Whistleblower. Tess Gerritsen

had all the spit and polish of an ex-marine, which Tyrone was. Only the thickening waist betrayed the fact that Tyrone’s marine days had been left far behind.

      “How was the flight from Washington?” inquired Black as they sat down.

      “Terrible service. I tell you, commercial flights aren’t what they used to be. To think the average American pays good money for the privilege.”

      “I imagine it can’t compare with Air Force One.”

      Tyrone smiled. “Let’s get down to business. Tell me where things stand with this little crisis of yours.”

      Black noted Tyrone’s use of the word yours. So now it’s my problem, he thought. Naturally. That’s what they meant by deniability: When things go wrong, the other guy gets the blame. If any of this leaked out, Black’s head would be the one to fall. But then, that’s why this contract was so lucrative—because he—meaning Viratek—was willing to take that risk.

      “We’ve recovered the documents,” said Black. “And the film canisters. The negatives are being developed now.”

      “And your two employees?”

      Black cleared his throat. “There’s no need to take this any further.”

      “They’re a risk to national security.”

      “You can’t just kill them off!”

      “Can’t we?” Tyrone’s eyes were a cold, gun-metal gray. An appropriate color for someone who called himself “the Cowboy.” You didn’t argue with anyone who had eyes like that. Not if you had an instinct for self-preservation.

      Black dipped his head deferentially. “I’m not accustomed to this sort of…business. And I don’t like dealing with your man Savitch.”

      “Mr. Savitch has performed well for us before.”

      “He killed one of my senior scientists!”

      “I assume it was necessary.”

      Black looked down unhappily at his desk. Just the thought of that monster Savitch made him shudder.

      “Why, exactly, did Martinique go bad?”

      Because he had a conscience, thought Black. He looked at Tyrone. “There was no way to predict it. He’d worked in commercial R and D for ten years. He’d never presented a security problem before. We only found out last week that he’d taken classified documents. And then Victor Holland got involved….”

      “How much does Holland know?”

      “Holland wasn’t involved with the project. But he’s clever. If he looked over those papers, he might have pieced it together.”

      Now Tyrone was agitated, his fingers drumming the desktop. “Tell me about Holland. What do you know about him?”

      “I’ve gone over his personnel file. He’s forty-one years old, born and raised in San Diego. Entered the seminary but dropped out after a year. Went on to Stanford, then MIT. Doctorate in biochemistry. He was with Viratek for four years. One of our most promising researchers.”

      “What about his personal life?”

      “His wife died three years ago of leukemia. Keeps pretty much to himself these days. Quiet kind of guy, likes classical jazz. Plays the saxophone in some amateur group.”

      Tyrone laughed. “Your typical nerd scientist.” It was just the sort of moronic comment an ex-marine like Tyrone would make. It was an insult that grated on Black. Years ago, before he created Viratek Industries, Black too had been a research biochemist.

      “He should be a simple matter to dispose of,” said Tyrone. “Inexperienced. And probably scared.” He reached for his briefcase. “Mr. Savitch is an expert on these matters. I suggest you let him take care of the problem.”

      “Of course.” In truth, Black didn’t think he had any choice. Nicholas Savitch was like some evil, frightening force that, once unleashed, could not be controlled.

      The intercom buzzed. “Mr. Gregorian’s here from the photo lab,” said the secretary.

      “Send him in.” Black glanced at Tyrone. “The film’s been developed. Let’s see just what Martinique managed to photograph.”

      Gregorian walked in carrying a bulky envelope. “Here are those contact prints you requested,” he said, handing the bundle across the desk to Black. Then he cupped his hand over his mouth, muffling a sound suspiciously like laughter.

      “Yes, Mr. Gregorian?” inquired Black.

      “Nothing, sir.”

      Tyrone cut in, “Well, let’s see them!”

      Black removed the five contact sheets and lay them out on the desk for everyone to see. The men stared.

      For a long time, no one spoke. Then Tyrone said, “Is this some sort of joke?”

      Gregorian burst out laughing.

      Black said, “What the hell is this?”

      “Those are the negatives you gave me, sir,” Gregorian insisted. “I processed them myself.”

      “These are the photos you got back from Victor Holland?” Tyrone’s voice started soft and rose slowly to a roar. “Five rolls of naked women?”

      “There’s been a mistake,” said Black. “It’s the wrong film—”

      Gregorian laughed harder.

      “Shut up!” yelled Black. He looked at Tyrone. “I don’t know how this happened.”

      “Then the roll we want is still out there?”

      Black nodded wearily.

      Tyrone reached for the phone. “We need to clean things up. Fast.”

      “Who are you calling?” asked Black.

      “The man who can do the job,” said Tyrone as he punched in the numbers. “Savitch.”

      IN HIS motel room on Lombard Street, Victor paced the avocado-green carpet, wracking his brain for a plan. Any plan. His well-organized scientist’s mind had already distilled the situation into the elements of a research project. Identify the problem: someone is out to kill me. State your hypothesis: Jerry Martinique uncovered something dangerous and he was killed for it. Now they think I have the information—and the evidence. Which I don’t. Goal: Stay alive. Method: Any damn way I can!

      For the last two days, his only strategy had consisted of holing up in various cheap motel rooms and pacing the carpets. He couldn’t hide out forever. If the feds were involved, and he had reason to believe they were, they’d soon have his credit card charges traced, would know exactly where to find him.

      I need a plan of attack.

      Going to the FBI was definitely out. Sam Polowski was the agent Victor had contacted, the one who’d arranged to meet him in Garberville. No one else should have known about that meeting. Sam Polowski had never shown up.

      But someone else had. Victor’s aching shoulder was a constant reminder of that near-disastrous rendezvous.

      I could go to the newspapers. But how would he convince some skeptical reporter? Who would believe his stories of a project so dangerous it could kill millions? They would think his tale was some fabrication of a paranoid mind.

      And I am not paranoid.

      He paced over to the TV and switched it on to the five o’clock news. A perfectly coiffed anchorwoman smiled from the screen as she read a piece of fluff about the last day of school, happy children, Christmas vacation. Then her expression sobered. Transition. Victor found himself staring at the TV as the next story came on.

      “And in Garberville, California, there have been no new leads in the