The Green Trap Page 5

  Cochrane tried to see from Tulius’s bearded face whether he was telling the truth or not, but gave it up. He didn’t know the man well enough to read his expression.

  Sandoval said, “So you think that his murder was connected with the research he was doing.”

  Spreading his hands in a gesture of helplessness, Tulius answered, “I suppose that must be it, although I can’t for the life of me see what Michael was doing that would lead someone to kill him.”

  “Could he have been working on something on his own, without your knowing it?”

  “Moonlighting?” Tulius thought about it for all of a second. “I doubt that, doubt it very much.”

  “So just what was he working on?” Cochrane asked.

  Tulius took another sip of his coffee, then asked, “Would you like to see what he was doing?”

  “Yes!” Sandoval answered before Cochrane could get a word out of his mouth.

  Tulius went to his desk and picked up the phone. In a few minutes a rangy, bearded, wary-eyed man showed up at the office door. Do they all wear beards? Cochrane asked himself. No, he answered silently. Mike didn’t. None of the Calvin people who showed up at the funeral did. Neither Tulius nor this new guy had been among the mourners.

  “This is Dr. Kurtzman,” said Tulius.

  “Ray Kurtzman,” he said, extending his hand to Cochrane. “Sorry about your brother.”

  Cochrane expected him to take them back to one of the laboratories, or perhaps to Mike’s office. Instead, Kurtzman led Sandoval and himself up a flight of uncarpeted steel stairs toward the building’s roof.

  “Most of us work with laboratory specimens,” he said as they climbed the stairs. “Me, I’m a theoretician. I work with computer models and statistics.”

  “And Mike?”

  Kurtzman opened the door that led out onto the roof. “Your brother was an experimentalist. A tinkerer.”

  Cochrane had to squint in the sunlight. He started to take off his suit jacket, but realized that a cooling breeze was whipping in from the ocean, on the other side of the hills. The sky was bright blue, dotted with puffy white clumps of cumulus. A band of pearl-gray cloud was edging over the range of seaside hills, like a huge shapeless amoeba slithering over their crests.

  “A tinkerer?” Sandoval asked, raising her voice above the gusting breeze.

  Kurtzman led them to a flimsy-looking structure of slim metal slats and glass windows. A greenhouse, Cochrane saw.

  “Mike called this his Archaean Gardens,” Kurtzman said, as he opened the glass door. It wasn’t locked, Cochrane noticed.

  The greenhouse was filled with long straight rows of tables bearing shallow pans of water. Cochrane saw small rocks and pebbles strewn in the pans, seemingly haphazardly. Most of them were covered with some sort of slime. The water gurgled cheerfully through the pans and out to a drainpipe.

  “Archaean Gardens?” he asked.

  Kurtzman came close to smiling. “He, uh… borrowed the idea from some work the NASA people over at Ames were doing.” Pointing at the slime-covered stones, he explained, “These are stromatolites. Very ancient form of life. Probably first came into existence three or four billion years ago.”

  Sandoval asked, “How did he make them if they’ve been dead for so long?”

  “They’re not extinct,” Kurtzman replied. “They still exist, off in places like Australia and east Africa. Mike got some samples and decided to try breeding them here under controlled conditions.”

  Cochrane pointed at the thin mats of living creatures. “Are they single-celled?”

  “Algae and cyanobacteria,” Kurtzman said, nodding. “Mike wangled a NASA contract from Ames, up the road; they’re interested in the origins of life on earth. Helps them focus their explorations of Mars and other worlds, looking for life there.”

  “But what did he do with these creatures?” Sandoval asked.

  Kurtzman grinned at her. “Good question. Mike was altering the amount of water that flowed over them, varying the nutrients in the water, trying to learn how changes in their environment affected them.”

  “What was he measuring?” Cochrane asked.

  “Oxygen output. These little critters take in water and carbon dioxide and give off oxygen. That’s how the oxygen we breathe got into the atmosphere.”

  Sandoval seemed fascinated. “How do they do that?”

