Courage Stolen Read online

  “Is there any other backup for the project?”

  “We have cloud backup.”

  “And?”

  “That had been hacked and everything there was gone, too. Whoever did this knew what they were doing, and they were very thorough.”

  “And now you’ve lost three years of work.”

  “Thanks for reminding me.”

  “Maybe it can be reconstructed faster since you’ve been down the path once already.” It was a naïve thing to say, especially given my background as an academic. You couldn’t fudge results if you wanted to maintain scholarly credibility.

  “The genome sequencing alone took the entire three years. I busted my ass on that.” Her eyes filled with tears. “And Jack’s prototype for an integrated bio refinery was about to go to the U.S. Patent Office. It would have changed the entire energy landscape—for cars, large-scale power plants, you name it. The whole project was a game changer.”

  For the first time since talking with Candace, my senses kicked in, my heart beat a little faster. What I had assumed was malicious hijinks by a bunch of egghead scientists now appeared to be larceny on the highest order. The reference to “commercial advances” in Dr. Wiggin’s vitae and “commercial applications” in Candace’s bio resurfaced in my mind.

  “Let me understand this,” I said. “What you were doing in the lab was creating a product that was going to be worth a lot of money?”

  She nodded. “For the university, it was going to be huge. Dr. Wiggin predicted we would get a half-billion dollars in private sector money once the patent was filed. And that’s just a drop in the bucket. In five years, gasoline and all petroleum-based oil products could literally be obsolete. Think about that. Monarch would change the world of energy as we know it, and also change political dynamics. Do you think we’d be sending troops over to the Middle East if we could produce all the energy we needed here on our own soil?”

  It seemed like hyperbole. I’d been around enough professors who felt their research project—even the most mundane—would transform the world, earning them a Nobel and a cover photo on Rolling Stone.

  “Tell me about your project.” It was the most innocuous way I could think of to challenge her claim.

  Her shoulders hunched, and she slid down in her seat. She appeared to assess me. “I don’t mean to sound patronizing, but how technical do you want me to get? This is pretty advanced stuff we’re working on.”

  “Why don’t you give me the eighth-grade-science version? You know, somewhere beyond this is a microscope but this side of subatomic quark theory.”

  “Okay. You’ve heard of the human genome project, right?”

  I nodded.

  “Well, in addition to sequencing the genomes in humans, biologists and geneticists around the world are working on doing the same for every species in the world. My area of expertise is microbial genomics.”

  “Bacteria, funguses, and things like that, right?”

  “Very good.”

  I was proud of myself for remembering the information from her bio. If this private eye thing didn’t work out, maybe I could consider becoming a world-class scientist.

  “Less than one one-hundredth of all microbes have been studied,” she continued. “Not to pat myself on the back, but I have sequenced as many or more microbes than any other scientist in the world.”

  “Eleven.” I patted the folder I’d consulted earlier. “Eight bacteria and three protozoa.”

  “Somebody has been doing a little background reading.”

  “I confess. Langford gave me your bio.”

  “I’ve been too busy to update it. The number’s up to fourteen now.”

  “Busy woman.”

  “For all the good it’s going to do me now. The last three were for this project. I had performed the sequencing for three bacteria that can convert both five- and six-carbon sugars into ethanol and recycle carbon dioxide into useful biomass.”

  “I’ll take your word for it that this is a good thing.”

  “Sorry. Not eighth grade level?”

  I shook my head. “I guess it’s best to skip to the bottom line. What about your project would make someone want to steal it?”

  “In the simplest terms, we’re developing scaleable biomass fuel cells.”

  “Fuel cells aren’t new. I mean, I first heard about fuels cells at least twenty years ago.”

  “Yes, true. But up until now, the problem has been how inefficient previous enzymes were to ferment sugar polymers into enzymes. Our process is ten thousand times more efficient. It truly is revolutionary.”

  It sounded impressive, though I wasn’t sure I understood all the implications of what she was saying.

  “We’ve proven all this in our lab studies and in some small demonstrations. Jack was able to adapt existing fuel cell technology into a creative new model. It works as well in powering a car as it does a building, or even an entire city. There are no safety or greenhouse gas issues. The cost per unit of energy is less than half of existing technology.”

  “So it’s important and valuable.”

  She frowned. “You think I’m making this all up?”

  “No.”

  “But you think I’m exaggerating.”

  “It doesn’t matter. The fact is someone thought Monarch was worth stealing. The question I have is who knew enough about your work and its implications to think that?”

  “I had no idea until about an hour ago. Now I’m pretty sure I do.”

  “Why, what changed an hour ago?”

  She reached over and pulled a sheet of paper from her purse and handed it to me. “This is the note I mentioned earlier.”

  I unfolded the paper and read:

  You are desecrators of Mother Earth! You have no regard for the sanctity of life on our planet, which you only want to exploit for profit, using the evil manna of corporate america to rape and destroy it. For that you must be punished. If you hope to see the return of your sinful project you will have to pay us twenty million dollars. Instructions on how to get us the money will follow. Do not contact law enforcement authorities, or we will destroy your project.

