Читать книгу Eagle Squad - James C Glass - Страница 7

CHAPTER TWO

When Curtis Lundeman stepped out upon the front porch of his home he was in an expansive mood, and the world was good. For a moment, the president of Simenson University was totally at peace with himself; the fight with his wife the previous night was forgotten, along with the previous day’s stress of a faculty senate meeting and other nonsense. He breathed in cool air and surveyed his command in the orange light of an early morning sun filtering through trees and awakening the birds. Below him, in a green hollow watched over by the vast research complex he had personally negotiated funding for, the polished marble campus glowed like an ancient seat of learning reborn.

Lundeman was proud of what he had accomplished here, even though he had been necessarily harsh at times, so much so that certain faculty members still walked softly around him. Only the goal was important, the goal of creating an educational institution of high quality that would have a positive impact on a shaky world. The thought of it made him tremble, giving him true meaning and sense of purpose in what he otherwise considered to be a drab life. There it was before him, growing, and glowing in the morning sun.

He looked forward to the day: a little work in the office, lunch with two representatives from the National Science Foundation who were looking at his plans for an institutional grant, and then the trip south for the football game and what he hoped would be another big victory for the Cougars. Why was it, he wondered, that universities were so often measured by the greatness of their football teams? A sad fact, but one he accepted and made use of in his talks to business groups. Football made money.

The campus was quiet, the sound of his footsteps coming back to him from granite walls. At a distance, he saw someone mount a bicycle in front of the physics building and ride away. Lights were on in the chemistry complex; it seemed the chemists were always there, cooking a new brew. Lundeman was happy with them. Chemistry made money, lots of it.

He walked past beds of flowers surrounding the cylindrical hub of campus which was his office building, known among various faculty factions as the galactic core, the seat of power, the phallus of academe, or simply the palace. His office was on the first floor, and he used a key to let himself in, made a pot of coffee in the little kitchen that had once been a closet, and settled himself at his desk. He inserted a disk of Mozart’s Requiem in a player, turned the volume down low and began to work as the aroma of brewing coffee filled the office air. The work flowed smoothly, the coffee was hot and tasty, and the music lulled him into a state of peaceful detachment. Such a fragile state, so easily shattered by the sound of a ringing telephone.

The telephone rang three times before he answered it. He listened for a moment, then leaned back in his chair, putting one hand to his forehead to dab at beads of sweat that had suddenly formed there.

“When did you find him?” he asked, then listened.

“Didn’t the guard know anything at all?”

Pause to listen.

“Keep him under wraps, Max. I don’t want him talking to anyone until I’ve cleared it, do you understand? Good. No, you did well, Max. I’ll remember that. Hold tight, and I’ll be over with someone. No, not the police. We can’t allow them in a restricted area. Don’t let anyone in until I get there. Tell them there’s contamination. Right. You’ve got it, Max. I knew I could count on you.”

Lundeman hung up the phone quickly and stared at a wood-paneled wall, drumming the fingers of his left hand on a polished desk. He picked up the phone, punched four numbers, continued drumming until there was an answer. His voice was low, sharp and accusing.

“So you’re in already,” he said quickly. “Let’s see if this is news to you; I just got a call from the hill. They found Jacob Bauer dead in lab four an hour ago. I don’t suppose you’d know anything about that? You know exactly what I mean; don’t give me that shit. You answer to me, don’t forget it. If I find out you’re bypassing me I’ll have your ass. Understand? All right. All right! Is your car here? Go home right now. I don’t want you seen around here. I’ll see you Monday, but I’ve got to call the Langley people now and get a crew out here. Yes. Goodbye.”

He hung up the phone gently this time, breathing deeply as self-control returned, then from memory punched a long sequence of numbers and waited again before speaking carefully and succinctly.

“Curtis Lundeman for room five-two-four. Curtis Lundeman. That’s C-U-R-T-I-S.”

There was a moment of waiting for voiceprint identification before he spoke again.

“We have a red contamination problem in four. I need a crew out here stat. Medical treatment is not necessary.”

When he put down the phone, his forehead was dry again. Moving slowly, he returned two files to a cabinet, locked his desk, rinsed out a cup and unplugged the coffee-maker before leaving his office. He tried the front door of the building after locking it, walked casually across campus and up the hill to the entrance of Gordon Science Center. The walk took only five minutes, but a white Dodge van with U.S. GOVERNMENT stenciled in blue on the front doors was waiting for him when he arrived. No football game for me tonight, he thought.

