Wednesday 1:00 p.m.

Peter walked through a newly developed suburb of Lima, looking at the house numbers, displayed on quaint painted tiles and posted on each identical stucco house. In America, the thee bedroom homes would have been considered 'entry level housing' to put it politely. But in the freshly paved suburb of Peru's capital, these were aspirational homes – reserved for the upper middle class.

Kids played soccer in the street, with a regulation ball, as men and women tended to their lawns and gardens up and down the street. Joggers passed him, and dog walkers shushed their barking animals as he walked by. No one found him, a clean-cut white man, the least bit suspicious. That alone told Peter a lot about the neighborhood.

As Peter approached the second address on his list, a house on the corner of the street with a particularly beautiful garden wrapping around it, he couldn't help but feel that this mysterious location had an entirely benign explanation. To the analysts in Boston, the fact that Parmas had paid for this little home with cash, and paid for its taxes, and called it regularly, was intriguing bordering on suspicious. But, seeing the home, it was obvious that Parmas had bought the house for his mother, or aunt, or some female relative who really loved to garden.

He turned off the street and started walking up the gravel pathway towards the house when a woman started yelling at him from the next yard. At first he ignored her, but the yelling became more insistent. Peter turned and their eyes met as she started communicating something very complicated rapidly in Spanish.

"Slow down, please," Peter said, holding out his hands as if in surrender. "My Spanish is very weak."

"Señora Parmas is away," the woman said, speaking slower and also, for some reason, louder. "Not here. Her house is empty."

"Do you know when she will be coming back?"

"Why do you want to see her?" the woman asked.

"I know Juan in America," Peter said. "When I told him I was coming to Lima, he said I should visit."

The woman gasped. "Her son, Juan? "

"Yes," Peter said, trying not to look too satisfied that his assumption had proven correct.

"Oh, I am so sorry to bear bad news," the woman said. "Juan was killed in America."

"What?" Peter asked, feigning ignorance. "I do not think I understood."

"Juan is dead," the woman said. "A car hit him. He is dead. Señora Parmas went to America to collect his body."

"Oh, no," Peter said. "I spoke to him last week. He was hit by a car?"

"That is what his mother said," the woman confirmed with a compassionate nod. "I am so sorry. Did you know him well?"

"It is so strange," Peter continued, using his assumed grief and shock to avoid answering any questions. "Juan is dead. I just cannot believe it. When did you say it happened?"

"Last week some time," the woman said. "His mother left on Monday."

"This is unbelievable," Peter said in English, shaking his head. Then, turning to the woman and trying to look as earnestly upset as possible, he said "Thank you so much for telling me. I give big sympathy to the family." He knew that the last sentence was practically nonsense, and he could have done better if he wanted to take the time to think about it. But, at this point, he had all the information he needed and he wanted to get out of the conversation. "Thank you," he said in English. "Goodbye." Then he turned and walked back down the gravel path to the street. The woman called after him, asking his name so she could properly forward his sympathy, but he pretended not to understand, or even be listening. He had two more addresses to check on, and he was sure one of them would give Charlie a lead.

~B~R~E~A~K~

Wednesday 4:45 p.m.

Olivia skimmed the reports of the numerous negotiators Nina had sent before Peter and found them extremely dull. The persistent misunderstandings were curious, and the part of her brain that made connections where no connection should be started to wonder if Hollingbrook were sabotaging the endeavor. But, while that explanation may have accounted for the repeated collapse of negotiations between Massive Dynamic and the Aymara, it didn't explain why Peter was allowed to succeed. Besides, what corporate middleman in his right mind would keep his project form succeeding? Clearly, she was missing a factor in this situation.

Hollingbrook's official report on Peter's visit was odder still. The details on the contract had all been laid out in an appendixes document clearly written by a lawyer. Hollingbrook's own notes were scarcely more than an itinerary – when they went to visit the Aymara and when they got back. The only indication of what happened to Peter was a simple sentence "Rook was ill Saturday and Sunday. He recovered enough to send him home on his scheduled flight."