  Stone Creek Saviors

  The note was written in a common computer typeface on a plain sheet of paper.

  “Where did you get this?”

  “I found it on the windshield of my car in front of my apartment this morning.”

  “Did you show it to Jerry Langford?”

  She shook her head. “You’re the first person I’ve talked to since I found it. When we’re done, I’m going to try calling Dr. Wiggin to let him know.”

  “Any idea who these Stone Creek Saviors could be?”

  “I haven’t had time to see if they’re on the Internet, but it sounds a lot like the Students Saving Our Planet. They go by S-SOP. They’re a bunch of radicals. They were suspected in last spring’s firebombing of the Food Science Building, but the cops couldn’t prove anything even though S-SOP had been picketing the building the day before.”

  “What was their issue with Food Science?”

  “They conduct research on genetically modified foods. Mainly tomatoes and a few different fruits for an international food conglomerate. S-SOP was picketing to make them stop.”

  “And you’re thinking maybe they escalated from picketing to firebombing?”

  “Wouldn’t put it past them.”

  “We should show Langford the note.”

  She hesitated. “I-I’d like to tell Dr. Wiggin first if you don’t mind.”

  “Why?”

  “It’s his project. He should know before I tell the university. And, between you and me, our security department is a bunch of fuckups.”

  I wasn’t sure if that was a good idea. Though a blowhard, Jerry Langford had hired me. “I guess I can wait a bit, but eventually we’ll need to tell Langford.”

  “Shit!” At first I thought she was reacting to my statement, but I don’t think she even heard me. She was looking through the
window towards the fitness center. When I turned to look, I saw a guy in his late twenties or early thirties, a slender Asian, dressed in slacks, dress shirt, and a sport coat. He stood on the outside path and appeared to be staring at Candace.

  “You know that guy?”

  She nodded. “My ex. We broke up two weeks ago, and he’s being a pain in the ass.”

  “Is he stalking you?”

  “No, just being a royal jerk.”

  “Sorry.” I wasn’t sure if she wanted me to deal with him somehow or if we should just ignore him. “Is he a student?”

  “Used to be. He earned his MBA last semester, and now he has his own business, but since we broke up he’s…he’s been coming back to campus to try and get us back together.”

  “What’s his name?”

  “Thomas. Thomas Chan.”

  We both glanced his way again. Chan continued to stare at us.

  “Maybe we should go sit somewhere else,” I said.

  “No, fuck him. Oh my god, he’s walking this way.”

  He was making his way from the path, across the grass and between a break in the shrubs, to face the full-length window in front of us. He stood about three feet away, with his arms out as if asking her “what the heck?”

  Candace stood and, in one movement, threw her half-full cup of coffee against the window before turning on her heels and marching towards the exit.

  three

  I watched her exit the café. When I looked back at the window, Chan had disappeared. I took a minute or so to pick up her paper cup and clean up what coffee I could from the floor and window. I needed more information from Candace, and I also wanted to make sure her ex-boyfriend wasn’t harassing her. I hustled over to Sieboldt, finding her office closed and locked. I asked four professorial types inside Sieboldt if they’d seen her but none had. I checked a couple of labs, searched the campus grounds, and returned to the front of Sieboldt. No signs of either Candace or Chan.

  The drive to Granderson had taken me forty minutes in post-rush hour traffic. I didn’t want to waste the drive and return home so soon, so I went to the university library. After the student librarian made a confirming call to Langford, I was given a guest ID and password for Internet access on one of the library’s computers. I typed “Thomas Chan” and “Granderson University” into the search engine and pulled up a dozen LinkedIn profiles. I ignored those and went straight to a website titled “Chan International—Thomas Chan, CEO.”

  The page featured a bio and a professional photo of Thomas Chan, the same guy who’d been staring down Candace Symington thirty minutes ago. I read:

  Buoyed by an indomitable entrepreneurial spirit, President and Chief Executive Officer Thomas Chan has guided Chan International into one of the leading international manufacturing representative firms in the West. Soon after opening his firm, Mr. Chan began winning accounts in a variety of industries, including textiles, consumer goods, high technology, energy, and automotive. The firm’s clients benefit from Mr. Chan’s attention to detail and negotiation skills, enabling them to reduce their production costs by an average of thirty percent, with some clients reporting savings of seventy percent!

  Mr. Chan operates the firm with Vice President and Chief Operating Officer Adam Benzer. Both men received their MBA degrees from the prestigious Clifton School of Business at Granderson University in Rosetown, California. Prior to that, Mr. Chan earned a BA degree in International Studies from UCLA. He was born and raised in San Jose, California.

  I went to the home page and found another photo of Chan, this one with his sleeves rolled up, tie stylishly askew, as he looked at drawings with another Asian male in what appeared to be some sort of industrial building. The home page was titled “Chan International—International Manufacturing Representatives” and was followed by a brief sales pitch to call or e-mail “for quotes on manufacturing and production for any type of product—no job is too big or too small.” I read a little of Adam Benzer’s bio, which was similar to Chan’s—BA from UC Santa Barbara and an MBA from Granderson. One page listed some of their clients. Another page featured a couple of case studies, one for a toy manufacturer whose sole product appeared to be plastic soldiers, the other for a company producing skirts for men. I supposed that covered the consumer goods and textile industries ballyhooed in Chan’s bio, though case studies of their high technology, energy, and automotive work were lacking. From what I could tell from their website, Chan International was a two-person company.

