Project Moses - A Mystery Thriller (Enzo Lee Mystery-Thriller Series) (13 page)

They began pushing him toward the front entrance of the lobby. He pushed back, but it hardly mattered. As he was hustled off, the man in the gray suit turned his head over his shoulder. Lee heard him shout, “You don’t know what you’re doing! You are poisoning our food! You have no right!”

Then he was out the door, shoved into the group of uniformed officers who seemed only now to realize there had been a commotion inside.

Lee turned back to the balcony. The man who had been speaking had a white handkerchief in his hand and was dabbing at the red spots on his shirt. He shook his head, put his handkerchief back in his pocket and leaned forward to address the microphone.

“If that had been one of our tomatoes, you still could have it in your salad tomorrow.” A few people laughed. Then applause seemed to explode from the crowd. It lasted for a while, long enough to wash away most of the tension of the incident.

“Let’s not let one rotten tomato spoil the crate … or this party. I was talking about the dream, the dream that has brought all of us here tonight. It is not one of mere financial success, or the success of one company. It is the same dream mankind has had for eons. The dream of applying our knowledge and our know how to the world around us. To make it a safer, more productive place. To use that knowledge to make our lives better.

“But, the success of AgriGenics represents an entire new chapter in that endeavor. It represents the beginning of an era of almost unfathomable changes in our relationship to the world around us. It offers the opportunity for unimaginable progress.

“So, thank you again for coming tonight to this celebration. As mankind moves forward in this endeavor, I guarantee that AgriGenics will be at the forefront. Together, we will realize this dream.”

The applause that followed lasted until the man had descended the stairway to the floor below.

Lee went looking for Lorraine. He finally found her amid the food tables, talking to a tall, thin man in a dark blue suit. He was talking excitedly to Carr and she was jotting down notes. Lee guessed he was an AgriGenics flack. Lorraine introduced him as Roy Curley, AgriGenics Vice President of Marketing and Communications.

“It was a good speech,” said Lee. “But what a recovery after the tomato. He did everything but catch it. Who was that guy?”

Curley had thinning blond hair and fine features. He looked like he had had too much sun.

“
That
was Brian Graylock,” said Curley.

“Oh?”

“President and CEO of AgriGenics.” Curley couldn’t quite hide his impatience with the fact that Lee didn’t know who Graylock was.

“What happened to the other guy? Sendaki?”

“Arthur is still with the company. He’s just not involved in the day-to-day operations anymore. He has returned to his first love, research.”

“Oh. Eased out, huh?”

Curley’s upper lip curled ever so slightly.

“Arthur’s a true visionary. His talent would be wasted if it were bogged down in the administrative chores of running a large corporation.”

“Right. Say, Roy. Have you ever heard of a company called Futura Products?”

“Certainly,” said Curley. “It’s one of our subsidiaries. It’s just a vehicle for distributing products.”

“I see,” said Lee. “One other thing. I was looking over your annual report. In the notes to the financial statements, the accountants seem a little worried about some pending regulatory questions that haven’t been answered. What’s that about?”

“Your question is too nonspecific,” replied Curley. “There are so many regulatory issues in this industry.”

“Something about labeling.”

Curley was no longer attempting to control his upper lip, which had curled back into a snarl.

“If you read that section again, maybe you would understand it,” he said. “The FDA and the various states are still deciding how, or whether, to label foods that have been structurally adjusted.”

“Structurally adjusted?” said Lee. “Oh, you mean genetically engineered. Are you guys for it or agin’ it? The labeling, I mean.”

“Speak to Lorraine,” said Curley, hardly moving his lips “I’m sure she can explain it to you.”

Curley turned and walked away.

“Roy’s a little touchy,” said Lee.

“Well, this is their big day,” said Carr. “You were being obnoxious.”

“That was nothing. Flacks expect to be abused. C’mon, let’s get out of here. I get nervous around money.”

As they left the AgriGenics headquarters, Lee noticed the food on the tables still lay heaped in magnificent piles that had not been touched at all.