  “They crack water molecules, split ’em into hydrogen and oxygen. Not an easy thing to do, but they’ve been doing it for more than three billion years.”

  “They use the hydrogen and carbon to make carbohydrate food for themselves,” Cochrane said, remembering his high school biology class, “and release the oxygen into the air. Oxygen is waste matter for them.”

  “Yeah,” said Kurtzman. “They changed the whole world. Oxygen’s pretty deadly stuff for the life-forms that existed way back then. These little blue-green buggers wiped them out, mostly. Oxygen killed them off.”

  Cochrane stared at the stromatolites, going about their business of life as they had been for almost four billion years. The only sound in the greenhouse was the gurgling of the water washing over the rounded pebbles and slightly larger rocks. It was hot inside the glass walls. Cochrane took off his jacket, pulled his tie loose.

  And asked himself, Mike got himself killed over these microbes? There’s got to be more to it than this.

  Greenhouse Gases Cause

  Rising Global Temperature

  Global temperatures are rising. Measurements around the world show that the thermometer’s going up. There was some doubt about this because thermometer readings at the surface showed consistently rising temperatures while satellite measurements of the upper atmosphere showed a slight cooling trend.

  Research published recently has resolved the question. The satellite measurements were in error. The atmosphere is getting warmer. No doubt of it.

  This has happened before. Global climate has shifted many times in the past, often within a matter of a few decades or less. We’ve had ice ages and climates that were tropical from pole to pole.

  Today global climate is definitely warming. Spring is arriving in northern latitudes earlier than ever. Permafrost in Canada is melting. Ice shelves in Antarctica are collapsing. Migratory animals are moving northward earlier in the year. Certain plant species are moving northward, too, because it’s warm enough for them to thrive where they would have frozen before.

  Are human actions causing this warming? That can’t be pinned down definitely. Global climate shifts involve enormous energies, and can be caused by many factors, even including slight shifts in the earth’s orbit around the sun.

  But the amount of greenhouse gases that human industries and motorized transport pours into the atmosphere is at least a part of the problem. Perhaps a major part. Carbon dioxide and methane from human smokestacks, chimneys and exhaust pipes certainly aren’t making the climate cooler!

  Trouble is, some people are convinced that they know the truth about global warming, and they won’t listen to anything that counters their firmly held belief.

  There are those who insist that global warming is a myth, a Big Lie invented by environmentalists and nefarious foreigners who want to blame it all on us rich Americans. On the other hand, there are those who believe that we’re all going to drown in rising sea levels unless we stop burning fossil fuels and somehow instantaneously invent a pollution-free economy.

  Global climate is warming. Human actions are part of the problem. Bigger and more frequent hurricanes are one of the more obvious results of this climate shift.

  It seems prudent to do whatever we can to alleviate the problem. Shift away from fossil fuels. Use nuclear energy, hydrogen fuels, solar and wind power as much as feasible.

  And move to higher ground.

  —NAPLES [FL] DAILY NEWS

  October 23, 2005

  MANHATTAN:

  WALDORF - ASTORIA HOTEL

  This special meeting of the board of directors was held i
n the Beekman Suite, quietly and discreetly, where neither the news media nor pesty protestors could interfere. The long conference table was filled, except for one empty chair at its very end. On the table set up along the back wall of the conference room were arrayed trays of finger foods and an assortment of refreshments that ranged from triply distilled water to the finest Polish potato vodka.

  Lionel Gould sat at the head of the conference table, of course, the third generation of Goulds to hold such power. As chairman of the board of directors and principal stockholder in the corporation, Gould could break the careers of CEOs with a snap of his fingers. He was a benign-looking man of fifty-eight, portly, his graying hair thinning, his slightly porcine face set in a kindly little smile. His light brown eyes were flecked with gold, and as cold as ice. The jacket of his impeccably tailored three-piece suit hung crookedly on the back of his chair; his maroon silk tie was pulled loose beneath his double chin. Even though the conference room was thoroughly air-conditioned, Gould was obviously perspiring.

