shook his head. “I guess we’ll have to wait and see if the CDC and the FBI come up with anything in El Salvador.”
He stood to leave, but Yaeger raised his hand. “Hang on, Rudi. I’ve got some additional research you asked for.” He reached for a thin folder and passed it to Gunn.
Gunn glanced at the title page, retook his seat. “BioRem Global Limited, our partner in Detroit. What did you find of interest?”
“Not much, I’m afraid. It’s a privately held company, so the public record is slim. It was founded in the late 1990s by Dr. Frasier Smyth McKee, who was by all accounts a genius biochemist. He left a research post at Edinburgh University to start the firm. He originally focused on cleaning up oil spills in the North Sea using microorganisms.” Yaeger nodded toward the file. “The firm has since expanded its product portfolio to treat a variety of hazardous wastes with genetically engineered microbes.”
“Is McKee still around?”
“He was killed in a boating accident five years ago. His wife, Evanna McKee, inherited the company, and runs it today.”
“Yes, I’ve spoken with her.”
“She’s a major figure in the world of business and politics, though the company itself is nearly invisible.”
“What’s the scope of their work?”
“Difficult to say. Many of their jobs are contracted privately. No one likes to advertise they have a toxic spill. The file lists a handful of high-profile jobs that made the press.”
Gunn flipped through the report. “They’re certainly Johnny-on-the-spot when it comes to international accidents,” he said. “A fertilizer plant fire on the Yangtze River, a chemical spill on the Seine near Paris, and a ruptured oil tank in Karachi. And that’s all in the past six months.”
“Their global presence is much more notable over the past two years.”
Gunn turned the page and stiffened in his chair. The sheet listed three additional projects.
“A petroleum pipeline rupture near Mumbai, a leaking cyanide leaching pit at an El Salvador gold mine, and a chemical spill in Cairo.” He glanced at the video wall, which still displayed the table of cholera outbreaks.
“Mumbai and Cairo are on the list, along with Karachi. The Yangtze River site could be Shanghai. And that’s in addition to El Salvador.”
“Does seem like some common ground,” Yaeger said. “Let’s see what we can find out about the gold mine cleanup.”
He retrieved a handful of local news articles from the Salvadoran media and had them translated from Spanish. The two skimmed the articles on the big screen.
“A cyanide leaching pit at the former Potonico gold mine was breached in an apparent landslide,” Yaeger said. “Authorities questioned whether environmental protestors may have triggered the slide to generate support for a countrywide ban on mining.”
“Where is it located?” Gunn asked.
Yaeger displayed a map of El Salvador. “Northeast part of the country. Thirty miles from San Salvador, on the shores of Cerrón Grande Reservoir.”
“Bingo! There’s a connection.”
“Sounds like the BioRem product for cleaning up the gold mine mess,” Yaeger said, “may have had some unpleasant side effects.”
“Fatal side effects that may have spread through the reservoir—and that, possibly, were sufficient motivation to blow up the dam and kill the U.S. aid team. What can you find on their Cairo project?”
Yaeger retrieved and translated local Egyptian news accounts. “Looks like a tanker spill in the Nile, at the head of the Ismailia Canal. Another collision, this one accompanied by a large fire.”
“Any correlation with the cholera outbreak?”
Yaeger skimmed the results. “It appears there was a brief yet widely dispersed outbreak in Cairo’s northeastern suburbs. Two hundred fatalities were recorded, but the actual number is believed much higher on account of unreported deaths. Authorities believe the source was tap water that was improperly treated. The outbreak occurred several days after the tanker accident.”
“Another hit,” Gunn said.
“Take a look at this article from the Cairo News.”
A news snippet appeared with a side box translation titled “No bodies of crew recovered in fiery late night collision on Nile.”
“Sounds just like Detroit,” Yaeger said.
Gunn leaned forward as he read the article. Then he slumped into his seat and loosened his tie. “Hiram,” he said. “I think we’re going to need some coffee.”
33
St. Julian Perlmutter was seated at his kitchen table, wearing his favorite paisley robe, when the phone rang. He reached past a stack of open books and a plate of half-eaten Danish, to answer a brass telephone salvaged from a 1940s luxury liner.
“Perlmutter,” he said in a gruff baritone that originated deep in his massive frame.