November 12, 2009

She began placing each of the dishes down while balancing the remaining ones in her hands with the grace of a dancer. Putting Gerhardt's steak in front of him and then gave them all a smile. "Will there be anything, gentlemen?"

When no one spoke, Gerhardt returned her smile with a gracious one of his own. "I think we're fine for now," he said.

The waitress quickly glanced at the other two men and then left the table. They waited until he began, making him wonder if they had somehow managed to arrange to have his food drugged. It seemed unlikely in a crowded, busy place like this where an order might get accidentally misplaced. On the other hand, it was exactly the kind of place where it might go unnoticed if they did have an accomplice nearby who can alter the meal before it arrived. For all Gerhardt knew, the waitress herself was collaborating with them. His daughter's stories of waiting tables at a chain restaurant near the campus had educated him on just how strong the lure of a large tip was for these minimum-wage workers. He took another sip of his iced tea, belatedly realizing that it, too, could have been drugged. Slipping up in your old age, he scolded himself.

The two men had started eating and seemed to pay no further attention to him for the moment. Gerhardt expected that at least one of them would be watching him closely for reactions to his doctored his meal, but they appeared uninterested. Even if the drugs were time-released, and not due to take effect until some time later, human nature would have caused them to give him a half-expectant look every now and then. Either they were much more professionally prepared than he had guessed (which was unlikely), or he could relax and enjoy his top sirloin. He chose the latter.

Gerhardt said nothing as they ate, waiting for one of the men to reopen the conversation. Throughout the meal, they occasionally exchanged quick glances, communicating something between them. Their expressions betrayed nothing, though, almost as if the communion was telepathic—which Gerhardt knew was ridiculous. They ate more slowly than he did, but with no less enthusiasm. It was far past his usual dinner time, he realized, so he had probably plowed through his at nearly a record pace.

Settling back in his seat, he took a deep, satisfied breath. He tried to decide whether he wanted to order coffee or not. He most certainly did not need a dessert; the loaded baked potato had been bad enough. Turning his head, he tried to see if their waitress was anywhere nearby. She was not, so he turned back to face the table. He found the two men watching him. Gerhardt stared back evenly, saying nothing.

"Are you with us, Colonel?" the shorter man spoke suddenly.

Gerhardt tried to hide his surprise, with only partial success. "You haven't told me anything yet."

"We've told you all we can for now," the taller man stated.

"Let's look at the facts, Colonel," the other man said, leaning forward slightly. "Nearly unlimited funding, Doing the work you love . . . not 'environmental systems'. What more is there?"

Quite a bit, Gerhardt replied silently. Whoever their "client" was, his intelligence-gathering resources were apparently limited, or he had chosen not to tell these two operatives that he knew of Gerhardt's real work.

"I'll need to think about it," he said, trying for just a hint of possible interest in his tone.

"Of course," the second man nodded. He nodded to his companion. They each began to rise.

"Have a good evening, Doctor," the taller one said. He slid two large bills onto the table near his still nearly-full plate. "We'll be in touch."

Gerhardt did not watch them leave. Instead, he surveyed the interior of the restaurant for anyone who reacted to their departure. No one seemed to notice, although an older woman with ashen-blonde hair exited a few minutes after they did.

Yes, he decided, he was definitely going to want that coffee.

#

"It's not possible."

"I suggest you make it possible."

Adamson regarded the figure seated across from her in the wheelchair. Although they were separated by the depth of her heavy desk, she still felt the threat emanating from him, despite his obviously weakened state. He looked pallid and wan, an effect enhanced by the light-colored hospital robe and pale blanket draped across his lap.

"Your son is alive, Derek," she said. "You should be grateful for that much."

"But he won't be," Jorgensen rebutted. "Not for long."

Adamson stared back at him, her mouth drawn tight. "No reputable surgeon will do what you're asking." She shook her head slowly. Her lips pulled back into what was almost a nasty-looking snarl. "I don't think you'll even find any coroners who would."

"Don't push me, Ingrid," Jorgensen threatened in a low growl. He then began to cough. It was a deep, rattling cough.

Adamson watched the man's abdomen spasm as he tried to bring it under control. She had long since been out of active practice, but she recognized the sound of fluid building up in his lungs.

