Montaro Caine A Novel

5





THE FOLLOWING MORNING, MONTARO ARRIVED WELL IN ADVANCE of his scheduled meeting with Herman Freich and Colette Beekman at the Fitzer Lab, proceeding directly to the office of his research director, Michen Borceau. The lab was located where it had been since the company’s founding, in lower Manhattan, despite the long-standing advice of Montaro’s colleagues, particularly Alan Rothman and Carlos Wallace, to move it out of the city to a location—perhaps Stamford, Connecticut—where space was cheaper. Montaro knew that his attachment to the Manhattan location had provided much fodder for Rothman and Wallace, both of whom had accused Montaro of intransigence and foolhardy sentimentality. But Montaro still loved the lab’s connection to Fitzer’s nearly century-old history; the place reminded him of the laboratories at M.I.T. where he had trained, and more so than even his office, his Westport home, or his apartment in The Carlyle, the Fitzer Lab provided him with a sense of comfort, optimism, and satisfaction with his life’s work. And the truth was, as he had explained countless times to any person who felt the need to question him, the science his business required had not changed so significantly over the past fifty years as to warrant a move to larger or more purportedly modern quarters.

Shortly after entering Michen Borceau’s office, where his research director was awaiting him, Montaro announced that no member of the laboratory staff, not even Borceau himself, would be allowed to take part in the analysis he had scheduled to begin shortly after his guests arrived. The portly, Lyon-born chemist was instantly miffed; his brooding eyes glared from under bushy eyebrows and his smooth, ruddy cheeks blushed redder than usual, but he knew that Montaro must have had a good reason for the unusual protocol. Never once, in all their years of association, had Caine slighted him in any way. Never had Caine questioned any of Borceau’s or his staff’s procedures. Further, Borceau was sensitive and savvy enough to understand that delicate political concerns shrouded all human relationships in the world of big business. He was careful to display no sign of his annoyance, yet both his professional and personal curiosity were further piqued when his secretary, Gina Lao, led Colette Beekman and Herman Freich into his office.

“Welcome,” Borceau said directly to Colette. “I am Michen Borceau, Director of Research.” He looked from Freich to Colette. Though he was aware that Caine was waiting for him to depart, he was a man who had difficulty containing his appetites, and he could barely keep his eyes off the confident young woman in their midst.

“Thank you,” said Colette, all too aware of Borceau’s gaze.

As Beekman and Freich introduced themselves to Borceau, Caine addressed himself somewhat brusquely to Gina Lao, a woman whom he knew Borceau had hired more for her looks than for her efficiency or her trustworthiness. Caine had never openly questioned Borceau’s decision to hire Gina, but he had thought many times that the lab could be run more efficiently if Borceau had hired someone more like his own reliable, but far from glamorous secretary, Nancy MacDonald.

“Gina,” Caine said, “I don’t want to be disturbed under any circumstances. Do you understand that?”

“Yes, sir,” Gina replied. She prepared to leave, though her boss was making no move to do so.

“Well, I do hope you enjoy your visit with us,” Borceau said awkwardly, still staring at Colette.

“Coffee, anyone?” asked Gina Lao, attempting to break the contact with Colette that Borceau had locked himself into. “Ms. Beekman?”

“No, I’ve had mine,” Colette said. She finally turned away from Borceau.

“If you change your mind, buzz me,” Gina added as she exited.

A long pause swelled before Borceau reluctantly turned from Colette, looked at Montaro, smiled at Freich, then followed his secretary out, closing the door behind him.

Colette laid her briefcase on Borceau’s desk, opened it, reached in among its well-ordered contents, removed a folded dark velvet cloth, then turned to face Caine. After a moment’s hesitation, she handed the packet to him. Caine felt a small box wrapped inside the soft material. Beekman and Freich seated themselves in the chairs before Borceau’s desk and focused their attention on Caine, who moved behind the desk.

Caine sat and unfolded the cloth to reveal a small gray jeweler’s box. He opened the box slowly. When he saw the contents of the box, his disappointment was instant, yet so was his confusion. Still, he tried not to reveal the slightest reaction. Yes, the object looked similar to the one he remembered—same size, same color—but the configuration of dots upon its face was not quite the same. He wondered if Freich and Beekman knew that the object was different from the one that he had analyzed at M.I.T.

Caine removed the coin from the box. He held it up for a long, close look at its face before turning the smooth, flat, reverse side upward toward the light. Had they brought him a fake?

“Well, let’s go to the lab,” he said, knowing that the spectrometer’s results would say all that needed to be said.

