Stephen Berry - The Biofab War

"Hello," he said to the lean, poker faced guard behind the teak expanse of the security console. "I'm here to see Dr. Langston."

"Your name, sir." Black-uniformed, he expressionlessly took in John's dishevelment.

"Harrison. John Harrison."

"Just a minute, Mr. Harrison." He murmured softly into a small microphone, nodding to the voice that responded in his earpiece. "Please have a seat, sir. Dr. Langston will be right down."

Fred Langston was an affable, suave scientist administrator. Fortyish, black, nattily attired, he quickly got John a fresh change of clothes, not questioning his story of a flat in the rain.

Seated in Langston's elegant office, John sipped a Scotch and water, admiring the small Klee above the fireplace.

The Director leaned back in his leather Scandinavian desk chair, quietly appraising Harrison. Behind him a big bay window overlooked the wharf, lit by antiqued gas lamps, and the dark sea beyond.

"Sutherland called me this morning," said Langston. "Warned me you'd be coming up today. He said you were an old friend who'd been retained by Royal. I wish I could be of more help, but"-he spread his hands helplessly-"you know as much about that man's murder as I do."

"Frankly, I'm only concerned with the murder because it may have some connection with the delays in the Royal project. Antonucchi's death makes the whole thing look like sabotage."

Langston nodded, toying with the dolphin capped stirrer resting in his gin and tonic. "I know it does. At first we thought it was staff incompetence. No one's immune from personnel problems. So I had several people borrowed from Royal transferred back to Louisiana. Yet the problems continued. Then we lost Argonaut. Until we can get another submersible with her capabilities, we're stymied.

"If this is sabotage, Harrison, believe me, it's working. You can imagine how Royal is taking all this."

"Poorly, I'm told."

"Yes." He lightly drummed the stirrer on the rosewood desk. "They're now seriously considering moving the entire operation to New Bedford, building the docking and refinery facilities there, rather than up the coast from here at Goose Cove.

"We could survive without Royal's contract and annual grant, but once one major corporation loses faith in you, it becomes pandemic. Old school lie, you know."

"May I look around, talk with your people?"

"Sure. But the state police and Sutherland's crew have gone all through that." He rose. "If I can be of any help, don't hesitate."

The rain had stopped. It made the short drive to the Beachcomber Motel cool but dry. A note in Zahava's hand awaited him at the desk.

John,

Registered here this A.M., but at lunch one of the staff invited me to stay with her. (Her boyfriend's been deported.)

Directions to an address in nearby Goose Cove Village followed.

Twenty minutes later he was knocking on the door of a cedar-shingled cottage on a quiet, pine-treed lot. A cute, barefoot blonde in her'midtwenties opened the door, wearing only shorts and a halter top despite the cold.

"Hi. You're John, aren't you. I'm Cindy.

"Zahava!" she called over her shoulder.

The Israeli, more practically outfitted in denim blouse and trousers, came in from the back screen porch. Planting a wet kiss on John's lips, she led him into the small living room. The decor was pure Sears, he noted with relief, still discomforted from Leurre's overpowering modernity. He sank into a battered armchair, the day finally catching up with him.

Cindy-Larry Levine's secretary-had met Zahava that morning and offered to share her rented house. She was still smarting from the loss of her previous roommate, Greg Fames-worth. Greg, the story came out over macaroni and cheese, was a geologist with Royal. He'd been on loan to the Institute for two months, till Fred Langston had cleaned house two weeks before. Greg had been abruptly returned to his home base in Shreveport.

After dinner, John walked Zahava out to the shattered rental car, parked beneath the pines. He quickly briefed her, adding, "I'm going over to the rental agency in Hyannis now to complain about vandals. I'd invite you along, but there's so much glass on the seats…"

"What about the man who tried to kill you?" she asked as he eased himself into the car.

"What man?" John said, shutting the door with a faint tinkle. "For all I know, it could've been the phantom of the opera. When I got there-ten seconds, maybe-he was gone. God only knows where. I should have bumped noses with him or at least seen him. All I saw was some M-sixteen brass and a sort of green ooze.

"I'd swear I hit the bastard, though." He started the engine. "And if blood were green, I'd know I did."

"Be back soon," she called as he drove off into the foggy night. He answered with a wave.

The rental manager didn't buy it. Belligerent, he was dialing the police when the account number on the contract caught his eye. Hanging up the phone, he shook his head. "You guys." He sighed.

Five minutes later, John pulled out in a new red Jeep. The manager inspecting the Buick looked up from his clipboard. "Let's see this one back in better shape, okay?" he called.

It took twice as long to get back to Goose Cove Village. The fog had closed in, making it hard to see beyond the headlights.

A new car was parked in front of the cottage; also a rental, John saw from the sticker.

Gathered on the comfortable old braided rug before a crackling fire was Zahava, Cindy and a sandy-haired man in his early thirties. The stranger drew his lanky frame up to greet John with a crisp, dry handshake.

"You must be John. I'm Greg Farnesworth."

"Up for the weekend?" John asked, joining them on the rug.

"For the week. Corporate largess," said the geologist wryly, sipping his beer. "I took some vacation time to plead my case." He squeezed Cindy's knee.

She pouted, crinkling her freckles. "No Mom, no come." Her mother, she explained, lived alone in Boston, Cindy her only child.

"Okay," Greg said. "I'm buying a house, down on the bayou, complete with swamp and 'gators. There'll be a separate apartment for your mother, provided she comes to the wedding."

Cindy accepted with a hug and a kiss.

After hearty congratulations, toasted with brandy hoisted high in little paper cups, the topic turned to the Institute and Greg's job. He'd been in charge of surveying the Goose Cove site. The cove proper, as distinct from the village, was scheduled to be enlarged and dredged, serving as a port facility once the Georges Banks began producing.

"I'd gotten as far as sampling strata along Goose Hill-it overlooks the cove and was going to be blown up and carted away-when Langston suddenly declared me and my team bumblers and shipped us back to Shreveport inside of four hours." He sipped his brandy, staring pensively into the waning fire. Cindy put a comforting hand on his shoulder.

"Happily, there's a shortage of qualified petroleum geologists."

"You're still with Royal?" John asked.

"Yup. I leave on my schedule, not theirs."

"Why do you think Langston got rid of you?" asked Zahava.

"I think he was afraid of what I'd find up on that hill. Something that could end the entire operation, cause him to lose his grants, his imposing home, his nice office."

"And did you?" asked John.

The geologist gave him a hard look. "You're not working for Royal," he said flatly. "Not their type. Government?"

"Sort of."

Farnesworth nodded. "Yeah, I found it."

Before going to bed, John made two calls, one to Sutherland, the other to McShane in Boston.

Stephen Ames Berry

The Biofab War

Following John's directions, McShane had no trouble locating the dirt road leading from the paved, two-lane state highway to Goose Hill and the cove. He pulled into a small clearing among the bayberry and scrub pine at the foot of the hill. Parking next to a red Jeep, he made his way along the densely overgrown trail to the foot of the hill, brushing aside the morning's dew-covered cobwebs with his gnarled blackthorn Irish walker.