  In the past decade Gould had survived a massive heart attack, a triple cardiac bypass operation, and a hip replacement procedure. He had divorced two wives during that time and fired two CEOs. Currently unmarried, he was careless of his appearance and his physical condition. He had learned early in his teens that enormous wealth meant more to women than mere good looks or a trim athletic body.

  Now he tapped the polished conference tabletop with a single manicured finger. The murmured conversations among the directors stopped like an electric light being clicked off. Each of them—eleven men and eight women—turned their faces toward him.

  “Let’s get started,” Gould said. His voice was a deep rumbling basso. Once he had toyed with the idea of becoming an opera star, but although he had the physique and the talent (so he was told) he found that the daily grinding work of practicing was not for him.

  He nodded to the board secretary, seated at his left, who read a three-paragraph summary of the previous meeting’s minutes. Up and down the table, directors opened laptops or PDAs or leather-bound notebooks.

  The treasurer assured the assembled directors that Gould Energy Corporation had exceeded its goals in sales, pretax earnings, and net profits over the past quarter. The directors smiled and nodded.

  Gould himself interrupted the treasurer’s little rhapsody. “Demand for oil in China and India is pushing prices constantly higher. Which is good. Our exploration division, however, has had no success in finding new oil reserves.”

  “Which is bad,” piped one of the younger directors.

  Gould glared at the dark-haired man, then resumed. “Increased demand without increasing supply means that the price for petroleum will continue to climb. So will our profits.”

  “The indications are that gasoline will go well beyond seven dollars a gallon,” said the treasurer.

  “Which is good,” said the young man, trying to redeem himself.

  The oldest woman on the board, a flinty, hard-eyed heiress, added, “Until the government puts in price controls.”

  “That will not happen,” said Gould.

  “There’s talk in Congress—”

  “Talk,” Gould spat. “There’s always talk in Washington. Washington is full of talk. A year’s worth of their talk isn’t worth a single barrel of oil.”

  “Still…”

  Gould smiled tolerantly at her. “I understand. You are looking at problems that may arise in the future. Which is good. We are already taking steps to avoid price controls. Which is better.”

  “Steps?” several board members murmured.

  Looking very pleased with himself, Gould told them, “Our research division is working with automotive engineers to produce a car that will not require any gasoline whatsoever.”

  “Doesn’t need gas?”

  “How the hell can we make money out of that?” grumbled one of the older men.

  “By controlling the new source of fuel,” Gould replied amiably. “We will control the market for transportation fuel lock, stock, and barrel. We will realize Rockefeller’s old dream of having a monopoly on the market. Which is not merely good. It’s wonderful.”

  TUCSON:

  STUDENT RECREATION CENTER

  Cochrane flew back to Tucson alone, spent a restless night of confused, frightening dreams about his brother and Sandoval and shadowy menacing figures coming after him as he struggled to get away from them.

  He woke up early, his tangled bedsheets soaked with perspiration, his eyes gummy and bloodshot. Feeling exhausted, he dragged himself through a shower, skipped shaving, and phoned his department head to beg off teaching his class later in the morning. As he sat at his kitchen counter, munching on a bowlful of Grape-Nuts, she called back, sounding genuinely sympathetic, and told him to take the rest of the week off.

  “Thanks, Grace. I can use some time to get my head straight.”

  “Of course,” she murmured. “That’s what TAs are for.”

  Sitting around his one-bedroom apartment was no help. It took less than half an hour to dust the furniture, straighten up the newspapers and magazines, place his breakfast dishes in the washer.

  Why was Mike murdered? What was he working on that was so fricking important? Sandoval. Arashi. Mike’s rooftop garden of stromatolites. How does it all add up?

  Sandoval. The best-looking woman I’ve seen in—Christ, how long has it been since I’ve been in bed with a woman?

  But she had bade Cochrane a curt goodbye at the San Jose airport after their fruitless visit to the Calvin labs.

  “Forget about me,” she had said, while dozens of travelers shuffled slowly through the line at the airport’s security checkpoint. “You’re too nice a person to get involved with the kinds of things that I do.”