The explanation seemed woefully inadequate, and Olivia was surprised that Nina Sharp had not demanded more. But, she reasoned, Nina probably only cared about the contract – and she had discussed the details of the negotiation with Hollingbrook and Peter. She probably felt she knew all she needed to.

With a sigh, Olivia put the files back in the filling cabinet and turned to her laptop. She had to write her progress report for Broyles, and she'd promised to keep Nina Sharp updated. She was trying to think of a way to make 'no progress' sound like 'some progress' when there was a light tapping on the doorframe. Olivia looked up and saw Hollingbrook hovering in the doorway, smiling debonairly.

"Can I help you?" Olivia clipped.

"I was just wondering if you were ready for that gin and tonic," Hollingbrook said. "It's after five. Happy hour."

Olivia glanced down to the clock on her computer screen. It was 5:10.

"I have to write my initial report," she told him dryly.

"What do you have to report?" Hollingbrook asked. "All you've done is read the files that Nina Sharp has already read. I'm sure if she wanted a summary of the Aymara negotiations, she would have asked an intern in New York to do it, not sent her protégé to the jungle."

"I understand the scope of my assignment," Olivia said with a bland smile. "And I'd appreciate it if you didn't presume to explain it to me."

"Come on Ms. Dunham," Hollingbrook coaxed. "There's a cantina just across the street that actually makes a decent dry martini."

"I don't know how long you've been in Iquitos, Mr. Hollingbrook," Olivia said. "But in New York, we don't leave the office until the day's work is done. And, we don't drink dry martinis."

"Really?" Hollingbrook said, sounding intrigued as he stepped into the room. "What do people drink in New York?"

"Scotch," Olivia replied. "Good Scotch."

"I see," Hollingbrook said. "And they work through dinner?"

"If necessary."

"Well, I hope the age-old tradition of the business dinner has not died out," Hollingbrook continued. "Because, if so, I'm afraid you're going to have to endure an untrendy night."

"I didn't come here to be trendy," Olivia said. "What are you planning?"

"I called our head scientist, Dr. Hass, in to town. He likes to stay in his lab on our facilities just off the jungle – but he seemed very eager to meet you."

"And I'm eager to meet him," Olivia said genuinely. "He must have some contact with the Aymara if he's been studying their land, but he's not mentioned in any of these reports."

"Dr. Hass files his own reports," Hollingbrook said. "And what he does doesn't really relate to the business end."

"Massive Dynamic is a company founded on science," Olivia said, flabbergasted by Hollingbrook's lazie-fair attitude. "What he does is the business end."

"Well, he'd disagree with you," he countered. "But you two can discuss it tonight. I'd suggest over drinks, but I'm not sure there's a drop of 'good scotch' in the entire city."

"When's dinner?" Olivia asked.

"When are you ready?" Hollingbrook asked.

Olivia looked down at her laptop. She didn't have much to say now, but perhaps after dinner with the lead scientist, she would have found some answers, or at least, figured out which questions would lead to answers.

"You know," she said, closing the lap top and smiling up at her host. "You were right about the heat. A Gin and Tonic sounds pretty good about now."

~B~R~E~A~K~

Wednesday 6:45 p.m.

The streetlights of cosmopolitan downtown Lima were starting to come on. Not surprisingly, the small establishment in the heart of the capitol's business district was full of professionals – pencil pushers, bean counters, lower management and fun loving secretaries. Peter knew enough about the restaurant business to know that, while it was still entirely possible that the Después de horas bar and grill was a front, it would not need to be. If it got a crowd like this most weeknights, it would turn a profit. Also of note, the patrons seemed to be entirely business people of some stripe. This didn't look like a crowd who spent too much time thinking about economic justice, the way Juan Parmas apparently had.

Again, Peter's affluent, European appearance didn't raise any eyebrows as he sat down in a booth and smiled at the group of pretty women who were eyeing him from the bar. Two of the women giggled and looked away, but the other two spent the next twenty minutes taking turns smiling at him.

