Nano (37 page)

59.

THE OLD VICARAGE, CHENIES, U.K.

SATURDAY, JULY 27, 2013, 1:15
P.M.
BST

Pia couldn’t keep track of the days but she knew she hadn’t seen Berman in a long time. The only people she did see were the doctor and the same guard who never looked her in the eye. The slot in the door had been pulled back once and she could swear it was Whitney Jones standing out there, but she never came into the room. Pia’s arm was doing a little better, but she felt very dulled and listless. How long was Berman going to torture her this way? Her muscles felt flabby from lack of use.

It was on the sixth day since his last visit that Berman returned.

“What do you want?” she said. She thought she detected a slight smile on his lips, which just angered her that much more.

“How about a walk?” he asked as if this were the most normal thing in the world for the two of them to consider.

“If it’ll get me out of this room, sure,” said Pia. She had tried to keep flexing her arms and legs in basic Pilates moves but she knew she would be stiff if she walked any distance.

The guard undid the shackles that attached Pia to the bed and bade her to stand. She felt terribly weak, and her head throbbed, but she was able to remain upright if she placed her hand against the wall. The guard helped her to the door as Berman stood outside, where a walker was waiting for her. Pia felt better—perhaps half human, as she grabbed hold of the walker and shuffled after Berman.

“I am truly sorry about this, Pia. I only wish you had been more cooperative. You must realize I am laying a lot on the line keeping you here like this.”

Pia was alarmed—Berman seemed to be talking with a grave finality.

“Where are you taking me?”

“For a walk, I told you.”

A heavy door opened from outside and they walked out into the back garden of the vicarage. It was fifty yards long and shaded all around by thick woodland. A high wooden fence corralled the lawn, which was encircled by a path, with benches at all four corners.

“I want you to get your strength back,” said Berman. “Have you thought about our conversation? Did you read the material I left for you?”

“Of course I thought about our conversation. And I read the material. Sure, it’s very impressive. Nano in 2020 will be the biggest medical researcher in the world. But you’re neglecting some important aspects of your less than glorious past.”

“Pia, I implore you to look beyond that. The bodies you saw, those people were going to die anyway—pointless, anonymous deaths. I think of them now as pioneers of a kind. Because of their sacrifice, we will be able to make these incredible medical advances.”

“That’s ridiculous and you know it. It’s not a sacrifice if you’re made to do it.” It felt good to be walking, so Pia pressed on. She wanted to keep this conversation going. Berman spoke again.

“Do you remember how excited you were when you first came to work at Nano? The enthusiasm with which you talked about your work was truly infectious. When you came over for dinner with that boy, you and I talked about the possibilities of what we are doing. And this is a whole new world of possibilities. A new frontier for medicine. It’s going to open up treatments and cures for thousands of maladies. And you know something else: it is going to save money. Nano is about to enter a new era. I’m done with respirocytes and athletes. We can move on to legitimate experimentation and development using animal models first and then humans. Can you imagine injecting a few cc’s of respirocytes into a drowning victim? Or what about people with debilitating COPD who can’t breathe enough to climb a single flight of stairs. They’ll be cured with respirocytes. The good we are going to do in the future will be a thousand times greater than any harm we did in the past. Ten thousand times more! We have no need for the kind of experimentation that was required to develop respirocytes fast enough for our Chinese backers. And to tell you the truth, on some level I now regret it.”

Pia glared at Berman.

“Bullshit. You’ll still do whatever it takes.”

“I see that you may not believe me, but it’s true.”

“You wanted to take shortcuts so you could save yourself.”

“What do you mean?”

“You told me about your mother, who’s living with Alzheimer’s. The literature you gave me focuses a lot on Alzheimer’s. You’re terrified you’re going to see signs of it in yourself and you’ll do anything to find a cure.”

“It’s not guaranteed that I’ll get the disease, but, yes, the chances are high. Both my parents struggled with it, and it was tragic to see my father go as he did. Now my mother is going downhill quickly. And I do have the gene associated with an increased risk, meaning I’m facing a double whammy. So, yes, I’m focused on Alzheimer’s research as well as infectious disease. Is that such a bad thing?”

“So you admit it. Of course it’s a bad thing, when you’re killing people in order to do it.”

“Ten people, perhaps, and they were criminals, convicted felons who were scheduled for execution. They would have died anyway if our program had not existed. And we didn’t intend them to die, that was not the goal. In reality all we affected was the date of death.”

