The Adamas Blueprint (7 page)

As he crested the hill, the Mustang coughed. Kevin ignored the old car’s wheeze. From his vantage point on the overpass, he could see Newcastle a quarter mile ahead. Fifteen feet to the right of the Newcastle-Westpark intersection was a railroad crossing which cut across Newcastle.

The signal began to flash, but the gates were still up. Below and to the right of the overpass, he could see a train slowly moving in the same direction, parallel to Westpark, its engine a few hundred yards from the crossing. To the left, Newcastle headed toward the freeway. Just as he thought, it was clear. In thirty seconds he’d be on the Southwest Freeway and might be able to put some distance between him and the Pontiac.

The Mustang coughed again. Kevin looked at the hood. No steam or smoke. It coughed again. In seconds the Mustang was sputtering, as if trying to catch its breath, the power falling off. Kevin glanced at the instrument cluster to see if the engine had overheated in the hot summer air. He gasped when he saw the gauges.

The trip odometer read 295 miles. The sputtering made sense now. The fuel tank was empty.

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In his desperation to escape, he had forgotten that he’d driven home without filling up. Now he’d be lucky to make it to the freeway before the car lurched to a stop. He needed to get something between him and the Pontiac.

A ear-ringing blast startled Kevin. The train, which was 100 yards behind the Mustang, blew its air horn twice more as it approached the crossing. Kevin suddenly realized what he had to do and thought for a moment that he was crazy for deciding to do it so quickly.

The gates on the right were lowering. The barriers were long, long enough to stretch across the two lanes on either side of the road, but they left a hole about fifteen feet wide. If a car was angled correctly, it could make it through.

The Mustang continued to sputter. Luckily, the light ahead was green, letting the traffic on Westpark through. There were no cars between Kevin and the intersection. He didn’t want to tip his hand until the last possible second, so he drove as though he were going past Newcastle.

Behind him, he could see the Pontiac closing the gap. The train was only a fifty yards behind him.

He couldn’t be sure, but the distance looked long enough for what he planned. It didn’t really matter. He had no other options.

Just before he reached the intersection, Kevin hit the brakes and wrenched the wheel to the right. The Mustang went into a four-wheel drift with its nose pointed at the crossing. For a moment, he could see the surprised expressions on Kaplan and Barnett’s faces as the Pontiac steered to avoid hitting him. Kevin floored it, praying that there was enough gas left to get him across the tracks.

The sputtering got more violent, but the car responded, squirting through the gap in the barriers. The looming train filled the windshield, and the blast of the air horn was deafening.

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Heading at an angle across the tracks instead of perpendicular to them, the Mustang careered toward the right hand curb and glanced off. Kevin was thrown against the seatbelt with the impact. Now hobbled, the Mustang limped forward, still scraping the curb. Kevin coaxed it a hundred more feet before the engine died. It took Kevin a second to realize he hadn’t been broadsided by the locomotive.

He didn’t spend time celebrating. He turned the key, hoping there were a few drops of fuel left. It was no use.

Kevin scrambled out of the car and quickly surveyed his surroundings, pausing for only a second to appraise the damage to his faithful car. It was pitiful. The broken mirrors, the crazed windshield, the bullet holes, the wheel skewed from the impact with the curb. He didn’t want to know what the passenger side looked like. He quickly put it into perspective though. Better it than me, he thought and then searched the street for a hiding place.

Kevin wasn’t heartened by what he saw. On both sides of the street, a high chain-link fence with barbed wire stretched as far as he could see before the end of the road curved out of sight a quarter mile ahead. On the left, the fence protected a electrical transformer station. On the right, construction equipment lay dormant. A sign on the fence said “Stratford Pointe - An apartment community for the future.”

He looked down the track in the direction the train was coming from. A caboose was visible in the distance. It would be there in less than a minute. They’d catch him before he could run to the next street.

Kevin looked at the low-slung train cars piled high with lumber. Through the gaps he could see his pursuers searching for him. Then he saw something which caught his attention. It looked MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

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like his best chance. He began running away from the crossing, and angled across the street, using the traffic waiting at the signal to stay out of sight of the other side. When he was sure Barnett and Kaplan could no longer see him, he headed back toward the tracks.