The revolving glass doors at the entrance yielded to his touch. Three men, one of whom he recognized, looked at him from the reception desk. Max Schuler, head of security, was obviously relieved to see him, smiling as his reinforcements arrived. Unlike Max, who was in slacks and a flannel shirt, the other two men were gloved, dressed in white, each carrying a transparent helmet under one arm. The men, both blond and in their late twenties or early thirties, turned to examine Lundeman with exceptionally blue eyes. One extended a gloved hand, and the university president held it lightly in his for only an instant.

“I’m Sanderson, and this is Harris,” said the man, nodding towards the other who stood beside him silently and without expression. “You called in a problem?”

“We’ll take the elevator up,” said Lundeman. “Max, you wait here, and keep everyone out. Tell them we’ve had a bad chemical spill.”

“Yes, sir,” said Max, looking relieved.

When the elevator doors closed behind them, Sanderson and Harris began stripping off their white decontamination clothing.

“No use sweating any more than we have to,” said Sanderson, smiling. Beneath the clumsy suit he wore grey slacks and a white body shirt stretched tightly over a heavily muscled frame. Harris was dressed the same, but he was a slender man who moved slowly with the fluid-like grace of a dancer. His eyes were those of a shark: cold, without expression.

“I want a quick word with the guard,” said Harris. “You go on to the lab, but I want to see it before you disturb anything.”

When the doors opened, the guard, face red and puffy, rose from his desk to meet them. He looked first at Lundeman, and said nothing. Harris took him firmly by one arm and led him back to his desk as Sanderson followed Lundeman down the hall. The lab was cold when they entered, and the animals were quiet in their cages. There was an open door on the far side of the room, and the body of a man was sprawled there on his back, eyes staring upwards, mouth open.

“He looks surprised,” said Sanderson.

“Poor old Bauer,” said Lundeman. “He wasn’t much of a teacher, but he did some good research, and the students liked him.”

Sanderson looked into the fume hood. “He was working in here. Broken glass all over the place, but otherwise nothing. Does this mean anything to you, Doctor Lundeman?”

“No. Maybe he broke something poisonous. I’ll have to look up his contract to recall what he was working on.”

“He was working with SB4,” said Harris, who had entered the lab with stealth and was padding around the room behind them. He leaned over to look at the body, pulled down the dead man’s collar, peered closely at something and straightened up. “For your information, Doctor Lundeman, that’s a nerve gas.”

“Ah yes, now I recall it,” said Lundeman.

“The gas is stored in ampoules, like the one broken in this fume hood. There’s no other equipment or chemicals in there, no animal cages, nothing. Just a broken ampoule. Now, if the exhaust fan were on and the fume hood window pulled down even two-thirds closed, the gas from that broken ampoule should not have reached the room, yet it appears it did.”

“Bauer was killed by SB4, then. An accident due to poor technique.” A simple explanation would be best and most easily accepted by grant officers, hoped Lundeman.

“I don’t think so,” said Harris quickly, “and I don’t think it could be suicide either. There are bruises on the back of his neck, and pieces of glass on the floor by his head. He was forced into the hood, and the ampoule broken by his face. See the cuts near his right eye?”

Lundeman forced himself to look closely at Bauer’s staring face. The cuts were there, a tiny piece of glass glistening in one of them. “Are you suggesting murder?”

“I am,” said Harris, “and a sloppy job of it. Do you know of any reason someone might have to kill this man?”

“None at all. He was a quiet person who did his job and got along well with the students. He had a graduate student working with him, by the way. Where is he?”

“Len Dieter,” said Harris, looking at a small notebook he had scribbled in. “The guard remembers Bauer saying the student had called him from the lab, asking him to come in, but the guard hadn’t seen him all night. We’ll check this all out with the student later. It seems he wasn’t here when Bauer arrived, and the guard didn’t see anyone leave.”

“This Len Dieter still hasn’t arrived, even though he called Bauer to come in. I find that strange,” said Lundeman.

“Perhaps,” said Harris, “but we’ll check it out. Central office is sending someone, and he’ll be here by this evening. Maybe the student will turn up by that time. My people will look for him right away. In the meantime I’m ordering an autopsy, and the official cause of death will be heart failure. There’s no need to complicate things any further right now.”

“Certainly,” said Lundeman, “and I don’t want any stories about nerve gas accidents here, either.”

