Читать книгу Cold Dark Matter - Alex Brett - Страница 12

The office building spread across the ground like low, grey lichen, insinuating itself into the folds of the land. High above, a heavy mist poured over the cliffs and settled into the valley, making it hard to see where the building ended and the atmosphere began. In fact, I would have missed it altogether had it not been for the impressive sign at the base of the drive, "The FrancoCanadian Telescope/Le Télescope FrancoCanadien," in red and white.

If the observatory dome was the heart of operation, then this building was surely the brain. Within these offices astronomers managed the complex night-to-night operation of the telescope, engineers built new instruments for it, and computer scientists developed the software needed to eke out and analyze every photon of light that touched that mirror. If I was looking for answers this is where they'd be.

From Benson's office I'd taken the only road that leads into the island's interior, a narrow highway that follows a ridge right up into the mountains. It rose through a landscape of arid, long-grass meadows cut every few miles by rivers of solid lava, obsidian black and devoid of vegetation. Some of the flows looked like roiling rivers of tar with surfaces as smooth and taut as skin. Others were vast plains of angry pinnacles, razor sharp and glistening in the heat of the sun. As I climbed, though, the sky paled from blue to grey, and I could feel the temperature drop. I switched off the air conditioning and started the heat. By the time I reached the telescope offices in the village of Waimea the countryside was shrouded in fog and curtains of rain lashed the road.

In the parking lot I sat for a minute, preparing a strategy for the next few hours. When I'd called Dr. Edwin Eales, the observatory's director, from the airport he'd flatly refused to see me and I'd had to pull rank, telling him he was an employee of the Crown, this was a government investigation, and he didn't have a choice.

Of course, he did have a choice. I had absolutely no jurisdiction in Hawaii, but if he wasn't aware of that I wasn't about to let him in on the secret. When I was ready to go I turned, rooted around in my suitcase, and pulled out my leather jacket. So much for a Hawaiian vacation. When it was all zipped up, I hopped down from the truck and ran for the building.

The receptionist behind the counter wasn't pleased to see me. "Can I help you?" she said, making an effort to avoid my eyes.

"I'm here to see Dr. Eales. We have a meeting."

Her hands skittered across the desk as if she was trying to locate a paper that had suddenly gone missing. She kept her eyes lowered. "I'm sorry, but Dr. Eales is …" She hesitated but kept the hands moving. "Dr. Eales has been called away. If you'd care to leave your number …"

I checked my watch. I was already five minutes late for our meeting. "No thanks," I said, and I pushed through the swinging door beside her, past the astonished faces of the clerical staff, and continued on down the hall until I arrived at the door labelled "Director." I gave two sharp knocks then let myself in.

The two men in the room turned in surprise.

"Dr. Eales, I presume." I headed for the one behind the desk with hand outstretched.

Eales was compact and wiry — a runner by physique — with bristly fair hair and an alpha personality. It took him a moment to connect, to figure out who I was. When he did he shot from his chair. His face went from tan to deep pink in a timeframe that couldn't be healthy. "Who the hell are you? Get out of my office. You can't just walk in here without, without …" He was quick enough to realize that he'd moved onto slippery ground, so I finished the sentence for him.

"An appointment." I looked at my watch. "Yes, I am sorry. It took me a little longer to get here than I thought it would. That's quite a drive." I slipped into the chair next to the slightly rumpled, older man.

Still standing, Eales banged his open palm hard on the desk's surface, a good display behaviour if you happen to be simian, but it didn't have much effect on me. "You can't just —"

The man next to me raised his hand slightly from where it lay on the arm of his chair. "Edwin." Although it was said gently there was no mistaking the warning.

Eales glanced at him, and the older man gave a slight tip of his head toward Eales's chair. The director glared at him for a moment, then reluctantly sat back. The guest turned to me.

"I'm Anthony St. James. You must be the investigator." His voice carried a distinct note of disapproval.

For my part, I had to hide my surprise. Even I knew the name Anthony St. James, and astronomy wasn't my usual beat. St. James was one of Canada's most renowned astronomers, although I couldn't for the life of me remember why. Something big, I vaguely recalled, that he discovered in the late 1950s or early ‘60s near the beginning of his career. I'd have to ask Duncan about that. What I did recall, though, was that instead of fleeing south to bigger salaries, more prestige, and access to high-end telescopes, St. James had resolutely stayed in Canada. He was now credited with helping to build an astronomy community in a country that, at that time, had no history and little appreciation for cosmic gazing. Suddenly the exchange between him and Eales became clear. Eales might be the director of the observatory, but St. James was a founding father.