He ordered the night's special and a local brew. Unable to hide the fact that he was a foreigner, he decided it would be best to pretend he didn't speak Spanish at all, and was quickly attended to by a waitress in her mid-30s, with long, thick, curly black hair, a welcoming smile, and fluency in English.

"This place is really hopping," Peter observed. "Is it always like this?"

"Most work nights," the woman said. "We get a good lunch crowd too. But weekends are useless – occasionally we get wedding party or bar mitzvah, but usually we sit around and watch the football games."

"So, you're always here?" Peter asked. "Seems like a pretty demanding job for a waitress."

"We own this bar, my husband and I," the woman said proudly. "He's in the back, making your tacu tacu."

"Oh!" Peter said knowingly. "Then you must know Juan Parmas."

"Yes, of course," the woman said soberly. Her smile evaporated and her eyes sank to the ground. She obviously not only knew him, but knew of his death as well. "Juan and my husband are cousins – but they were raised like brothers."

"My name is Peter Bishop," Peter said, pulling out his FBI credentials. He knew they gave him no authority to ask questions, but he hoped she wouldn't know that. "I work with the FBI in America, and I'm down here to investigate some suspicious circumstances related to his death." That much, at least, was true. "I'd like to talk to you and your husband, if that's possible. I can see you're busy now, but I could come back after closing, or tomorrow before you open."

"I . . . " the woman said uncertainly. "I don't know that Mateo wants to talk about that."

"He doesn't have to," Peter said with a soft, compassionate tone in his voice. "But you need to know that the 'suspicious circumstances' I told you about relate to terrorism. Now, I've talked to Juan, and I don't believe that he would hurt anyone. But the evidence we have now . . . it doesn't make him look good. I'm trying to find the whole picture, all the evidence. I don't think he's a terrorist, but I may well need your husband's testimony to prove it."

The waitress considered that for a moment. Peter continued to look up at her, meeting her gaze, trying to impress upon her that he was genuinely there to help. She must have believed his assumed earnestness, because she sighed and said, "We close at eleven. We'll talk then."

"Thank you," Peter said.

He ate his dinner slowly, nursing two beers as he ate. Then he ordered a desert and coffee, which he also nursed. After that, he left a generous tip for his waitress while he moved to the bar and ordered another beer.

Throughout the night, he observed the patrons. They were all of the professional class – young and aspirational – they'd be called YUPIES in America. The women had designer purses; the men had expensive watches. They flirted playfully and exchanged gossip freely with each other and with the staff. All told, the atmosphere was that of a regular night in a bar filled with its regular clientele – a clientele that seemed particularly unlikely to be planning terrorist attacks on America.

By nine thirty, the crowd was thinning. By ten thirty, Peter shared the bar with three other patrons, a couple having a very good date – if her annoyingly high-pitched giggle was any indication – and a man who was probably friends with the bar tender, as the two of them were deeply involved in what Peter deduced was a personal conversation. When the bar closed at eleven, the friend exited and the bartender looked happy to be dismissed without the regular clean up duties.

"You can follow me to the back," the waitress said. "My husband will talk to you while we do dishes."

"Thank you," Peter said with a gracious smile before he entered the bar's kitchen. It was neat and modern, with stainless steel appliances, soap stone counters, and bright lights everywhere. In the corner, scrubbing a large cast iron skillet in a huge stainless steel sink, was the young restructure. At a glance Peter could tell that the two men were related. They had the same nose and skin tone, even though this man was much chubbier than Parmas had been, according to the FBI files. He was taller too, a good two inches taller than Peter, and generally had an impressive and commanding presence, though the kindness in his eyes was more reminiscent of Santa Claus than Big Eddie.

"You come to ask about Juan?" Mateo asked as his wife started mopping the other side of the kitchen. "You know his mother and my sister have gone to collect his body."

