Whistleblower

by Tess Gerritsen

  “Can you do it?” asked Victor.

  “Oh, I can do it,” she said. “The question is, will you pass for him?” She glanced up and down the man’s length, then back at Victor. “Looks about your size and build. We’ll have to darken your hair, give you a widow’s peak. I think you’ll pass.” She turned and glanced at Milo, who was already poised with his camera. “Take your photos. A few shots from every angle. I need lots of hair detail.”

  As Milo’s strobe flashed again and again, Cathy donned gloves and an apron. She pointed to a sheet. “Drape him for me,” she directed. “Everything but his face. I don’t want him to wake up with plaster all over his clothes.”

  “Assuming he wakes up at all,” said Milo, frowning down at Black’s inert form.

  “Oh, he’ll wake up,” said Ollie. “Right where we found him. And if we do the job right, Mr. Archibald Black will never know what hit him.”

  IT WAS the rain that awakened him. The cold droplets pelted his face and dribbled into his open mouth. Groaning, Black turned over and felt gravel bite into his shoulder. Even in his groggy state it occurred to him that this did not make sense. Slowly he took stock of all the things that were not as they should be: the rain falling from the ceiling, the gravel in his bed, the fact he was still wearing his shoes…

  At last he managed to shake himself fully awake. He found to his puzzlement that he was sitting in his driveway, and that his briefcase was lying right beside him. By now the rain had swelled to a downpour—he had to get out of the storm. Half crawling, half walking, Black managed to make it up the porch steps and into the house.

  An hour later, huddled in his kitchen, a cup of coffee in hand, he tried to piece together what had happened. He remembered parking his car. He’d taken out his briefcase and apparently had managed to make it halfway up the path. And then… what?

  A vague ache worried its way into his awareness. He rubbed his neck. That’s when he remembered something strange had happened, just before he blacked out. Something associated with that ache in his neck.

  He went to a mirror and looked. There it was, a small puncture in the skin. An absurd thought popped into his head: Vampires. Right. Damn it, Archibald. You are a scientist. Come up with a rational explanation.

  He went to the laundry hamper and fished out his damp shirt. To his alarm he spotted a droplet of blood on the lapel. Then he saw what had caused it: a common, everyday tailor’s pin. It was still lodged in the collar, no doubt left there by the dry cleaners. There was his rational explanation. He’d been pricked by a collar pin and the pain had sent him into a faint.

  In disgust, he threw the shirt down. First thing in the morning, he was going to complain to the Tidy Girl cleaners and demand they do his suit for free.

  Vampires, indeed.

  “EVEN WITH bad lighting, you’ll be lucky if you pass,” said Cathy.

  She stood back and gave Victor a long, critical look. Slowly she walked around him, eyeing the newly darkened hair, the resculpted face, the new eye color. It was as close as she could make it, but it wasn’t good enough. It would never be good enough, not when Victor’s life was at stake.

  “I think he’s the spitting image,” said Polowski. “What’s the problem now?”

  “The problem is, I suddenly realize it’s a crazy idea. I say we call it off.”

  “You’ve been working on him all afternoon. You got it right down to the damn freckles on his nose. What else can you improve on?”

  “I don’t know. I just don’t feel good about this!”

  There was a silence as she confronted the four men.

  Ollie shook his head. “Women’s intuition. That’s a dangerous thing to disregard.”

  “Well, here’s my intuition,” said Polowski. “I think it’ll work. And I think it’s our best option. Our chance to nail the case.”

  Cathy turned to Victor. “You’re the one who’ll get hurt. It’s your decision.” What she really wanted to say was, Please. Don’t do it. Stay with me. Stay alive and safe and mine. But she knew, looking into his eyes, that he’d already made his decision, and no matter how much she might wish for it, he would never really be hers.

  “Cathy,” he said. “It’ll work. You have to believe that.”

  “The only thing I believe,” she said, “is that you’re going to get killed. And I don’t want to be around to watch it.”

  Without another word, she turned and walked out the door.

