“Come with me, and we can talk about it.”
“Why can’t you tell me here?” asked Berman.
“Come with me,” said Jimmy. “I have to insist.”
64.
OLYMPIC STADIUM, LONDON, U.K.
FRIDAY, AUGUST 2, 2013, 10:00 P.M.
Two of Jimmy’s security men walked Berman to a small conference room at the back of the large suite across from the powder room. Berman was surprised to see that Whitney Jones was already seated at the table with another guard at her back. On the table in front of her were two powered up computers. There were several other Chinese men at the table in business suits. Each had their own laptop in front of them.
Jimmy closed the door behind him and bid Zachary Berman to sit down next to Whitney. When he didn’t, the two guards forced him into a chair.
“Get your hands off me!” Berman yelled. His voice was thick from drink.
“Relax, Zachary. I realize I owe you an explanation,” said Jimmy.
“You sure do.” Berman was steamed, especially since he had been manhandled by Jimmy Yan’s security. Jimmy was his friend; they were business partners, and Berman didn’t appreciate being touched. The whole day had taken an ugly turn.
“Zachary, I assure you that nothing has changed in our relationship.”
“You could have fooled me. What was going on out there? If I didn’t know better, I would say that the winner was running with respirocytes in her system, and you say nothing has changed? The only place in the world where respirocytes are made is Nano.”
“I said nothing has changed. Well, maybe the timetable we’re on has been altered slightly.”
“What does that mean? And who was that woman? I swear I never saw her before in my life.”
“She is China’s new heroine and world champion. She deserves to be congratulated. And you should be congratulated, too, Zachary. And you, Miss Jones.”
“What does her victory have to do with me?” said Berman.
“Wei had been given a dose according to the newest protocol of respirocytes in a secret training location in China.”
“What!” Berman shot out of his seat, only to be thrust back down into it by the guards. “That is outrageous! That is not how it was to be. We have our agreement! The technology is hardly finished, and you’ve stolen it already.”
“I wouldn’t say we have stolen it. We borrowed some respirocytes, as a loan against the sum—the huge sum, I might add—we are about to pay for the ability to share proprietary information and manufacture the nanorobots in China. And we are sitting here to complete our end of the deal. So really no harm has been done.”
Jimmy turned and spoke to one of the associates at the table.
“What is he saying?” Berman asked Whitney. “Did you know anything about this?”
“No! Of course not. He is asking for the wire transfer to be prepared.”
“I don’t have the decryption key for the Web sites with the technological specs,” said Berman. “I didn’t imagine I’d need them today.”
“I took the liberty of bringing your machine with me,” said Jimmy, and handed Berman his laptop.
“Why are you doing this? Why are we not waiting for the marathon, as we agreed?”
“We decided we didn’t have to wait. My superiors added more conditions to the deal, and they insisted I not share them with you. We had to replicate your anticipated success at the championships with a winning runner of our own. As the men’s marathon is the last event, that presented us with a problem.”
“How did you get hold of the respirocytes? Do you have spies in my company? Who are they? I’ll find out if you don’t tell me, and there’ll be hell to pay.”
“Zachary, please do not get agitated about any of this. You are wasting your energy. We are fully committed to nanotechnology and our partnership, and this money is the sign of our commitment. Miss Jones, please look at these details on the screen. Tell me if they look good to you.”
Jimmy slid the two laptops over to Whitney, and she read the information. The amount of money, the huge amount, was correct. The bank was right; she had memorized the account number, and that was good, too.
“It looks fine to me,” she said. “Everything seems to be in order.”
“How can I ever trust you again?” Berman was staring at Jimmy. His voice wavered.
“That is not for me to answer, Zachary.” Jimmy said. “Understand that the situation was out of my control. You have to believe me. Now please, if you could pass me the codes, we will access the Web site.”
“And then what?”
“What do you mean?”
“What happens after I do that?”