In front of the crossing, at the back of the line of waiting traffic, a pearl black pickup with tinted windows was stopped. Its back window and bumper were festooned with stickers with the familiar maroon and white colors of Texas A&M. Many of them said “Texas A&M Aggies” or

“Gig ‘em Aggies.” Kevin had seen bumper stickers that said, “My daughter and my money go to Texas A&M,” but he’d never seen the one on the truck’s bumper that said, “I did your daughter and spent your money at Texas A&M.”

He ran up to passenger’s door, hoping that it might be less threatening in this era of carjackings, and knocked on the window. The electric window lowered to reveal a man around his age in a tank top and jeans. A gun rack was mounted on the back window, but it held only an umbrella.

“You got a problem, bud?” the man said.

“My damn car broke down,” Kevin said between gulps of air, “and I was wondering if you could give a fellow Ag some help.” He wiggled his class ring toward the man.

The man looked at the ring and a smile broke across his face. “I’ll always help another Ag in trouble. And today’s your lucky day. My dad owns a garage. Maybe I can take a look at it and see if we can’t get it fixed. Name’s Bob Tinan.” Bob leaned over to extend his hand through the window, and Kevin took it.

“Kevin Hamilton.” Through the windshield, he could see the approaching caboose thirty seconds away. “Thanks, Bob, but I know what’s wrong with it. It’s the head gasket.” Kevin MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

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jerked his thumb toward the Mustang. “It was bound to happen sometime. The only way it’s going to move now is behind a tow truck.”

Bob looked at the heavily damaged car 100 yards behind them and turned back to Kevin.

“Hell, you’re probably right. No sense messin’ it up more than it already is. Come on in. There’s a gas station a couple blocks from here.

As Kevin climbed in and closed the door, the caboose passed, and he could see the Pontiac shoot under the opening gates.

“He’s in a hell of a hurry,” Bob said. Kevin bent over, pretending to tie his shoes.

“What year did you graduate, Bob?”

Bob told him and drove toward the intersection. Kevin looked back towards his car. Barnett and Kaplan were already out of the Pontiac and slowly approached the immobile vehicle, their guns discreetly held at their sides. As the pickup turned right onto Westpark and out of sight, they still didn’t realize that Kevin was gone.

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CHAPTER 9

From the Transco Tower, the 800-foot-tall suburban skyscraper on the West Loop, the railroad crossing at Westpark and Newcastle was easily visible, as was most of the rest of Houston. It was one of the reasons that Clayton Tarnwell had chosen it for his vast office headquarters. On clear days, the Houston ship channel, over ten miles to the east, could be seen through the silvery towers of downtown Houston. From this vantage point, Tarnwell could survey the vast metropolis as if he owned the entire expanse. He loved to watch the expressions of visitors as they walked into the enormous office, toward the floor-to-ceiling picture window. It was an awe-inspiring sight.

Clayton Tarnwell was paying no attention to it whatsoever.

“What!” he screamed into the phone. “Are you telling me that two highly-trained, very expensive operatives couldn’t handle the simple task of bringing in a college student?”

“I think you may want to hear the entire report,” David Lobec said from his car phone. “And I recommend not discussing it any further over an open line. We can be there in less than five minutes.”

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He thought about using some choice words, but trusted Lobec’s professional advice.

Someone might be eavesdropping. “You damn well better be!” He slammed the phone into the cradle, then stabbed the intercom button.

“Coffee. Now. And when Lobec gets here, send him in.”

A female voice replied, “Yes, sir.”

Tarnwell picked up the loan contracts he had been studying, then slapped them down on the desk without seeing any of the words. Damn! He was so close. After years of building his small, but extremely profitable empire, he was now on the verge of leapfrogging into the ranks of the Forbes 400. Ward’s Adamas process—no, Tarnwell’s Adamas process, he corrected himself—was the key. Once he had the process patented, he would own the most lucrative invention of the decade. He could truly be one of the richest men in the world. And now some pissant little college kid was getting in his way. He would not let that happen.

