Celtic Empire (Dirk Pitt 25)

Gunn and Pitt escorted them to the elevator, then returned to Pitt’s office.

“Poor girl looks like she’s been through the wringer,” Gunn said.

“She wasn’t expecting the Cerrón Grande incident to follow her to Washington. Neither was I.”

“It’s clear someone didn’t want those water samples identified and was willing to kill to prevent it.”

“In two countries. I think we’ve got a potential motive, at least, for the murder of the aid team in El Salvador.”

“What’s in the bag?” Gunn asked.

“The shoes Elise wore in the lake. She hopes they might yield something.”

“Good idea. By the way, how did you know the scientist’s address?”

Pitt reached into his pocket and pulled out the two FedEx forms he’d grabbed from Nakamura’s desk. The top form was addressed to Dr. Susan Montgomery. He passed them to Gunn. “Nakamura was sending the water samples to two other scientists, one at the CDC and one at a lab in the UK.”

“There are phone numbers on the forms.” Gunn glanced at a ship’s chronometer on the wall. “It’s too late in the UK. Atlanta might be home.”

Pitt dialed the number, and Dr. Montgomery answered on the second ring. Pitt spoke with her a few minutes, then hung up.

“She knows nothing about the samples Nakamura was sending. They apparently exchange samples all the time for independent testing. Most are viral cases. She was shocked to hear he died.”

“It’s unfortunate they hadn’t spoken.” Gunn looked at the second FedEx form, and his brow wrinkled. “Dr. Miles Perkins of Inverness Research Laboratory,” he read aloud.

“You know of him?”

“Not him, but the Inverness Research Lab. I ran across the name earlier today. They’re involved with biotechnology research.”

“Anything intriguing in that?”

“Not in and of itself. It’s just the coincidence of their ownership.” Gunn’s eyes narrowed as he handed the slip back to Pitt.

“Let me guess . . .” Pitt said. “An aff

iliate of a certain Scottish company of renown?”

Gunn nodded. “You got it. They’re a wholly owned subsidiary of one BioRem Global Limited.”

PART II

AMARNA

18

Manjeet Dhatt heard his sobbing wife even before he opened the door to their house. Entering the one-room tenement in the Dharavi slums of Mumbai, he found her seated on the floor, rocking a young child in her arms.

“What is the matter, Pratima?”

The woman looked up, tears on her cheeks. “It is the baby. He has been violently ill all day.”

Dhatt examined the child. Just under the age of two, the boy was hot and limp in his mother’s arms. His bulging eyes were dull and listless. Dhatt touched his son’s head and then pinched his arm, noting the skin felt hard and rubbery.

“We must take him to the clinic.”

The weary man, who made his living driving a tuk-tuk on the streets of Mumbai, helped his wife to her feet, taking the child in his arms. They exited their tin-roofed house and trudged down a muddy lane littered with trash and reeking of assorted foul odors. Six blocks across the dirty streets of Dharavi, they reached a small clinic. Passing through its glass doors, they were aghast to find the entrance crammed with people.

Dhatt recognized a neighbor among the throng, nearly all clutching a baby or toddler. He made his way to the small admissions counter.