“I don’t remember. For God’s sake, why are you crying?” “Was I? I didn’t realize that I was.” His voice was filled with exhaustion. “Were you thinking of your wife?”
He stared at her in gratitude. “Yes, actually, I was. “You should have staved with her,” she shot back, although not with as much venom as she had intended. “Yes, I know.” He was searching her eyes. No, he was searching her eyebrows. Looking for what? “And I’m not staying with you, Peter. The minute we land, I’m gone from your life.” His shrug was subtle, which infuriated her. When the elevator motor clanked and whirred sharply. she reflexively reached for Peter’s hand. As soon as he squeezed it, she pulled away again, furious again and more confused than ever. The elevator descended and Mary Blanchard stepped out holding two cups of steaming coffee. Peter and Elizabeth eagerly accepted the gift as Mary scrutinized the couple. “How are you two doing? Behaving yourselves, I hope not?” Elizabeth nodded lamely and Mary, sensing that she had walked in on something serious, began to fuss with the food carts. “You guys are lucky. The DC-10’s the only plane we fly that has a below-decks galley. Most people don’t even know it’s here.” Peter’s eyes were closed. He seemed lost in the steam from his coffee mug. Elizabeth offered a wan smile. Mary sighed. “Fighting already. Sorry, but maybe all this activity will give you a break. Gotta start breakfast.” She began shoving meals into ovens and twisting dials, ignoring them both. She was right: Her presence helped. Peter’s hands unclenched and Elizabeth got up to assist Mary. All the bustle muted the sound of the coquis still singing in her ears. 15
LEARJET N-94838
In the aftermath of the Fountain Society’s success with Peter’s transplant, Oscar Henderson had assigned the Learjet to Wolfe as a congratulatory plum. Wolfe adored the plane, though its pedigree embarrassed him slightly: it had once been Ollie North’s shuttle workhorse for his trips to Central America. That aside, the Learjet had sumptuous leather seats, burl walnut tables and a Lavatory with real marble. In his early, underpaid years as a scientist, Wolfe had always expressed disdain for worldly goods. Now he saw his youthful position as just so much posturing. The Learjet had brought out a yearning for the good things in life and it became a symbol of his everexpanding pride in having achieved the summit he had clawed his way towards through so many years of struggle. At the controls of the jet this day was Captain Bob Culpepper, a ten-year veteran of NASA, fresh from a flight delivering a sealed package to an agent in Bogota. Inside that particular package, although Culpepper neither knew nor cared to know, were the head and genitals of a high-level drug operative of the Medellin cartel. The man had killed a Texas DEA agent the day before and a message needed to be sent. For Culpepper, the trip’s only significance was that now his digestive tract was disturbed, the result of having eaten two tapas he had bought from a vendor at the Bogota airport. He cursed himself for his stupidity, turned the controls over to his co-pilot, Second Officer David Anspaugh, and made his way toward the rear of the aircraft. “Everybody comfortable?” he asked nonchalantly. Since everyone said yes, Culpepper proceeded to the toilet at the tail of the plane. As soon as he was gone, Henderson and Wolfe put their heads together again. “I thought this clone sonofabitch was a banker,” Henderson fumed. “He was,” said Wolfe quietly; keeping a close eye on Beatrice. She was seated across the cabin, staring out the window at the pink-tinged clouds in apparent absorption but Wolfe still thought she might be listening. “Well, then,” grunted Henderson, “why don’t you tell me how your boy managed to cold cock a Navy Seal, not to mention outwit the best civilian muscle money can buy?” “I can only imagine what the quality of the local muscle is on Vieques,” Wolfe said dryly. Henderson said nothing, but inward-ly he cursed himself, knowing how pound-foolish he had indeed been. “As it turns out,” said Wolfe, “Hans Brinkman was something of an athlete. I rechecked his dossier: he happened to have been a skilled amateur boxer, quite a skier, and he flew his own jet. He was as accomplished physically as he was intellectually. Not surprising, really. if you consider his provenance. Besides, he was fighting for his life and perhaps even for the girl’s. The bottom line is,” he concluded in a voice as cold as steel, “if you weren’t such a penny-pincher, the team you sent in would all have been Seals.” “It wasn’t a matter of money,” Henderson shot back. “It was to keep us clean. If there were fingerprints-as indeed there were-we wanted it to look like a robbery.” “And what does it look like now?” Wolfe asked, his anger rising. “I should have locked him up when I had the chance. Along with your precious grandson.” “Oh, please, both of you just shut up!”
