Ark Storm (15 page)

“Bright boy. Tea’d be great. Thanks.”

Freidland gave her a measured look. “Al was more than bright. He was a dreamer, but he had the brains to make those dreams real. He thought up things no one else did, then set to making them happen.”

Gwen nodded, chastened. She followed him into a small, neat kitchen. “Like Paparuda?” she hazarded.

“Like Paparuda.” Freidland occupied himself with making tea. Gwen saw his hand shaking as he poured the boiling water into the pot.

“So, they told you about Paparuda?” asked Freidland as he sipped his tea in the sunny room.

Gwen took a deep breath, conscious that she was totally and irrevocably breaching the terms of her confidentiality agreement. Necessary larceny.

“Messenger and Weiss just treated me to a demo. It’s unbelievable.”

Freidland smiled wistfully. “Paparuda. It means
rain dance
in Romanian. My grandfather was Romanian,” he added. “It was Al’s dream. Bring water to those who don’t have it. Grow more food, use the water from up in the atmosphere without having to desalinate the ocean by burning fossil fuels. I bet Messenger didn’t tell you all the social implications.”

“You could say that.”

Freidland laid down his teacup with a clatter on the wooden side table. He leaned toward Gwen, resting his palms on his knees.

“For starters, there is no shortage of water in the world. We have one point three billion cubic kilometers of water. But, for our needs, it is either in the wrong form or in the wrong place. Paparuda can deliver freshwater to the right place in a way that no other technology offers.”

Gwen listened as Freidland spoke. His eyes gleamed.

“Let’s just start with man-made desalination. Global annual desalination is twenty-two cubic kilometers of water. This burns up forty billion dollars in fossil fuels and belches out four hundred million tons of CO
2
; the sun does half a million cubic kilometers of desalination and it doesn’t cost a cent! What Al wanted to do, as well as commercially exploiting Paparuda, was run a parallel program financed out of the profits, and they would be huge, of the commercial side.” Freidland paused, narrowed his eyes, spoke more slowly. “Over one point four billion people live in water-challenged areas where the future use of current groundwater is untenable. In many impoverished communities, on the coast but also up to a few hundred kilometers inland, Paparuda could provide desperately needed water, both for farmers and for drinking water for communities.”

Freidland sat back, drained his tea. For a few moments his eyes drifted off, then he seemed to gather himself again. Gwen could see that the conversation, the emotion of it, was taxing him.

“I’m sure this is what they fought about,” he continued. “For Messenger, Paparuda was a license to print money. For Al, it was a green dream. Brilliant and simple, like all the best inventions are. Inexpensive too.”

“But worth a fortune,” stated Gwen.

“Almost priceless,” said Freidland, his voice low with reverence. He gave a weary smile. “Forgive me. I tend to get carried away.”

“There’s a lot to get carried away about,” said Gwen softly.

Freidland nodded. “Now it’s your turn. Why don’t you tell me why you’re here?”

Fate, thought Gwen. Fate with a sick sense of humor. Fate that seemed intent on using her.

“Something this big…” she began. “I can see why someone might contemplate killing to get control of it. But there’s still a heck of a leap between a motive and acting on it. I want to know why you think Messenger killed your son. And what proof you have.”

Freidland nodded.

“And what’ll you do in return?”

“If you convince me of his guilt, I’ll try and help you prove it.”

34

CARMEL VALLEY

“OK. Here’s what I know,” started Charles Freidland. “Back in June, the week before he died, Al went to this big conference at Half Moon Bay. Told me all about it when he got back. How it was full of all these venture capital hotshots congratulating themselves on their latest Learjet.”

“I’ll bet,” murmured Gwen.

“He said he’d heard something that really worried him. He wouldn’t tell me the whole story, but what I got was that Al bumped into a lady of the night one evening; she was real upset, he comforted her, sort of thing he would do. Anyway, Al says she told him that some guy had got tanked up, told her something crazy about Paparuda. Al refused to believe it was true, wouldn’t tell me what it was, even. Just that he had to talk to Messenger first, and only then, when he’d given him a chance to defend himself, would he tell me.”

“But he never got to tell you?”

