Ben Bova - The Trikon Deception

Chakra Ramsanjawi’s plan was simple. Fabio Bianco believed in open cooperation and free exchange of data among the three arms of Trikon. It was a naive belief, but one that Bianco had espoused consistently since the creation of the consortium. Yet Bianco definitely had balked at Oyamo’s suggestion that O’Donnell’s data be shared by everyone. Ergo, Bianco was privy to the data. All Ramsanjawi needed to do was ask.

Of course, executing the plan was not so simple. Despite the great mutual respect that existed between the two men, Bianco was unlikely to answer Ramsanjawi’s questions willingly. Which was why Ramsanjawi had two syringes hidden beneath his kurta when he closed his office door. Drugging Bianco was a huge risk; the old man might collapse and die on him. Or worse yet, he might remember being interrogated. Ramsanjawi shrugged massively inside his kurta. Perhaps the old man will indeed die—after he has answered my questions. After all, he is already a physical wreck. Who would suspect anything more than the stresses he has encountered here in his very own haven of scientific research?

As Ramsanjawi pulled himself through ELM’s hatch, he noticed a disturbance in the shadows of the connecting tunnel. Stu Roberts was being shoved into the logistics module. His attacker was Freddy Aviles.

Ramsanjawi quickly scuttled along the floor. The interior of the logistics module was dimly lit, but he could see Roberts and Aviles silhouetted against a pair of area lights.

“You gave shit to Cramer, no? An’ you gave it to O’Donnell, no?”

“I didn’t,” blubbered Roberts.

“Don’ you fuckin’ lie to me, man.”

“I’m not lying!”

Ramsanjawi’s eyes slowly adjusted to the dimness. Freddy’s back was to the hatch. One hand grasped the handle of a receptacle while the other clenched a wad of Roberts’s shirt. Roberts faced Ramsanjawi, but his terror-stricken eyes were fastened on Aviles.

“Why you fuck up O’Donnell? Huh? You interested in what he doin’? Huh?”

Roberts tried to answer but his voice was cracked by Freddy’s fist pounding his chest.

Ramsanjawi decided that Bianco could wait; Aviles was the more pressing problem. Squirting a few drops from a syringe onto the material of his kurta, Ramsanjawi then clamped the syringe in his teeth and used both hands to sling himself through the hatch.

Roberts had no time to react; Freddy had no time to move. In one motion, Ramsanjawi pulled the syringe from his teeth and jammed the needle into Freddy’s rump. Freddy managed one solid punch to Ramsanjawi’s midsection. Ramsanjawi drew himself into a ball, bracing himself for another blow. But it never came. When he lifted his head, he saw Freddy tumbling slowly near the ceiling.

Roberts cautiously peeked out from behind a wall of canisters.

“What was that all about?” asked Ramsanjawi.

“I don’t know! He jumped me as I came out of the Whit.”

“Did you tell him anything?”

“No! Nothing! You got here just in time.”

“Then we are both fortunate,” said Ramsanjawi.

“What are you going to do with him?” Roberts asked. He touched Freddy’s neck as if testing for signs of life.

“That is my affair,” said Ramsanjawi. “Return to your compartment.”

Roberts moved slowly to the hatch, took a final look at Ramsanjawi and Freddy, then shot into the tunnel.

Ramsanjawi grabbed Freddy by the shirt and held his serene face to the light.

“Well, my abbreviated friend, we have much to discuss.”

Ramsanjawi used an empty canister to transport Freddy from the logistics module to ELM. It was near midnight, and he encountered no one during the short journey. He brought the canister into his office, sealed the accordion door, and popped the lid.

Freddy groaned as he spilled out, his arms unfolding like the wings of an injured bird. After a few minutes, his groans sharpened and his movements strengthened. Ramsanjawi readied the second syringe. This one did not contain a tranquilizer. It contained sodium Pentothal—truth serum.

Ramsanjawi rolled up Freddy’s sleeve and injected the serum into his arm. Freddy faded for a moment, then regained consciousness. His eyes were glazed and his speech was slurred and halting, but he accurately answered Ramsanjawi’s preliminary questions. Then Ramsanjawi turned to more important matters.

“What do you know about Cramer?” — “He din’t have Orbital Dementia… Drugs made him crazy.”

“And O’Donnell?”

“Drugs make him crazy, too. Differen’ drugs.”

“And you think that Roberts gave them the drugs.”

“Roberts friend of Cramer. Make sense.”

“But who gave the drugs to Roberts?”

“Don’ know.”

“Why are you interested in Roberts’s interest in O’Donnell?”

“My job… Protect O’Donnell. Protect his work.”

“So you killed Aaron Weiss.”

“No.”

“Who did?”

“Don’ know.”

“What is O’Donnell working on?”

“Impor’ant stuff.”

“Not part of Trikon’s work?”

“More impor’ant.”

“What?”

“Can’ say.”

“But you can tell me.”

Freddy paused. His features twisted as his better judgment struggled unsuccessfully against the sodium pentothal.

“Bug… to use against… cocaine.”

“The product or the plants themselves?”

“Plants.”

“Bah. That has been tried. It was unsuccessful.”

“Not this one.”

“And I suppose you know how it works.”

“Not me. O’Donnell.”

“O’Donnell is not here, Aviles.”

Freddy hovered weightlessly, silent, slack-jawed, while Ramsanjawi thought furiously.

At last he said, “O’Donnell has his own computer, does he not?”

“Yeah.”

“And all his data is stored in it?”

“It was.”

“Was? What do you mean?”

“Crashed his files.”

“You what?”

“So nobody could copy,” Freddy muttered.

Ramsanjawi wanted to slap him. Then he realized, “You made a copy, didn’t you?”

“Sure.”

“Where is it?”

Freddy’s hand flopped against his chest. “Here.”

Ramsanjawi removed a diskette from an inside pocket of Freddy’s shirt and loaded it into his computer. There had been several attempts to destroy cocaine production at its source—chemicals, herbicides, even insects specifically crossbred to feed only on coca leaves. None of these plans had worked, and to Ramsanjawi’s knowledge the United States government had ceased trying.

O’Donnell’s attempt proved to be different.

Ramsanjawi perused the computer files and immediately grasped the thrust of the project: the development of a genetic sequence that would block the production of a specific enzyme necessary for cells of the coca leaf to manufacture cocaine. O’Donnell had not quite perfected the sequence. But he was close. Very close.

Ramsanjawi stored the data in his computer and returned the diskette to the pocket in Freddy’s shirt. He prepared another dose of tranquilizer to keep Freddy asleep through the rest of the night. Freddy might remember this encounter; he might not. It mattered little to Ramsanjawi. The plan that was coming together in his head would be executed quickly.

Ramsanjawi placed Freddy in his sleep compartment and returned to his office. In less than an hour of reviewing the data, he knew exactly how to apply O’Donnell’s groundwork. With just a few basic alterations to the genetic sequence and to the RNA messenger molecule O’Donnell had developed, he would possess a unique commodity. Sir Derek was welcome to the toxic-waste superbug. The ability to destroy the world’s coca supply would be far more valuable.