m sticking my nose into something it’s not supposed to be in, and I don’t want to get you burned. So the first order of the day is cover your ass. Don’t do anything that might draw attention to yourself. Don’t post the stuff to me or call me about it, that’s why I’m using a pay phone. I’ll come collect when we do lunch, and I don’t mind if all you’ve got is their annual filings and disclosures.”
“What are they doing?”
“I—I’m not sure. But, uh, sometime in the past year my relatives have come up with a genetic test for, uh, the family headache. And I was wondering how they did that when this other thing, the connection with this fertility clinic, crawled out of the woodwork and bit me. Paulie, there’s something—stuff about some kind of W-star genetic trait—that gives me an itchy feeling. The same itch I got when we were investigating that money-laundering scam that turned out to be—well. I think it might have something to do with why they’re giving me the runaround, why I’m being pressured to . . .”
“Pressured to what?”
“Never mind. One thing at a time, huh? Look, I’ve got to go soon. And then I’m going to be on the other side for a week. Let’s do lunch, okay?”
“Okay, kid! See you around. Take care and give my best to Brill and Olga.”
“Will do. You take care too. Especially around, uh, the second job. I mean that, I want you to be around so I can buy you lunch. It’s been too long, okay?”
“Yeah. Nice to hear from you!”
“Bye.”
“Bye.”
TRANSCRIPT ENDS—DURATION 00:06:42
DIFFERENCES OF OPINION
What the hell do you think you’re doing in my office?” Miriam asked in a dangerous voice.
The man in the swivel chair turned round slowly and stared at her with expressionless eyes. “Running it,” he said slowly.
“Ah. I see.”
The office was cramped, a row of high stools perched in front of the wooden angled desks that formed one walclass="underline" they were the only occupants. Miriam had just stepped through the front door, not even bothering to go check on the lab. She’d meant to hang her coat up first, then go find Roger or the rest of the lab team before chasing up the paperwork and calling on her solicitor and then on Sir Alfred Durant, her largest customer. Instead of which—
“Morgan, isn’t it? Just who told you you were running the show?”
Morgan leaned back in his swivel chair. “The thin white duke.” He smiled lazily. She’d met Morgan before: a strong right hand, basically, but not the sharpest tool in the box when it came to general management. “Angbard. He sent me over here after the takedown in Boston. Said I was too hot to stay over there, and he needed someone to keep an eye on things here. Anyway, it’s on autopilot, just ticking over. Every week I get a set of instructions, and execute them.” His smile faded. “I don’t recall being notified that you had permission to be here.”
“I don’t recall having given Angbard permission to manage my company,” Miriam said tensely. “Never mind the fact that he knows as much about running a tech R&D bureau as I know about fly-fishing. Neither do you, is my guess. What have you been up to while I was in Niejwein?” It was a none-too-subtle jab, to tell Morgan that she had the ear of important people. Maybe it worked: he stopped smiling and sat up.
“Expansion plans—the new works—are on hold. I had to let two of your workmen go, they were insubordinate—”
“Workmen?” She leaned across the desk toward him. “Which workmen?”
“I’d have to look their names up. Some dirty-fingered fellow from the furnace room, spent all his time playing with rubber—”
“Jesus. Christ.” Miriam stared at him with thinly concealed contempt. “You fired Roger, you mean.”
“Roger? Hmm, that may have been his name.”
“Well, well, well.” Miriam breathed deeply, flexing her fingertips, trying to retain control. Give me strength! “You know what this company makes, don’t you?”
“Brake pads?” Morgan sniffed dismissively. Like most of the Clan’s sharp young security men, he didn’t have much time for the plebian pursuits of industrial development.