"I know," Peter said. "My colleges will probably talk to them. But, there are things a man does not tell his mother that he might tell his cousin – especially a cousin that's like a brother."

Mateo smiled sadly. "Juan was five years older than me, but sometimes it felt like fifty. Perhaps it's because of what happened to his father, but his mind was never on anything I could relate to. Don't get me wrong; we were close. But I was not a confidant of his deepest thoughts– I was the one he trusted to head the family while he was away."

"A deep thinker, was he?" Peter asked.

"The deepest," Mateo said. "God forgive me for saying this, but if his father had not died, Juan's life would have been wasted – though, I suppose, its come to very little now . . ."

"He's done some amazing research," Peter said. "Developed scientific advances that our best people have difficulty replicating."

"Then maybe his father's death has come to good," Mateo said with a sober hopefulness.

"You'll have to forgive me for asking some pretty basic questions, but there is a lot about Juan we don't know. Like, how did his father die? And why would that death come to good because of his research?"

"We were born in a mining town," Mateo explained. "His father was brother to my mother. When he got a job in the copper mines, he brought her to help his wife, who was pregnant with Juan at the time. though, she quickly married my father. Of course, they all new she'd find a husband with the miners."

"Of course," Peter said, hoping the back story would lead to something eventually.

"The family lived there for several years in the same large house. My sister, Isabel, was born there, and then I was. Then, when I was three, the mine collapsed. I can remember going, every day, to the head of the mine, watching the rescue crews go in and out. My mother and aunt chanted prayers constantly. After three days, my father came out – weak, with a broken leg, but alive. Then, on the fifth day, we stopped going to the head of the mine, and on the sixth day after the accident, we had a funeral for my uncle."

"I'm sorry."

"Whatever had caused the accident that took my father's life, it must have been the fault of the equipment or the supervisor, because a fancy lawyer from Lima came, with a suit and a tie. I serve these men every day, now, but when I was a child, he looked amazing and imposing. Impossibly rich and sophisticated. There was a settlement put on my aunt and on her children. She would be able to leave, take her child to a place with real opportunity. Luckily for me, she took Isabel and me as well. We all moved to Lima, to a three-room apartment, on the edges of the best neighborhood. There we were, the children of miners, going to the same schools as the children of doctors, and lawyers, and politicians."

"From what I know of Juan," Peter said. "I'm guessing he never really fit in."

Mateo laughed warmly at the characterization. "My cousin was smarter than all of them – which they resented. Their resentment made him resent them all the more. It wouldn't have been so bad if he had not worn his past on his chest like a badge of honor. Everyone knew he was a miner's son, while I doubt half the kids in the school realized Isabel and I were as well. But then, she was pretty and has natural charm. She finds friends easily enough. I'm friendly, and always game for a round of football or game of tennis. But Juan, he wants to talk only about certain things – if you don't' want to talk about science or global justice, well, you don't get to talk to Juan."

"I know the type," Peter said, remembering well his youthful attempts to have a relationship with his father twenty-some years ago.

"He talked to me, of course," Mateo said, "Because he does care about family. But, if you want to know what he was really thinking – I cannot help you. I only know that he was concerned about my nephew's grades, and he insisted that my children focus on school and never be forced to work here. Though, with the remittance he sent home each month, we barely have to work here." Mateo sighed . . . "I suppose that will all change."

"Seems likely," Peter said.

"Don't misunderstand," Mateo said. "I love Juan. He is a good man – possibly the best man I'll ever have the honor to know. Life's sorrows gave him opportunities, and he took them. He told me he was going to make a way to mine so that men would not have to go in the ground and no little boy would lose his father ever again."

"That's . . . that's true," Peter said, somewhat surprised to hear the research he'd thought of as 'prelude to terrorism' being described as the life saving advance it, unquestionably, was.

"Then his father's death was not in vain," Mateo said. "And Juan's life will be honored by the lives of our children."

"I'm sure he'd be glad to hear that," Peter said.