Tarnwell’s office had all the trappings of a successful businessman: the teak coffee table, the leather sofa and antique Chippendale chairs he had bought at auction, the state-of-the-art media center on the far wall, the hand-made oriental rug. A vast array of photographs adorned the office, most of them pictures of him posing with tennis pals from the club, local sports celebrities, a couple of congressmen and a senator. They showed a tall, handsome, rugged blond in prime condition. An all-American boy living The American Dream.

But it wasn’t enough. He was a nobody outside of Houston. He could get his share of attention in Washington, in the mining and chemical circles, but he wasn’t a big player, not like the chairmen of the megaconglomerates. The giants in the industry would brush him aside if he were too much of a nuisance. He was a barracuda in an ocean of killer whales.

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He wanted to be more.
He
wanted to be one of the killer whales, maybe even the biggest.

And thanks to Adamas, Tarnwell’s name was on the brink of becoming a household word. He would be one of the most powerful men in the world. And this Hamilton snot was endangering everything.

The door to his office opened, and a shapely blonde emerged with a sterling and china tea set.

She placed the set on the spotless mahogany desk and gave Tarnwell a playful smile as she poured. Even though they were occasional lovers—one of the reasons she was hired in the first place—Tarnwell ignored her and went back to staring at the wall. After serving his drink, she retraced her steps to the exit without saying a word.

Moments later, Lobec walked in. Tarnwell didn’t wait for him to cross the entire room.

“Let’s hear it,” Tarnwell spat.

“These are Mr. Hamilton’s,” Lobec said, throwing a wallet and a set of keys onto the desk.

Without asking, Lobec filled one of the other cups from the pot. He sat in one of the high back leather chairs and took a sip before starting his report. He took Tarnwell through every detail of the morning’s events, starting with their stakeout and finishing with the high speed chase that ended at the rail crossing.

“He apparently received a ride from one of the vehicles traveling in the other direction,”

Lobec concluded. “Otherwise, we would have seen him running. There was no place to hide within the immediate area.”

Despite his anger, Tarnwell had been involved in some of Lobec’s previous operations. He knew Lobec was capable, so he didn’t waste time trying to assign blame. The most important thing was to find Hamilton. “Then that means he’s not mobile.”

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“Correct. He’ll have to get help from someone.”

“The police?”

“That’s a distinct possibility. Since he contacted them before, we have to assume that he might try again.”

“What can we do about it?”

“There really isn’t anything we need to do about it. I have several associates at the Houston Police Department. If Hamilton arrives at any station, I will know about it within fifteen minutes.”

“Did anyone at the apartment complex see you?”

“It is possible, but no one was in the parking lot. If they did see us, it was from a distance.”

“But Hamilton saw you. He can identify both of you.”

“He can describe us, but I assure you, the police have no photographs of either me or Bern.”

“Can we get to him while he’s in there?”

“No, not unless he were put into a cell. In that case it would be exceedingly easy. The police would find him beaten to death in the morning. However, there is no reason to believe he will be jailed. The police will take his statement, show him a few pictures, and then let him go. Once we know where he is, it is a simple matter to wait until he leaves the building. Actually, the best thing he could do for us is go to the police.”

“What if they provide him with protection?” Tarnwell said. “You
did
try to kill him.” A flicker of amusement and disdain crossed Lobec’s face, and Tarnwell knew he had made a suggestion which Lobec thought amateurish.

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“Protection is offered only in special cases, such as to witnesses who have been threatened before testimony is to be given. The resources the police have are limited. It is highly unlikely they would provide protection to a student with a poor driving record who makes such an outrageous claim. There is no other evidence, and he has no idea why we were there.”

“Yes there is. The email message. And what about the car?”

“Now that we know what the message is, all traces of it will be erased from the school’s computer system by noon. We still haven’t determined what the code means, but Hamilton hasn’t either. As for the car, it was towed to a more suitable location. The Fourth Ward. The car will be stripped within the hour.”

“Good thinking.” Tarnwell took a sip of his coffee, going through Hamilton’s wallet while he thought. Nothing was in it except a few credit cards, a driver’s license, and a student ID. “Then what are our options?” he finally asked. “I don’t like waiting for him to make a move.”

“There is not much more
we
can do, but
he
has several alternatives,” Lobec said.

“Such as?”