“Publicity will be kept to a minimum,” Harris assured him. “I’ll control that locally. We’ll need to talk with you again later. We have to move fast, particularly if there’s a security problem involved. For now, let’s get his body out of here. Sanderson, get the stretcher and bring a body bag.”

“Right,” said the big man, and he quickly left the room, elbowing his way past the guard who stood at the doorway, gazing at the body of Jacob Bauer. Harris seemed startled.

“How long have you been standing there?”

“Just for a minute. Can I go now? It’s two hours past the end of my shift, and my replacement is here.”

“Go ahead, but be quiet about all of this,” snapped Harris.

“Yes, sir,” said the man. He turned and shuffled out of the room. Harris looked at Lundeman, a question in his eyes.

“He’ll be okay,” said Lundeman. “He’s been with us a long time.”

The guard left the building and went home for breakfast, where he told his excited wife everything he had seen and heard that morning.

* * * * *

Irene Lundeman relaxed the morning away under the gentle, capable hands of Allen, her hairdresser. The salon was empty except for Allen, herself, and Allen’s partner Eric, who struck a bored, effeminate pose in a barber chair near the window. Allen played the affected hairdresser well, clucking over her like a mother hen, but as he washed her hair his hands strayed to her neck, shoulders and back, rubbing with just the right pressure and rhythm to give her a minute tingling and throbbing sensation between her legs.

“Something swept up, I think: symmetric and softly curling at the top to accentuate your height, and those gorgeous cheekbones. Curtis will not leave you alone today,” he promised.

“Curtis won’t even notice, Allen. He never does. You know I come here for myself.”

“I am your devoted servant, madam.”

“You’re so sweet to me, such a blessing in this dismal little town.”

Allen leaned her back in the chair, folded a towel around her head and kneaded softly. She tilted her chin up as his fingers worked, occasionally caressing her throat, and he felt rather than heard her breath quicken.

“Oh, you have such marvelous hands,” she moaned.

“Pooh,” he said teasing, then smiled as she whispered to him and reached up to touch his face.

“Don’t play the gay with me, Allen. We both know better.” She leaned back against him.

“Do you want us to be alone, dear?” he whispered.

“Yes,” she breathed. “Tell Eric to take a walk.”

Allen chuckled. “Eric, my lad,” he said brightly, “it’s a lovely morning, and business is slow. Why don’t you take a stroll in the park?”

Eric looked at them angrily, rolling his eyes. “Again? Why don’t we just buy a cot for the storage room, or put up a curtain so you can consult in private? Really, Allen, this is disgusting. I will be back in exactly twenty minutes, so make it quick.”

Eric stormed furiously out of the shop and walked to the park, where he found a friend and spent some lovely, intimate moments of his own that eased his jealousy of Irene Lundeman.

* * * * *

At seven o’clock the blue Lincoln Town Car pulled majestically into the circular drive before the president’s residence and stopped by the front door. Curtis Lundeman got out of the driver’s side and walked slowly around to where his wife waited for him to open her door. She swung her long legs out of the car and used his extended hand for support in making a graceful exit.

Inside the house they pulled off the full-length leather coats they had worn to dinner. Irene sat down on a white sofa to take off her boots, and sighed contentedly.

“I had a lovely time tonight,” she said happily.

“I’m glad,” said her husband. “I was afraid you’d be bored at the game, and business prevented us from going anyway.”

“Oh no,” she said. “It was so nice with just the two of us for a change. I do enjoy entertaining your important guests, of course. Do you think I make them feel comfortable?”

“Of course, dear. I’ve never doubted your abilities to charm people.” Lundeman smiled when she looked at him sharply, but then her expression softened again. “You are always the perfect hostess,” he said seriously, “very relaxed, and obviously satisfied with yourself.”

“I do want to help you, Curtis, if you’ll let me. You were so quiet today, I wondered if you were still angry about last night.”

“Not at all; it’s forgotten.”

“You have a right to be angry. I really was a brat. It’s just that most of the time I feel so useless around here, and this town drives me crazy with boredom.”

“We must find you some sort of hobby to pursue, something creative,” he suggested.

“I don’t want you to worry about this, darling. I’ll find something to do while you build your little university and then we can move east to one of the real centers of learning and culture.”

“That’s the plan,” he said, smiling, “and I’m not angry with you. There are other things on my mind. Do you want a drink?”