Beatrice was turned around in her seat, staring at them with hostility. Wolfe and Henderson fell silent, quarreling children silenced by their mother. Beatrice moved to the seat directly across from them, surveying them bleakly. “What else do you know about his clone?” she asked. thing you want to hear,” Wolfe said gently Her lovely gray eyes had a pained look he couldn’t bear. “Any other hobbies besides boxing and fixing?” Her crisp tone encouraged him. “Skiing, as I said, tennis, bird watching, some martial arts. He was an amateur geologist and paleontologist.” “Fascinating,” she said.
“Yes, isn’t it.” Wolfe decided to take a risk. “Peter loved paleontology,” he said, assuming a tone of a gentle regret. Henderson ground out his cigar. “Well, he must have studied tae kwon do with a flicking T. Rex because he certainly kicked serious ass back at the hotel.” Wolfe sighed. “Oscar,” he said quietly, “if you made even the feeblest attempt to display human compassion, this would go much more easily for all of us.” Beatrice waved him off. “That’s all right,” she said, looking at Henderson. “Actually, the most feeling thing you can do right now is to spare me your bankrupt sympathy.” Wolfe fell silent. The pilot was coming back on his way to the cockpit; the smell from the lavatory was faint but unmistakable. “Jesus, somebody blow up a fucking dog in here?” Henderson barked. He Looked back toward the rear of the plane. “Yo, Lance. Do me a favor.” Lance Russell, the Navy Seal, stood up and closed the lavatory door He had been listening to the conversation and the look on his face said he wanted very much to meet Peter Jance, Jr. again. Returning to his seat and flexing his hands, he imagined Peter’s trachea beneath his fingers. “It’s not the first time I’ve seen this,” said Henderson, having to comply with Wolfe’s edict. “A good man brought down by a manipulative girl.” Beatrice’s nod was noncommittal. “I understand she fought bravely, too.” She was staring straight at Wolfe. “Panicked is what she was,” said Henderson, lighting a cigarette. “Anyhow, she’s not going far without credit cards. Fact is, she doesn’t have an identity anymore. “Who was she?” asked Beatrice.
Past tense, noted Wolfe. Yes, she won’t take much coaxing. “Elizabeth Parker,” said Henderson. “And how do we know her name?” Beatrice asked. Wolfe shot Henderson a warning look and refilled Beatrice’s wine glass. “That’s the name she used when she registered at the hotel.” “She must be special,” Beatrice said simply. Wolfe’s heart ached for Beatrice. He made a decision to tell her just a bit more, hoping to ease her pain. “I’m not sure,” he said carefully, “but she might have known him before.” Beatrice looked at him. “Peter?”
“No. The clone. She’s also from Switzerland. It’s possible that she slipped through the cracks in our surveillance of Brinkman. Maybe she was a secret.” “A mistress, you mean?” Beatrice indeed took notice, but Wolfe wasn’t sure whether she was reassured or not. “Possible. So you see, there might be some sort of attraction there, indigenous, if you will, to the body.” Beatrice sat back, speechless for several moments. Then she straightened, her eyes boring into Wolfe’s. “If that were so, what was she doing here? Surely Peter wouldn’t have had any conscious knowledge of her existence, let alone her telephone number.” “No,” admitted Wolfe uneasily. “Not possible.” Beatrice continued to stare at him. “Then how would she know to come here?” Beatrice demanded. Wolfe shifted his weight uneasily. “Alex,” he said at last. Beatrice blinked. “Alex sent for her?”
Wolfe looked away. The intensity of her gaze was downright unsettling. “He was apparently starting to have his doubts.” “About what?”
“About everything. Fountain Project. The Hammer. And certainly Peter’s defection didn’t help.” Beatrice thought for a moment, stunned by this revelation. “How did Alex know about her if you didn’t?” she asked. Wolfe shrugged. “He made it his business to know more about the clones than I did. Perhaps he was monitoring this clone’s e-mail-I don’t really know.” Beatrice mulled this over with great intensity “But why call her down here? What did Alex possibly hope to accomplish by that?” “I suppose,” said Wolfe, “he wanted to undermine the project. Maybe this was a monkey wrench in the gears sort of thing.” “Did he meet with her?”