Blood Trust - Eric van Lustbader [103]
“Okay,” she said, standing up.
As she headed toward the bank of filing cabinets, Evrette said, “They’re all empty. The files were taken to the vault by the forensic accounting team.”
“Then lead the way,” she said. “But first I need to make a pit stop at the ladies’.”
“Certainly.” Evrette gave her directions.
She wanted to try one more time to speak to Jack. Failing that, she wanted to update him again. But once she got into a stall and rummaged around in her handbag for her cell, she recalled that it was still in its charger in the center console of her car. She’d run it down to zero. Cursing her own stupidity, she returned to Billy Warren’s office and Evrette led them down the hall.
“The forensic team insisted on working on-site. We chose the vault because it’s quiet and out of the way of both our staff and our clients,” Evrette explained as they proceeded down one hallway, then another.
The vault was at the end of a long corridor, the last third of which offered blank walls rather than the usual office doors. The huge round opening beckoned. With its massive hinges and seven-foot-thick hardened steel-and-titanium door opened inward, the entrance looked like a modern-day equivalent to Aladdin’s cave.
As they stepped inside, a cool breeze from the internal air venting system stroked their faces. A table and chairs had been set up in the middle of the vault, but at the moment only one man sat, poring over masses of files and folders.
As Evrette announced them, he put down his pen, stood up, and turned around to face them. A good-looking man in his late thirties, he was impeccably dressed in an expensive, European-cut suit of midnight blue silk, a starched white shirt, and a modish paisley tie. He had thick, dark hair left longer than most people in his trade. His eyes were hooded, dark, and intelligent. He smiled and Naomi felt a curious sensation along her skin when he approached, as if he were giving off some kind of powerful energy.
M. Bob Evrette made the introductions. “Agents Wilde and McKinsey, this is John Pawnhill, the head of the forensic accounting team InterPublic hired.”
* * *
“SO WHAT do you do, if you don’t mind me asking?” the man sitting next to Annika said. When she hesitated, he said hastily, “That’s all right. If you’d rather read, I understand completely.”
She laughed softly. “No, I was getting bored anyway.”
They were wearing their seat belts. The plane, slicing through the night on its way to Rome, had encountered a powerful storm, and they had experienced some unpleasant turbulence before the pilot had taken them up to 43,000 feet. Below them, vicious streaks of lightning flashed in the remote blackness of their time-annihilating flight.
“May I see what you’re reading?”
She handed him the book. He had the face of a Roman senator, aggressive without being arrogant. His tan almost camouflaged the pockmarks on his cheek. The backs of his hands were scarred; they were work hands, which she liked. His gray eyes scanned the book jacket.
“The Copenhagen Interpretation: the Orthodoxy of Quantum Mechanics, or The Wavefunction Collapse.” He glanced at her as he handed back the book. “That’s quite a title. Are you a scientist?”
“A detective, of sorts,” she said with a mischievous smile. “A very specific sort. I’m looking for the Higgs boson.”
“The what?”
“A particle so small it’s virtually beyond human comprehension.” She waved a hand. “It’s complicated and, for a layperson, probably boring.”
“Not to me.” He settled in, apparently content to listen to her as long as she wanted to talk.
“I work for CERN at the LHC,” she said. “Also known as the Large Hadron Collider.”
He tapped a finger against his lip. “I’ve heard about … didn’t your team just break a record once held by Fermilabs?”
“That’s right.” She appeared delighted.