I took his hand. At the first physical contact his demeanor changed, as if he'd resigned himself to my presence and was determined to be a gentleman, despite my profession. "A terrible tragedy, Ms. O'Brien. You must forgive us. We are all still reeling from the shock, and …," here he slowed and chose his words carefully, "it is difficult for us to understand what possible benefit could be derived from an investigation. Surely the police will handle that."

Then he withdrew his hand and sat back to wait for an answer.

"Are you here because of Dr. Grenier?"

He showed a moment of surprise — he was a man used to being answered, not questioned — then recovered. "A most unfortunate coincidence, I'm afraid. I'm observing the next few days." He must have seen my eyebrows raise and looked amused. "Oh yes, Ms. O'Brien, I still carry out an active research program, much of it on this telescope. Without the observing, why live?"

"So you knew Dr. Grenier then."

He made a display of shifting to face me, giving himself just enough time to frame an answer. "I did, yes, rather well. Dr. Grenier's death is a tragedy, not just for his family and friends, but for Canadian astronomy as well. He was a gifted researcher, and you can't just replace someone of that calibre. In Yves's case I don't think he can be replaced at all."

"I wouldn't go that far, Tony. We're all replaceable." Eales's voice was cool.

St. James, who seemed to have momentarily forgotten Eales, let his gaze drift back to his face and rest there, but before he could respond I did.

"You didn't get along with Dr. Grenier?"

"Don't put words in my mouth," Eales snapped. "I simply said we are all replaceable, a principle I'm sure Tony will support, in practice if not in theory. Now what do you want?"

"Edwin." This time the warning had more force, but so did Eales's response. He leaned forward, his hands flat on the desk, and glared at St. James. "This is still my office and still my observatory. And it is still my responsibility to run it as I see fit, regardless of your opinion." Then he switched his gaze to me. "I, for one, am overwhelmed with work since Yves managed to do considerable damage to the prime focus in his final asinine act. And every night of observing we lose represents thousands of dollars, a figure I'm sure Dr. St. James would be happy to confirm. So what the hell do you want?"

I let a beat pass, and when I was good and ready I said, "Dr. Grenier's research diaries."

Eales pulled back, and out of the corner of my eye I saw St. James's hand drop limply to the side of his chair. Eales, however, a pugnacious alpha male, hopped right back in the ring. "By what authority?"

Again I let a moment pass, just to let him know I wouldn't be bullied. "The Government of Canada, who, after all, owns them."

At this point I heard the door to the office open. "I'll take it from here."

I turned to see a cross between a leprechaun and Leif the Red standing, arms crossed, in the doorway. With his balding head of red hair and close-cropped auburn beard, he held himself like a Celtic chieftain, albeit in pinstripe grey. The only flaw was the bow tie. It's hard to take a man seriously who sports a bow tie. Although, I thought as he stepped in the room and shut the door behind him, I might have to revise that opinion.

He locked eyes briefly with Eales, then with St. James, before moving to me. He thrust out his hand. "Gunnar McNabb, Public Relations."

I didn't take it. "I'm not the public." I turned back to Eales. "I want the diaries, Dr. Eales. If you —"

Gunnar leaned over and gripped my arm. "This meeting is over."

I turned, looked at his hand on my arm, then looked up at him. "This meeting is over when I say it is." I snapped my arm out of his grip and turned back to the director. "Dr. Eales?"

St. James had bent his head and was now massaging his temples as if to ward off a major migraine.

"Don't say anything," said Gunnar.

I stood and turned on Gunnar. He wasn't any taller than me, but he was built like a brick wall: broad shoulders, big chest, all muscle. If he knew how to use that muscle, and it looked like he did, he could flatten me in seconds, but it wouldn't come to that. I poked him hard on the chest.

"You're obstructing an investigation. If you want to keep your job and your hefty government pension, back off."

He didn't. Back off, that is. In fact, he moved in closer. A little red light went off in my head, but before I could make the connection he was in my face. "I'd like to see your identification." His hand was out, waiting. For a smallish man he had big, beefy fingers.

"Gunnar, please." That was St. James. Gunnar's eyes, a lively blue, flicked toward him. St. James must have signalled something because Gunnar took a small step back, although he clearly wasn't happy about it. I felt myself relax slightly, but Gunnar still had his hand out. "How do we know you're not a reporter?"

I pulled out my ID and handed it to him.

He read out my name, position, and affiliation then handed my ID back. "You have no authority here. I'll have to ask you to leave." He stepped aside and motioned to the door. "Now."

"Authority? We fund this operation."

Eales cut in. "We're incorporated, Ms. O'Brien. Although our funds come from Canada and France, we exist as a separate corporation under the laws and statutes of the State of Hawaii. Thank you, Gunnar. You're quite right. She has no authority here."

