Ryne Pearson - Capitol Punishment

“He was fired, then?” Frankie sought to confirm, her notebook and pen coming out.

“Yes. Not an amicable parting,” Royce revealed. “He was not happy with us for doing so.”

Art had watched the man as Frankie began the questioning, measuring his reactions to each query posed. Once he jumped in, the roles would reverse, his partner becoming the observer. One to receive and record the response. The other to make a mental record of the person’s manner. It was nothing discussed, being instead a process ingrained from the earliest days of their academy training. The words and the ways, it was called. Somewhere in those, sometimes far from the spoken answers, was the truth.

“And you met him in Russia?”

“Yes. In St. Petersburg. In the spring of 1993. It was a rather high-profile trip I undertook. The Russian government provided guides and a good deal of assistance in the way of transportation.”

Frankie nodded, checking her notes quickly. “And you went there to…”

“To tour facilities with similar functions to mine,” Royce explained, taking the long pause after his short response as a signal that the agent was not yet satisfied. “It was a…a chance to see the level of sophistication they had attained under the stifling system of state control the plant operators were subject to. In a way, I suppose, I wanted to see if there might be ways for my company to assist the industry in Russia with technical help in the form of joint ventures. Partnerships. And the like.”

“So it was business?”

“Yes. Most definitely. Though not devoid of altruism,” Royce added with a smile. “Good can come from a profitable relationship. That is possible.”

“I guess it is,” Frankie benignly agreed. “And Nikolai Kostin approached you as Congressman Vorhees stated?”

“I did not see Richard’s statement. I was told of it.”

Richard? Art decided to take it from there. “You know the congressman well?”

“I know many people in our government well. Senator Crippen from this state is a friend, as well as Richard Vorhees. I have a facility in Massachusetts, and my mother lived in his district until a few years ago. I moved her out here then. She is quite old, you can imagine.”

In her nineties at least, Art guessed, given the visual clues to Royce’s advanced age. “And—”

“But,” Royce interjected, “to the young lady’s question, yes, he approached me in St. Petersburg.”

Young lady? Art saw the smile, then the seemingly friendly head tilt his partner had mastered. It’s Agent Aguirre! he could almost hear her screaming inside. “Back to the congressman,” Art said. “You proposed the idea of Mr. Kostin coming to work for you to him, correct?”

“Correct.”

“And the name change. Who proposed that?”

Royce looked away again, thinking back. “I believe it was myself. You see, I understand the vociferous nature of some societal elements. People that oppose our using animals in testing, and so on. I thought that having a man on staff who had worked in the Russian defense establishment could bring on similar actions. That, in my opinion, would not have been good for my company, or for Mr. King.”

“Kostin,” Art corrected.

“Yes. Mr. Kostin.”

“So he came over, it didn’t work out, and he went on his way,” Art said. “Is that the simple picture?”

“That is the picture,” Royce answered.

Very straightforward, Art thought. And very clean. Too clean. “You make drugs here.”

“No, we design them here,” Royce corrected. “And we prefer to call them pharmaceuticals. Several other facilities actually produce them.”

“Pharmaceuticals deal heavily with chemicals, correct?”

Royce nodded at Art’s question.

“Are you a chemist?”

“A chemical engineer.”

“I assume, then, that you know what chemicals would be required to make what Mr. King was making,” Art said.

“The basic ones, yes,” Royce confirmed.

“Would those chemicals be available here?” Art asked. “Would the equipment needed to manufacture nerve gas be available here?”

“Agent Jefferson, there is absolutely no way that Mr. King could have made that poison here,” Royce responded, showing more animation than at any time so far in the conversation. “Absolutely no way.”

“I don’t think he did,” Art said. “But could he have acquired either the chemicals or the equipment here?”

Royce shook his head emphatically. “Absolutely not. It is a violation of our regulations, and federal regulations, to allow that to happen.”

“Mr. King was not following too many regulations,” Frankie reminded him.

“Still, any pilferage would have been noticed, reported, and stopped,” Royce assured the agents.

Frankie knew it was time for a new tack. “Does the name Frederick Allen mean anything to you?”

Royce’s head shook as he recrossed his legs. “No. No it doesn’t.”

Frankie sensed something in the response, or a lack of something. A challenge was warranted. “Are you very sure?”

Royce cleared his throat. “Young lady, I am a man with many friends, several of whom share the name Frederick. But I can assure you that there is no Freddy Allen among them.”

Bingo . “All right.”

Art had caught it, too. It was amazing how the simplest of things could give someone away. But this was not the place nor the time to pursue it any further. In fact any additional questioning was useless for the moment. But not for long.

Frankie looked to her partner. “Is there anything else you need to ask?”

“No. Not right now.” He turned to Royce. “We may have some more questions, though, if any new information comes up.”

“Of course,” Royce said, nodding obligingly. “I will cooperate in any way I can.” He pushed off one arm of the sofa, coming to his feet. “Knowing that my former employee decided to go into so sordid a profession leaves a black mark on my judgment. I want to exorcise that, if possible. For my own peace of mind.”

“Of course.” Art and Frankie stood, each politely thanking the CEO of Royce Pharmaceuticals for his time, and, silently, for much more. They left his office and followed the same security guard who had escorted them in back out, exiting the headquarters of the multimillion-dollar corporation into a blustery fall breeze that had kicked up while they were inside.

“He was lying through his teeth,” Art said once outside. “Hey, good snare, partner.”

“Would you call someone named Frederick Freddy if you didn’t know them?”

“He didn’t call Richard Dick, ” Art answered. “Now all we have to do is find out how and why this guy was mixed up with Allen.”

Whatever the executive’s motivation was in becoming involved with Kostin and, she was sure, Freddy Allen, one obvious connection to the affair was very apparent to Frankie. “Money, partner.”

“But why?” Art wondered. “I want to know everything we can about this guy. Especially about his finances.”

“His visit to Russia, too,” Frankie suggested.

“Good idea. Have the liaison group in D.C. run that down if they haven’t already,” Art directed. “Have them find out how long this trip he took was in the works, who his contacts were, where he went, et cetera.”

“Will do,” Frankie said, unlocking the Chevy and getting behind the wheel. Her right hand went immediately to the heater.

“This whole thing doesn’t feel right,” Art said as he closed the passenger door. Scared wasn’t the word to use, at least not yet.

Harback gestured once again to the slate-gray unit after finishing his spiel. “SunSnow knows how to make things right.”