“He didn’t. It happened like this. Monday morning he goes to work aiming to confront Messenger. He rang me at five thirty, said he was just about to come home. Then five minutes later, he rang me back, said Messenger had called him in to a meeting. Said he’d ring me when he got out and head home and we’d grab a pizza.” Freidland paused, looked at his empty teacup. “One hour passed, then Al called. He sounded upset. He said he and Messenger had had a major blowup. Said he’d tell me when he got home.”

He raised his eyes to Gwen, who saw the tears falling freely now. “Only he never did get home. A car hit him on Carmel Valley Road, knocked him from his bike, drove off, leaving him in a coma. He died three days later.” A hard look came onto the old man’s face and he brushed his tears away. “Police said he had no rear light, said there was fog, it was dark. Well, it
was
dark and there was a light fog, but when Al left home that morning he had a light on the back of his bike. I watched him cycle away and I saw the light. One of those ones flashed on and off. I
saw
it!”

“And you think Messenger removed the light?”

Freidland nodded. “Then he followed him and ran him down.”

“And do you have any proof that Messenger did this?”

“Two days after Al was knocked off the bike, police said Messenger’s Ferrari rear-ended a garbage truck at an intersection.”

“And you think this was some kind of deliberate collision to remove any evidence from the Ferrari?”

Freidland nodded. “I do.”

“It’s a stretch,” said Gwen.

“Maybe. But enough stretches and you get there. All that stuff at the conference, the last-minute meeting, the delay until it was dark, the fight about something—must have been about Paparuda—the destruction of evidence.… kinda mounts up.”

“And you told the cops all of this?”

“I did. They claimed they did a thorough investigation. They looked for the motorist. Came up with nothing. Concluded it was a tragic accident. Case closed.”

Gwen blew out a breath. Her heart was racing, she could feel it banging away. Her skin felt hot. The images came, uncontrollable now. The man and the sunny room receded and she saw the red car, spinning and rolling, bursting into flames, immolating her parents.

She felt a hand on her arm, and started. She focused on the man bending over her.

“My dear, are you all right? You’re pale, you’re shaking. Can I get you something?”

“Whisky,” Gwen managed to say.

*   *   *

She took a long glug, felt the heat roar down her throat and into her stomach. She let it warm her. Crazy to think she had gotten over it. Some things you just never did.

“What is it?” repeated Freidland.

Gwen drained her whisky, took its secondhand courage.

“It’s lightning. Striking twice. Once now, once four years ago.” She gave him an apologetic smile. “It’s a long story.”

He gave a soft laugh. “I have an abundance of time.”

Gwen nodded. “OK. Here goes … My parents were working on a great innovation, not on the scale of your son’s but big enough. It’s to do with predicting El Niño.”

Freidland nodded. He moved from Gwen’s side and took a seat opposite her on a snug armchair. He leaned forward, eyes fixed on hers.

“They were doing it for the intellectual curiosity, sure, but also because if you could predict El Niño better you could save lives. You’d have time to lay in supplies in remote areas, to prep for flooding, to prep for drought, even to plant more drought-resistant crops. But, here’s the thing, you could also make a killing on the markets. Think about it … if you had advance warning you could go long or short, play all sorts of futures markets—wheat, orange juice, weather futures themselves.” Gwen’s eyes slipped away from Freidland to another sitting room, in her family home in Punta Sal in Peru. She spoke, looking out of the window, seeing only Peru: the desert plains, the dunes stretching down to the sea, the endless blue …

“Four years ago, I’d come to visit my parents in our family home in Peru. It was remote, up near the border with Ecuador, not far from the equator. Hemingway used to fish for marlin there. Nobody much went there. A few tourists, lots of fishermen. A few small-scale suppliers. Of coke.” Her eyes snapped back to Freidland, as if to check he was keeping up. His eyes were riveted on hers. She looked away again, drawn back to the images that haunted her.

“Don’t ask me how, but word filtered out about what my parents were doing. One day we were paid a visit. Big black Hummer. Narco car. They didn’t feel the need to be subtle. The trafficantes are often protected by the army. They’re sometimes members of the army, or terrorists who are looking to fund their cause, with enough cash to pay off the cops and the army too. So the guys came in. Three of them. Two henchmen and the big narco himself. Carlos Ramirez. Living the cliché, big-ass gold watch, mirrored shades, the hard look, the face frozen into contempt for anyone and everything. Save money.” Gwen got up, began to pace.