  Outside, in the parking lot of the Rockabye Motel, she stood in the darkness and hugged herself. She heard the door shut, and then his footsteps moved toward her across the blacktop.

  “You don’t have to stay,” he said. “There’s still that beach in Mexico. You could fly there tonight, be out of this mess.”

  “Do you want me to go?”

  A pause, then, “Yes.”

  She shrugged, a poor attempt at nonchalance. “All right. I suppose it all makes perfect sense. I’ve done my part.”

  “You saved my life. At the very least, I owe you a measure of safety.”

  She turned to him. “Is that what weighs most on your mind, Victor? The fact that you owe me?”

  “What weighs most on my mind is that you might get caught in the crossfire. I’m prepared to walk through those doors at Viratek. I’m prepared to do a lot of stupid things. But I’m not prepared to watch you get hurt. Does that make any sense?” He pulled her against him, into a place that felt infinitely warm and safe. “Cathy, Cathy. I’m not crazy. I don’t want to die. But I don’t see any way around this….”

  She pressed her face against his chest, felt his heartbeat, so steady, so regular. She was afraid to think of that heart not beating, of those arms no longer alive to hold her. He was brave enough to go through with this crazy scheme; couldn’t she somehow dredge up the same courage? She thought, I’ve come this far with you. How could I dream of walking away? Now that I know I love you?

  The motel door opened, and light arced across the parking lot. “Gersh?” said Ollie. “It’s getting late. If we want to go ahead, we’ll have to leave now.”

  Victor was still looking at her. “Well?” he said. “Do you want Ollie to take you to the airport?”

  “No.” She squared her shoulders. “I’m coming with you.”

  “Are you sure that’s what you want to do?”

  “I’m never sure of anything these days. But on this I’ve decided. I’ll stick it out.” She managed a smile. “Besides, you might need me on the set. In case your face falls off.”

  “I need you for a hell of a lot more than that.”

  “Gersh?”

  Victor reached out for Cathy’s hand. She let him take it. “We’re coming,” he said. “Both of us.”

  “I’M APPROACHING the front gate. One guard in the booth. No one else around. Copy?”

  “Loud and clear,” said Polowski.

  “Okay. Here I go. Wish me luck.”

  “We’ll be tuned in. Break a leg.” Polowski clicked off the microphone and glanced at the others. “Well, folks, he’s on his way.”

  To what? Cathy wondered. She glanced around at the other faces. There were four of them huddled in the van. They’d parked a half mile from Viratek’s front gate. Close enough to hear Victor’s transmissions, but too far away to do him much good. With the microphone link, they could mark his progress.

  They could also mark his death.

  In silence, they waited for the first hurdle.

  “EVENING,” said Victor, pulling up at the gate.

  The guard peered out through the booth window. He was in his twenties, cap on straight, collar button fastened. This was Pete Zahn, Mr. By-the-book Extraordinaire. If anyone was to cut the operation short, it would be this man. Victor made a brave attempt at a smile and prayed his mask wouldn’t crack. It seemed an eternity, that exchange of looks. Then, to Victor’s relief, the man smiled back.

  “Working late, Dr. Black?”

  “Forgot something at the lab.”

&nbs
p; “Must be important, huh? To make a special trip at midnight.”

  “These government contracts. Gotta be done on time.”

  “Yeah.” The guard waved him through. “Have a nice night.”

  Heart pounding, Victor pulled through the gate. Only when he’d rounded the curve into the empty parking lot did he manage a sigh of relief. “First base,” he said into the microphone. “Come on, guys. Talk to me.”

  “We’re here,” came the response. It was Polowski.

  “I’m heading into the building—can’t be sure the signal will get through those walls. So if you don’t hear from me—”

  “We’ll be listening.”

  “I’ve got a message for Cathy. Put her on.”

  There was a pause, then he heard, “I’m here, Victor.”

  “I just wanted to tell you this. I’m coming back. I promise. Copy?”

  He wasn’t sure if it was just the signal’s waiver, but he thought he heard the beginning of tears in her reply. “I copy.”