"Mateo," his wife said, scolding. "You have not let this young man ask any questions. He does not want to hear about our family's grief."

"Actually, you told me exactly what I wanted to hear," Peter said. "Thank you for your time."

"But," she continued worriedly. "You thought that Juan might be involved . . . "

"Involved in what?" Mateo asked.

"He was involved in many things," Peter responded cryptically. "But, at least, I'm convinced he would not have involved you in anything dangerous or disreputable."

"You think Juan was doing something dangerous and . . . what was the word, disreputable . . . I'm not sure what that word means."

"It means there is a reason that the American Law Enforcement wants to know more about him," Peter said. "Though, it doesn't necessarily mean that he's guilty of anything. "

"And you suspected us . . ." the woman asked, alarm growing in her eyes.

"We needed to know why you were so important to Juan, why he called you twice a week." Peter said. "And now it's obvious – he loved you."

"He did," Mateo insisted, as if that fact proved Juan's innocents on the other accusations.

"And I hope your cousins life will be honored by the lives of your children, like you said. Juan sounds like a pretty amazing person, and I wish I'd known him better."

~B~R~E~A~K~

Wednesday, 8:45 p.m.

"Doctor Hass," Olivia said, leaning forward, cognizant of the fact that the top two buttons of her blouse were undone and she was treating the two men across the table from her to a glimpse of cleavage. Given her druthers, she would have preferred to stay prim and aloof to Hollingbrook – but she could tell he was a non-player, and it didn't really matter how he saw her. Hass, on the other hand, was a world-class chemist and Massive Dynamic's chief scientist in the region. He had a clear understanding of, and eagerness to use, the mining methods Parmas had been working on for Massive Dynamic. What was more, he'd been with Massive Dynamic since its inception and had worked closely with William Bell in the mid-nineties, the period of time just after Walter was committed, while the leading scientists had their fingers in everything. "I am absolutely fascinated by Massive Dynamic's history. To think that you were there on the night that William Bell conceived the iconic name . . ."

"Well, young lady," Dr. Hass chuckled gregariously. "To say he conceived it is to be over generous to my dear friend. It was a Christmas party, hosted by Nina Sharp and her then-beaux, whose name I've entirely forgotten. Walter Bishop, Bell's former collaborator, had had a mental break –effectively ending the partnership, and Bell was disinclined to continue working through Harvard for the government without him. Nina was the one with the idea of starting a company. She was getting her Ph.D. in Bio Sciences at the time, in fact, I think she was one of Bell's graduate students at Harvard, but you have to remember, she'd come from business, and had an MBA. She got so excited about the idea and started talking business models and organizational structures. It was her boyfriend, John, who asked what the company would be called. This go a discussion about how the company should be perceived. Nina, the consummate manipulator, was already insinuating herself in as Bell's irreplaceable business advisor, insisted that the name be aspirational – a name that sounded like the company was already a success. We were all throwing out words and phrases – it was all tied up in what was science, what was business, what was success. And then the boyfriend started playing with them, making them absurd, or so he thought. I'm fairly sure he was doing it to try and upstage Bell, who had all of Nina's attention, but it backfired splendidly. He came up with Massive Dynamic, you see, because he thought massive things could never be dynamic. We all of course, knew better – but the perceived paradox hiding a scientific truth intrigued Bell. I can't say he decided on that name on the spot, but it was obvious that he liked it."

"So Massive Dynamic was actually named by Nina Sharp's ex-boyfriend?" Olivia asked, genuinely intrigued.

"That relationship ended the next day, as I recall," Dr. Hass said with a chuckle. "No one could ever compete with Bell, on any field."

"To be part of the founding group of one of the most, if not the most, important organizations of our age . . ." Olivia said with feigned adoration. "It's amazing just to be talking to you."

