Capitol Reflections (45 page)
Karn looked at the slide made from the bean, then the one with a cross section from the plant. Just as Van Rankin had described, chromosome number two had a dark band across it on each slide. He looked up, knit his brows, and folded his arms.
“What is it, Eddie?” asked Gwen.
“I’ve seen something like this before.”
“What is it?”
“I’d like to go back and check some old research before I speculate,” he replied. “We have enough theories flying back and forth as it is.”
Gwen smiled warmly. “My dad would have liked you, Eddie. He was a man of science who played the hunch and took chances once in a while, but he was also very thorough.”
“Thanks. Listen, since Rick and Jan haven’t been able to access Jamie Robinson’s computer, I’m going to make a call to an old friend. There’s a good chance he can at least speculate on what Jamie was doing. Is that okay with you?”
“Of course. I’m glad you’re on our side.”
“What’s the old saying? God works in mysterious ways, his wonders to perform. If I’d been confirmed as FDA commissioner, I might have been far too busy to be helping you now.”
“I still think you’d have been good in the job.”
“So do I,” said Karn. “So do I.”
When they left Quantico, Gwen returned to the bed-and-breakfast while Karn drove to George Washington Hospital. Jack was asleep, but a male nurse approached, holding an envelope.
“Mr. Maulder said to give this to you when you returned,” said the nurse.
“Thanks,” said Karn.
Outside in his car, Karn opened the envelope and found that Jack had indeed gained information from the New Jersey State Police.
The others would find this very interesting reading.
62
Unshaven and decidedly ragged, Mark thought he looked like a felon. Maybe that was appropriate since he’d committed his share of felonies the last few days. He had taken plenty of risks in pursuit of a story before. The risks he’d taken recently, however, were off the charts. He wouldn’t forget that ride toward his execution anytime soon.
He and Peter entered the bed-and-breakfast midmorning. Gwen, Jan, and Rick were already in the extra room they’d set up as their office. Mark had no idea what the owners of the bed-and-breakfast thought of their comings and goings. Like good innkeepers, they kept their thoughts to themselves.
“Sorry for our rather ragged appearance,” announced Peter before anyone had a chance to say hello. “Mark and I haven’t had much sleep. We landed in the middle of the night. We needed a bite to eat and a change of clothes after my company met us at the private strip.”
“You guys look terrible,” remarked Gwen.
“Thanks,” said Mark. “Masquerading as Panamanian federales and getting shot at will do that to a fella.”
Gwen’s mouth hung open. “Are you all right?”
“Could you define ‘all right?’”
Mark saw the concern on Gwen’s face and could’ve sworn his heart skipped a beat. “We’re fine,” he said reassuringly.
Gwen nodded. “What did you find? Something that made your ordeal worth it, I hope.”
Mark produced the files copied from the warehouse. “Long story short? The beans are transferred from Transpacific sacks to Pequod’s sacks once they arrive in Pedregal. Transpac records, however, indicate Transpacific Coffee is sold to other companies.”
Peter had already gone to his laptop. “Those company names we saw—The Perfect Cup, The Coffee Gourmet, A Finer Bean, Roastmasters—they’re real companies, but I just checked out their websites. There’s nothing secretive about their roasting processes at all. In fact, they describe their operations quite openly. They all say they buy coffee from Brazil or Colombia, not Hawaii.”
Mark continued. “Transpac also has records of payments going from Randall, Inc. to Lanai, Inc. Our guess is that Randall is paying Henry Broome a little extra for his—or should I say his wife’s—Hawaiian coffee.”
“There’s no record of any Lanai, Inc. that I can find,” Peter chimed in.
“Something’s definitely rotten in paradise,” said Rick Mecklenberg.
Mark and Peter yawned simultaneously and flopped down on the bed. “Anyone have a strong cup of coffee?” Peter asked.
Everyone laughed as Jan handed Peter a thermos of hot coffee. “It’s Pequod’s,” Jan said with a chuckle. “If you’re cruising around in the morning looking for coffee, it’s hard to find anything else.”
Gwen related how she and Karn had visited the Robinsons and procured Jaime’s Apple II.
“Can’t access it, though,” said Jan. “Even using an interface. Thing’s just too friggin’ old.”
“The Robinsons had an old plant pressed in their family Bible,” Gwen continued. “One of several that Jamie had been growing, according to his mother and father. After his death, the rest of the plants went to none other than Henry Broome, the nation’s illustrious chairman of the Agriculture Committee.”
Peter let out a low whistle. “Wow.”
“Eddie and I ran the Robinsons’ plant over to Van Rankin,” said Gwen. “Chromosome analysis shows that not only is it a coffee plant, it’s also identical in chromosome structure to the bean Mark copped in Seattle.”
Mark sat up straight and looked directly at Gwen, unable to suppress a wide grin despite his fatigue. “Still want to deny that coffee’s the culprit?” he asked.