“Yes, if you’re having one, a little scotch over ice.”

He went to the kitchen and returned with the drinks a moment later. Irene patted the sofa, motioning him to sit beside her. He sat down and they touched glasses. “To next summer, and sailing off Nantucket, and a salty breeze in your hair,” he said, then drained his glass in a single gulp.

Irene took a tiny sip of whisky, looking concerned. “You’re worried about something, aren’t you?”

Curtis looked at his empty glass. “It’s probably nothing special, but a faculty member was found dead in his lab this morning.”

“Dear God, how?”

“Likely a heart attack, but it happened in a secure area so there’ll be an investigation. I’m being interviewed again tonight.”

“You have to leave?”

“No, someone is coming over here at eight o’clock. Do you mind?”

“Of course not. Here, I’ll get you another drink and fix us a little desert before your visitor arrives.” She took his glass, planting a warm moist kiss on his forehead before disappearing into the kitchen, leaving him on the sofa marveling at his good judgment in choosing such a woman to be his wife.

At exactly eight o’clock, a county sheriff’s car pulled into their driveway as Curtis watched from a window. A lone civilian, grey hair, slightly hunched over in a grey overcoat, got out of the car and walked casually to the house. Curtis opened the door as the man stepped up on the porch, looking startled.

“Doctor Lundeman?” Curtis nodded as the man fumbled in his coat pocket, then held up an identification card with his picture on it. “I’m Charles Ebensack, NSA Arlington. Could you spare me a few minutes, Doctor?”

“Yes, come in. I was expecting someone from Central Intelligence.”

Ebensack smiled, took off the heavy overcoat and adjusted his tie while taking in the plush furnishings of a university president’s house. Curtis hung the coat in a closet and motioned Ebensack to the couch as Irene made her entrance into the room. She walked straight to Ebensack with a dazzling smile and hand extended as Curtis announced, “This is my wife, Irene.” He had seen men quiver in her presence when she looked this way, some perhaps intimidated by her height, but Ebensack regarded her calmly with a little smile, took her hand gently in his and made a little bow. Curtis had seen the style in Eastern Europe, and he suspected that had Irene thought to raise her hand a little more, Ebensack would have kissed it while looking into her eyes.

“Can I get you something: a coffee, perhaps, or something sweet?”

“Nothing, thank you. I’ll only be here a few minutes.”

“Then I’ll leave you to your business. Curtis, dear, if you need anything I’ll be in our room, reading.” She turned to her guest. “Nice to meet you, Mister Ebensack.”

The man smiled warmly at her, said nothing, and Curtis detected both pleasure and amusement in his eyes as Irene turned and made her dignified exit from the room.

“An exceptional woman,” said Ebensack.

“Thank you,” said Curtis. “What can I do for you?” They sat down to relax in soft waves of white fabric.

“Just a few questions about the unfortunate incident in laboratory four this morning. An autopsy has been performed, and the official cause of death will be listed as heart failure. Doctor Bauer’s family has some history of heart problems, and his wife can accept this without question. They have no children. Most unfortunate.”

“Then there’s no question of suicide or murder?”

“Ah, there’s the rub,” said Ebensack gravely. “There’s no evidence of heart or arterial disease, or any other condition that might cause a massive coronary. There is no sign whatsoever of myocardial infarction. It would appear that his heart simply stopped, and this is an unusual physiological phenomenon. The broken ampoule could be related to his death. SB4 inhalation blocks every nerve in the body almost instantly. Do you think this could have happened accidentally, Doctor Lundeman?”

“It’s possible. Look, I’m not a chemist, but I’m familiar with the original research proposal. Bauer’s work was on finding an agent to block the effects of SB4. Maybe he was careless. There was nothing except the broken gas ampoule in the fume hood, and that material is supposed to be handled in a sealed glove-box, where there’s no danger of exposure.”

“That seems reasonable,” said Ebensack reflectively, “but of course there’s the question of suicide.”

“Unlikely,” said Curtis, warming to his understanding and explanation of the problem. “As far as I know, Doctor Bauer had no reasons for suicide. He seemed healthy, was enthusiastic about his work, and I’ve heard nothing about any personal problems he might have had. He was a rather outspoken man, and not what I would call private. He was well respected for the quality of his research here.”

Ebensack wrote something down in his notebook and frowned. “So there’s no obvious motive for suicide, even though one never really knows what goes on in the bedroom, and we also have the bruises to explain.”