"I won't do it, Derek," Adamson stated, although even she heard the faint quiver of hesitation in her voice.

"You will," Jorgensen countered. "I funded the creation of this institute," he continued. "I can close it down."

It was not an idle threat, Adamson knew. Although nearly all of the institute's funding was now handled through a foundation, the news of Jorgensen's departure would cause devastating ripples throughout both the research staff and, more importantly, the controlling board of directors. There would be no doubt that she would be out of a job. In addition, word of these things got around—quickly. She could easily find herself unemployable in the field for decades. Politics might be the only employment that might accept her, and even she had limits of just how dirty she was willing to get her hands.

Adamson took a slow breath without looking at Jorgensen. "Derek," she said calmly, finally looking across at him. "You need to be reasonable about this." She paused, still uncertain on the right approach. "What you're asking has never been done before . . . at least not successfully."

"Oh stop!" Jorgensen snapped, fighting back another coughing fit. "You're more worried about liability and lawyers than whether we can achieve something amazing."

Jorgensen's expression turned cold. It was true; her primary concern was that of the continued existence of the institute. That's why Jorgensen had put her in this position.

"I am," she admitted flatly. "It's my job." Her eyes fixed on Jorgensen's. "Just as it's yours to protect the life of your son."

Only the slight movement of Jorgensen's throat, and the faint tightening of the muscles along his jaw line, betrayed anything of his emotions. There was no doubt of the anger burning in his eyes, so it surprised Adamson when you turned abruptly and wheeled out of her office.

The door swung slowly behind him, closing with a quiet click. Adamson stared at it for a long time, unable to shake a growing, hollow sense of foreboding.

#

Kincaid looked up from his appetizer of fried calamari. It was lightly breaded and perfectly cooked, with just enough of a seasoned coating to add flavor. The calamari was the ideal consistency, warm and slightly chewy, without lapsing into that rubbery texture that indicated overcooking.

A shadow passed quickly across his table as the hostess led a man in khaki pants and a buttoned-down shirt to a table across the room. He seemed familiar to Kincaid somehow, but he had consumed enough Scotch at that point that full recognition would not come to him. It was possible, he decided, that the man only looked like someone he knew. It might be someone from the institute, but no one that he had ever worked closely with. He watched the man sit down at a table with two reasonably well-dressed men, both of whom shook the man's hand, and Kincaid dismissed it as just another late business meeting at a favorite restaurant.

He looked down in surprise when he reached down for another morsel of the appetizer and found the plate empty except for some errant crumbs. Reaching for his glass again, he stopped. He was decidedly feeling the effects of the Scotch already and, when he examined the glass, he understood why. It was nearly two-thirds empty and all he had in his stomach since lunch was the breaded appetizer. He would ask the waitress for some water when she returned with his dinner, he instructed himself, hoping that he would actually remember when she arrived.

His attention returned to the trio sitting in the booth next to the corner. It continued to tickle at his mind that he had seen the man in khaki pants before. He did recall ever seeing him around the neighborhood, not that he knew everyone on his block by sight. In fact, despite living there for more than eight years, he knew very few of his neighbors. It would be good if he did, but it had never been a priority. Unless it was someone from the institute, he was at a loss where he might have encountered the man. Maybe it was . . .

The waitress arrived, interrupting his thoughts. She placed the plate in front of him with a smile. "One of my favorites," she told him in a friendly whisper. Slightly louder, she asked, "Can I get you anything else?"

Her eyes seemed to fall on his glass. "I'll bring you some water," she offered.

"Thank you," Kincaid chuckled with relief, grateful that she had offered when he had failed to remember.

"Sure thing," she responded with a quick wink, and disappeared back through the scattered rows of chairs.

Kincaid stared after her for a moment, shaking his head as if she had vanished into thin air, and then turned to his meal. Faint mists of steam wafted upward from the platter. He caught the mixed scents of mild spices and butter. The salmon seemed expertly grilled and, from their color, the vegetables appeared to have just a bit of crunch left to them. The rice, well, looked like rice. It was very lightly seasoned and looked freshly cooked, not soggy from sitting in the boiler too long.