“I’m not denying anything, but I want some hard data on how coffee can produce a seizure. I’m still sticking to what I’ve said before. Just because we have a connection doesn’t mean coffee’s the culprit. For all you know, there could be some additive in one of their flavor syrups, maybe even a sugar packet. It always pays to keep an open mind.”
“Okay,” conceded Mark. “I respect your scientific approach. And without some chemical data, we don’t have anything to bring to the authorities. That said, I don’t think Henry would have gone through the whole Transpac charade if the coffee wasn’t at the center of this mystery.”
Gwen had no response. Mark liked debating with her—especially when he won a point.
“You’re leaving out the best part,” said Peter, sipping the brew from Pequod’s “special” beans. Mark didn’t know how Peter could do it with so many questions raging.
Mark rubbed his bloodshot eyes. “Yeah. Almost forgot. Gregory Randall is running a sex slave business, and Dieter Tassin’s name is on several of the files. He sold Anh’s daughters, as a matter of fact.”
“Damn,” said Gwen.
“What do we do next?” asked Rick, standing up and pacing the room. “We’ve got a full plate here.”
“We probably need to move again,” suggested Peter. “We were followed all the way to Panama.”
“We can either split up or together find someplace that’s safe,” said Mark.
“I, for one, am not going off on my own,” declared Jan.
“I’ll protect you,” said Peter with a chuckle. He moved closer to Jan and put his arm around her shoulder. Jan beamed at him.
“I think it best if we all drive to the Capitol Building,” said Rick. “There are literally dozens of tunnels and passageways under the building that should allow us to resurface and then drive to my home in Virginia.”
“Okay,” said Peter, “but where’s Karn?”
“He went to check out some old research and to call a friend who might know what’s on Jamie’s computer,” said Gwen.
Just then, there was a knock on the door and Eddie Karn entered the room.
“Eddie—good timing,” said Gwen.
“Jack left this for me.” He held up the envelope for them to see. “We’ve got some pretty incriminating information on our favorite senator.”
The room went perfectly still in an instant.
“Jack is doing very well, by the way,” Karn said before starting.
Gwen smiled and thanked him.
“Anyway,” said Karn, “Jamie Robinson was hit by a truck in November of 1977. The police report on the matter is quite clear. The driver was a man named Mickey Spangler. No foul play, but the only witness was Henry Broome, class of ’78. Henry’s official statement was that Jamie had been talking with him and suddenly hopped on his bike and took off. Henry claimed he tried to reach out and stop Jamie but it was too late. The police never investigated further. Later, however, Spangler got in a few more scrapes. Being an accessory to armed robbery was the nail in his coffin, earning him a life sentence.”
“I’d say we need to pay a call on Mr. Spangler,” said Mark. “Where is he today?”
“He’s in the medical wing of a New Jersey correctional facility west of Atlantic City.”
“Medical wing?” asked Rick.
“He’s dying of lung cancer.”
“I think we’d better get moving,” suggested Jan.
63
Gregory Randall surveyed the next batch of Asian beauties Transpac forwarded to his computer for inspection. They were all lovely, of course, but he needed to be as discriminating as his clients, many with whom he did business on a regular basis. Some of the young women in the profiles he examined had a slight blemish or a nose that was a bit too short, even by oriental standards. The face had to be perfectly symmetrical, the eyes narrow but alluring, the mouth thin yet sumptuous enough for a deep, passionate kiss. And then there were weight and height to consider. No matter how beautiful the face, the women had to be slender and at least five-foot-four.
As a child, Randall traveled the globe with his father, taking in sights that most children his age could never hope to glimpse in school textbooks. As a teen, when his dad was securing what would become the Randall empire, the teenage Gregory Randall was mesmerized by the beautiful women he saw all through Asia and the Far East. American girls his age were so tacky, with ridiculous hairdos conforming to the latest fad. Western females used sprays, mousse, and all manner of awful products to sully their appearances. And they still looked plain compared to the exotic fare he saw when in Thailand, Vietnam, or Taiwan.
More importantly, Asian women were dedicated to pleasing their husbands and mates. American women were traveling further and further toward independence with their ridiculous feminist movements. Asian women did not fear the virtue of obedience, a word that western women were actually deleting from traditional marriage vows more frequently with each passing year.
As Randall continued to look at the profiles, a red e-mail flag popped up on the corner of his screen. Opening it, he read the message, swiveled his chair away from the computer, and clenched his fists. From Panama, Carl Richey was notifying him of a breach in Transpac files. Analysis of a Transpac hard drive revealed that an intruder accessed many sensitive documents. Furthermore, Op One had been found in the desert, hands tied behind his back.
“Dammit!” screamed Randall. “How many incompetent people do I have working for me?”
He picked up the telephone and called the man with the raspy voice.
“Don’t worry, Gregory. I’m already aware of matters as they presently stand. The situation is extremely serious, but I’m taking measures even as we speak to recover any documents that were obtained from Panama and to gather up once and for all those who would compromise our operations.”
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