It was four o'clock, local time. I was tired, of course, but my experience with jet lag told me that I wasn't going to be able to wind down and sleep for hours, and so I might just as well get right to business. I called Hyatt Pomeroy at Cornucopia's branch office in Zurich, announced who I was and why I was there, and asked if I could come over to talk to him. Pomeroy, who spoke with a pronounced Australian accent, didn't sound exactly thrilled at the prospect of having his day capped by me, but he'd been expecting my call, and he didn't object. I jumped into the shower, put on fresh clothes, and went out to find my chauffeur waiting for me at the curb.
'He totally misrepresented himself,' Hyatt Pomeroy announced in his high-pitched, nasal voice virtually the moment I stepped through the door into his office. He sounded like he believed this was new information to me, and that it would explain everything.
Hyatt Pomeroy, the executive in charge of Cornucopia's operations in western Europe, made much the same negative impression on me as Emmet P. Neuberger, despite-or perhaps because of-the fact that he was a polar opposite in both appearance and demeanor. While Neuberger was obese and obsequious, Pomeroy was rail thin and haughtily austere; Neuberger was warm, if that was the word, to the point of nausea, while this man with the piccolo voice and Australian accent was ice cold. Neuberger, despite his enormous wealth, wore clothes that looked like they had been hastily snatched off some pipe rack at a fire sale while the fire was in progress, while Pomeroy's suit, shirt, Hermes tie, and Gucci shoes were all top-of-the-line. Although he had insisted that I sit in the straight- backed chair placed in front of the desk in his cramped office, he remained standing, like a man ready to make a quick getaway. I could tell he was not overjoyed to see me.
'How so, Mr. Pomeroy?' I asked evenly.
'Let me be frank with you, Dr. Frederickson,' he said, shoving both his hands into the pockets of his suit jacket. 'I resent you being here-or rather, I should say I resent the fact that Mr. Neuberger has seen fit to send a private investigator here to question me. Not only does it betoken a complete lack of trust and confidence on my employer's part, but I consider it insulting. I've been thoroughly interrogated by both Interpol and the Zurich police-a number of times. Every scrap of paper from this office has been confiscated. I can't even authorize the payroll for staff until this bloody business is finished. How could Mr. Neuberger possibly think I had anything to do with this theft?'
'I'm not here to investigate you, Mr. Pomeroy.'
That took him by surprise. He stared at me for a few moments, slowly blinked. 'What, then?'
'All Mr. Neuberger wants is a comprehensive report bringing him up to date on the investigation. My being here is in no way a reflection on you.'
Pomeroy sniffed. 'I talk to him on the phone at least once- and usually twice-a day. What's the matter with the reports I give him?'
'You'll have to ask him that question, Pomeroy, because I don't have an answer for you. I've told you what my job is. If you don't want to talk to me, fine. I'll just include that in my report.'
Hyatt Pomeroy thought about that for a few moments, then abruptly walked behind his desk and sat down in the swivel chair there. He brushed some imaginary lint off his lapels, then leaned forward and clasped his hands together on his desktop. 'The man whom authorities say is actually John Sinclair was known to me as Michael Radigan,' he said evenly. 'We met four times over a period of six weeks. He sat right there where you're sitting.'
'What did he look like?'
'What difference does it make? I'm told he's a master of disguise, and that nobody is certain what he really looks like.'
'I'd like to know anyway. It should be in my report.'
Pomeroy shrugged. 'He was a big man, over six feet and powerfully built, but he came across as rather effeminate.'
'How so?'
'I don't know; some of his gestures, the way he talked. I just got the impression he might be homosexual. Some of those big hunk-types are, you know.'
'Is that a fact? I'll be damned. Go ahead.'
'He had blue eyes, thinning red hair. He claimed to be French-Canadian, and he spoke English with a French accent. He dressed adequately, by which I mean that his clothes were expensive but not necessarily well selected; he didn't have the taste he thought he did.' Pomeroy paused, wrinkled his nose. 'He actually wore an earring, which absolutely ruined the businesslike appearance he was trying to project. He had a sort of sallow complexion and a persistent smoker's cough. He also wore thick glasses that made his eyes seem very large.'
I grunted. 'Sounds like quite a costume.'
'Yes,' Pomeroy agreed. 'You could say he was an imposing figure, but the overall impression was negative.'
'How did Cornucopia become involved with him?'
'The same way we get involved with all individuals representing private groups. This office received a proposal for a project and an accompanying request for a grant.'
'What was the proposal?'
'It involved a genetically altered strain of wheat that would be highly drought-resistant and grow rapidly in a wide variety of climatic conditions. Radigan-Sinclair claimed to represent a group of businessmen in Quebec who were seeking to establish a large laboratory to research, and eventually produce seeds for, this particular strain of wheat. They had already raised a certain amount of money, and they were supposedly looking for a matching grant.'
'Like ten million dollars?'
'Oh, heavens no. The amount they were requesting was really not much more than-literally, if you will-seed money for architectural surveys and printing brochures to try to attract more money. If this initial phase was successful, they would have been free to approach us for a larger grant. Actually, the proposal was excellent, and I signed off on it.'
'Meaning you authorized the grant?'
'No. I'm not empowered to authorize grants. I merely express approval of an application, if that's the case, and recommend that the grant be awarded. The awarding of grants is executed in New York, as is the actual transfer of funds. Authorization requires the approval of Mr. Neuberger, the chief comptroller, and a member of the board of directors. The authorizing directorship is rotated every month, since it is considered an honor.'
'Just what is it you do, Mr. Pomeroy?'
'I thought I had explained that. This office serves as a clearinghouse for applications that originate in western Europe and sections of North America, including Quebec Province. Based on what we find out, we- I — pass judgment on whether or not a grant should be authorized, and this is usually based on the nature of the proposal. We process thousands of applications every year.'
'And you investigated this Michael Radigan?'
He stiffened. 'Yes, to the degree that we investigate any applicant. It's easy to second-guess this office now, but his credentials, and those of the organization he claimed to represent, seemed impeccable at the time.'
'Even though it was all phony.'
'Dr. Frederickson, if John Sinclair was not capable of erecting such exquisite inventions, he wouldn't be the master criminal he is, now would he? I did my job, and Interpol tells me that the cover he invented would have survived a much more thorough investigation than the ones we routinely conduct.'
'Mr. Neuberger tells me New York never authorized the grant.'
'Of course not; they never had the time. And if they had, it would have shown up in bank records.'
I was experiencing a growing sense of frustration and a feeling of inadequacy. Another feeling I had, and it was only a feeling, was that Hyatt Pomeroy was withholding something-perhaps something important-but I just didn't have the information or expertise to adequately grill him.
'Will that be ail, Dr. Frederickson?' he continued, responding to my silence.
'Look, Mr. Pomeroy, Sinclair didn't rob you with a gun, he robbed you with a number. This whole damn thing is about numbers. What I know about encryption of data codes and electronic transfers of funds wouldn't wet the bottom of a thimble, but I sure as hell know that Sinclair wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of setting up dummy corporations and inventing a phony identity to get in here, and he wouldn't have wasted six weeks of his time to
