“An elaborate act. He pretends to work on a separate project, they complain about lack of lab space. All the while, he is gleaning data from us and the Japanese and sending it back to the corporation he works for. His employer may not even be a member of Trikon.”
Weiss remembered the conversation he overheard through Thora Skillen’s door. The Americans had fallen behind in their research and Bianco was angry. Ramsanjawi might have a point, farfetched as it seemed.
“Is that the camera you used?” said Ramsanjawi. “May I?”
Weiss slipped the cord over his head and handed the Minicam to Ramsanjawi. The Indian aimed it around the lab like a tourist in midtown Manhattan.
“Extremely fine resolution,” he said. “And good magnification.”
“Only the best from CNN.”
“What did you see as you filmed?”
“A computer, smaller than the ones in the main lab modules. It had some sort of genetic structure on the screen. Vials of colored liquids, which probably were microbe soups.”
“You have learned much in your short time here,” said Ramsanjawi. “Was there anything else? Any sophisticated communications equipment?”
“That’s all I saw,” said Weiss. Of course, there were the plants. But he wasn’t about to mention them. He had a reporter’s sense that Ramsanjawi was angling for something—information, a favor, maybe a deal. He wanted to keep one trump card up his sleeve. Besides, he had a damned good idea what those plants were. The sixty-four-billion-dollar question was what were they doing on Trikon Station.
“How would you like to film O’Donnell’s lab?” Ramsanjawi asked.
“And get killed doing it? No thanks.”
“What if I told you I could arrange it?”
“With O’Donnell? Fat chance.”
“Ascend from the real world, Mr. Weiss, just for a moment. Theoretically, would you like to film O’Donnell’s lab and have someone with scientific expertise interpret the images?”
“What I would like to do is ask O’Donnell a bunch of questions and have him answer them. But that isn’t going to happen.”
“Precisely. So answer my question.”
“Do I look stupid?” said Weiss.
“What if I told you that I could guarantee you fifteen minutes without danger of being assaulted? Is that enough time?”
“How are you going to do that?”
“Is it enough time, Mr. Weiss?”
“I can manage with it.”
“Would you be willing to cooperate, and bring the tape to me?”
“I might,” said Weiss. “But why should I?”
“Because we both want the same information.”
“How do you know I’m not a spy myself.”
“I don’t,” said Ramsanjawi, handing the camera back to him. “But I can’t be in two places at the same time, so I have asked you. I assume there are spies. If I discover you to be one, so be it.”
Weiss took the Minicam from Ramsanjawi and slipped the cord back over his head. He wasn’t sure about the offer. It was too easy, too coincidental with his fight that morning. But where would he be if he hadn’t run down the other coincidences he had encountered in his life? Probably writing a police blotter column for a local rag and playing with himself. Fuck the whales. Big as they were, those plants in O’Donnell’s lab were the key to something bigger. He was going to have another look at them. Somehow. Some way.
“Why did you show me the parlor trick?” he asked.
“To establish credibility, Mr. Weiss,” said Ramsanjawi. “Why else?”
The phone booths in the command module were open twenty-four hours a day. Crewman Stanley was on duty in the module when Weiss got there. He looked askance as the reporter swiftly explained that he had to contact his boss in Atlanta. The Aussie nodded okay, but the suspicious look stayed on his face.
Weiss closed himself in the booth farther from Stanley, then grumbled under his breath as his fingers refused to hit the right pads on the telephone keyboard. Damned micro-gee, he fumed. Nothing works right here, not even my hands.
Slowly, very deliberately, he pressed out the number of the network office in Atlanta. Zeke’ll be there, he said to himself. He’s got to be. Where else does he have to go to, without me?