  “I’m going in now. Don’t leave without me.”

  IT TOOK Pete Zahn only a minute to look up Archibald Black’s license plate number. He kept a Rolodex in the booth, though he seldom referred to it as he had a good memory for numbers. He knew every executive’s license by heart. It was his own little mind game, a test of his cleverness. And the plate on Dr. Black’s car just didn’t seem right.

  He found the file card. The auto matched up okay: a gray 1991 Lincoln sedan. And he was fairly certain that was Dr. Black sitting in the driver’s seat. But the license number was all wrong.

  He sat back and thought about it for a while, trying to come up with all the possible explanations. That Black was simply driving a different auto. That Black was playing a joke on him, testing him.

  That it hadn’t been Archibald Black, at all.

  Pete reached for the telephone. The way to find out was to call Black’s home. It was after midnight, but it had to be done. If Black didn’t answer the phone, then that must be him in the Lincoln. And if he did answer, then something was terribly wrong and Black would want to know about it.

  Two rings. That’s all it took before a groggy voice answered, “Hello?”

  “This is Pete Zahn, night man at Viratek. Is this—is this Dr. Black?”

  “Yes.”

  “Dr. Archibald Black?”

  “Look, it’s late! What is it?”

  “I don’t know how to tell you this, Dr. Black, but…” Pete cleared his throat. “Your double just drove through the gate….”

  “I’M THROUGH the front door. Heading up the hall to the security wing. In case anyone’s listening.” Victor didn’t expect a reply, and he heard none. The building was a concrete monstrosity, designed to last forever. He doubted a radio signal would make it through these walls. Though he’d been on his own from the moment he’d entered the front gate, at least he’d had the comfort of knowing his friends were listening in on the progress. Now he was truly alone.

  He moved at a casual pace to the locked door marked Authorized Personnel Only. A camera hung from the ceiling, its lens pointed straight at him. He pointedly ignored it and turned his attention to the security keypad mounted on the wall. The numbers Jerry had given him had gotten him through the front door; would the second combination get him through this one? His hands were sweating as he punched in the seven digits. He felt a dart of panic as a beep sounded and a message flashed on the screen: Incorrect security code. Access denied.

  He could feel the sweat building up beneath the mask. Were the numbers wrong? Had he simply transposed two digits? He knew someone was watching him through the camera, wondering why he was taking so long. He took a deep breath and tried again. This time, he entered the digits slowly, deliberately. He braced himself for the warning beep. To his relief, it didn’t go off.

  Instead, a new message appeared. Security code accepted. Please enter.

  He stepped through, into the next room.

  Third hurdle, he thought in relief as the door closed behind him. Now for the home run.

  Another camera, mounted in a corner, was pointed at him. Acutely conscious of that lens, he made his way across the room to the inner lab door. He turned the knob and a warning bell sounded.

  Now what? he thought. Only then did he notice the red light glowing over the door, and the warning Laser grid activated. He needed a key to shut it off. He saw no other way to deactivate it, no way to get past it, into the room beyond.

  It was time for desperate measures, time for a little chutzpah. He patted his pockets, then turned and faced the camera. “Hello?” He waved.

  A voice answered over an intercom. “Is there a problem, Dr. Black?”

  “Yes. I can’t seem to find my keys. I must have left them at home….”

  “I can cut the lasers from here.”

  “Thanks. Gee, I don’t know how this happened.”

  “No problem.”

  At once the red warning light shut off. Cautiously Victor tried the door; it swung open. He gave the camera a goodbye wave and entered the last room.

  Inside, to his relief, there were no cameras anywhere—at least, none that he could spot. A bit of breathing space, he thought. He moved into the lab and took a quick survey of his surroundings. What he saw was a mind-numbing display of space-age equipment—not just the expected centrifuges and microscopes, but instruments he’d never seen before, all of them brand-new and gleaming. He headed through the decontamination chamber, past the laminar flow unit, and went straight to the incubators. He opened the door.

