Fever Dream - Douglas Preston [117]
Hayward rose. “As you wish. Sorry to bother you, Mr. Phillips.” She paused. “Give our regards to your son.”
“You know my son?” came the easy reply, with no hint of anxiety.
“No,” said Hayward. They moved toward the front hall.
As her hand touched the doorknob, Phillips finally asked, his voice very calm, “Then why did you mention him just now?”
Hayward turned. “I can see, Mr. Phillips, that you are a gentleman of the Old South. A forthright man of old-fashioned values who appreciates directness.”
Phillips greeted this with a certain wariness.
Hayward went on, subtly modulating her voice into the southern inflections that she usually suppressed. “Which is why I’ll be straight with you. I’m here on a special errand. We need information. And we’re in a position to help your son. About that matter of the drug conviction, I mean.”
This was greeted with a dead silence. “All that’s been taken care of,” Phillips said at last.
“Well, you see—that depends.”
“Depends on what?”
“On just how forthright you prove to be.”
Phillips frowned. “I don’t understand.”
“You’re in possession of information that’s very important to us. Now, my associate here, Agent Pendergast—let’s just say that the two of us are in disagreement on how best to elicit that information. He, and the Bureau, are in a position to make sure that your son’s record is not expunged. And he’s of the opinion that this is the easiest way to guarantee your help. By keeping your son’s record dirty, by preventing him from attending law school—or at least threatening to prevent him from attending—he believes he can force your hand.”
Hayward paused. Phillips looked at them in turn. A vein in his temple throbbed.
“I, on the other hand, would prefer to cooperate. See, I’m in with the local constabulary. I used to be one of them myself. I’m in a position to help clear your son’s record. Help make sure he gets into law school, passes the bar, joins your firm. Seems to me that would be good for everyone. What do you think?”
“I see: the classic good-cop, bad-cop routine,” said Phillips.
“A tried-and-true approach.”
“What do you want to know?” Phillips asked, voice thin.
“We’re working on an old case, and we have reason to believe you can help us. As I mentioned, it involves Longitude Pharmaceuticals.”
A veiled expression came over Phillips’s face. “I’m not at liberty to discuss the company.”
“That’s really a shame. And I’ll tell you why. Because hearing this obstructionist attitude—and hearing it from your own lips—is just going to reinforce my associate’s notion that his way of handling this is the right way to go. I’ll be embarrassed—and your son will never, ever get a law degree.”
Phillips did not reply.
“It’s also a shame because Agent Pendergast here is in a position to help, as well as to hurt.” Hayward paused briefly to let this sink in. “You see, you’ll need the FBI’s help if you want to correct your son’s record. With a drug conviction like that… well, as you might imagine, there will be a federal file to take care of, in addition to the local paperwork.”
Phillips swallowed. “We’re talking about a small-time drug conviction. The FBI would have no interest in that.”
“Possession with intent to sell. That automatically generates a federal file.” She nodded slowly. “Being a corporate lawyer, perhaps you didn’t know that. Trust me, that file is sitting in a cabinet somewhere, a time bomb waiting to blow up your son’s future.”
Pendergast stood beside her, motionless. He hadn’t said a word during the entire exchange.
Phillips licked his lips, wet them with the martini, exhaled. “What is it you want to know, exactly?”
“Tell us about the avian flu experiments at Longitude.”
The ice chips in the martini tinkled as Phillips’s hand shook.
“Mr. Phillips?” Hayward prompted.
“Captain, if I spoke to you of that, and the fact got out, it would result in my death.”