The Orlando File Omnibus : (Omnibus Version-Book 1 & Book 2)

by Irvine, Ian C. P.

  Even though it meant setting the alarm clock for 4. 30 a.m., Dana had insisted on taking Kerrin to the airport.

  They arrived early, giving them the chance to check in then grab a coffee together in Starbucks. He didn’t want to admit it, but Kerrin was a little nervous. He was a good reporter. He enjoyed his work, but it had been years since he had been a policeman, and he had grown accustomed to a relatively quiet life. Although he was enjoying the thrill of the chase, it was a sudden jolt to the system to be thrown back into the stress of living on the edge. What had started out as a few visits to some mourning widows had now turned into an adventure which at every turn thrust him closer to an unknown danger. It was a danger which seemed to lurk in the shadows, becoming more menacing the closer he came to revealing the hidden face of the person lying in wait around the next corner. The person who was responsible for the deaths of his brother-in-law and the others he worked with, and the person whose identity Kerrin had vowed to uncover.

  He couldn't admit to Dana that she could be right. Perhaps he was flying to South Africa only to come face to face with the man who had murdered his brother-in-law's work colleagues in cold blood. Yet, he had to know. Like a moth drawn to a burning flame, Kerrin could not avoid the task before him. He had to find and meet with Alex Swinton.

  When the loudspeakers announced his flight, he gave Dana a hug, kissed her passionately in a public display of affection that surprised even himself, and walked through the departure gates.

  When he got to gate nineteen, he found the flight was not yet boarding, so he walked back to the nearest shop and picked up a selection of magazines to read en route. Checking on the gate again, he found that the flight was still not boarding, so he walked across to the bar and sat down. Time for another coffee. As he waited for the waitress to come to his table, he noticed a paper lying on the seat opposite him, recognising it immediately as the Miami Chronicle. He leant across and scooped it up, checking the date to see how old it was. It was yesterday's, the late edition. A passenger from Florida must have brought it up on a flight last night.

  His coffee arrived and as he lifted the cup to drink from it, he spread the broad-sheet out on the table in front of him. His eyes were immediately drawn to the main story of the local paper: "Two Miami Policemen die in Bungled Raid".

  Immediately below the by-line were two pictures of the policemen who had died.

  The one on the left was his friend James 'IceBreaker' Callaghan.

  The picture had been taken some years ago, probably just after he had graduated from the academy and before he had started to put on the extra weight, but Kerrin recognised the picture of his friend immediately.

  He scanned the story quickly, sat back in his chair and took a few deep breaths, then leant forward across the table and read the story again slowly. The article only took up a third of the front page, but it took Kerrin several minutes to take it all in and digest it properly.

  He couldn't believe that James was dead. When he came to the end of the article for the third time, he realised that his hands were shaking and that his heart was beating fast. He had even broken out into a sweat. He stood up slowly, slightly unsteady on his feet, and made his way to the restroom where he splashed his face with cold water, dabbed it down with some paper towels, then found a cubicle and closed the door behind him and sat down.

  He unfurled the paper and reread the article again for the fifth or sixth time. One of the sentences stuck in his mind.

  "…obviously disturbed in the middle of the raid, the gunmen shot their way out of the shop, dropping most of the stolen money behind them as they ran. Relatives of the deceased shopkeeper estimated that they only managed to escape with about $200…"

  $200! Was that all a life was worth nowadays?

  He read the article again.

  Now that he had begun to calm down, something about the article began to trouble him. Memories of his days as a policeman on the beat came rushing back to him. His instinct, once finely tuned from years of patrolling the crime ridden streets of America, was telling him that something was wrong.

  Then he spotted it. It was really a combination of two things:

  '…The two police officers responded promptly to the alarm, and arrived within ten minutes of the gunmen entering the premises…'

  and

  '… the gunmen shot their way out of the shop, dropping most of the stolen money behind them as they ran.'

  What had the gunmen been doing in the shop for over ten minutes? In Kerrin's experience, the gunmen got in there, grabbed the takings and got out immediately. Four to five minutes tops. But ten?

