entered without passing through the guard's field of view, but for a scan ning camera. It was an easy matter to feign waiting for an el evator and to then remain outside the camera's changing field of view all the way to the stairs. If the security had been good, there would have been multiple cameras or a hidden camera, and evasion would not have been so simple. Or perhaps it wasn't so simple and he was being watched but not apprehended. It made for an interesting life.
Sam took care not to make loud, echoing footfalls on the stairs. At the top he came to a steel door. As he approached it, he was able to see through a small window. Normally, this sort of door would be kept locked, but when he twisted the handle, it released. He opened it a crack.
There was grayish-white canvas draped around, with white wall texture material on it, and there were three men in the doorway of a darkened restaurant that was obviously being remodeled. It was a place with its guts ripped out, a skeleton of a room, and it did not provide a reassuring feeling. He listened.
'You got any more of that gum? The kind that squirts the green stuff in your mouth?' The speaker was very big, six feet four inches, probably 250 pounds, bull-necked, a round, meaty face with old zit scars, and a marine- style haircut. He spoke to a thin, smaller guy, probably just over thirty, with a jogger's body but no apparent muscle above the waist. The little guy was a sharp but conservative dresser wearing something like a Hickey Freeman suit, three-button coat with quality material, and wing tip shoes, nearly new. He sported a $40 haircut that came down slightly over the ears, had soft, white hands with well-kept fingernails, a crisp white shirt, and a red-checked power tie. He was bored, obviously hanging around with a couple of guys he deemed in ferior, and he was without a doubt a lawyer-unless they had asked some stockbroker to stand around outside a gutted restaurant.
The third man was black with a mustache, the kind of guy who watches everything. He was in a sport coat, tie, and good slacks. No telling his role.
The lawyer fellow reached in his pockets and pulled out loose change, a cell phone, old receipts, an airline stub, and a wadded-up tissue.
'I think I'm out of gum. But he should be here anytime.'
'Yeah. I don't know why they wanted us to go through this baloney. We could tell if he was alone down in the lobby.'
'Just conservative is all. They don't want to be embar rassed upstairs.'
'Yeah, well, if I was this guy Bowden, I'd get the spooks just stepping off the elevator and seeing this.'
'This guy has lived in the jungle with savages, for God's sake. He tracks down remote tribes. I think he'll know we're friendly.'
'Then why am I here?'
'We've gone over it, Max. You're a prop. Just a prop. Your only job is to chew your gum.'
'If after talking, he doesn't want to go upstairs, he leaves?'
'Of course he leaves. Jeez, remember who you are working for. Besides, have you ever actually been in a fight after you got out of the service?'
'The rowdy client at the Christmas party. What do we do if he's like that guy, and after he listens to you, he wants to strangle your scrawny lawyer neck.'
'That's not a question. And you wouldn't say that if you weren't the senior partner's pet.'
Sam let the door slide quietly closed, then proceeded to climb the stairs to the tenth floor. It took between half a minute and a minute per floor, which left little time to think. For a few seconds he thought of Anna and his loneliness and his guilt and of not being with her, and the pain he would feel if he was. Then he thought about killing Gaudet, about wrapping his hands around his throat, and knew that he needed to be careful. And then he was at the tenth floor. Through the door's glass window he saw only hallway. It seemed the staff was long gone. There were still lawyers, he was sure, and there would be evening-shift word-processing computer operators. Grasping the steel handle, he slowly turned it but found it wouldn't open. That was a big letdown. He waited a mo ment, and someone passed by. On impulse Sam knocked. The man turned as if startled and opened the door.
'Yes?'
'I'm here to see Arthur Stewart.' And then he dipped his head just a bit as if embarrassed. 'I'm afraid I get claustro phobic in elevators, so I never use them.'
'Ah. I see. We don't get many that climb the stairs to the tenth. Check in at reception there,' he said, and then turned the corner toward the elevators and was gone.