"My dear," Dr. Hass chuckled. His cheeks were flushed, but more from the brandy he'd been sipping for the past two hours than from modesty. "True, I was in their circle, but I cannot, in all honestly, call myself part of the founding group. I was very happy with my position at Rutgers, and with Bell in the privet sector, quite a few government research grants came my way. It wasn't until nearly ten years later that I joined Massive Dynamic."

"Why, in the end, did you decide to join Massive Dynamic?"

Hass looked her in the eyes and leaned forward, as if he was going to tell her a secret, "Students are a nuisance, Miss Dunham. The older you are, the more interesting your research becomes, the more obvious it is that students just drain time and energy. Bell promised me an open lab and unhindered research, with no lectures, grading, or office hours to slow me down."

"But, how did you end up here?" Olivia asked, bewildered. "This isn't a job I'd expect William Bell to give to his old friend."

"William Bell does not have the power people think he has," Dr. Hass grumbled. "Nina Sharp runs just about everything now as she sees fit. She claims Bell had qualms with some of my research, and wanted me to refocus on futuristic alloys. But Bell wasn't a man to stop science – Nina was just looking after her precious bottom line."

"What kind of research were you doing?"

"It's neither here nor there," Hass sighed. "What is important is the work we are doing now; unlocking the earth's secretes. Proving our mastery, as it were, over mother nature."

"Whoa," Oliva commented with a nervous chuckle. "That sounds pretty aggressive."

"I've been told I'm an aggressive person," Dr. Hass replied smoothly. "Chemistry, really, is an aggressive field. It's about creating and destroying. Biology, physics, geology, astronomy, they're all about observing what is, documenting and calculating what is. Chemistry goes beyond what is and into what things can be. We have added 24 fully synthetic elements to the periodic table. Forgive me if I indulge in a little hyperbole, Miss Dunham, but Chemists are gods – we make something out of nothing."

"Turn dross into gold?" Olivia prompted.

"Child's play. Nuclear transmutation has been used to turn lead into gold, but I find it striking that it's much, much easier to turn gold into lead."

"But that's what you're doing here, isn't it?" Olivia pressed. "By pulling the alloy . . ."

"Aymahasslium," Dr. Hass supplied.

"It's the gold you're pulling from the doss of the dirt."

"If it were that simple, I assure you, I would not deign to be involved," Dr. Hass said.

"Nothing is simple in Peru," Hollingbrook interjected. "Just getting the good doctor here to have dinner with us took coordinating two river boats, and hiring a driver to go fetch him. If you enjoy wading through endless paperwork . . ."

"And who doesn't," Olivia said.

" . . . you should see the forms I have to submit to the Peruvian government to get permission to mine where the lad owners, the Aymara, have already given us permission to mine. It's not just environmental protection, it's sociological effects, and fair remuneration, and, on top of that, cultural and environmental preservation. The laws wouldn't be so onerous in the states, where at least things are straightforward."

"And in English," Olivia added icily.

"Don't underestimate the difficulty of Spanish negotiations," Holligbrook said. "On Friday I have to meet with the regional governors office to show them our progress so far – you should come. It'd be an education."

"We'll see," Olivia replied.

"Surely you're not hoping to have your audit done by then," Hass asked.

"I don't have a set return date," Olivia said. "This investigation will take as long as it takes."

"But, a bright young lady like you, with your connections, I thought you'd want to attend the Massive Dynamic investors forum," Hass said.

"A bright young lady like me knows that the best way to move ahead is to do her job," Olivia replied smoothly, hoping to drop the subject. She had no idea when, or even what, the investors forum was – and lack of such knowledge would clearly blow her cover.

Hollingbrook sighed and shook his head, "You bought that line, did you? The best way to get ahead is to know the right people. And, sorry to say, you won't meet them here."

"You're not the right people?" Olivia asked gamely.

"I'm afraid Roger is right," Dr. Hass said. "Knowing us will not help your career in the least."

"Regardless," Olivia said. "I enjoy your stories about the beginnings of Massive Dynamic."

Dr. Hass smiled warmly. "You are a sweet girl. And I am glad I know you."

To be continued . . .