In the wonderfully musty laboratory, Montaro attempted to couch his apprehensions by preparing the coin for its compositional analysis. As he gently polished the coin, he described to Freich and Colette the workings of the spectrometer, which resembled a hefty old-fashioned office Xerox machine, and he offered a rudimentary explanation of the sort of wavelength readings that the spectrometer would provide. He explained that though this form of analysis had been around since World War II, it remained the most reliable and, further, it would do the least amount of damage to the object. He continued his lecture, knowing that Freich and Colette would stay with him for however long the procedure would last, and that they would not let him or the coin out of their sight. He disliked the arrangement, but it was the one he had agreed to. So, with his guests watching his every move, he fired up the machine and waited.

As the results of the analysis began to reveal themselves, Montaro was surprised and increasingly heartened to discover that this object’s toughness and resilience to heat were of the same remarkable level as that of the original coin. Throughout the workup, he remained careful to conceal his growing elation. What was the history of the coin, he wondered, and what was its connection to the other object he had once held? But no matter how many times his clients asked him and no matter how many times he analyzed, reanalyzed, checked and re-checked, he was not yet ready to tell his clients what the spectrometer was telling him. Yes, he had found elements that were not only unknown, but ones that he was fairly certain were not even contained in the makeup of the first coin.

All three of them remained silent when they returned to Borceau’s office. When he was finally seated behind Borceau’s desk, he placed the tiny coin back into the jewel box and snapped the lid shut.

“This isn’t the same coin,” he said at last. Freich and Beekman did not appear surprised.

“It isn’t?” asked Freich evenly.

“It isn’t,” repeated Caine. He watched their faces carefully.

“I don’t understand, Montaro. What do you mean?” Colette asked.

Caine stood up, leaned forward on Borceau’s desk, and looked from Freich to Beekman before speaking in a clear, firm voice. “I remember every detail. This is not the coin I worked on at M.I.T. It is not the coin we discussed yesterday in my office.”

Freich and Beekman exchanged looks. “Are you sure?” Colette asked.

“I’m certain of it, and so are you. So, no games please. Now, please tell me, what is the point of all this?”

Colette’s only reply was an enigmatic smile before she looked down, pulling Caine’s attention to Freich. “Bottom line, Herman,” Caine said. “Get right to it or let’s call it a day. I’m a busy man; let’s not waste each other’s time.”

Freich stood up and took a step toward Caine. “Our apologies for misleading you. It is not the same coin,” he said.

“Where’s the other one, if you don’t mind my asking?” Caine asked.

“First, Montaro,” Colette interrupted, “can you tell us if there is a relationship between the composition of the two coins?”

Montaro disliked having a question answered by a question. He weighed his answer before he spoke.

“Yes,” he said.

“Are they of the same nature?” Colette asked.

“In terms of their strength, yes,” said Caine.

“Are they of two different compositions?” Colette pressed further.

“Both contain some elements that are in the other,” Caine responded, trying to keep his answer as vague as he could.

“Then both are composed of some additional elements that are not to be found in the other?” Freich asked.

“Where is the first one?” asked Caine. He, too, could play the game of answering a question with a question.

“In a minute,” said Freich. “One last question—given your expertise as a scientist and given what you wrote in your memo twenty-six years ago, do you know of any civilization in which these objects could have been constructed?”

“I don’t,” Caine replied. He thought he caught Freich’s eyes dancing for a moment.

“Which is not to say that such a civilization did not exist, does it?” Freich continued. For emphasis, he shifted his body weight to his right foot, moving him inches nearer to Caine.

Caine remained silent until Colette interrupted his thoughts. “Is it possible they could have been made by a culture that might have existed some time in human history of which we presently have no knowledge?” she asked.

“Maybe. A very, very long time ago,” Caine answered as he took a seat.

“Thank you, Montaro,” Colette said with a smile.

“So, what about the other one?” Caine asked. “Do you mind telling me about it?”

With a glance, Colette referred the question to Freich.

“It’s in America someplace,” he said.

Caine was taken aback by the tone of crisp finality in this answer. “Come now, you can do better than that,” he pressed.

“Afraid not. All we know is that it is somewhere here in America. Exactly where and in whose possession, we actually do not know.”

Was that all they were after, Caine wondered, a confirmation that the second coin was no less authentic than the first? Or was that simply the impression they wanted to give him? Who the hell were these two and what was their game? He tried to keep himself from feeling both devastated and enraged. He felt as though he had been used—by Colette, Freich, even by Larry Buchanan.

“Are there more than two coins that you are aware of?” Caine inquired, attempting to plant doubt in their minds and to keep the conversation going. He theorized that Beekman and Freich might be collectors of some sort.

“Not to our knowledge,” Colette answered with a slight frown.

