Payback. Harper Allen
of a beaky nose, and his pure white hair looked almost as wild as Carter Johnson’s funky bed-head style. He looked up from the notebook he had been scribbling in, his expression thunderous.
“What the bloody hell have you been doing all this time in the loo?” he barked. “And where’s the damned poster of me I hear you keep over your bed?”
“You miss the point entirely,” Sir William London snapped impatiently thirty minutes later. “Von Trier’s ridiculous hypothesis aside, what’s to stop the gene from mutating further under controlled conditions? Nothing!” He slumped back onto the pillows piled up against the headboard of Dawn’s bed, the ergonomically molded soles of his sandals further disarranging the bedcover. “And yet it’s as inert as a bloody pudding,” he muttered disconsolately, “and I’ve already wasted two days trying to find out why.”
The first stage of her agenda, after arriving here, had been to get close to the famed Sir William, Dawn thought, still finding it hard to believe the turn of events of the past half hour. It seemed she’d already accomplished that, and with barely any effort on her part.
“I’ve been unpacking and arranging my toiletries, Sir William,” she’d replied to his querulous demand when she’d exited the bathroom and found him in her room. She’d walked unconcernedly to the bureau and picked up her horn-rims. “And although I used to have your poster over my bed when I was in college, I didn’t think it would be appropriate to do so here. What can I help you with?”
“I need to pick someone’s brains,” he’d growled. “Since yours was the only room with a light showing under the door, I thought I’d pick yours. Why in God’s name the rest of my staff need to sleep like logs all through the night when they know that’s when I like to brainstorm, I don’t know,” he’d added in irritation.
Aldrich will be over the freakin’ moon when I phone in my initial progress report later this week, Dawn told herself now. If anything could reassure him that I’m still the best at undercover assignments, this will.
She shut all thought of Aldrich Peters and Lab 33 from her mind and gave her attention to her unlikely companion. “More tea?” At his nod she walked over to the bed from the small desk where she’d been sitting, the battered thermos that Sir William had brought in her hand. Absently he held out a glass lab beaker, and she filled it before pouring some of the vile-tasting brew into a chipped mug for herself. “Of course there’s nothing to stop the gene from mutating under controlled conditions,” she said as she sat down again. “Since it hasn’t, someone’s obviously screwed up the conditions.”
“A typically glib Yank answer.” Under scraggly eyebrows, London’s regard was sharp with annoyance. “Who the hell would dare to—” He stopped abruptly, his scowl deepening.
Who indeed? Dawn thought wryly. For starters, just about anyone, if this lab was anything like the one she’d grown up in. All scientists, in her experience, were prima donnas. All lab technicians were underpaid. All maintenance staff were overworked and cut corners where they could. At least at Lab 33 everyone ultimately answered to Peters, which kept them toeing the line, but that wasn’t the case here.
A plan began to formulate in her mind. She pursed her lips Dawn Swanson-style, but before she could speak, London exploded. “That ass Hewlitt! He came to me straight from Von Trier’s facility. The bugger’s trying to sabotage my work!”
“Maybe.” She kept her voice calm. “Then again, maybe not. Tell me something, Sir William—the supervisor who showed me to my room this evening, Roger somebody?”
“Roger Poole? What about him?” The scowl was back on his face. “Roger’s been with me for years. He’s as loyal as a beagle, so if you’re trying to suggest he—”
“Loyalty’s not the issue,” she cut in. “Being a decent guy’s probably his biggest problem. You need someone taking care of the day-to-day running of your lab who’s not afraid to be disliked.” She shoved her glasses higher up onto the bridge of her nose and leaned forward, her expression tentatively eager. “I hope I’m not out of line, Sir William, but any slip-ups that are occurring in your lab certainly can’t be your fault. And you shouldn’t have to take time from your groundbreaking research to correct these problems. I know I was hired as a lab tech, but it’s obvious you need a pit bull a whole lot more than you do a beagle. Let me be your pit bull. Give me two days, and I promise your lab will be running like a well-oiled machine.”
“She’s not cleared for that kind of responsibility, Sir William.” The door to Dawn’s room crashed open and Des Asher, still in uniform, took a step across the threshold. His expression seemed carved from stone as he went on, directing his words at his uncle and ignoring her. “As head of military security here, I can’t allow her to be given free access to this facility.”
He turned to Dawn, his gray eyes cold. “You’re good. It’s only been hours since your arrival and already you’ve made your move. But I’m good, too. I’ve sent off top-priority queries on you to both Washington and Interpol, complete with your photograph. If you’ve ever gotten so much as a parking ticket anywhere in the world, I’ll know it.”
His smile barely lifted his lips. “If you have, you’d better hope it was under the name of Dawn Swanson. But I doubt it…because I’m beginning to think Dawn Swanson doesn’t exist at all.”
Chapter 4
Status: seventeen days and counting
Time: 0145 hours
As the angry whine got louder, Dawn spared a moment to gauge its nearness. She was cutting things a little fine, she judged, but her preparations were nearly in place. All she needed to do now was to splash the road with the volatile chemical she’d liberated from the lab earlier, make sure she had a match handy and then crouch down in the patch of sage that at this hour of night was nothing more than a slightly blacker shadow in the surrounding darkness.
Piece of cake. But she had no intention of telling Aldrich that. She didn’t want him thinking he could set up these last-minute meetings whenever he felt like it.
Her mouth drew to a straight line at the thought. Twisting the metal cap off the small glass container she held, she began sprinkling the gelatinous substance it contained onto the hard-packed dirt of the road. It took only a second to lay the wavering trail of clear jelly. When she’d finished she dropped the bottle into the hole she’d dug earlier in the soft earth by the shoulder of the road and then replaced the earth, taking care that no telltale trace gave away the bottle’s newly filled in grave. The chemical itself would be totally consumed when it burned, Dawn mused as she brushed a few twigs over the settled dirt. If anyone investigated this incident, which was unlikely, they would assume that a leaky gas tank from an earlier vehicle had left just enough gas on the road to be ignited by a stray spark struck by a piece of gravel. She half rose from her burial detail and listened. The whine now sounded like a hornet in a bottle. Her shadow melting in and out of the moonlight, she ran across the road.
This was insanity. Either that or another one of Peters’s tests, but whatever his reasons for insisting on a face-to-face progress report from her, they weren’t good enough—not when they jeopardized her cover and especially not when her phoned-in report had given him all the information she’d been able to provide at this early stage of her mission. Or at least, all the information she was willing to give, she amended with reluctant honesty.
“Of course I did nothing to arouse Asher’s suspicions!” she’d lied emphatically last night when, as arranged, she’d dialed the number that if traced would show as connecting to nothing more sinister than a bookstore specializing in used and out-of-print scientific volumes. She’d converted the anger in her tone to ice. “Maybe when I was just starting out in this game six years ago you might have had some justification in asking me that question, Doctor, but now it’s an insult. I told you, one of his people screwed up my cover name. He couldn’t handle that, so he took it out on me. His attitude only got worse when Sir William overrode him and gave me the supervisor position.”
That last