Even if Dean hadn’t been working for the NSA, he would have stuck to one-word answers. He didn’t particularly like being questioned, and while he’d come to respect police officers during his days as the owner of a string of gas stations, he resented the fact that Achilles Gorman treated him more like a suspect than a witness.
“So Mr. Keys, where does he hang out?”
“I just call him Keys. His name is Dr. Kegan.”
“Where does he hang out?”
“I don’t know. When I was here last we went into town. Some place called Maduro?”
“Like the cigar?”
Dean shrugged. “I guess:”
“It’s not there now.”
“Don’t know what to tell you.”
Casper the cat came out, mewing loudly. Gorman stooped down, scratching the animal’s head. He licked Gorman’s fingers as if they were covered with catnip.
“Dr. Kegan — he a rich guy?” asked Gorman.
“He’s got some money, but I wouldn’t say he’s rich.”
“Pretty big house. A lot of property.”
“Guess it depends on what you mean by rich.”
The BCI investigator smiled. “Let’s go over your arrival again from the top.”
“Again?”
“You know, Mr. Dean, the thing is, this is a pretty serious felony here.”
“Yeah?”
“Be better if you cooperated.”
“You don’t think I did this, do you?”
“Be better if you cooperated.”
Eventually, Charlie Dean found himself back at the troopers’ barracks, giving his statement for the third time. Gorman used two fingers to pound it into his computer. At three o’clock, as they waited for the printer to deliver a fresh draft, the investigator picked up his phone and sent one of the troopers to the deli for some sandwiches. That signaled the start of a short interval of nice-cop behavior; the invesdgator got a cola from the soda machine in the lobby and even offered Charlie a plastic cup to use. Charlie stuck with the can.
Gorman claimed he had a relative who worked for the GSA in Washington, and wanted to know which government agency Charlie worked for.
“I’m just a government employee and let’s leave it at that,” he said, and the nice-cop routine came to an end.
They went over the statement twice. Around four, the investigator’s boss came in, a Lieutenant Knapp. Short and so muscular that the bullet-proof vest he was wearing looked like a flat baking pan, Knapp asked Charlie exactly two questions after looking over the statement:
He answered “yes” and “no,” respectively.
“You’re done here. Make sure Gorman has a phone number where he can reach you.”
“He does.” Dean started to leave.
“If Kegan contacts you,” said Gorman, “we’d appreciate knowing about it.”
“Sure,” said Dean.
Gorman frowned but said nothing else.
4
Rubens spread his forefinger and pinkie apart, nudging the key combination to kill the program. He sat back as the screen blanked, letting all that he had read settle into his brain.
The premonition of something truly awful lurked in the comers of his consciousness. He sensed that Dean — and thus Desk Three — had inadvertently stumbled upon a conspiracy with the gravest possible consequences. And yet the actual evidence would not have persuaded a logical man that anything more than a sordid murder had taken place. Rubens, a mathematician by training, prided himself on being logical. But he was also the descendant — now some generations removed — of a famous painter, an artistic genius, and as such Rubens could not deny the validity of emotional intelligence and intuition. It was important now to combine the two, to balance premonition with cold analysis.
To block out fear yet be aware of it.
Kegan had missed a scheduled contact visit with an FBI agent a day before. That was suggestive, especially since Dean’s latest account made it seem the murder had likely taken place then. Autopsy information would not be available for some time, and the state police had apparently been uncooperative when a local Bureau liaison tried to get an update. But the FBI was extremely interested — worried more likely — and had already assigned an agent to find out where Kegan had gone.
Kegan, according to the information Marie Telach had retrieved on his behalf, was an expert on viruses and bacteria. While that in itself was not particularly noteworthy — many doctors might make similar claims — his area of expertise involved bacteria, and to a lesser degree viruses, that could be weaponized. He had served, briefly, as a consultant to the Pentagon some years before.
Was this connected to the murder?
Possibly. As best Dean and Telach could gather, the dead man had carried no identification. Officially he was a John Doe, an Asian — or Asian-American — in his twenties, no weapon, no apparent reason to be in the house. The murder sounded like a robbery gone bad: doctor comes upon an intruder, shoots him in the head, then panics when he realizes what he’s done.
Telach had asked about the possibility of something more titillating: a homosexual affair gone bad. Dean discounted that, pointing out that Kegan had been married three times; Rubens decided that was not necessarily a disqualifier.
So more than likely, the murder had nothing to do with Kegan’s profession and skills.
And yet, a connection could not be dismissed. Kegan was due to attend a conference in London on viruses in just two days, a conference that the NSA had in fact already been asked to monitor. This was merely routine; the science and technology section often gathered information for a variety of government agencies, and in this case the Agency’s involvement amounted to providing a tape recorder for a Centers of Disease Control expert who would be attending the sessions. The agency would then transcribe the information, which would in turn be disseminated to the CIA and Defense Intelligence Agency as well as the CDC.
The conference concerned penicillin-resistant bacteria, an area where Kegan had not published. It was an area of interest, however, especially for someone interested in getting government grants, so it wasn’t completely out of the ordinary that he would attend.
Of more interest was a contact by a company supposedly unknown to Kegan but tracked by the NSA to a firm named UKD. UKD was a Ukrainian pharmaceutical company with links to a Polish “entrepreneur” named Radoslaw Dlugsko. Dlugsko had made a fortune selling surplus Polish arms to third world countries. UKD, meanwhile, had been communicating with the Research Institute for Viral Preparations in Moscow, which itself had connections to the Russian military’s germ warfare program.
Connections, links — but no firm evidence of anything. Shades and shadows of great interest, but no precise forms.
Kegan had reported the contact, apparently because of a provision in one of his government contracts requiring him to note overseas contacts that might be of a suspicious nature. Rubens had the contact report on his computer — there was no mention in the report about why he thought it suspicious. And it was apparent from the processing that the people who had reviewed the report, including a low-level FBI official, had no idea, either. But the agent had at least been savvy enough to tell him to pursue the contact and then report back. Kegan had
