The Last Equation of Isaac Severy(33)

At Philip’s feet was a large, yellowing fur rug and above him a collection of what appeared to be fiberglass animal heads, all of them white, affixed above the desk and along the walls. The heads, which glowed softly like Japanese lanterns, stared down from their wooden plaques: lion, zebra, rhinoceros, buffalo, antelope.

Nellie noticed him peering up at an unfazed lioness. “Aren’t they beautiful?”

“I haven’t decided.” In truth, he found them unnerving.

“They’re trophies from Humane Hunt,” she said, taking a seat in Mr. Lyons’s leather chair.

“Never heard of it.”

“That’s because Mr. Lyons invented it. Club members can hunt down real Kenyan or Tanzanian game without killing them.” She gestured to a glass case in the corner near the door. Inside were a pair of what looked like futuristic hunting rifles. “It’s similar to a taser, though it works at greater distances, delivering a jolt of electricity that temporarily stuns the prey. The hunter then uses a special camera to capture the 3-D contours of the animal, which—”

“I get it. You create a mold of the head and throw it up on your wall like a real trophy. I’m sure the animal experiences no stress or upset whatsoever.”

“Exactly,” she said, oblivious to the sarcasm. “As long as the hunter is careful, his prey wakes up within twenty minutes unharmed.”

Philip looked down at the fur beneath his feet. “What about the rug?”

“Oh, a casualty, I’m afraid.” She blinked at it with what looked to be genuine sorrow. “The method isn’t flawless.”

Philip took a seat at the immense desk opposite her. “So while I’m kept waiting, how about fielding a few of my questions? No bullshit answers this time.”

“I’m sure Mr. Lyons would be happy to—”

“I’d like to hear from Ms. Stone.”

She leaned back. “What would you like to know?”

“How he makes his money, what this Government-Scholar business is, and why Lyons has been after my father all these years.”

Nellie laughed. “But you and he will have nothing left to say to each other.”

“You can start with the money,” he said coolly, trying to project a sense of control he didn’t feel.

Nellie took a sip of water before answering. “Some of it’s family money; he makes no secret of that. But Mr. Lyons has also made a very successful business by tapping into the intellectual wealth of our country, acting as a kind of matchmaker between government and academia—scientists in particular: mathematicians, physicists, geneticists, neuroscientists. The US government, even its military contractors, are woefully ill-equipped to digest all the strategic promise coming out of the academic community. There would be countless missed opportunities if it weren’t for his keeping up on not just scholarly developments but also emerging talent. It’s because of Lyons that nanotechnology has already found its way into the military, not to mention several technologies we now take for granted. I can’t disclose specifics, of course, but he likes to find talent early, before research is published, which involves a bit of creative persistence.”

“Creative persistence, is that what you call it?”

“He can be aggressive when going after someone he admires, yes.”

Philip was rethinking his earlier summation of Nellie as a dunderhead. The way she spoke of her boss’s business seemed to go beyond rote memorization and into deep admiration.

Philip pressed her. “My father found his aggression to be borderline stalking.”

“There is a private detective aspect to his work, sure,” she replied. “You won’t find him popping up in the news or on any search engines, because GSR is operating, quite necessarily, under the radar. If he wants the government to benefit from these connections, he has to make sure that others can’t benefit—particularly the governments of rival countries. And that involves discretion.”

“If everyone is enlightened, no one is.”

“That’s the general idea.”

“Why not broker between science and business? Surely there’s more money in it.”

“Mr. Lyons is a patriot. He does have clients in the business world, but Uncle Sam comes first.”

She smiled proudly.

“You’re being strangely forthcoming for having told my father nothing for so long.”

“Well, we can’t have you bolting for the door before our host arrives.” Nellie pulled out a cigarette case and extended it to him. They were Dunhills.

“How’d you know I smoke?”

“I didn’t.”

He longed to pluck just one cigarette from its silver bed, but declined. “Better not. They’re migraine fuel.”

Nellie lit one for herself. The linen of her suit quivered as she stepped to the window.

“I should correct you,” she said, sliding the window open. “Your father wasn’t unaware of all I just told you. He came here several times in the months before he died.”

“He met with Lyons? That’s not possible.”

Nellie sent a lungful of smoke slinking outside. “I should know. I was here.”

Philip stiffened in his seat, digesting the idea that his father had deliberately kept this from him, had hidden something that had become a private punch line between father and son.