George Chesbro - Dark Chant In A Crimson Key

I grunted. "Sounds like quite a costume."

"Yes," Pomeroy agreed. "You could say he was an imposing figure, but the overall impression was negative."

"How did Cornucopia become involved with him?"

"The same way we get involved with all individuals representing private groups. This office received a proposal for a project and an accompanying request for a grant."

"What was the proposal?"

"It involved a genetically altered strain of wheat that would be highly drought-resistant and grow rapidly in a wide variety of climatic conditions. Radigan-Sinclair claimed to represent a group of businessmen in Quebec who were seeking to establish a large laboratory to research, and eventually produce seeds for, this particular strain of wheat. They had already raised a certain amount of money, and they were supposedly looking for a matching grant."

"Like ten million dollars?"

"Oh, heavens no. The amount they were requesting was really not much more than-literally, if you will-seed money for architectural surveys and printing brochures to try to attract more money. If this initial phase was successful, they would have been free to approach us for a larger grant. Actually, the proposal was excellent, and I signed off on it."

"Meaning you authorized the grant?"

"No. I'm not empowered to authorize grants. I merely express approval of an application, if that's the case, and recommend that the grant be awarded. The awarding of grants is executed in New York, as is the actual transfer of funds. Authorization requires the approval of Mr. Neuberger, the chief comptroller, and a member of the board of directors. The authorizing directorship is rotated every month, since it is considered an honor."

"Just what is it you do, Mr. Pomeroy?"

"I thought I had explained that. This office serves as a clearinghouse for applications that originate in western Europe and sections of North America, including Quebec Province. Based on what we find out, we- I — pass judgment on whether or not a grant should be authorized, and this is usually based on the nature of the proposal. We process thousands of applications every year."

"And you investigated this Michael Radigan?"

He stiffened. "Yes, to the degree that we investigate any applicant. It's easy to second-guess this office now, but his credentials, and those of the organization he claimed to represent, seemed impeccable at the time."

"Even though it was all phony."

"Dr. Frederickson, if John Sinclair was not capable of erecting such exquisite inventions, he wouldn't be the master criminal he is, now would he? I did my job, and Interpol tells me that the cover he invented would have survived a much more thorough investigation than the ones we routinely conduct."

"Mr. Neuberger tells me New York never authorized the grant."

"Of course not; they never had the time. And if they had, it would have shown up in bank records."

I was experiencing a growing sense of frustration and a feeling of inadequacy. Another feeling I had, and it was only a feeling, was that Hyatt Pomeroy was withholding something-perhaps something important-but I just didn't have the information or expertise to adequately grill him.

"Will that be ail, Dr. Frederickson?" he continued, responding to my silence.

"Look, Mr. Pomeroy, Sinclair didn't rob you with a gun, he robbed you with a number. This whole damn thing is about numbers. What I know about encryption of data codes and electronic transfers of funds wouldn't wet the bottom of a thimble, but I sure as hell know that Sinclair wouldn't have gone to all the trouble of setting up dummy corporations and inventing a phony identity to get in here, and he wouldn't have wasted six weeks of his time to meet with you on four occasions, if he didn't need something from this office, from you. What did you give John Sinclair that he needed to fleece Cornucopia, Mr. Pomeroy?" I paused when I saw the change of expression on his face, and I felt a tiny surge of exhilaration. And suddenly, I thought I knew the answer. "A number. You gave him a number. You may not be authorized to award grants or transfer funds, but you do assign certain numbers. Is that it, Mr. Pomeroy?"

In only a matter of seconds, Hyatt Pomeroy had gone from looking defensive but self-assured to downright glum. "Mr. Neuberger is well aware of the encryption process used by the organization his grandfather founded and which he now directs, Dr. Frederickson. He also has all the pertinent data, as does Interpol."

"Well, it apparently slipped Mr. Neuberger's mind to give me the information I'm looking for now, and I didn't know enough to ask. But he obviously wants me to have it, or he wouldn't have sent me over here to prepare a report. So let me ask you again: What did Sinclair get from you that he needed to pull off the scam?"

Pomeroy heaved a long, heartfelt sigh, then abruptly wrote something down on a slip of paper, which he shoved across the desk toward me. "A file number," he said tersely.

"Ah, now we're getting someplace," I said, glancing at the seven-digit number he had written down before putting the paper into my pocket.

"Not really, Dr. Frederickson," he replied in the same brusque tone. "While it's true that he required a file number, he also required a good deal more that he didn't-couldn't-get from this office. Don't assume that just because I find it humiliating to have to rehash all this bloody business for the hundredth time it means you've wrung from me some earth-shattering discovery. The file number forms the base for the final encryption code, but twelve more numbers-digits-are required to construct the electronic key he needed to get at the money. It's all very complex, and it can only be accomplished with computers operated by people with proper authorization codes. What he did should have been impossible."

"Your boss agrees with you. But the fact remains that Sinclair used the file number you gave him to manufacture his very own encrypted electronic key, upped the ante to ten million dollars, bypassed all the built-in security procedures, transferred the ten million to an account he had created, withdrew the money, and walked away."

Pomeroy nodded curtly. "Apparently."

"Definitely. You have any idea at all of how he might have done it?"

"None whatsoever."

"You have any notions at all about this bloody business that you'd care to share with me?"

"None whatsoever."

It was looking like the business part of my trip to Switzerland was going to take even less time than I'd thought.

The first thing I noticed when I walked back into my hotel suite was a distinct and unpleasant medicinal smell. I assumed the odor was from some kind of disinfectant, but everything had seemed in perfect order when I'd checked in, and I couldn't understand why the maid would be cleaning a clean bathroom so late in the day. I opened all the windows before going down to the hotel dining room to eat. When I returned, the odor was gone. I closed the windows, turned on the air conditioner, and went to bed. I fell asleep almost immediately and dreamed of making love to Harper by a roaring fire in a chalet somewhere high in the Alps.

My anxiety at the possibility of being stonewalled by Interpol turned out to be completely unfounded. Before leaving New York I had called Interpol's headquarters in Geneva, identified myself and my purpose, and asked for an appointment. It was not quite three o'clock on Wednesday, my second day in Switzerland, and I couldn't think of another thing I had to do, except actually prepare my report, which I could easily dictate to one of Cornucopia's secretaries for mailing to Neuberger. I was sitting in the silence of my chauffeured limousine, gazing out at the chocolate-box landscape, as we sped back to Zurich from Geneva. As I went over my notes and sipped at a Scotch, I decided that being driven around in a stretch Mercedes wasn't such a bad experience after all, and I made a note to myself to give Carlo a generous tip.