“The money goes to Nano’s account,” said Jimmy. “As we agreed. And we have access to the company’s technical specifications. Officially. Then we can begin to make nanorobots and share with you in the future research.”
“And then we go back to the vicarage?”
“Unfortunately, that will not be possible.”
“But . . . Pia . . .” said Berman, stumbling over his words. And the worst part of what had just happened suddenly occurred to him.
• • •
THE MORE TIME that passed without a call from Harry, the nearer Burim Graziani was to the end of his rope. He had gone to Piccadilly Circus, the station on the underground that seemed best situated for access to anywhere in London. Burim figured the Underground was the way to go if he was in a hurry, as the Friday-night traffic in the center part of the city was impossible. It was almost eleven o’clock, and he had heard nothing for hours. If there was a fate worse than death, Burim had read about it that afternoon. He knew about the sex traffickers, and what the girls these men took were subjected to. He could barely contain his fury. Someone was going down for this and that someone was going to be Zachary Berman.
• • •
“YOU BASTARD.”
“Zachary, I am saving you from yourself. You have been useless these past two weeks. Miss Jones has been running Nano single-handedly while you have been monomaniacally obsessed with this Pia woman. You have spent your days and nights mooning over her. And I saw last night that she will never give herself to you voluntarily. As we have discussed, it is okay to have a weakness, but this woman is a fatal flaw in you. You’re like a character in a Greek tragedy.”
“I will see to it that you—”
“You will see to nothing. Yell and scream all you want. You have your money; we have the proprietary information. We have made arrangements for you to leave. Your plane is scheduled to depart from Stansted in ninety minutes to take you back to Boulder. By the time you get home, you will have seen the reason for what we have done and understand it.”
“But where is Pia?”
“Obviously I am not going to tell you anything. In fact, I don’t know where she is. In order to retain our . . . standing . . . we used an intermediary to tidy up your mess. I couldn’t tell you where she was if I wanted to. Now you will leave. Voluntarily or otherwise, it is all the same to me. Go home, Zachary! Go back to that castle of yours, and find another diversion. You deserve a rest.”
“I know I have been distracted,” said Berman. “But I beg you to reconsider what you are doing. I know that Pia will come around by the time of the marathon. That was our agreement. She told me herself she was changing her mind. Damn you, you bastard.”
Jimmy shrugged and told his men to make sure Berman got in the car downstairs without incident. He would follow them as they drove out to Stansted Airport.
• • •
WHEN BURIM’S PHONE RANG, he could hardly hear it over the noise of the crowd. There must have been a hundred kids with guitars, all sitting in the center of the square, all playing the same stupid song.
“Is this Burim?” said a
voice Burim didn’t recognize.
“Who is this?” Burim jammed a finger in his other ear and walked as fast as he could away from the din.
“I know where your daughter is being held.”
“If you do anything to her, I will kill you,” said Burim.
“I’m not holding her; there are two men,” said the voice. Burim was trying to place the accent. Not Albanian for sure, not European at all.
“Just tell me where she is.”
“Wimbledon.”
“The tennis place? Give me the address.”
The man gave Burim the details, which he memorized. Then the man asked “Where are you?”
“Central London.”
“You’d better be fast.”
Burim memorized what the man told him and started thumbing through the London A–Z guide he had bought for just this eventuality. When he found it, he phoned Harry and told him about the call.
“That’s weird,” said Harry. “Who do you think it was?”
“I have no idea, and I don’t care. Can you guys meet me or not? I’ve got to get the fuck over there. The caller warned me to be fast.”
“Okay, we’ll come, but Wimbledon is clear across London. It’s going to take us a while.”
“Well, get there as soon as you can. I might need backup.”
Burim hung up. Then, as he hurried toward the entrance to the Underground, he called George.
“Where are you?”
“Hammersmith,” said George. “You heard something, I can tell.”
“You have to meet me right now. It’s a place in Wimbledon. I will give you the details. Pia is there, I hope. Grab a cab and and wait for me, but don’t do anything until I’m there. Even if you happen to see her, don’t interfere, just follow. Got it?”