  Glass vials tinkled in their compartments. He took one out. Pink fluid glistened within. The label read Lot #341. Active.

  This must be it, he thought. This was what Ollie had told him to look for. Here was the stuff of nightmares, the grim reaper distilled to sub-microscopic elements.

  He removed two vials, fitted them into a specially padded cigarette case, and slipped it into his pocket. Mission accomplished, he thought in triumph as he headed back through the lab. All that lay before him was a casual stroll back to his car. Then the champagne…

  He was halfway across the room when the alarm bell went off.

  He froze, the harsh ring echoing in his ears.

  “Dr. Black?” said the guard’s voice over some hidden intercom. “Please don’t leave. Stay right where you are.”

  Victor spun around wildly, trying to locate the speaker. “What’s going on?”

  “I’ve just been asked to detain you. If you’ll hold on, I’ll find out what—”

  Victor didn’t wait to hear the reason—he bolted for the door. Even as he reached it, he heard the whine of the lasers powering on, felt something slash his arm. He shoved through the first door, dashed across the anteroom and out the security door, into the hallway.

  Everywhere, alarms were going off. The whole damn building had turned into an echo chamber of ringing bells. His gaze shot right, to the front entrance. No, not that way—the guard was stationed there.

  He sprinted left, toward what he hoped was a fire exit. Somewhere behind him a voice yelled, “Halt!” He ignored it and kept running. At the end of the hall he slammed against the opening bar and found himself in a stairwell. No exit, only steps leading up and down. He wasn’t about to be trapped like a rat in the basement. He headed up the stairs.

  One flight into his climb, he heard the stairwell door slam open on the first floor. Again a voice commanded, “Halt or I’ll shoot!”

  A bluff, he thought.

  A pistol shot exploded, echoing up the concrete stairwell.

  Not a bluff. With new desperation, he pushed through the landing door, into the second-floor hallway. A line of closed doors stretched before him. Which one, which one? There was no time to think. He ducked into the third room and softly shut the door behind him.

  In the semidarkness, he spotted the gleam of stainless steel and glass beakers. Another lab. Only this one had a large window, now shimmering with moonlight, looming over
the far countertop.

  From down the hall came the slam of a door being kicked open and the guard’s shouted command: “Freeze!”

  He was down to one last escape route. Victor grabbed a chair, raised it over his head, and flung it at the window. The glass shattered, raining moonlight-silvered shards into the darkness below. He scarcely bothered to look before he leapt. Bracing himself for the impact, he jumped from the window and landed in a tangle of shrubbery.

  “Halt!” came a shout from above.

  That was enough to jar Victor back to his feet. He sprinted off across a lawn, into the cover of trees. Glancing back, he saw no pursuing shadow. The guard wasn’t about to risk his neck leaping out any window.

  Got to make it out the gate…

  Victor circled around the building, burrowing his way through bushes and trees to a stand of oaks. From there he could view the front gate, way off in the distance. What he saw made his heart sink.

  Floodlights illuminated the entrance, glaring down on the four security cars blocking the driveway. Now a panel truck pulled up. The driver went around to the back and opened the doors. At his command two German shepherds leaped out and danced around, barking at his feet.

  Victor backed away, stumbling deeper into the grove of oaks. No way out, he thought, glancing behind him at the fence, topped with coils of barbed wire. Already, the dogs’ barking was moving closer. Unless I can sprout wings and fly, I’m a dead man….

  CHAPTER ELEVEN

  “SOMETHING’S WRONG!” Cathy cried as the first security car drove past.

  Polowski touched her arm. “Easy. It could be just a routine patrol.”

  “No. Look!” Through the trees, they spotted three more cars, all roaring down the road at top speed toward Viratek.

  Ollie muttered a surprisingly coarse oath and reached for the microphone.

  “Wait!” Polowski grabbed his hand. “We can’t risk a transmission. Let him contact us first.”

  “If he’s in trouble—”

  “Then he already knows it. Give him a chance to make it out on his own.”

  “What if he’s trapped?” said Cathy. “Are we just going to sit here?”