  I spent another hour on the web looking for more information about Candace Symington, Ken Wiggin, and Jack Cassidy but turned up little beyond what Langford had given me in the file. I searched for microbial fuel cells and microbial genome sequencing, finding several links to academic articles. I read a few of them but gained no new insights. None of these searches pulled up anything on the fuel cell work being done at Granderson. Apparently, Wiggin’s team had done a good job of keeping things under wraps.

  By the time I left the library, rain was falling. Wearing just a light coat, I began a brisk walk to my car, eager to turn on the heater and return home for lunch.

  Thomas Chan stood next to my car holding aloft a black umbrella. He’d donned a long raincoat since I’d last seen him outside the café. The increasing rain did nothing to break the cold stare he gave me.

  “I’d pay you for trying to keep my car dry with your umbrella, but all I’ve got is a credit card.”

  “Excuse me?”

  “Umbrella. Car.” I pointed at each object. “You standing there. It’s a joke. Not a good one.”

  “You’ve got a smart mouth for an old white guy.”

  “Fifty is the new forty. But in my case, it might be the new thirty-five. I used to be quite the gym rat. Feel that.” I made a muscle with my right arm and pointed at my biceps.

  “What were you doing with my girlfriend?”

  I had a good four inches on him and thirty pounds, but he looked athletic enough for me to be wary. “Last I heard, she was your ex-girlfriend. And she doesn’t appreciate you following her around campus. As you noted yourself, I’ve been around the block a few times, so let me tell you, women don’t dig the lovesick puppy types. It’s a bit pathetic.”

  “Shut up.”

  “I’d like to stick around and listen to more of your witty comebacks, but it’s starting to rain pretty hard and I don’t have a nifty Ralph Lauren umbrella like you do.”

  “I don’t know who you are, but you’re to stay away from her.”

  “Why did you two break up anyway? Oh wait, don’t tell me, I bet she thought you were too possessive and too jealous. Sound about right?”

  “That business is between she and I.”

  “Her and me. It should be ‘between her and me,’ not ‘she and I.’ But that’s beside the point. So I actually have a business question for you. How can I go about ordering one of those man skirts you guys make?”

  Chan blinked, surprised at the reference to his business. “We don’t make anything. We represent overseas manufacturers and onshore companies.”

  “Point well taken. But the question remains, how do I get a skirt thing?”

  “Have you been cyber-stalking me?”

  “That’s a bit dramatic. I’ve been doing research.”

  “Well, don’t.”

  “Or what? You’ll give me a knuckle sandwich?”

  “A what?”

  “Knuckle sandwich. It’s a euphemism for a punch to the face. It’s a bit cliché and…oh, never mind.” I shouldered my way past Chan and got into my car and out of the rain. As I drove away, I watched him in my rearview mirror, standing under his umbrella, glaring at me.

  four

  Every seat in the Nelson Medical Group’s large waiting room was taken. After I checked in with the receptionist, paid the twenty-dollar co-pay, and found a recent edition of Golf Magazine, I located a wall to lean against and thumb through the magazine. With spring still a month away, most of the patients—sniffling, honkin
g, or moaning—appeared afflicted with one form or another of a cold or flu. My position against the wall kept as much distance as possible from the sickest of the lot.

  Leafing through the magazine, replete with images of lush golf courses, elegantly engineered golf clubs and gear, and tips on how to shoot in the seventies, had me considering returning to the sport. I’d been a pretty good golfer in my younger days, having won a couple of tournaments as an undergraduate on the San Jose State University men’s golf team. As my career and family commitments grew over the years, the number of rounds I played declined. It had been eight or nine years since I’d last played. As I was becoming engrossed in a story about the best public course in the United States, a woman opened the door leading to the back offices and called my name.

  I followed her past four or five closed doors to a scale, where I weighed in. She led me to a private room, and I sat on the examination table as instructed. She asked some basic questions about diet, exercise, and my general health before leaving me alone to wait for the doctor.

  After ten minutes, I wished I’d brought the Golf Magazine with me. During the wait, I considered whether I should have come or not. I wasn’t sick. I didn’t have any aches or pains. Before I could summon enough momentum to rise from the table and walk out, in walked Dr. Albert Nelson.

  He greeted me and looked through the folder the nurse had left for him. “What’s going on?”

  “I don’t know, but I think I might have some mental things happening.”

  “Mental things? Can you tell me what you mean by that?” He sat down on a rolling stool across from me.

  “I can’t get certain things out of my mind. They won’t go away.”

  “Go on.”

  I took a deep breath. “I…I was involved in some extreme violence not too long ago. A shootout. People were killed. That’s what I keep seeing. The horrors of that. And the guilt that comes with it.”

  “I read about…about what happened. Four dead men. Terrible thing, but it sounded like you didn’t have much choice. Isn’t that right?”