“Okay, okay. Oh, my God. Just tell me where to go.”
Burim gave him the address and repeated the admonition not to do anything before he arrived. He added that it could be dangerous for him and for Pia. As he started down the stairs he cursed the fact that he might have to rely on a goddamned stupid college kid like George.
• • •
JIMMY FELT A TWINGE of compassion for Zachary Berman, then discarded it. He was a weak man, after all. He had succeeded so well in life, yet had failed to control himself when it mattered. It had been easy for Jimmy to gain access to Nano’s secrets, but still, it all could have turned out differently if Berman had been more of a man. Jimmy was so sick of Berman’s whining that he rode in a separate car. After Berman had climbed into his, Jimmy had guided Whitney Jones into the second car and got in after her.
“You should have come to me earlier,” said Whitney. “I would have talked to him. It might have worked out differently.”
“I know you would have talked to him. But I think he was always going to be besotted with this woman. But his feelings will pass, and he will stop hating me. Or he won’t. It’s all the same to me.” Jimmy smiled.
“Nano will be fine,” said Whitney.
“I know,” said Jimmy. “Mostly thanks to you.” He looked at his watch. Everything was running like clockwork. They were already close to the airport, and it was important that Berman was safely in the air before the last act played out.
“Midnight,” said Jimmy. And he sat back in his seat.
• • •
ALTHOUGH HE MADE his connection quickly at South Kensington station where he had momentarily considered exiting from the Underground and finding a taxi, Burim strained every sinew willing the Underground train to go faster. Why was the train so slow? Why did the stations need to be so close together? Burim found a passenger who was alighting at Wimbledon, and he found out from her that he needed to be at the front of the District Line train to make the fastest exit. He barged from car to car through the happy and mostly drunken Friday-night crowd, who all took one look at the man and gave him leeway without complaint, realizing he shouldn’t be messed with.
Burim knew that Hammersmith was closer to Wimbledon than Piccadilly, and he had told George to hail a taxi, meaning he was bound to get there faster. Burim hoped to hell George could contain himself and wait for him. His job was to make sure Pia wasn’t moved anywhere before Burim arrived.
Finally, the train arrived and Burim burst out of the car. It was about a mile to the home whose address he had and there were no taxis in sight. Burim busted a gut running there. He knew the route from the guidebook, and as he approached the address, he could see George Wilson standing in the street, and he ran toward him. This was a quiet residential street, a richer part of town than the one where he had been staying. The houses were all four stories tall.
“Have you seen anything?” Burim managed. He was totally out of breath gasping for air.
“Nothing,” George said, offering no greeting. “I think it’s the top flat, second house from the end. The one with the lights on. What are we going to do?”
Burim didn’t answer but rather took out his handgun and cocked it, putting a bullet into the chamber before tucking the gun into this belt. With one more glance up to the lighted apartment, he ran across the street toward the building’s front door.
For a second, George hesitated. The sight of the gun had unnerved him. But then, without really thinking about what he was doing, he took off after Burim. Burim was at the door, pulling a short-handled crowbar from the backpack he’d taken off his shoulder.
Wedging the crowbar into the doorjamb, Burim leaned into it, and the door gave way easily. He rushed through and charged up the stairs to the top level. George followed suit. On the top level, Burim raced to the appropriate door, 4A. Using both hands, he wedged the crowbar between the door and the jamb just above the lock. Then pulling out the gun from his belt with his right hand, he pushed the crowbar with his left, putting all his weight onto it. The door was dead-bolted and had a chain, but Burim was like a man possessed—his strength splintered the door and yanked it off its hinges.
A heartbeat later Burim was in the apartment, now holding his gun in front of him in both hands. Inside were two men on a couch, moving now, guns on the table, lines of cocaine. . . . Burim squeezed off two shots in the direction of each man aiming at their surprised faces—the first went down, but as the second reached for his gun, Burim fired again, with truer aim.
