Coldwater Revenge by James Ross (e novels to read online TXT) 📗

the campus operator to retrieve the phone number for university security. “You Americans are a global pestilence.”

“Suit yourself. But you’ve obviously taken care to obscure the connection between you and the names that got me in here. Make that phone call and that obscurity is history.”

Hassad tucked the receiver against his shoulder and scribbled some digits on a pad. “Merci.” He replaced the phone, but remained standing. “And what is this police matter?”

“A homicide investigation.”

“And why do you think I might be helpful?” The voice was snotty, but wary.

“It’s a long-shot. But it starts with your telling me what U-Labs has been sending to a company called NeuroGene.”

Tom watched the professor’s face, but it gave nothing away.

“And how would that be helpful in a homicide investigation?”

“Truthfully? I don’t know. It depends on what you have to say.”

Hassad moved his head slowly from side to side. “I can’t help you, Mr. ? Your real name, please.”

“Morgan.”

Hassad’s head lifted slightly, as if an invisible hand were tugging upward on his left ear. “I hold a position of confidence in the academic community, Mr. Morgan. What you are asking is unlikely to be of any use to you. But to answer such a question would betray confidences and jeopardize valuable scientific research. I must decline.”

Tom ignored the little speech and handed Dr. Hassad a blown-up copy of the photo from Billy Pearce’s driving license. “Do you recognize the man in this picture?”

Hassad studied the photo for a few seconds and then handed it back. “No.”

“And if I told you that the owner of NeuroGene Research identified this man as having brought materials from U-Labs for repackaging and distribution in the U.S.?”

“I still do not recognize him. Nor would I recognize the man who delivers my post here at the university.”

“Do you know a Dave Willow?”

“Yes.”

“And a Mike Sharp?”

“Also yes.”

“In what capacity do you know them?”

“As the owners of that company you mentioned.”

“Do you deal with them both, or only one?”

“Both,” said Hassad.

“And what do you send them?”

“As I told you, these are not matters I can discuss.”

“Why not? Aren’t you U-Labs?”

Hassad shook the paper on which he had written the number of the campus security, as if the ink was still wet and he wanted to accelerate the drying. “Mr. Morgan, many members of the scientific community conduct research under conditions that you might find hard to imagine: government censorship, military and religious interference, commercial and academic espionage. They are not free to simply pick up the phone or use the mail to exchange ideas with other scientists in their fields. Even in the West, which prides itself on the open exchange of ideas, there are many obstacles to free communication. Not a few of them tied to so-called government ‘support. ’ I could go on, but presumably you see the point. Like any oppressed group, the scientific community has its own, informal ways of obtaining uncensored information and basic resources.”

Tom waited until the canned speech was finished, then asked, “So where were these basic resources that you funneled through NeuroGene supposed to end up?”

Hassad sighed, “This isn’t going anywhere. If you’ve spoken to the NeuroGene owners, then you understand the confidential nature of our relationship. Specific scientific information can’t possibly be relevant to your investigation. Assuming you could understand it any more than the man in that photo. Or are you going to tell me he was a scientist, too?”

Tom made a mental note of the tense before responding. “I did speak with the owners. And I put to them the same questions I’m putting to you. It’s not necessary that I fully understand their response or yours. I just need to hear it.”

“That makes no sense.”

“Sure it does, Professor. Put it this way, if Sharp and Willow say that you and NeuroGene have been doing confidential research on a new brand of Canadian chutney, and you can corroborate that story, then I can go home. I don’t need the formula for the secret sauce.”

“And what if I can’t, or won’t?”

“Then one of you is lying.”

Hassad took a step toward the tall, narrow window that overlooked l’ boulevard de Maisonneuve and remained there for some minutes, arms folded in thought. Sounds of passing voices and chimes from one of Montreal’s many neighborhood churches filtered through the airless room. “It troubles me,” he said still staring out the window, “that the NeuroGene principals have violated the confidences they promised to protect. What they have done may already have caused significant harm. I wonder if they realize that.”

“A man is dead,” said Tom.

“I understand that,” Hassad snapped. “But you need to understand something, also. The purpose of biotechnology is to save, or at least improve, human life. Unfortunately, much of that work and the people who do it are constantly exposed to hazards you can’t possibly appreciate. Hazards that sometimes bring it and them to an abrupt end.”

“Like what?”

“Such as theft by greedy multinationals and their governments. Sabotage by your CIA, if the subject falls within what they consider their rightful scope of interest—which is frankly enormous. Blackmail, extortion, even murder when powerful influences feel themselves threatened.”

“You’re being dramatic, Professor.”

“And you, Mr. Morgan, are being naïve.”

“Are you saying that you’re working on something that will really piss people off?”

“I’m saying that biotechnology itself pisses some people off, as you so vulgarly put it. That it excites all of the emotions that can lead to dangerous excess: fear, envy… avarice. And that I am not willing to betray the confidence that others have placed in me and expose them to those dangers simply because some door-crasher asks me to.”

“Is there a particular someone you’re afraid of?”

“How can you Americans be so ignorant?” Hassad slapped a pile of papers balanced on the corner of his desk. “Not two years ago, in the basement of this very building an eminent scientist and countryman of mine was assassinated. Afterwards, not only were his research materials and notebooks missing, but also one of his graduate assistants. A female Israeli!