“It would seem likely,” Caine said, softly nudging the doubt along.

“But then again, they could be the only two of their kind in the entire world,” said Freich.

“In that event, they would have to be considered among the rarest objects on Earth,” said Caine. “Making this,” he added, picking up the jewel box from the desk, “a true objet d’art.”

Freich nodded noncommittally. “Would it be asking too much for you to jot your conclusions down in a letter, Montaro? We could have it picked up at your office some time next week, if you would be so kind.”

Caine’s mind reeled. Apparently, he had been had. He had given far more than he had intended and had received far less than he had expected. The compensation Freich and Beekman were going to give him was irrelevant, and so was their vague interest in Fitzer, which now struck him as little more than a con; he still knew nothing that he needed to know. Beekman and Freich had awakened a curiosity in him that had lain dormant all these years; it would distract and nag at him, and yet he still had no way to resolve it.

Colette raised her palm to Caine, who transferred the jewel box to her outstretched hand. Touching her soft, warm hand distracted him momentarily. The physical exchange, to both their surprise, somehow turned into a prolonged, tender handshake. “Thank you again, Montaro. It was good of you to take the time away from your busy schedule to help us,” she said. “You can send the invoice to our attention at the Waldorf. They’ll forward it to us.”

Caine made no reply.

Turning, Colette moved toward the door where Freich waited.

“Good-bye, Montaro,” Freich said, with a wave of his hand.

Caine nodded. He kept his eyes on Beekman’s legs as she moved through the outer office.

When Freich closed Borceau’s office door behind him, Montaro buzzed Gina Lao, and over the intercom ordered her to find her boss as soon as possible. Within minutes, Borceau arrived out of breath. Without skipping a beat, Caine ushered him into the laboratory, where he showed him a few minuscule fragments of the coin he had purposely set aside, slivers containing the unknown elements.

“I want to know everything you can tell me about these,” said Caine. He made no mention to Borceau of the coin or the other elements, of what he was looking for, or of what he thought Borceau might find.

Caine then returned to Borceau’s office, where he immediately got on the intercom with Gina again. “Get me Dr. Michael Chasman’s office at M.I.T.,” he told her. A few moments later, Caine was put through to Dr. Chasman’s secretary, Madeline Pitcar.

“Hello, Madeline. How are you?” Caine said into the phone. As he spoke, he tried to envision the flirtatious, bleached-blond secretary of his former mentor; she had to be pushing sixty by now.

“Hello, I’m fine. How are you?” Madeline responded uncertainly.

“I’m O.K., but I’d feel a lot better if I was sure you hadn’t forgotten me. It’s Monty Caine—Montaro Caine.”

“Oh my, Monty, forgive me,” she said. “What a pleasant surprise, but Dr. Chasman is not here.”

“I’ve got to talk to him. It’s urgent,” Caine said.

“I’m sorry, I don’t know where he is. He’s away.”

“It’s absolutely critical, Madeline.”

“I don’t know what to tell you, Monty. He’s out of town; I just don’t know where. He said something about Europe.”

“I’ve got to track him down. Does anyone else know where he is? His wife?”

“She passed. Long time ago.”

“I’m sorry to hear that. Does he have a travel agent?”

“No, his agency went out of business years ago. I usually set up his plans, but this time, he didn’t ask me, so I have no idea where he is other than what I told you. When I hear from him, I will tell him that you called and ask him to get in touch with you right away.”

“Madeline, listen,” Montaro said. “You don’t have to respond, just listen. Throw your mind back twenty-six years. I’m sure you’ll recall that winter when Professor Walmeyer and I made such nuisances of ourselves regarding a rare coin. Do you remember how we pestered Dr. Chasman to get the owner of that coin to let us have a second look at it? No matter how hard we tried, Dr. Chasman would not let us know who the owner was.

“Now, I know you know who that person is,” Montaro continued. “I’m sure you know, too, that I analyzed that object for Professor Walmeyer. Assuming the owner is still alive and has retained possession of the coin, I want you to call him and tell him this—I have just seen and done a workup on a second object that is almost identical to his, but not quite. It is certainly as authentic and, in my professional opinion, I would say their origin is probably the same. In other words, I found almost all the unusual characteristics of that first coin in the one I examined today. If he still owns the first coin, or even if he doesn’t, please give him my number. Do you understand?”

Madeline swallowed audibly before speaking softly into the phone. “As soon as I hear from Dr. Chasman, Monty, I will let him know that you have tried to reach him. Thank you.”

Gina Lao made sure that both lines had disengaged before she quietly replaced the receiver she had been listening in on, while in her boss’s office, Montaro Caine placed a call to Lawrence Aikens, Fitzer’s head of security.