Pia had promised herself that she would adopt a more conciliatory tone with Berman if she got another chance to talk to him. She had to give in, she saw that, or who knew what would happen to her? If she didn’t agree to Berman’s terms, there was no chance of her making it back to the United States. She even knew there was a deadline—the marathon at the athletics championships. But when it came to it, she couldn’t help herself. She found herself saying things she knew she shouldn’t. It was a bad habit, to say the least.

Pia suddenly felt physically exhausted but she wanted to keep walking. It had been almost a week since she had gone to see Berman at his house, as near as she could figure. It felt like ten years. Pia wondered: if she pretended to relent to Berman, would he take her home. Perhaps she could promise him the physical favors he so craved once they were back on American soil, but knowing him as she did, she doubted it very much. She knew she was powerless to do anything while she remained a prisoner here.

“How much longer are you going to keep me here like this?”

“How much longer are you going to resist the inevitable?”

“Perhaps forever.”

“I have said the consequences for you would be disastrous.”

“Can you at least get me a cell with a real bathroom? Or is that how your mother is, soiling herself in a diaper? You like the women in your life to be degraded, is that it, Berman?”

Pia steeled herself, ready for Berman to strike her. But he didn’t. Instead, he stopped walking. Pia looked at him and his face was thunder.

“You’re lucky you’re so pathetic yourself. I’m sure you are aware that I could have had my way with you if that had been my only intent. The fact of the matter is that I’m protecting you from our hosts, taking a risk, I might add, that their patience might run out. But that doesn’t mean I have to protect you forever. Think about your situation again. What are you going to do, climb that wall over there?”

Pia looked at the enclosure surrounding the garden. It was an impossibly huge fence, especially in her weakened condition. Even if Berman said to go climb, she wouldn’t be able to do it. Pia knew Berman was right. She was trapped with little hope of rescue. The only person who might guess that she had been abducted was Paul, and what could he do, especially since there was no way he could know for sure what had happened to her?

60.

LANSDOWNE ROAD, TOTTENHAM, NORTH LONDON, U.K.

SUNDAY, JULY 28, 2013, 3:35
P.M.

“You like watching this, Burim?”

“Under different circumstances,” Burim said. He was trying to be a good guest, but he’d been sitting here for hours watching the TV. Now the men were watching what looked like billiards. Burim could barely watch, and after his third beer, he turned down their offer of more. He needed to keep a clear head.

Burim knew what good fortune he’d enjoyed to this point. He had arrived at Heathrow, tired and disoriented, and was met by an unmistakably Albanian man holding a sign that read
BERTY’S
FRIEND
. The sign was as redundant as it was misspelled—this unshaven, raven-haired thug was obviously the right man. He introduced himself as Billy and said he was going to look after Burim. Billy told Burim that Berti had called to say that the car Pia was using had been found in Iowa, but the police still weren’t treating her disappearance as suspicious. Burim said there was no way Pia was in Iowa. She had been on that plane to London from Italy. He was convinced.

After that, the men drove in silence to this terraced house in a run-down but functioning neighborhood in North London. Burim was bursting with questions, but he followed his driver’s lead and kept quiet.

Billy let Burim into the narrow home with lurid wallpaper and the smell of damp, and introduced Harry, a slightly older and better-dressed man.

“Billy and Harry?” said Burim in their common tongue.

“I know,” said Harry, “but the less we know about each other, the better, yes?”

“Agreed.”

“We have a room upstairs. It’s small, but you won’t be here long. Take a shower if you want. The water pressure is low, and don’t use all the hot water. You’ll need some clothes.”

“I’m fine. What are we doing about locating my daughter?”

“Of course. That’s why we’re all here. We have the picture that was forwarded, and the description. She is a lovely young woman. Which makes our job easier. The picture has been distributed to all our friends and associates. Who have their own friends and associates. They know there is a reward available. There is a reward available, yes?”

Burim nodded. He knew that question would arise, and he would pay. He just didn’t know how much. Burim struck that thought and moved on. “What about the Chinese? The plane that arrived at Stansted that fit the description was listed as a Chinese diplomatic flight.”

“It was,” said Harry. “Which makes us think that the contact in America may have been mistaken. We’re checking other airports.”

“But I know there was a Chinese connection with the case my daughter was investigating.”

