Michael Crichton - State Of Fear

"Funny. He didn't mention it."

"No?"

"No, and he just left. I spent the whole morning with him. He's very unhappy about the document rescinding the ten-million-dollar grant from the Morton Foundation. Especially that clause."

"I know," Evans said.

"He wants to know where the clause came from."

"I know."

"Where did it come from?"

"George asked me not to divulge that."

"George is dead."

"Not officially."

"This is bullshit, Peter. Where did the clause come from?"

Evans shook his head. "I'm sorry, Herb. I have specific instructions from the client."

"We're in the same firm. And he's my client, too."

"He instructed me in writing, Herb."

"In writing? Horseshit. George didn't write anything."

"Handwritten note," Evans said.

"Nick wants the terms of the document broken."

"I'm sure he does."

"And I told him we'd do that for him," Lowenstein said.

"I don't see how."

"Morton was not in his right mind."

"But he was, Herb," Evans said. "You'll be taking ten million out of his estate and if anybody whispers in the ear of his daughter"

"She's a total cokehead"

"who goes through cash like a monkey through bananas. And if anybody whispers in her ear, this firm will be liable for the ten million, and for punitive damages for conspiracy to defraud. Have you talked to the other senior partners about this course of action?"

"You're being obstructive."

"I'm being cautious. Maybe I should express my concerns in an e-mail to you."

"This is not how you advance in this firm, Peter."

Evans said, "I think I am acting in the firm's best interest. I certainly don't see how you can abrogate this document without, at the very least, first obtaining written opinions from attorneys outside the firm."

"But no outside attorney would countenance" He broke off. He glared at Evans. "Drake is going to want to talk to you about this."

"I'll be happy to do that."

"I'll tell him you'll call."

"Fine."

Lowenstein stalked off. Then he turned back. "And what was all that business about the police and your apartment?"

"My apartment was robbed."

"For what? Drugs?"

"No, Herb."

"My assistant had to leave the office to help you with a police matter."

"That's true. As a personal favor. And it was after hours, if I recall."

Lowenstein snorted, and stomped off down the hall.

Evans made a mental note to call Drake. And get this entire business behind him.

In the hot midday sun, Kenner parked his car in the downtown lot and walked with Sarah out onto the street. Heat shimmered off the pavement. The signs there were all in Spanish, except for a few English phrases"Checks Cashed" and "Money Loaned." From scratchy loudspeakers, mariachi music blared out.

Kenner said, "All set?"

Sarah checked the small sports bag on her shoulder. It had nylon mesh at either end. The mesh concealed the video lens. "Yes," she said. "I'm ready."

Together, they walked toward the large store on the corner, "Brader's Army/Navy Surplus."

Sarah said, "What're we doing here?"

"ELF purchased a large quantity of rockets," Kenner said.

She frowned. "Rockets?"

"Small ones. Lightweight. About two feet long. They're outdated versions of an '80s Warsaw Pact device called Hotfire. Handheld, wire-guided, solid propellant, range of about a thousand yards."

Sarah wasn't sure what all that meant. "So, these are weapons?"

"I doubt that's why they bought them."

"How many did they buy?"

"Five hundred. With launchers."

"Wow."

"Let's just say they're probably not hobbyists."

Above the doors, a banner in flaking yellow and green paint read, Camping Gear Paintball Paratrooper Jackets Compass Sleeping Bags Much, Much More!

The front door chimed as they went in.

The store was large and disorderly, filled with military stuff on racks and piled in untidy heaps on the floor. The air smelled musty, like old canvas. There were few people inside at this hour. Kenner walked directly to the kid at the cash register, flashed his wallet, and asked for Mr. Brader.

"In the back."

The kid smiled at Sarah. Kenner went to the back of the store. Sarah stayed at the front.

"So," she said. "I need a little help."

"Do my best." He grinned. He was a crew-cut kid, maybe nineteen or twenty. He had a black T-shirt that said "The Crow." His arms looked like he worked out.

"I'm trying to find a guy," Sarah said, and slid a sheet of paper toward him.

"You think any guy would be trying to find you," the kid said. He picked up the paper. It showed a photograph of the man they knew as Brewster, who had set up camp in Antarctica.

"Oh yeah," the kid said immediately. "Sure, I know him. He comes in sometimes."

"What's his name?"

"I don't know, but he's in the store now."

"Now?" She glanced around for Kenner, but he was in the back, huddled with the owner. She didn't want to call to him or do anything to cause attention.

The kid was standing on tiptoes, looking around. "Yeah, he's here. I mean, he was in here a few minutes ago. Came in to buy some timers."

"Where are your timers?"

"I'll show you." He came around the counter, and led her through the stacks of green clothing and the boxes piled seven feet high. She couldn't see over them. She could no longer see Kenner.

The kid glanced over his shoulder at her. "What are you, like a detective?"

"Sort of."

"You want to go out?"

They were moving deeper into the store when they heard the chime of the front door. She turned to look. Over stacks of flak jackets, she had a glimpse of a brown head, a white shirt with a red collar, and the door closing.

"He's leaving amp;"

She didn't think. She just turned and sprinted for the door. The bag banged against her hip. She jumped over stacked canteens, running hard.

"Hey," the kid yelled behind her. "You coming back?"

She banged through the door.

She was out on the street. Glaring hot sun and shoving crowds. She looked left and right. She didn't see the white shirt and red collar anywhere. There hadn't been time for him to cross the street. She looked around the corner, and saw him strolling casually away from her, toward Fifth Street. She followed him.

He was a man of about thirty-five, dressed in cheap golf-type clothes. His pants were rumpled. He wore dirty hiking boots. He had tinted glasses and a small, trim moustache. He looked like a guy who spent a lot of time outdoors, but not a construction guymore of a supervisor. Maybe a building contractor. Building inspector. Something like that.

She tried to notice the details, to remember them. She gained on him, then decided that was a bad idea, and dropped back. "Brewster" stopped in front of one window and looked at it intently for a few moments, then went on.

She came to the window. It was a crockery store, displaying cheap plates. She wondered, then, if he already knew he was being followed.

To trail a terrorist on a downtown street felt like something out of a movie, but it was more frightening than she anticipated. The surplus store seemed very far behind her. She didn't know where Kenner was. She wished he were here. Also, she was hardly inconspicuous; the crowd on the sidewalk was largely Hispanic, and Sarah's blond head stuck up above most people's.

She stepped off the curb, and walked along the street gutter, hanging at the edge of the crowd. That way she lost six inches of height. But still, she was uncomfortably aware that her hair was distinctively blonde. But there was nothing she could do about that.

She let Brewster get twenty yards ahead of her. She didn't want to allow more distance than that because she was afraid she'd lose him.