Sam looked down the hall to the one receptionist remaining behind a chest-high granite counter. Only the top of her head, with its vivid light red hair, was visible, and fortunately she was oblivious to his presence and the discussion. Looking around, Sam immediately saw another wide hall with cubicles and offices down it. He glided down this new hall and began looking at the names beside the doors. Hinkle, Cassaway, Manchester, Warne, Thomas, Meyer, Cooper, etc., etc. But no Stewart. The furnishings in the offices were taste ful and expensive-this was a prosperous firm.
Sam decided to try the eleventh floor but didn't want to be locked in the stairwell. He wondered if there might be an inside stairway, and no sooner had he thought about it, than one appeared as he completed a tour around the outside hall of the building. It struck him as odd that the man hadn't commented that Stewart was upstairs.
He made himself climb the stairs briskly, as if he knew what he was doing. If he encountered someone, he wanted as few questions as possible. Every office seemed to have files or papers strewn on the desk, much like his own. This was hopeful. After touring the entire eleventh floor and failing to locate any Arthur Stewart, Sam went to the firm's next and second-highest floor. At the twelfth floor he discovered a library in the middle of the floor with hallways, offices, and cubicles around the outside. Just before the library there was a hall. Down it was reception and beyond that a large, glass-walled conference room in which there were four men. He moved quickly, figuring that it was the meeting arranged for Bowden. This was a group of optimists, given that Bowden had made no promise that he would show. Still, no Stewart. Finally, in the far corner of the thirteenth floor, he found the office. It was in a corner space, featuring windows on two walls. On a tripod sat a brass telescope, which was quite handsome and, no doubt, functional. There was a globe on a stand in one corner, a leather sofa, a coffee table, and, at the end opposite, a hand-carved wooden desk. Obviously, Arthur Stewart was very senior.
There was a photo of a middle-aged man and a young woman, cheek to cheek, and several other photos displaying similar togetherness. One photo, partially hidden behind a Rotary award, depicted Stewart and some thirtyish adults- no doubt the kids from the first marriage-just a little older than the new wife. He figured it was his imagination, but the young adult quartet seemed to be glaring at the cheek-to- cheek number. Sam found these happy, little families inspi rational-just like Monday-night football with the boys, poker night, and other good reasons for serious caution in the marriage department.
He searched the desktop, which had a number of files stacked in the corner. One was labeled estate of mildred mcbeth, another troy vs humbitt manufacturing and still another southways corporation. Upon casual inspection they all involved patent rights. Looking at the bookshelves, he saw they were full with treatises on patents, many pharmaceutically related. So, this man was a patent lawyer and he did work with the patenting of molecules. It lent credence to the message Bowden had received.
Another file holder made of beautiful wood contained several more files: trustee: grace technologies. In this file Sam found some notes:
Contacted by Jean-Baptiste French government. Amazonia Molecule. Uses of the molecule strictly confidential. Molecular structure to follow. Discovered by Michael J. Bowden and under development by Northern Lights. Proprietary processes claimed by French Government trustee for Grace Technologies. Need to verify exclusive rights. Need to purchase any interest possible. Need location and habitat of the plant mate rial. Memo FPC file.
Sam supposed that FPC meant fireproof cabinet. It would be locked probably in a secure room, so the odds of getting in were not great. Still, he decided to look. Exiting the of fice, he walked down the hall and glanced down a narrow in terior hall, where he saw a young man and a young woman, maybe in their twenties, drinking coffee. No doubt, the junior associates burning the midnight oil. He decided to take a chance.
There was a reference to a secure file in the FPC and the date of initial contact was recent-right after they had left the Amazon. He couldn't imagine what he might find in the fireproof cabinet. He had been willing to wander around in this law firm, ostensibly lost, looking for the office of a Mr. Stewart, but breaking into a locked file cabinet was up a notch and he was still pondering the morality of that against his need to know. Borrowing the firm's copier for a couple of minutes, Sam duplicated the office file and walked into the kitchen with an air of nonchalance. The two young people barely glanced up, although the woman glanced a little longer.
