pure oxygen come into contact with petroleum products without combustion and probably a small explosion. So he made a timer to puncture the canister about the time the JP-4 was rising in the sink.' A premonition ran cold fingers down Hannah's spine. 'So who'd know about that reaction?'
'Anybody who works with oxy. Welders?' Jo Ann suggested. 'Someone in a hospital?'
Hannah nodded. She hated the thought that had just occurred to her. 'Right. Thanks, Jo. This is great stuff. Excuse me, but I need to run a background check …'
Arnold Simpson was one of the agents Hannah liked. He acted no differently around her than anyone else. He didn't seem to have a problem with the idea of a woman in a position of authority. As he said once to her, after a staff meeting particularly thick with innuendos and unsubtle digs in Hannah's direction: 'Hey, I'm their showcase black agent; you're the showcase woman. I know exactly what's going on. At least we ain't damn jokers.'
'This Ramblur guy doesn't exactly live on Park Avenue, does he?' Simpson flipped through the printouts Hannah had given him as Hannah unlocked the staff Escort in the bureau's parking garage. 'Nice priors, too. Don't you just love our criminal justice system?' Simpson threw the file on the dash and swung his long legs around the passenger seat. 'NYPD thinks he's the one been dousing the lone jokers and torching 'em, huh?'
'Yeah,' Hannah said, sliding behind the wheel. 'I talked with somebody named Ellis out at the J-Town precinct. Said they're pretty sure it was him. They just don't have enough to drag him in.'
'You think maybe's he's tired of doing things one corpse at a time?'
'We'll see.' Hannah turned the key and put the car in gear. She started to pull out of the space.
And then stood on the brakes, the tires screeching in protest. 'Shit!'
Quasiman stood in front of the Escort, an inch from the bumper. Hannah didn't have any idea where the joker had been hiding, but there he was.
Simpson started to surge out of the car, but Hannah stopped him with a hand on his arm. 'It's okay,' she said. 'I know this guy. Just … just give me a second, all right?' Hannah took a deep breath, trying to calm her racing heart, and got out.
'What the
Quasiman actually smiled at her. It didn't help her temper. 'You're Hannah.' He seemed inordinately proud of the fact that he'd remembered her name.
'Yes, I'm Hannah. And you're in our way. Get the hell out of here before I call security.'
'I saw something,' Quasiman persisted. 'I came right away so I wouldn't forget it all.'
'More dreams? More crystal ball stuff about you seeing the future?'
A nod. 'It's already half gone, like a fog. That's why I had to come. It's all leaving me so fast….'
'Then you've wasted your time. Get it through your head — I'm not interested. You want me to solve the case, then let me get on with what I'm doing. Get out of our way.'
Quasiman went berserk at that. He banged his fist against the hood, the sound echoing through the garage like a car crash. His fist came away leaving a dimpled crater in the metal. The joker shouted, nearly frothing in his effort to get the words out. 'There was a
'Go away!'
'They were in a jungle. Lots of green. Hot, very hot. And death that wasn't death.' Quasiman was coming around the side of the car. Hannah jumped back in and slammed the door shut, hitting the locks. She was fairly sure that the joker could rip the door off if he wanted to, but he just continued his ranting from the other side of the glass. 'You went to see someone called Rudo,' Quasiman shouted, his voice muffled, his face smearing saliva across the glass. Hannah gunned the engine and he stumbled back. 'You go to Rudo!' he screamed as she slammed the gearshift into drive and careened away. 'Green canisters, Hannah! There were green canisters!'
His voice trailed away as Hannah turned the corner onto the garage's exit ramp. The sound of Quasiman's voice seemed to echo far too long in her mind.
'What?' Simpson asked. He was looking back over his shoulder.
'Nothing,'
'So what the fuck was that?'
'A weirdo,' Hannah said grimly. 'Forget it. Let's go talk with Ramblur and the others on the list. When we get back, I think I might do something stupid.'
