“He’s dead. When he learned of this Jon Smith’s being in Shanghai, he fell apart. We applied pressure. He committed suicide.”
“God dammit, Ralph!” Kott exploded. “That’s two more corpses! You can’t keep a secret this way. Murder complicates everything!”
Mcdermid shrugged. “We had no choice. Now we’ve got no choice with Smith either.” He grinned and held up his glass in a toast. “Let’s enjoy the pleasures of the house. There’s time.”
“Damnation, Ralph, they could all be my daughter! Don’t you have any civility in you at all?” Kott shuddered.
Mcdermid laughed loudly. “None the way you define it. I have a couple of daughters around her age, too. I can only hope they’re enjoying themselves as much as I plan to.”
Kott stood. “You haven’t seen your daughters in at least ten years. I have an hour before I can call my driver. Put me in an office somewhere with a phone. I’ll get some work done.”
Mcdermid touched the button on the side of the table, signaling the waiter to return. He looked up at Kott, who had stood, eager to leave.
There was a wide smile of amusement on the Altman founder’s mouth, but his eyes were cold. “Whatever your pleasure.”
Chapter Seventeen
Constructed of steel, glass, and slate, the building where Donk & Lapierre had its offices was a towering showplace of modernity. Judging by the exacting architectural details and the international renown of its designer, whose name was engraved on black glass beside the front doors, offices here were shockingly expensive and the address coveted.
Wearing his dark-blond wig again, Jon paused outside to check the bustling street. He was back in his cover as Major Kenneth St. Germain.
Satisfied he had not been followed, he stepped inside the revolving doors and was deposited into the foyer. He headed across the slate floor toward the stainless-steel elevators. The building’s air had been filtered so many times it smelled like a virus-free clean room. But then, the whole place was antiseptic looking.
The thought of viruses brought him back to his cover’s latest project, and he began to submerge his own personality into Ken’s. As a top USAMRIID researcher, Ken St. Germain, Ph. D., had been galvanized by a virus discovered recently in northern Zimbabwe. The still-unnamed virus resembled the Machupo strain, which came from a distant continent — South America. Ken was using field mice to study his theory that the new virus was a form of Machupo, despite thousands of miles and an ocean separating the occurrences.
By the time he left the elevator, reached the glass doors of Donk & Lapierre, and pushed through, he was eager to ask for help with his research from Charles-Marie Cruyff, managing director of Donk & Lapierre’s Asian branch. Then, of course, there was his real motive ….
“Major Kenneth St. Germain to see Mr. Cruyff,” he announced to the woman behind the desk, who looked more like a cover model than a receptionist.
“We called ahead.”
“Of course, Major. Monsieur Cruyff is expecting you.” She had a megawatt smile, perfect golden skin, and just a touch of makeup to enhance her considerable natural assets.
The secretary, or assistant, who came to usher him into the inner sanctum was an entirely different matter. Unsmiling, white-blond hair coiled severely, clothes loose and frumpy … she was all Donk and no Lapierre.
“You will please follow me, Major.” Her voice was a baritone, and her English was Wagnerian. She led him over a Delft-blue carpet to an ebony door. She knocked and opened it. “Major St. Germain from America, Monsieur Cruyff,” she announced.
The man inspiring this deference proved to be short, broad, and muscular, with the massive thighs of a professional bicyclist. He glided forward from around his desk in his costly beige suit as if he could bend his knees only marginally.
He smiled, holding out a small hand. “Ah, Dr. St. Germain, a pleasure, sir,” he said. “You’re from USAMRIID, I hear. My people think highly of your work.” Which meant he had checked on Ken St. Germain’s credentials, no surprise.
They shook hands.
“I’m flattered, Monsieur Cruyff,” Jon told him.
“Please sit. Relax a moment.”
“Thank you.”
Jon chose an ultracontemporary sofa with chrome legs and removable cushions. As he turned toward it, he slipped his pocketknife out of his trousers and concealed it in his right hand. He settled onto the cushions, his right hip next to where two met. He looked up. Cruyff had returned to his desk. He had the sense Cruyff had never taken his gaze from him. His hand tightened around his hidden pocketknife.
“I’m not a scientist, as you may know.” Cruyff lowered himself into his chair. “I hope you won’t be offended if I tell you honestly I have little free time today.” He gestured around his office, which was full of the superficialities of business — photos with important people, plaques from charities, awards from his company — and then at his desk, where file folders were stacked high. “I’m behind in my work, but perhaps there’s something I can do for you quickly.” He folded his hands over his chest, leaned back, and waited, studying Jon.
Jon needed to plant the knife between the cushions, but until he could get Cruyff to look away, it would be impossible. “Of course, monsieur. I understand. I appreciate any time you can give me.” He described Major St. Germain’s current research into the new virus. “But my progress at USAMID has been slow,” he explained. “Far too slow. People are dying in Zimbabwe. With the constant movement between countries and continents these days, who knows where the virus will strike next? Perhaps even here in Hong Kong.”
“Hmm. Yes. That could be catastrophic. We are a very dense city. But I don’t see what I can do to help.” The gaze continued its relentless focus.
Jon hunched forward, his expression deeply concerned. “Your pharmaceutical subsidiary has been working with hantaviruses, and I?”
Cruyff interrupted, losing patience: “Biomed et Cie is located in Belgium, Major. Thousands of miles away. Here in Hong Kong, at least in this office, our dominant assignment is marketing. I’m afraid I have little to offer you?”
It was Jon’s turn to interrupt: “I’m aware of that subsidiary. But Donk & Lapierre also has a microbiological research team at a facility on mainland China. Those are the scientists I’m referring to. As I understand it, they’re making progress on hantaviruses that have appeared near there. My studies of our new virus lead me to believe it may be carried through mice droppings that dry into dust, become airborne, and infect people, exactly as Machupo does in Bolivia and elsewhere in South America. Of course, hantaviruses like the ones your people are examining are transmitted in the same manner Machupo is. I’m sure you’re familiar with those studies.” He smiled ingenuously at Cruyff.
“Of course,” Cruyff agreed. By doing so, he appeared neither ignorant nor as if he were hiding something. “What exactly do you wish to know?
Providing it isn’t confidential, naturally.”
“Naturally,” Jon echoed.
“Since Donk & Lapierre is a business, your scientists may have been working on vaccines against the hantaviruses.
If they have, I may be able to figure out a new research path based on what they’ve learned.”
“No vaccine, Dr. St. Germain. At least, not that I’ve heard. On the other hand, they wouldn’t report the early stages of something like that to corporate, or even the later stages, until they were sure there was high potential for commercialization. Although it’s possible they’re pursuing it on an entirely experimental basis, I doubt they’d be working on vaccines for your particular class of viruses.”
“Really? Why is that?” Cruyff smiled indulgently. “Significant outbreaks of hemorrhagic viruses occur only in