Chapter 16

THE WALLS OF the large conference room in the skyscraper in East Manhattan were decorated with oversized modern art canvases hung over beige, linen wallpaper. At the center of the room, sitting on plush off-white carpeting, was a black, oval conference table 30 feet from end to end. The table top was lacquered and polished to such high gloss that the reflection of the spotlights recessed in the ceiling of the room was blinding.

Eight men sat around the table in dark suits, none of which cost less than $2,000. Four were clustered at each end. They had been there for five hours waiting for their transaction to close. Like most closings of multi-million dollar deals, this one had mostly entailed waiting for large sums of money to be transferred by wire from one account into another. Most deals, however, didn’t include the four Uzi machine guns resting in the laps of the men at one end of the table. This added element had kept everyone at the table extremely alert.

At the end of the table away from the Uzi contingent, three of the men sat on one side of the table while the only American in the room sat alone on the other side. A single telephone rested on the table between them. The American employed two of the men at the other end of the table, the Uzi end. One employee was a German named Hans Dietrich and the other was an Egyptian named Abdul Hassan.

Of the three who sat directly across from the American, he had previously met only the Libyan, a diplomat at the United Nations who had served as a middleman in previous transactions, although none as sensitive as this one. He believed the Iraqi was a general in that country’s military intelligence agency. The Japanese was wanted in Japan and several western European countries for planning or participating in a half dozen terrorist attacks over the past 20 years.

What concerned the American the most were the other two Iraqis with the guns at the far end of the table. He knew nothing about them, but suspected that their training and experience had concentrated on the capture and torture of Iraqi dissidents. If so, they were out of their element. The American prayed they wouldn’t overreact or misinterpret an innocent movement by him or his men and turn the board room into a bloodbath.

The chirp of the telephone made everyone jump except the American who was consciously trying to avoid any sudden movements. He waited for the second ring and glanced down the table to let the armed Iraqis know that he was going to answer it now. Then he slowly picked it up.

“Hello. Yes. All of it? Okay.”

The American nodded at the three men who sat across from him.

“The money has transferred,” he said. He hung up the telephone. Then, he picked it up again very slowly and dialed a number.

“Hello. Yes, it’s me. Let it go. Call me immediately if you have a problem.”

The American knew that these instructions would be relayed to a dozen men armed with assault rifles in Arizona. They surrounded a truck backed up against the loading dock of a converted airplane hangar. They would now move aside to let the truck drive away. Inside the truck sat ten 55-gallon drums that had been loaded two hours earlier. Also inside the truck were an unknown number of armed Iraqis. It looked like the deal was going to go down without a hitch.

Five minutes later, the telephone rang again. The Iraqi general picked it up, listened without saying a word and hung up.

“It is done,” he said.

Only the Libyan stayed to share the bottle of Dom Perignon that the American had brought for the occasion.

“Congratulations,” said the Libyan.

“You are the one to be congratulated,” said the American. “Without your negotiating skills, this would not have been possible.”

“Yes. The Iraqis can be difficult, so distrustful. But, your proposal was beyond their wildest dreams. In fact, I was surprised that you accepted our initial offer.”

“It was reasonable,” said the American. He added somewhat cryptically, “I view this as an investment in the future.”

“Yes. I hope you will continue to think of us when these opportunities arise.” The Libyan picked up his fluted glass. “I would like to propose a toast: To the future.”

“To the future,” echoed the American. His smile gleamed. “May it be prosperous.”

•   •   •

GERALD FULMER HAD made a name for himself prosecuting some of the most sensational crimes in California during the 1970s. He had put several members of the Red Army Brigade behind bars for life for their roles in the kidnap-murder-extortion of real estate magnate Ross Jurginson. He had gotten 22 murder convictions against famed serial killer Eddie Vanderbolen, the Dutch Butcher whose unusual technique with a meat cleaver eventually did him in.

Since joining the megafirm of Sutro, Foerster and Bridges in 1985, Fulmer had become rich, fat and bored. Unlike most former federal prosecutors, Fulmer had not chosen the lucrative specialty of representing drug pushers. In fact, his partners at Sutro would have been appalled if he brought in any clients of that ilk, regardless of the size of the fee.