Dr. Pan Rudo was as Hannah had pictured him from Dr. Finn's tale: thin, graying, elegant, and friendly in a mannered way. He looked to be somewhere in his mid-sixties, fine lines snagging his dark eyes and netting his mouth. He folded his hands on his desk and shrugged. Behind him, several stories down, the office window gave a view of the UN Plaza, crowded with people heading home after the work day. The walls of the office were lined with plaques and photos: Dr. Rudo with Albert Einstein, with the ageless Winston Churchill, with Marilyn Monroe, with every president from Carter to Bush. 'I find myself at a loss, Ms. Davis. I can't imagine why you would be interested in poor, misguided Dr. Faneuil.'
'I'm not exactly sure why either, Dr. Rudo,' Hannah admitted. 'Let's just say that I'm being a little over- thorough and maybe a bit paranoid.'
Rudo smiled at her. 'Ordinarily, I'd say that's an unusual and attractive asset in your occupation. So how may I help you?'
Hannah gave Rudo a condensed version of what had led her to Dr. Finn. Rudo listened attentively, his hand steepled under his chin, nodding occasionally. When she had finished, he spread his hands wide in a gesture of sympathy. 'I see why you might wonder,' he told her. 'I remember Kenya all too well. Dr. Faneuil was a terrible and tragic waste of incredible talent, and we all owe a debt of gratitude to Dr. Finn for exposing him.'
'I ran a background check,' Hannah said. 'Dr. Faneuil began to work for the Red Cross and various other charitable health organizations in the early sixties. He went to Kenya in 1974, and fled in 1985 in the aftermath of the AIDS revelation. The records indicate he was known to be in Vietnam by 1986, and then … well, nothing. He disappears from all the records I could find.'
'And you wonder if possibly he didn't return here with his vendetta against jokers still in mind?'
Hannah shrugged.
Rudo smiled. 'Then I can set your mind at ease, Ms. Davis. I happen to know that Etienne Faneuil died in what is now called Free Vietnam in 1988 when it was still the Socialist Republic. He is buried there, in a village called Xuan Loc about 35 miles east of Saigon, if I recall correctly.'
'You're certain? The records I have don't indicate that.'
Rudo laughed, gently. His graceful hands touched the Mont Blanc fountain pen laying alongside the leather desk pad, then returned to his lap as he sat back in his chair. 'You're very persistent Ms. Davis. But WHO has excellent sources all over the world, and I have both a very good memory and a certain vested interest in Dr. Faneuil, since I was peripherally involved in funding him in Kenya. Yes, I'm certain. I received the news of his death with mixed emotions, I must admit — in many ways, Etienne did much good in his time, as well as much evil.'
'What about his nurse, Margaret Durand? She helped him with the genocide.'
Rudo frowned. 'I didn't know her well. I believe she followed Dr. Faneuil to Vietnam but I don't know what became of her. Just a moment …' He leaned forward again and touched a button on his phone system. 'Dianne,' he said. 'Before you go, make a note to call Aaron Cofield first thing tomorrow morning. Have him start checking for any information he might have on the present whereabouts of a Margaret Durand — she was Etienne Faneuil's nurse. Tell him that I'll give him a call with additional information later.'
'Yes, Doctor,' a voice answered, tinny through the small speaker. 'Have a good evening.'
'Thank you.' Rudo touched the intercom button again and looked at Hannah. 'There. I will send you the results. We probably have better international contacts, even into Free Vietnam despite all its recent uproar.' Rudo sighed. 'Remember, Ms. Davis, that Dr. Faneuil would be in his mid-seventies if he were still alive. I would imagine Margaret would be sixty or older. Does that fit your fire setter's profile?'
'Not really,' Hannah admitted. 'Dr. Rudo, thanks for your time. I'd appreciate your looking into Faneuil and Margaret Durand.'
'You still think this might be something more than simple arson and murder?'
