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By Root 1311 0

that had been exposed by his indefatigable silver surfers. “The supplies could have been delivered to a different island—the boatmaster doesn’t keep electronically available records—so they may have been intended for a rival exercise in Creationism. Even if we could prove that Czastka is more intimately linked to Rappaccini than other appearances suggest, the only hard evidence linking Rappaccini to the murders is the fact that the woman is drawing money from bank accounts fed by income generated by the corporations which seem to be his. She’s the one we have to identify and locate before we can proceed any further.” “I disagree,” said Oscar Wilde, before Charlotte could reply. “Given that the flowers are victim-specific, their designer must be regarded as the actual murderer. The woman is delivering them, but she may not have been aware that they were lethal until news broke of Gabriel King’s death—and even now she may not be certain that she was responsible, unless the news tapes have publicized the manner of his death.” “They haven’t,” Michael Lowenthal put in. “Those dogs won’t be let off the leash until the early evening news. After that, it’ll be a free-for-all.” “I’m sure the UN will be very grateful for your employers’ discretion,” Charlotte said sourly. She turned away slightly as she said it, embarrassed by her own temerity.

There was nothing visible through the window but a concrete blur speckled with racing vehicles. She had to squint slightly in order to refocus her eyes on the rim of jet-black SAP systems that topped the superhighway’s sound-muffling walls. It was an inner sensation of deceleration rather than any visual cue which told her that the hire car’s driver was responding to an instruction in its secret programming. It was changing lanes, moving to the inside. As the vehicle slowed and Charlotte’s eyes adjusted, the blur of uncertainty began to resolve itself into a much clearer image. The road markings appeared out of the sun-blazed chaos of the surface, and the other cars on the road became discrete and distinct.

If only the case could be clarified as easily, she thought, peering into the distance in the hope of seeing a road sign that would tell her which intersection they were approaching. Belatedly, she regretted having left the driver’s monitor to Lowenthal. Had he not been turned around, maintaining his position as best he could within the four-way conversation, he would have been able to obtain the car’s exact location at the stab of a button.

“The person we have to identify and locate with all possible expedition,” Oscar Wilde went on, overriding the comments which had interrupted his flow, “is the man behind Rappaccini Inc.—and with all due respect to Michael’s reasoning and the evidential fruit provided by its pursuit, I still can’t believe that Walter Czastka is that man. If Jafri Biasiolo never actually Existed, who was the man who appeared at the Great Exhibition and discussed matters of technique and aesthetics with such evident authority? Whose face appears in the records dutifully assembled by Hal’s inquisitive silvers?” “A well-briefed actor,” said Michael Lowenthal. “Hired to secure the illusion that Rappaccini had a real existence—and then removed from the scene, having done his work. You shouldn’t have told Czastka that he was a suspect, Dr. Wilde.

Until you did that, he must have thought that his plan was working perfectly. He must have assumed that he was the only expert witness the police had called upon.” “Even though he had summoned me to the Trebizond Tower and simultaneously made himself unavailable for immediate consultation?” Wilde queried. “I think not.

The real Rappaccini may be involving Walter in his affair with the same scrupulous ingenuity that he is applying to my own involvement—but if so, he clearly cannot expect that either of us will actually be arrested and charged.

My part is that of an interested witness. Walter’s—” “Czastka has a much stronger link to the victims,” Lowenthal insisted stubbornly. “He has to be reckoned the most likely suspect.” “Not