Micro - Michael Crichton [147]
Watanabe’s head was swimming. Vin Drake seemed to have killed thirteen people. If this was true, Drake was extremely dangerous. “Tell me why I shouldn’t decide you’re a nutcase?” he said to the security man.
Makele hunched over. “You decide what you want. I have to tell you the truth.”
“Are you involved in these deaths?”
“For seven million dollars.”
In his years as a detective, Dan Watanabe had witnessed many confessions. Even so, a confession never failed to give Watanabe a sense of surprise. Why did people decide to tell the truth? It was never in their best interest. The truth doesn’t set you free, it sends you to prison.
“Last time we talked, lieutenant,” Don Makele went on, “you said something about Moloka‘i.”
Watanabe frowned. He didn’t remember…Oh, yes—Makele used the traditional Hawaiian pronunciation…
“You said Moloka‘i is the best of the islands,” the security chief went on. “I think you meant the people of Moloka‘i, not the island.”
“I don’t know what I meant,” Watanabe answered, and sipped his coffee, and sat back, keeping his gaze fixed on Makele.
“I was born in Puko‘o,” Makele went on. “That’s a little spot on East Moloka‘i. Just a few houses and the sea. My grandma raised me. She taught me to speak Hawai‘ian—well, she tried to. She also taught me about doing the right thing. I joined the Marines, served my country, but then…I don’t know what happened to me. I started doing things for money. Those students didn’t deserve what we did to them. We left them to die. When they didn’t die, Drake sent people to take them out. I will do a lot of things for seven million dollars, but there’s some things I won’t do. I won’t take orders from Vin Drake anymore. I’m like pau hana.” Work is done.
“Where is Mr. Drake right now?” Watanabe asked. The man was beyond dangerous.
“Nanigen, I think.”
Watanabe flipped up his phone. “We’ll get him.”
“Not a good idea to just walk in there, lieutenant.”
“Oh?” Watanabe said coolly, holding his phone away from his ear; you could hear his phone ringing. “Tactical deployments are pretty damn effective, I’ve noticed.”
“Not with micro-bots. They can smell you, and they can fly. It’s a hornet’s nest in there.”
“All right. Tell me how to get in.”
“There’s no way in unless Vin Drake permits it. He controls the bots. Hand-controller. Like a TV remote.”
Watanabe got an answer to his phone call. “Marty?” he said, putting the phone back to his ear. “We’ve got a problem at Nanigen.”
Eric Jansen swung the fat-tire truck into the entrance of the Kalikimaki Industrial Park, and cruised past the Nanigen building. Apart from a sodium light splashing the entrance door, the place seemed lightless and dead, in the early hours of a Sunday morning. Karen King and Rick Hutter stood on the dashboard of the truck next to their aircraft. Near them a plastic hula girl bobbled, stuck to the dashboard and swinging in a grass skirt. The hula girl loomed over Karen and Rick.
Eric drove the truck inside an unfinished building, just the frame of a warehouse and some concrete block walls, which sat next to Nanigen. He parked behind a wall, out of sight. He shut off the engine and got out, and listened for a few moments, and looked around. Time to move on Nanigen.
He put on the squirt radio headset, and spoke into the voice pickup. “Launch your planes and follow me.”
Karen and Rick climbed into their planes and took off. Eric could hear the props whining near his ears as he crossed the lot, heading for Nanigen. He realized they were flying directly behind his head, to keep out of the wind.
“You okay?” he said on the radio.
“Fine,” Karen answered. She didn’t feel fine, she felt terrible, like a bad case of flu coming on. Every joint in her body ached. Rick probably felt worse, she thought, since he’d had loads of toxins in his