days require something a little stronger than grape juice. What can I do for you?”
“How about a quick and dirty biography of one Dr. Miles S. Perkins of Inverness, Scotland.”
Yaeger’s fingers flew over a keyboard. Pitt had a response in seconds.
“Dr. Miles S. Perkins, Ph.D. in biology from Aberdeen University?”
“Sounds like our man.”
“Born in Kirkcaldy, Scotland, age fifty-five. Background in chemistry and microbiology. Taught at the University of Edinburgh for many years. Was a disciple of Dr. Frasier McKee. Joined his company, BioRem Global Limited, in 2010 as Chief Science Officer. He’s published many papers on microbiology and the use of bacteria for industrial benefit. Has been married twenty-seven years to one Margaret Anne Perkins. No children.”
“No children?” Pitt said.
“None that I show.”
“Do you have any photos of him?”
“A few from his days at the university. Slight man with glasses, wavy dark hair. I’ll email you the best ones. Did you meet him?”
“Allegedly,” Pitt said. “Thanks, Hiram. I’ll get you that whisky.”
“Bowmore’s, if you please. Thanks, boss.”
Pitt’s suspicions were confirmed. The man wasn’t Perkins, or even a good imitation. If he had to guess, he’d say the imposter was a security man pressed into service. His speech and mannerisms didn’t fit a respected scientist. The family photo looked like it had just been produced, with the fake Dr. Perkins Photoshopped in with another family. Then there was the sterile office and the semivacant building. The looming question was, why?
The answer, he hoped, was forthcoming when a gray Volkswagen appeared from behind the building. When the car turned onto the frontage street that led out of town, Pitt saw that the driver was bald. Pitt started the Mini and followed at a distance, motoring past the BioRem building.
Inside, the receptionist stood at the window and watched Pitt drive by. She hurried to her desk and dialed a number, cursing when the phone at the other end went to voicemail. She dialed a second number, which was answered on the first ring.
“A problem with the meeting?”
“No, it went well,” the receptionist said. “He claimed to have a water sample from El Salvador, which we obtained. I’ll send you the video straight away. The problem is Richards. He just departed with the sample to take it to the lab. I think Pitt is following him.”
“Did you try calling Richards?”
“Yes, but he didn’t answer.”
“I see. He should have shown more caution.” A pause. “Position one of the lorries on the lab road from Foyers. Meet him on the way back. And make it look like an accident.”
The receptionist had no opportunity for debate. With a click, the line fell dead.
37
The Volkswagen drove south from Inverness, following Dores Road along the River Ness to the town of the same name. The car passed through the village, then turned onto a smaller road that hugged Loch Ness’s southeastern shore.
Pitt hung back, staying just within sight. He followed the Volkswagen for ten miles, falling in and out of view, until they reached Foyers, a village known for its nearby waterfalls. The paved road turned south past the town and away from the loch. The VW disappeared around a bend, but when Pitt accelerated through the curve, the vehicle had vanished. He noticed a light spray of dust to his right, braked hard, and whipped the Mini onto a one-lane dirt road that snaked into the trees. The Volkswagen appeared for an instant ahead, then was swallowed by a dip.
Pitt slowed, keeping well out of view, as the road passed a pair of quaint Victorian houses, then crossed a narrow wooden bridge across the River Foyers. The road zigzagged through a forested ridge near the lake. The loch’s blue waters flickered through the trees on Pitt’s right as the road paralleled the shoreline. He continued along, noting there was no place the VW could have turned off.
A mile on, Pitt noticed a marker to the side, the first he’d seen on the narrow lane. He pressed the accelerator when he drew closer and saw it was not a marker. It was a camera on a post. After he sped past it, the road curved and dipped down a short hill, then ended at an open arched steel gate. A quick glance revealed a high metal fence ran from the gate to the upper woods on the left, and downhill to the loch on the right.
Pitt hit the brakes and skidded to a stop at the crest of the hill. The thick steel gate slid closed, and the gray