“Do you remember the picture I showed you this morning?”

“You mean the girl? What was her name?”

“Erica Jensen. We have her telephone number as a result of the wiretap.”

“Have you given the information to Mitch?” Tarnwell knew Mitch Hornung could get any information they needed from the state records.

“Hornung is working on it as we speak. If Hamilton does not go to the police, she is the next most likely alternative. I’ve faxed her photograph to our other operatives, who have been MORRISON/THE ADAMAS BLUEPRINT

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instructed to apprehend her on sight. When we have her full records, we’ll relay her profile as well. I will go to her residence as soon as we are done here.”

“What about friends?”

“We have operatives stationed at all of the most likely places Hamilton might go, but we have little information on his other friends. We should be able to get that in a few hours. Perhaps a day at most.”

Tarnwell turned his chair and looked at the skyline. “He’ll go to the police as soon as he can.

But he has no car and no wallet, and he’s not going to get very far in Houston without either of those. That means he’ll have to call a friend, maybe this Erica Jensen, to come get him.” He swiveled the chair back in Lobec’s direction. “We can’t afford any more problems. You don’t have to tell me when he gets to the police. And I don’t care who picks him up. As soon as he leaves the station, take him out.”

Lobec cocked his head and raised an eyebrow. “Is that a wise move, considering he will have just told his story to...”

“It won’t matter. You said he had nothing. If he was involved with NV117, he may know about Adamas, and I can’t chance that. Just make him disappear. And this time, I don’t want the body found. Ever. Do you think you can handle that?”

Lobec smiled. “I now have access to a local paper mill. Have you ever seen an industrial shredder?”

***

Erica Jensen looked at the phone, wondering if she should try Kevin’s number again. For the past twenty minutes she’d been calling and all she got was the answering machine.

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Something bad had happened. That’s what she had been thinking since they’d been disconnected. She didn’t know why. It was easy to get caught up in a conversation if someone called or came by, especially for Kevin. She remembered a few of their conversations in the hospital. He had been so intent on the conversation that he didn’t hear someone call his name until she told him. But this was different. Before leaving with the police, he should have at least called to tell her that he would get back to her later. If he just forgot, she would really be pissed.

Erica picked up the phone and hit the redial. She let it ring three times before hanging up, not knowing whether to be angry or worried.

There weren’t many options: either wait here until he called or go over to his apartment. It was just a five minute drive away. Neither option was desirable, but inaction was the greater of the two evils. She recorded a new message on the answering machine saying that she was going over to Kevin’s apartment and would be back in ten minutes if he wasn’t there. Then she grabbed her purse and headed to the door.

As she pulled it open and felt the blast of heat invade her townhouse, the phone rang. She slammed the door and ran to the phone.

“Hello?”

“Thank God you’re still there,” Kevin said, the relief in his voice palpable. “I want you to get out of there.”

“What? Kevin, what’s going on? I’ve been calling for twenty...”

“I can’t tell you right now, so don’t ask.”

“Tell me what? You’re not making sense. Just calm down.”

“I’m about as calm as I’ll get until you come get me.”

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“Come get you? Where’s your car? Where
are
you?

“I’m at...” He paused. “Do you remember where I said I wanted to go for lunch on my birthday?”

“You wanted...”

“Don’t say the name! Just answer yes or no.”

“Kevin, what is going on?”

“There’s no time! I think they tapped the phone. Just answer me,
please
.”

“All right! Yes, I remember.”

“Good. I’m at the gas station across the street from there. I want you to leave the townhouse right now and come pick me up. Get your car keys and go.”

“Will you at least tell me...”

“No. I’ll explain everything when you get here. Just get out of there.” With that, the phone clicked off. He had hung up.

She stared at the receiver, but for only a second. In the four months Erica had known Kevin, he had never once been irrational. Stubborn maybe, but never irrational. And she didn’t think he was starting now. She didn’t know what was going on, but apparently he was terrified about her staying in the apartment. That was enough for her.

She dropped the handset into the cradle and ran out of the townhouse, pausing only to pick up her purse and lock the door. In ten seconds she was driving her three-year-old Honda Accord to a gas station across the street from Fuddrucker’s Hamburgers.

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