  And then they left all their money behind?

  It seemed too much of a coincidence to Kerrin that James had died just as he had started to help him investigate the Orlando Suicides.

  And then suddenly it all made sense.

  It hadn't been a robbery. It had been an execution designed to look like one. The robbers hadn't really intended to steal the money. They had only wanted to lure the policemen to the shop so that they could kill James… to stop him from asking too many questions…and then make it look like a bungled robbery!

  Grabbing his stuff, he left the toilet and ran to the nearest phone. He dialled Dana's cell phone, swearing to himself, and urging her to answer it. It took a few minutes for her to pick it up.

  "Dana? Where are you?"

  "Almost home…I'll be there in about ten minutes? Why?"

  "Listen to me. Please, please don't argue with me, or ask too many questions. Can you remember how I told you about my friend James in Florida, and how he helped me over the past few days?"

  "You mean 'the IceBreaker?' "

  "Yes! …James…He was killed yesterday. Shot. Dana, James is dead…" he paused for a moment, trying to grab his breath. "Dana, I want you to pack some things, and go and stay with a friend. Just get out of the house. Don’t stay there…Call my boss Paul from a payphone and tell him where you are. I'll come to you when I get back!"

  "Kerrin? Do you think they'll try to kill you next? And me? …I'm scared."

  "So am I honey. So am I. I don’t know, maybe they don’t know about me yet, but I think they do. I told you that I think someone must have tapped my phone? Maybe I'm just being over cautious, even a little paranoid, but I don't think so….Listen, I have to go to South Africa and find this guy Alex Swinton. If he's behind this, I'll catch him and that'll be the end of it…and if he's not, then maybe he'll know who is…I have to go…but I can’t go if I know you’re in the house alone!" Kerrin almost shouted down the phone, the words spilling out of his mouth and unable to hide the fear in his voice. "Will you go to a friend's…please…as soon as possible?"

  There was a moment's pause, then the answer he needed to hear.

  "Yes. Okay. And I'll leave the number with Paul."

  Behind him Kerrin could make out the voice on the P.A. system urgently requesting the last remaining passengers of Flight 203 to make their way quickly to gate nineteen, where the flight was now closing.

  "Dana, I have to go. My flight’s just leaving…go to your friends…Today! Now!"

  He dropped the phone onto the cradle, grabbed his papers and ran to the gate, the last person to board the plane.

  As he walked onto the flight, searching for his seat in the fifth row in Business Class, an attractive young lady looked up from an aisle seat in the second row as he passed her by. She looked away again quickly, burying her head in the magazine she was reading. She had recognised him immediately. The question was, had Kerrin recognised Agent Laura Samuels?

  Chapter 20

  Day Fourteen

  The Gen8tyx Company

  Purlington Bay

  California

  When Trevor Simons had arrived at the clinic he was exhausted. Even so, when he entered the complex he had refused the wheelchair that had been offered to him. He despised weakness, and he despised it even more so in himself.

  He was fighting the illness, the monste
r within him, trying to destroy it with every ounce of willpower that he had left. Yet sometimes, the monster seemed just too powerful, and recently he had felt fear for the first time in his life. Fear that he might not win the battle. Fear that he might die.

  Whenever the fear came, he had locked himself away in his office or his house, and refused to let anyone else see him. Sometimes sleep overcame him, and when he awoke he felt better. At other times he would sit in a chair, or lie on the floor or on his bed, until the strength returned to his tired bones and muscles, and he was able to carry on.

  He was not a stupid man. He knew the prognosis was ultimately fatal. It had been a risk stopping the other treatment that could potentially have prolonged his life and coming to Purlington Bay. His doctors had advised him against it. Of course, he had not told them what he knew about the Orlando Treatment…the hope that it offered…but he knew that if he didn't take the risk and join the new Phase Two Trials now, then he might not be around for the time when Phase Three started. It was all or nothing. A last minute gamble. A final role of the dice.