Gunnar reached for my elbow. For a PR guy he had very bad manners. I put up my hand in acquiescence. "You're right Gunnar, Dr. Eales. I have no authority. Not technically anyway." I dipped down and picked up my briefcase. "So I'll just fly on home to Ottawa and write up my report for the Minister of Industry and Science telling him that the Canadian staff of this telescope refused to cooperate in his investigation, right from the director, down." I held out my hand to Dr. Eales just to show that there were no hard feelings. "By the way, Dr. Eales, when is your next funding review?"

"All of you, stop this." It was the quiet voice of Anthony St. James. He raised his head from where it had lain cradled in his hand. "I think we should cooperate. Edwin, we have nothing to hide. We've done nothing wrong. Tell me, what can it hurt?"

Gunnar moved forward a step. "I wouldn't advise that, sir."

"No," said St. James, barely suppressing his annoyance. "I'm sure you wouldn't, but I think you'll take orders from me on this one." He sat up straighter and seemed to rally his strength. "Sit back down, Ms. O'Brien. Let's get this over with. What is it you want?"

"The diaries, and the sooner I find them, the quicker I leave you alone."

"But we have no idea where they are. How can we possibly help?"

"So they have disappeared? You don't have them, or one of your astronomers?"

He glanced at Edwin, and Edwin gave a barely perceptible shake of his head.

St. James turned back to me. "Not that we know of." "But you didn't notify the police. Not one of you." A complete silence greeted my statement, and I let it hang in the room for a good minute. Outside, the rain splashed against the window. Eales had his head turned and was staring at the bushes outside, as if he'd disengaged entirely from our conversation. McNabb's shoes squeaked as he shifted his weight from one leg to the other. Finally St. James leaned forward, balancing his elbows on his knees, his eyes focused on his hands.

"But we don't know they've been stolen. Maybe Yves hid them. Maybe he destroyed them. How do we know what was going on in his mind before —" He stopped abruptly. "Well, obviously he wasn't thinking rationally." A piece of his sparse grey hair fell forward, and he pushed it back with a weary gesture.

"I want to search Grenier's office, then I want access to all the staff records and any staff members who saw him or worked with him the day he died."

Eales reconnected and snapped his head around. "This is not Ottawa, Ms. O'Brien. People actually work here. You may search the office, yes, but you may interview the staff only through me. And no records."

"I can insist."

"Not without a subpoena, you can't, and I don't think even the minister wants to breach Hawaii's privacy laws."

I could just imagine Duncan's reaction if I landed him in that kind of toxic water so I figured it was time to cut my losses. I'd work around the other problems later. I pulled my briefcase to my lap. "I'll check his office now." I stood. "If you can think of anything that might help me locate the diaries, call me." I gave them both a card with my cellphone number on it. Gunnar moved to the door and opened it. I gave first Eales, then St. James, a penetrating look. "The sooner I find these things the sooner I'm out of here, and the less I disrupt your work." At the door I turned once more. "Think about it." Then to Gunnar. "I don't need an escort. I can find my own way."

It was Eales who responded. "There are limits to my patience. Don't try them." And he nodded to Gunnar.

"Are you normally stationed here?"

Unlike most PR professionals, Gunnar made no attempt to be social. "Ottawa," was all he said, but it was exactly the answer I wanted. I'd been pretty sure he wasn't from here. He didn't have a tan, his accent was Ottawa Valley, and his grey suit and bow tie just didn't say Hawaii.

"Which department?"

"Astronomy Institute. Director of Communications — Acting." He pulled out a business card and handed it to me.

I tucked it in my pocket. "So you'd know Amanda Sims."

He gave me a sideways glance. "I doubt it."

"Science reporter for the Ottawa Citizen?"

"I work at the policy level. My staff would know her."

Not likely, since Amanda Sims didn't exist. "If you work in Ottawa what are you doing here?"

We'd gone around a corner and had now arrived at Grenier's office door. McNabb unlocked it and motioned me through first. "Containment." He stepped in behind me and shut the door.

Grenier's office was small, neat, and in shades of grey. The wall directly in front of me was ceiling to floor glass, with a door that led outside to a lawn the colour of Astroturf. Grenier's desk sat almost in the middle of the room with a computer arm off to the side and two guest chairs in front. Behind these was a wall of books.

I swung around. "I thought you did policy?"

Gunnar crossed to the windows and opened glass louvres to let some much-needed fresh air into the room, then turned around backlit by the windows. It was, I noted, a cop trick, putting your conversational partner at an immediate disadvantage. Where had he picked that up?

"We're concerned about media fallout. I'm here to keep an eye on things until they settle down. A bit of a perk for me, really."