Now Fulmer’s work consisted of servicing Sutro’s client base, primarily large companies, banks and extremely wealthy individuals. No task was too small. He had defended several corporate bigwigs on drunk driving charges. Frequently, he was asked to assert his influence to persuade law enforcement agencies to either prosecute such white-collar cases as embezzlement or the theft of trade secrets, or to look the other way. It depended on what the situation demanded. For this, he was paid handsomely.

When Sutro’s chairman had asked him to defend Lloyd Warrington, Fulmer had asked no questions. He didn’t need to know how defending a young punk in an inconsequential burglary case fit into the firm’s plans. He preferred not knowing who was paying his $325 an hour fee.

The two things that had perturbed Fulmer were the timing and the constraints that had been placed on him. He had been called in two weeks before Warrington’s case was scheduled for trial and Fulmer had been told not to seek a continuance. His law firm’s chairman had also instructed Fulmer not to accept a plea bargain, no matter how attractive.

Fulmer had told the defendant that he was the lucky beneficiary of his law firm’s pro bono work and that his case had been chosen for free legal representation by lottery. The animal rights tactic had been Fulmer’s idea, not exactly a stroke of genius but a decent move considering the circumstances. Fortunately, Warrington had proven to be an extremely coachable client.

Warrington’s murder had unsettled Fulmer. Even worse had been the reaction of Sutro’s chairman when Fulmer had told him. The chairman, whom Fulmer considered as tough and unflappable as anyone he knew, had turned ashen.

“Forget about him,” the chairman had said. “For your own safety, put all of this out of your mind.”

Lee found Fulmer in Courtroom Seven in Municipal Court. Fulmer wore a pinstriped gray suit with a bow tie that made an already fleshy face seem even wider. He had a big loose mouth that seemed permanently fixed in a snarling grin.

He was representing the president of a company that sold children’s books who had been accused of soliciting a female vice cop strolling San Francisco’s Tenderloin district with a wire taped to her bra. After entering the obligatory not guilty plea for his client and getting the court to reduce bail from $10,000 to $2,000, Fulmer and his client stood up to leave the courtroom.

Lee went out first and waited for Fulmer. When the lawyer came through the swinging doors, Lee introduced himself and asked if they could talk.

“Are you here about this case?” Fulmer asked Lee.

“No, another one.”

Fulmer said goodbye to the businessman who couldn’t seem to get away from Lee fast enough.

“Okay. What is it?” asked Fulmer.

“I wanted to ask you about the Warrington case.”

As soon as he heard the name, Fulmer began to fidget nervously. He glanced up and down the corridor. He looked back at Lee. He licked his lips.

“I can’t talk about that. That’s an open case.”

“Warrington is dead. What’s the difference?”

Fulmer glanced up and down the corridor again. The snarl was gone. He looked worried. He turned abruptly and began walking down the corridor toward the bank of elevators. Lee followed him.

“Mr. Fulmer? What’s the big deal? If there are certain things you can’t talk about, fine. Just say so.”

Fulmer kept walking, moving faster. The last thing he wanted was to have his name appear in print in a story about Warrington. He didn’t even want to be seen talking to a reporter working on a story about Warrington.

“Look,” said Lee. “For starters, is there anything more you can tell me about the illegal animal research?”

“Stop following me,” Fulmer hissed. They were nearing the elevators.

“Well, can you just tell me something about Warrington? You know, personal details. Anything. His family? Where he worked?”

They were at the elevators. The doors to one slid open. There was no one inside. Fulmer stepped in. Lee stepped in after him.

“I don’t know shit about Warrington,” said Fulmer. “I only knew him for two weeks.”

Fulmer dropped his briefcase, grabbed Lee and shoved him backwards out of the elevator. Surprised, Lee didn’t resist. He stumbled back as the doors slid shut. He hadn’t even had a chance to ask Fulmer why a company called Futura Products was paying his legal fees.