CHAPTER FORTY

Striding down the brick walkways that wound through the campus, knitting it together like a living nervous system, Lawrence Haines headed for the parking garage where he had left his rental vehicle, taking his time. He passed by the new building that housed the English department, looking up to admire the sleek limestone facade, vertically oriented windows, and crenulated eves. Equally interesting was the ornate Georgian building made of bricks imported from England and devoted now to the chemistry department, a historical marker identifying it as the oldest structure on campus, built in 1853.

He drew in a lungful of the crisp air that was perfumed with the oak, beech, and maple leaves crunching underfoot and felt exhilarated. It had been a splendidly productive afternoon of meetings with senior university leaders. He and his acquisition team were getting a good lay of the land and already establishing relationships with the key decision-makers. Now the sun was lowering over the hills past the river, and he was going home.

A phone rang in his overcoat pocket, breaking his chain of thoughts. It was the secure satellite device that connected him to Potemkin. His heart immediately sank. He’d known this call would be coming at some point. Potemkin would be wanting a progress report. He was tempted to ignore it. But the Russian would keep trying. It was unavoidable. Get it over with. Keeping up his pace, he answered.

“Hello, Lawrence,” Potemkin said. “You sound winded.”

“I’m walking.”

“Congratulations again. You have won. Or I should say, we have won. How does it feel?”

“As expected.”

“What? You don’t sound as happy as I would expect.”

Haines entered the ground floor of the parking garage and headed for the stairs. “I’ve got a lot on my mind. I’ve had a busy day.”

“Good,” said Potemkin. “I picture you there having many meetings with grateful people who hail you as the hero that will rescue them with his sturdy HWA lifeboat. And you let them know, I hope, that you will begin by blessing them with a brand-new computer system, highest quality, as we discussed?”

“Of course. The funds are being transferred to make it happen.”

“Very well. Excellent. We will bury the past in some landfill.”

Entering a stairwell, Haines climbed toward the level where he’d left the vehicle. The air inside was stale. A wave of anger swirled in his chest. He might as well address it now. “Mikhail, there have been some strange happenings here in the past few days since we talked. Suicides and kidnappings and people going through car shredders. Were you involved in any way? Don’t lie to me.”

Potemkin’s answer was delayed a second or so. “Well, Lawrence, I have heard some rumors about those things, yes,” said the Russian. “But my work there is now done, my friend. Done. As you requested. To change subject, tell me how is your Dr. Forester taking his loss? Did you see him today?”

“I did see him briefly. I made him an offer to stay—it would have lubricated the transition—but he’s holding out.”

“For money?”

“No. More out of spite. He’s a proud man.”

“I’m surprised you couldn’t bring him around. I thought you were good at that.”

“I am good at that. It’ll be his loss.”

“Would you like me to help convince him?”

Haines nearly stumbled on a step. “No! I said no more interference. How can I make that any clearer?”

“I only make a joke, my friend. Relax.”

“It’s just as well he goes. He’s not an efficient administrator. I saw how he runs his office. He’s got an administrative assistant who doubles as his receptionist and looks like a manicurist. Strangers barge into his office unannounced. While I was waiting for him, some wild-eyed foreign woman sauntered in and mistook me for him.”

Potemkin didn’t respond immediately.

“Mikhail?”

“A foreign woman, you say?”

“To judge by her accent, yes.”

“Tell me more about this person.”

“I was merely giving you an example of his chaotic management style.”

“Tell me about her, please. The woman.”

“What’s the relevance?”

“Humor me, Lawrence. How old? What was her accent? Just tell me.”

“I’d say she was in her mid-thirties, the accent resembled yours a bit. Maybe thicker. Slavic sounding. Why?” Reaching the third floor, he pushed open the heavy metal door. The hinges needed oiling.

“Did you happen to get her name?”

“I don’t have time for this, Mikhail.” He marched toward his car. “Why would I have asked her name?”

“This may be of importance. Did you get her name?”

The car was a white Mercedes. “She did give his assistant her name. I think it was Vlada Marina.” He pressed the key fob and its lights flashed. “Yes, the name Vlada stuck in my mind because I assumed it was the feminine form of Vladimir. Like Putin. Not that I’m a fan of your friend over there.”

“Most interesting . . .”

Haines rolled his eyes. “Why is that interesting?”

“I must go,” asserted the Russian. The connection suddenly went dead.

Haines slid behind the wheel and stared at the phone. That was the shortest conversation he’d ever had with Potemkin. Hopefully, it would be the last.