George pushed into the room and felt immediately sick. The two men were obviously mortally wounded. Both were lying in grotesque positions: one was moaning, the other gurgling. Burim’s aim was good—both had been hit in the head, sending bits of bone and brain splattering on the wall behind the couch. A TV was on and a late-night host was still chatting with his guest as if nothing had happened. On the coffee table with the guns and cocaine was a large brick of 100-euro notes.
“Jesus,” said George.
Still holding his gun out in front of him, Burim searched the apartment, first looking into the kitchen area. It was a mess, with dirty dishes piled on the countertops and in the sink. Wasting no time, Burim dashed to the back of the living room. There were two closed doors that led, he assumed, to bedrooms. Burim held the handle to the first, clutching his gun in his other hand. He opened the door quickly, and rolled around the door into the room, ready to fire again. There was an unmade double bed, an open wardrobe and not much else. Burim checked a small bathroom. It was empty.
Burim went to the second door off the living room. He ignored George who was frozen in place two steps into the apartment. Burim grasped the doorknob of the final door, holding this pistol at the ready alongside his head. He then yanked open the door.
• • •
JIMMY YAN YAWNED. It had been a hell of a day. But Zach Berman’s plane was now ready to head back to Boulder, and in a few minutes, Jimmy’s car would be roaring on the motorway up the spine of England to Manchester and another airport, and a plane that would
take him home and to a powerful new life of his own.
Jimmy moved over to the base of the airstairs leading up to Berman’s plane. Berman was standing on the tarmac off to the side, and looked crushed and a little drunk. Jimmy nodded that it was time, and the guards let Berman go. Berman walked unsteadily toward the stairs. Jimmy held out his hand to shake if Berman was so inclined, but he wasn’t. He stopped for a moment, glared at Jimmy for a beat, then climbed the stairs. At the top, he didn’t look back.
Berman turned to the right and sank into one of the leather swivel chairs. He leaned back and closed his eyes. The pilots were going through their last preflight checks. A few moments later as the door to the Gulfstream banged shut, Berman opened his eyes and nodded to the cabin attendant. It was only then that he made a point to turn and look into the depth of the plane. He was surprised. He was the only passenger. Whitney Jones had never got on.
Berman leaned over to the large oval window, which was a hallmark of the Gulfstream design. He craned his neck to see what he could. He made out Jimmy’s figure, and, yes, there was Whitney Jones, standing right next to him. Berman leaned back into his seat. I have my money, he thought, but why does it feel like I’ve lost everything?
• • •
“YOU FEEL OKAY?” Jimmy said to Whitney.
“I feel fine,” Whitney said. “Better than fine. I’m flabbergasted at what you have been able to do. Nano will be far better with you at the helm.”
“With your help,” Jimmy said. “You’ll be supplying the needed continuity.”
“Thank you for the recognition,” Whitney responded. “Actually, I deserve it, after how hard I had to work these last months trying to hold the place together. But you are the one who deserves the recognition.”
“I’m pleased you have been so supportive of our little coup.”
“Like I said, if you’d come to me sooner, I’d have helped. Berman was ignoring the business with his stupid, adolescent obsession. Nano will be much safer with you. What you did was so damn clever.”
With Whitney Jones sitting next to him back at the stadium, Berman had looked at the transaction page on the computer and suspected nothing. At the time neither did Whitney. It was a dummy page that only looked like the real thing. There had been no money transfer. Berman thought Jimmy had stolen some respirocytes, but the truth was far worse. The proprietary secrets that comprised Nano’s real worth, besides the highly mortgaged physical plant, was all in Chinese hands. In a few days, a Chinese buyout would complete what was already a de facto truth—Nano belonged to China. Jimmy knew all of Nano’s research secrets, and by now Chinese researchers were well ahead of Nano’s. Jimmy was going home to run the company with Whitney as his newly installed number two. For the foreseeable future China was to dominate medical nanotechnology.