“Bruises?”

“Yes, across the back, one cheek, and two small but prominent bruises on the back of his neck, as if he had been grabbed by a very strong hand. Put this together with the fact there were many tiny pieces of glass in his face, and you might think he was beaten, then forced into the fume hood where someone broke an SB4 ampoule by his face. That’s not suicide, Doctor Lundeman, that’s murder.”

Curtis felt the coolness of tiny beads of perspiration evaporating at his hairline. He willed himself to remain calm by remembering a cliché for stage comedians and university presidents. Never let them see you sweat. When he spoke, his voice was firm and reassuring.

“What you say makes sense, but I can’t imagine anyone wanting to kill Jacob Bauer. Like I said, he was well respected here.”

“He had no enemies? No rivals for a particular position, or a facility?”

“None that I’m aware of. He was not what I’d call an ambitious man.”

Ebensack wrote a few words in his notebook. “Did you personally like him, Doctor?”

“I hardly knew him. We met at receptions and senate meetings, and he came over to my office once or twice for a chat. My door is always open for the faculty, and I encourage them to come in for visits.”

“Did you ever have any conflicts with him?”

“Not really. I mentioned he was a very outspoken man, and we argued in the senate about our policies regarding classified research on this campus. He was basically opposed to allowing overly classified research here, and was quite vocal about it. The issue has been sent to the faculty senate research committee, and they’re working on a policy statement now. The main issue seems to be easing restrictions on graduate thesis publication. Federal input has been very helpful in this matter, by the way, and I appreciate that. We should have the problem resolved in the next few weeks.”

“Can you think of any faculty members who would be threatened by Bauer’s opposition to classified research?”

“Absolutely not. The majority of our outside funding here comes from some kind of classified research, and the faculty certainly isn’t going to do away with it. Bauer knew that when he argued in the senate, but he was not afraid to express an unpopular opinion, and did so. I respect that.”

“It’s hard to tell how some people will react to a situation, Doctor, and what one person regards as nothing may be seen as a life-threat to another. I’ll be checking into this further, and I’d like to have your cooperation.”

“I’ll help you in any way I can. All I ask is that you be discrete about your inquiries, and please remember this is a university. People don’t get killed for expressing ideas here.”

“Perhaps, but unfortunately human history is filled with people who killed others because of their ideas. If a man is threatened by an idea, he will react to counter that threat with some permanence. This is a human trait, and universities are composed of human beings. It seems likely to me that Jacob Bauer was a threat to one or more people on this campus, and I will begin by finding out who they are.”

“But please keep in touch with my office,” said Lundeman quickly. “Some faculty members will be very sensitive to an investigation, and you should know who they are before you make any contacts.”

“I understand, and I’ll certainly let you know what I’m up to. My office will insist on that. This might take a few days or weeks, Doctor Lundeman. I’ll be staying with Harold Cox, so just call his office if you have any messages for me.”

“The county sheriff?”

“Yes. We went to school together, a long time ago. Such a small world we live in, don’t you think? I can do my work, and have a nice visit with an old friend at the same time.”

“That’s nice,” said Lundeman, standing up. “Is there anything else I can do for you now?”

Ebensack got up slowly, thinking. “I can’t see anything more at the moment, but I’m sure something will come to mind later. You’ve been helpful, Doctor.”

Lundeman helped the man with his heavy coat, and opened the front door for him. The evening air felt cold on his face and head, and he suddenly realized his arm pits were damp as well. The men shook hands, and then Ebensack held on as he suddenly thought of something new to say. “Tell me, Doctor, do you honestly think anyone could have regarded Jacob Bauer as a dangerous troublemaker?”

“No, not Bauer. He was just opinionated; everyone understood that.” Their hands clasped together, Lundeman wondered if Ebensack felt the tremor that passed through his body.

“Yes, well, good night, doctor Lundeman, and thank you. I’ll be in touch again.” He let go of Lundeman’s hand, walked slowly to the sheriff’s car, deep in thought, and got in while Lundeman shivered in the evening air.

As the car pulled slowly out of the winding driveway, the university president stepped back into his house and closed the door. When he turned around, Irene was standing in the kitchen doorway, a strong looking drink in one hand and a facial expression usually reserved for those times when she had a particularly damaging piece of gossip to report.

“Well, dear,” she said nastily, “you didn’t bother to tell me it was murder.”