“He had heard about my parents’ work. Wanted to buy them, basically. Wanted to hire them and buy their research so that they could predict El Niño for him, or La Niña. Useful knowledge for planting all his coca crops, and for trading the markets. This man was not some jungle narco. He told us, so proudly, he’d been to the University of Miami, worked in an investment bank for five years before taking over the family business. He told us how he loved to play the markets. How my parents’ research would help him play them even better.”

Gwen paused in front of the sofa, sat down abruptly.

“He offered them one million dollars. Non-negotiable. Take it or leave it. They left it.”

Gwen hugged her knees.

“One week later, when I was surfing, my parents were out picking up groceries in the local town. On the way back, their car veered off the road, onto the sand, rolled, burst into flames. Burned them to death. Police said it was an accident. There were no witnesses, officially. Unofficially, I found one. A little girl who’d been out with her mule, also heading for the market. She was coming in from a village, must have been hidden by the dunes or else the narcos would have obliterated her too. She told me there’d been another car, a big black car that had driven up, pushed my parents’ car off the road, made it crash, then disappeared.” Gwen closed her eyes.

“What did you do?”

She opened her eyes. “I’ve never told anyone. You’re the first. What could I do? If I went to the police, the narcos would go after the girl, kill her. And do you think I would have got any justice there? Me against Mr. Big?” Gwen demanded. “I did all I could. I took all my parents’ research and laptops and I got the hell out of there. I went home to California, started my Doctorate at Stanford, secretly carried on their work.”

Freidland nodded, eyes soft with sympathy. “They never came after you?”

Gwen shook her head. “No, they didn’t. But I’ve never shaken the feeling that someone is out there.… watching me. It seems to have gotten worse lately.” She blew out a breath. “It’s all this, I suppose—you, Falcon, knowing what I know. It’s making me paranoid.”

Freidland bowed his head. “I’m sorry. For your loss, for all of it, for bringing you back into it.”

“Kismet. My fate.”

“So what are you going to do?”

Gwen gave a bitter laugh. “What can I do? I would love to run, to just forget all of this. Doesn’t seem to work though. I still get the nightmares. You know it’s funny, Gabriel Messenger said I looked like a gunslinger coming into the office to sort them all out. I asked him if I were the bad guy or the sheriff.” Gwen’s eyes drifted off again. “I told him I was the sheriff on the trail of justice.”

Freidland gave a wry chuckle.

“Freaky, huh?”

The old man came over, squatted arthritically beside her. He reached out, grabbed her hand.

“You can just pretend you never met me. You’ve suffered enough. Nothing will bring Al back.”

“No, it won’t, nor my parents, but if I can help you get the murdering bastard who killed your son, if that is Messenger, then I will. It’ll even the scores, just a little bit. And it’ll keep Paparuda out of his hands too. Shit, can you imagine what the wrong person might be able to do with rainmaking technology?”

“You’d have to be truly evil to abuse it.”

Gwen laughed. “And?”

Freidland gave a sad smile. “I take your point. Another reason to walk away.”

“And to stay. Messenger would never suspect me. I’m just a querulous academic. I can ask questions, snoop around. I’m inside, in the perfect position to snoop. Messenger trusts me.”

Freidland squeezed her hand. “Be careful, please.”

Gwen squeezed his hand back, got to her feet in one fluid, decisive motion.

“Oh, I will. I’ve no intention of dying for a long time.”

*   *   *

Hidden in the base of the carriage lamp that hung from the ceiling, the voice-activated listening device fell dormant. Over the past hour, it had relayed every word to a secure office where a digital recorder saved it all and stored it, awaiting the man who would come and listen to it all.

35

THE LAB

Gwen drove straight back to the Lab from Freidland’s house, giving herself no time to stop and think. Just act. Inquisitive academic, surfer girl… she got to play snoop, veiled by airhead. And, she’d make it work, she thought with quiet fury. For the ghosts of her parents and for Al Freidland. For her own sake too.