“That’s right. But the reality is, if it was a Chinese government flight, our job is much more difficult. There are certain countries that are very hard to take on, and China is one of them. The triads here in London are a real problem—very powerful and impossible to infiltrate. So we’re hoping to find the plane in another location.”

“So what can I do?”

“Nothing. You have to stay with us while our people do their work. You don’t know London. It’s a huge city and you’ll only get in trouble. There are Albanian factions that we are not friendly with who we need to avoid. You know how it is. I’m sure it’s the same with you.”

Burim nodded. There was always a certain amount of factional warfare going on among rival Albanian clans.

“Have a beer and try to watch the snooker. It’s a cool game.”

Harry smiled and Burim shrugged. He’d play along, for now.

61.

PAUL CALDWELL’S APARTMENT, BOULDER, COLORADO

WEDNESDAY, JULY 31, 2013, 10:35
A.M.

George Wilson was amazed by Paul Caldwell’s ability to compartmentalize his life. Paul was going to work, doing night shifts, putting in long hours. Every couple of hours he’d call George to check in, but George never had anything to report. The police hadn’t called him back; Nano wasn’t responding to his emails. He still couldn’t find a phone number for Zach Berman, and Burim Grazdani had not been in contact, either.

George found that he was unable to concentrate on anything. After returning from a quick visit to Will McKinley in New York, where there had been no change, George came back to Boulder, where he spent his time pacing about Paul’s apartment. He had never been so depressed or frustrated in his life; he knew there was nothing he could do, and it was driving him crazy.

This day, he had checked in again with the Boulder police, who now were shunting his calls to a civilian liaison. Paul had come home and switched his attention to trying to find Whitney Jones and was working his way through the phone book in an attempt to locate a relative of hers. The same 411 operator that had come up with Mariel Spallek’s apartment had given him an address, but he quickly discerned it was the postal address for Nano, LLC. Perhaps the woman did actually live in the office. All the while, he cursed Whitney for being a Jones and not a Johansson or any other less popular name.

Then, as George was about to make a call himself, his phone rang. A stream of numbers appeared on the screen. More than the usual ten. An international call.
It’s Pia,
he thought hopefully,
she’s safe
. He picked up.

“Pia?”

“No names, remember.” It was a man’s voice, gruff and terse. It took George a second, then he placed it. Burim.

“Have you found her?”

“No.”

Burim was calling from a public place—George could hear voices in the background, and a public-address system sounded in the distance.

“Where are you?” George asked.

“Have you heard from her? If she shows up, or you find out something, you let me know, right?”

“Of course. Should I use the original mobile number I have for you?”

“Yes, but don’t say anything. I’ll call you back when I see you have called. So you haven’t heard anything at all?”

“Nothing, we’ve had no word.”

“Okay. In that case, I want you to get your ass over here,” Burim said.

“What?” said George. “Why?”

“Because I’m doing a lot of legwork, and you’re sitting on your butt in a place where we know she isn’t, okay?”

“You want me to help you?”

“Don’t get excited, college boy, I’m not offering you a job. This is busy work. But we should make the most of what we have. I know you’d be able to recognize her if we come across her. Now, get over here and I’ll call you in twenty-four hours, okay?”

“Where are you? Milan?”

“London? Come to London and contact me, and I’ll call you back.” Burim hung up the pay phone.

•   •   •

T
HE SEARCH FOR
P
IA
had yielded nothing in London. Harry confirmed to Burim that, yes, the flight that came in from Milan via Colorado was an official Chinese government plane. Harry told Burim that no one he knew had any links to the Chinese crime syndicates, let alone the Chinese government itself. It was clear to Burim that he had received all the help he was going to get from the Albanians. The Chinese connection was like a metaphorical stone wall. But he knew he was welcome to stay as he continued the search himself.

Burim had taken to traveling around central London, looking in flophouses and cheap hotels, whorehouses and gentlemen’s clubs, showing Pia’s photograph around so much it had become dog-eared and stained by the dirt of a thousand hands. As attractive as Pia was, he thought she could be worth something in a drugged state, like a lot of other Eastern European girls and women. But he was worried that his hopes of finding Pia were fading at the same rate as her picture when his Albanian connections came up with zilch. When the picture became unrecognizable, he would know he had lost her. But his determination was strong. He would help her if she was in danger; he just needed something to go by besides the Chinese association, which had turned out to be a bust.