I looked at the monsoon outside. Some perk. It was probably warmer and drier in Ottawa right now. As for media fallout, what was the Institute expecting? Most Canadians didn't even know we had a telescope in Hawaii, and unless Grenier's death involved sex, drugs, or reality TV, they couldn't care less. "Have any reporters been sniffing around?"

"I'm afraid I've just arrived so I haven't been fully apprised."

I almost smiled. This guy was not only an excellent liar but also a master of half-truth and evasion, the exact set of qualifications that allowed him to excel in the field of public relations. I watched as he crossed back toward the door, but instead of leaving, as I'd hoped he would, he took up a position directly in front of the desk. With his back against the bookcases, he crossed his arms and prepared to watch my every move. It was supposed to intimidate me, make me hurry through my task, but I had all the time in the world. Probably a lot more than Gunnar McNabb. I moseyed over to Grenier's desk, pulled out his chair, and sat down with a sigh of comfort. I tried a few drawers, which were all open, and then I smiled over to Gunnar.

"Might as well sit down. You're going to be here for a while."

He gave me no facial reaction whatsoever. He pulled one of the guest chairs over and sank into it. Then he sat, back straight, arms crossed over his chest, and watched me. He wasn't going to make this easy.

When he was firmly seated I stood, walked over to the door, and opened it. "It's a little stuffy in here," I said. And I want every single staff member to see me going through Grenier's desk. But that, I didn't say. I wondered if Gunnar would get up and close the door, but, as I'd hoped, he didn't. He obviously figured I couldn't get into too much trouble under his watchful eye. Unfortunately, he was right.

Duncan had given me a description of the diaries — bound blue notebooks just like we used to use in chemistry lab — so I knew what I was looking for. I also knew I probably wouldn't find them in Grenier's office, but that wasn't why I was here. I pulled out my notebook, laid it on the desk, and pulled the first drawer out onto the desk. I carefully removed, examined, and catalogued every item in the drawer. When I'd finished that, I moved on to drawer number two. At my current rate, it would take me approximately three hours just to complete his desk.

As I worked, I saw several people pass the office in the hall outside. By the time I'd finished the second drawer word had gotten out that someone was rifling Grenier's desk and traffic had picked up considerably. Some people stopped and stared. A few even approached the door, but they backed off when they saw McNabb seated like a prison guard on the chair across from me. McNabb, I noted with satisfaction, had begun to squirm, and that was my cue. I pulled out the third drawer and put it on the desk, then I lifted my briefcase onto the chair, opened it, and made it look like I was pulling something out and stuffing it in the pocket of my jeans.

"I'll be back in a minute. I just need to use the ladies'." We'd passed it on the way here, so I didn't wait for a response. I just breezed out the door.

At the bathroom door I gave a quick glance up and down the hall, saw no one, and pushed the door open, letting it bang shut, then I scooted across the hall into an empty seminar room, leaving the lights off but the door wide open. I leaned on the wall just inside the door and waited. It took seven minutes. I heard a light step coming down the hall. It stopped outside the ladies' room, then shuffled impatiently. Finally, the staccato click of high heels approached from the direction of the office. McNabb directed the woman to check the stalls. A minute later she was out with the unfortunate news. They were empty.

"Shit," said McNabb, and the sound of his footfalls diminished as he took off in the direction of the office. There was no sound for a moment, then the heels clicked into the bathroom and the door swished shut. McNabb had left Grenier's office door open, but the instant I was back inside I closed it. I didn't have much time.

The first thing I did was grab an agenda from Grenier's desk and stuff it in my leather jacket. Next, I hit the callers button on his phone and scrolled to the day before his death. I wrote down the names of the people who'd called Grenier that day, the following day, and the day after he died. I would have liked to get the names of all the callers, but my time was limited. Next I moved on to his speed-dial and copied down the ten names there. I'd just gotten into his directory when I heard a soft knock at the door. I froze. Was it locked or not? There was another soft tap, the door opened, and a small, round man slipped inside and shut the door quietly behind him.

"They are looking all over for you," he remarked in a beautifully articulated French accent. Then he stepped forward, took a furtive glance over his shoulder, and said, "Andreas Mellier, at your service. I was thinking that maybe you might like an escape route."

Actually, I'd planned to let myself out Grenier's back door, but Mellier was offering me an intriguing alternative.

He glanced at his watch. "And it is lunchtime. Perhaps you would care to — " There was a shuffle outside and the door swung open. Mellier did a quick pirouette, which brought him face to face with McNabb, or face to shoulder, to be more accurate. "Ah! It is Monsieur McNabb," he said with a grin. Then he motioned to me. "You see? I have found your fugitive and she has agreed to have lunch with me at the Ranch House Restaurant. I am a very lucky man." He put out his arm. "Shall we?"

I linked my arm through his, gave McNabb a dazzling smile, and waltzed out the door on Mellier's arm.