Greg Iles - True Evil

Dr. Tarver knew that score would never happen.

Their collaboration was over. Christopher Shepard's injection marked the end. Eldon would have liked to have another year or so, but there was no use crying about it. It was time to move on. He was already shutting down the primate lab. The dog-breeding facility he would sell; he'd had a buyer waiting in the wings for some time. Only one problem remained.

Rusk himself.

For five years now, Dr. Tarver and the lawyer had had an escape plan in place, one that would allow them to leave the United States and live in safety and relative luxury for the rest of their lives. The only problem with that plan-until recently-was that when it came right down to it, neither of them wanted to leave the United States. The heyday of nonextradition havens such as Costa Rica and Tenerife was long past. The diplomatic corps had been working like a busy little beehive to sew up every loophole that allowed tax evaders to flee to island paradises, and by so doing they had also closed the doors to criminals of other stripes. Andrew Rusk's Jimmy Buffett fantasy of frozen margaritas and willing senoritas had died a quick death as soon as they looked into it for real. Sure there were still places that wouldn't play ball with Uncle Sam-hellholes like Mali or Chad or Burundi. But if you wanted to commit lucrative crimes and get away in style, you had to be creative.

Using intelligence connections that dated back to the late 1960s, Dr. Tarver had worked out a one-of-a-kind deal for the two of them, a deal worthy of a greedy lawyer's fantasy. But not worthy of a dedicated scientist. Not anymore. Dr. Tarver's primary goal was not spending his accumulated funds in the most hedonistic way imaginable. He had ongoing research projects to maintain, and he preferred to remain in the United States to do that. After all, his in vivo subjects resided in the U.S. Moreover, five years of working with Andrew Rusk had convinced him that he never wanted to see the lawyer again. Rusk was an accident waiting to happen. Eldon could see him sitting at a bar with an umbrella drink in his hand, bragging to some expatriate real estate developer or record company exec about how he had saved the rich and famous millions by snuffing their wives. No thanks.

The irony was, Eldon had always had a choice of escape routes. There had always been countries ready and willing to pay him to work for them. Some of the offers had been quite tempting. The money was staggering, and as for government interference…forget it. The only problem with that scenario was that Eldon Tarver was a patriot. And the countries who wanted to pay for his services were simply the wrong ones.

Eldon remembered a time when the research climate in America had been supportive, a golden age when government and industry and the military had worked hand in hand. But now you had shrieking Ivy League brats throwing cans of red paint on scientists who might someday save their pathetic lives. It made him homicidally angry to think about it.

There were still a few people in the corridors of power who remembered how it used to be-and how it would be in the future. And the golden age would inevitably return, because war was eternal. Cyclical, maybe, but eternal. And real war, not shitty little "conflicts" like Iraq or Afghanistan. All-out war that put the holy motherland at risk, that amped up even heart-on-their-sleeve liberals until they were ready to bayonet any bastard who came over the wire. And when people got like that, the research climate got very favorable very fast.

Edward Biddle remembered the good old days, and not merely with nostalgia. Biddle worked tirelessly to prepare for the day when things went bad again. It had been Major Biddle when he worked with Dr. Tarver at the VCP. The major had been a liaison, of sorts, between the army, corporate America, and academia. He had eventually risen to the rank of general, long after the project was terminated, of course. After retirement Biddle had joined the TransGene Corporation, one of the many granddaughters of Bering Biomedical, the chief corporate beneficiary of the VCP, the project that had brought Tarver and Biddle together.

Five years they had worked side by side. Longer, if you counted the prep work and dismantling of the project. They had accomplished some miraculous things, too, despite the fact that the technology just wasn't there yet. They hadn't lacked for ideas. But so much of the technology they'd needed to bring the ideas to fruition had simply not yet been invented. Sequencing the human genome had been a pipe dream in 1969. Even in 1974, when the army got some real control in the project, successfully mapping the genome lay more than a quarter century in the future. Yet still…they had accomplished so much.

Dr. Tarver looked over at his Wall of Respect, where a picture of him and Biddle hung. Biddle was wearing his major's uniform, Tarver a white coat with VCP emblazoned on its breast. In the background stood one of the lab buildings at Fort Detrick, Maryland. The VCP had started as an academic project, but they had eventually moved everything to Detrick. It was the only place that could handle the risks.

There was a woman in the picture with them: a leggy blonde named Wyck. She had represented Bering at Detrick, unusual for a woman in those days. Degrees in microbiology and statistical analysis, no less. Eldon had lusted after her until he figured out that Biddle was banging her. Quite a shock at the time, he recalled. But understandable. Wyck was fascinated by power, and Biddle had it. A free rein, within certain limits. Wyck had possessed power of her own, and you could see that in the picture. Her eyes shone with confidence, and her face practically glowed with energy, with pleasure at being there in that place at that time, bookended by two men who wanted her in their beds.

Dr. Tarver started at the sound of his cell phone. He stared a few moments longer at the photo, one of many on the Wall, then looked down at the caller ID and answered, "Dr. Traver."

"It's Neville Byrd, Doctor."

"Yes?"

"I've got it, sir. I mean, I think I do."

"Got what?"

"The thing Rusk is doing to protect himself. Two days in a row, near the end of the day, he's logged on to this one Web site and entered a series of passwords. All at the same site."

Dr. Tarver's pulse quickened. "Did you record his keystrokes?"

"Yes, sir. Every one."

"Fax them to me."

"Are you at the fax number you gave me?"

"No. Take this down." Dr. Tarver read off the fax number of his university office. "Do you have that?"

"Yes, sir. I'll send the keystrokes through. But I can give you the site right now, if you want to check it out. It's called EX NIHILO. It's a Dutch site, and it exists solely to let people be anonymous on the Net."

"This sounds very promising."

"Yes, sir. And Dr. Traver?"

"Yes?"

"This guy Rusk is screwing his secretary's brains out."

"Is he?"

Neville's voice changed. "I thought you might want to know that."

"Thank you. Please send the data through."

"Coming up, sir."

Dr. Tarver chuckled as he hung up.

Ten seconds later he was staring at the black hole that welcomed visitors to the world of EX NIHILO. One click took him to a page that listed the company's available services. It was obvious that EX NIHILO could handle the kind of arrangement that Eldon suspected Rusk was paying them to handle. If the price was right, of course. Thirty seconds later, Neville Byrd's fax came through. Two pages of keystrokes: the keys to Andrew Rusk's life.

"My God," said Dr. Tarver, using Rusk's passwords to retrace the lawyer's digital footsteps. It was just as he had suspected. Each day Rusk would log on to the site and verify his existence by entering a sequence of passwords. If he failed to do this for ten consecutive days, EX NIHILO would forward the contents of a large digital file to the Mississippi State Police and to the FBI. Eldon tried to open the file, but the site refused to allow it. He cursed and tried again.