  Just like that. Forget about me. Sure, yeah, forget about her. Easy. Who is she, really? he wondered. Whatever she’s after, it sure isn’t me. Hello and goodbye. I can’t tell you anything. It’s too urgent. You don’t want to get involved.

  Stuffing his dirty laundry into the mesh bag he always used, Cochrane muttered to himself, “She’s right. I don’t want to get involved. Mike’s dead and nothing I do is going to bring him back. The hell with it. The hell with all of them!”

  His eyeglasses darkened automatically as he walked out into the blistering midmorning sun, carried his dirty clothes to the laundry down on Speedway, then made his way back onto the campus and the Student Recreation Center. Walking is good for the leg, the doctors had told him. Yeah, but it makes the leg ache. Funny, fencing doesn’t. When I’ve got a saber in my hand the leg doesn’t hurt at all. Or maybe it does but I just don’t pay any attention to it. Not with another guy trying to stick me with his blade.

  Cochrane had been disappointed to find that the university didn’t have a fencing team, not even a fencing club; the sport had been his one diversion, his only exercise, his physical therapy after the accident. He’d found a few kindred souls, though, who usually worked out at the north gym in the Rec Center. A couple of them had talked about organizing a regular club, and even gone so far as to borrow a coach who gave lessons once a week; they all chipped in to cover the man’s fee.

  The fencers usually practiced in the afternoons, but maybe a few of the guys would be at the gym now, Cochrane reasoned. Fencing was great therapy. It exercised every muscle of his body, and so fully occupied his mind that he could forget everything else. The fastest sport in the world. You’re only an arm’s length from your opponent, the flick of a wrist can be the difference between scoring a point or getting beaten.

  The gym was busy with a basketball practice: tall guys running and sweating, their sneakers squeaking on the polished floorboards, shouting and puffing as they raced back and forth, cut, feinted, jumped, and shot. Cochrane watched for a few moments, noticing wryly that most of their shots missed or bounced off the rim of the basket. Not like the TV highlights, where every shot went in.

  Disappointed, he went to his locker and changed into his
sweats, then climbed up to the second level and started jogging along the track that circled the gym below. Ignore the pain in your leg; it’s not as bad as it used to be. Jogging didn’t help him. It was so boring that his mind kept returning to Mike and Irene and her moose-sized brothers and that grinning Arashi and green-eyed Elena Sandoval. Especially Sandoval. I don’t know how to contact her! Cochrane realized with a pang. She didn’t leave me a phone number, e-mail address, nothing. Even if I had something to tell her, I wouldn’t know how to reach her.

  He thumped around the track half a dozen times, then went to the showers to let the hot water soothe his aching leg, dressed, and walked back to his empty, silent apartment.

  The message light on his phone machine was blinking.

  “Paul, it’s Elena.” As if he didn’t recognize her voice. “I’m in Tucson, at the Arizona Inn. Could you call me, please? Maybe we could have dinner tonight.”

  He plopped down into his desk chair, his mind racing. First she tells me not to get involved with her and now she’s come to Tucson and wants to have dinner. Don’t do it! You’re better off without her. Let the cops find out who killed Mike. Let her and Arashi and whoever else is involved in this go chase their tails until they screw themselves into the ground. Leave me out of this. Leave me alone.

  Then he looked around his spare, silent living room. Everything neat and clean. Everything in its place. The blinds drawn against the sun, cool and quiet and orderly. It’s like a cave in here, a mausoleum. Christ, he thought, you’re just as dead as Mike but you haven’t admitted it to yourself. What the hell do you have to live for? You’re alone, practically a fucking hermit. Ever since the car crash, since Jennifer…

  He tried to picture his late wife’s face. And saw Sandoval instead.

  That’s not right, he told himself. Jen’s mother was right, I’m a heartless sonofabitch.

  But he didn’t feel heartless. He felt hurt, and sad, and above all else he felt lonely.

  He picked up the phone, pushed the “return call” button, and eventually got Sandoval’s voice mail.