  His memory of the past two days was obscure. A dream that shifted from reality to fantasy to reality and back again, until the dreams and the reality blurred and became indecipherable. Visions of people, doctors, nurses, beautiful women dressed in white…or were they angels come to collect him? No, that they certainly weren't. The day he died, he knew there would be nothing angelic waiting on the other side to meet him. Where he was going, it was going to be very hot indeed.

  In his dreams he could remember big machines, tunnels in rotating domes, injections, tubes hanging out of every limb, blood transfusions,…and smiles, laughter, followed by exhaustion, and dreams within dreams. Had he really cried at the pain of it all? Had he been delirious? Was it all a dream, and how much of it had been true?

  All he knew was that he couldn't remember what had happened to him. As soon as he had entered his room on the first day he had collapsed into a deep sleep. He had awoken to the voice of a beautiful nurse, and then there had been a doctor…and then…?

  Then there was now.

  And now?

  He lifted his head off the pillow and noticed for the first time the blue sky outside his bedroom window. He could see the sea birds soaring on the thermals, rising and falling with the wind and the hot air blowing inland across the bay, and he felt strangely moved. How lucky they were to be so mobile, so free.

  He turned his head back to the room, half expecting the movement to be accompanied by a wave of pain or exhaustion. But there was nothing.

  His eyes scanned his living quarters and he realised how comfortable and bright they actually were. It occurred to him then that for the first time in months he was noticing 'detail'.

  In the past, 'detail' had been his thing. It was his attention to detail that had helped him get to where he was now: one of the richest and most powerful men in America. With interests spanning munitions, heavy machinery and transport, Simons Holdings was one of America's greatest companies. A company which Trevor himself had built up from nothing. From nothing to a vast fortune, all in forty years. All created by his attention to detail.

  He smiled to himself and decided to try and get out of bed. He swung his legs over the edge of the mattress and tried to sit up, and found himself doing it with surprising agility.

  He stood up, and strolled towards the window.

  His footsteps were solid and strong. The muscles in his legs tight and powerful. He reached the window expecting to have to steady himself against the window frame but felt no need to do so. He turned and walked back towards the mirror, a slight spring in his step. He stood before the man whose reflection looked back at him, and was surprised to see how healthy the stranger in front of him seemed.

  The bags under his eyes were no longer as dark and pronounced as before, and the haggard look which had haunted him for months had been replaced by a peaceful mask which contorted his face into something almost acceptable…someone he hardly recognised.

  It was then that he realised that he felt great. Really great. Not tired. Not sad.

  Just great.

  In the room next door Colonel Packard awoke from his dreams. He had dreamt that he had been running in a football match, straight down the outside of the field, just about to pluck the ball from the air and score the winning points in the game.

  As his eyelids flickered open he realised there was something troubling him. Something unusual which he took a while to recognise and identify.

  It was an odd sensation. Almost as if…no, it couldn’t be…but it was!

  Packard sat up in his bed and bent forward. Stretching his hand out as far as it would go, he scratched his foot.

  "Oh…," he thought to himself ."That felt good!"

  He rubbed and massaged it, then scratched it again. Then he cried.

  For the first time since a Viet Cong bullet had sliced through the edge of his spine in Vietnam, Colonel Packard was able to feel a sensation in his foot. It was itching.

  --------------------

  Business Class

  33,000 ft above the Atlantic Ocean

  Kerrin was a nervous wreck. He couldn't stop thinking about James and his death. The more he thought about it, the more convinced he became that James had been professionally executed. They had been clever. Very clever. What sort of people had gone to all that trouble, instead of just shooting him dead in the street? Someone, somewhere, had gone to great lengths to silence James without drawing any more attention to the questions he had been asking.

  Kerrin was scared. He was worried for Dana.

  But as he thought about it a transition began to take place in Kerrin. A metamorphosis.

  A change, which took place so slowly that he himself didn’t realise it was occurring.

  This was becoming personal.

  Very personal.

  Whoever was behind the Orlando Suicides had killed two people that Kerrin had liked, even loved. They had ruined the lives of his sister and nephews, and taken a father from their children. And now there was the possibility that the very core of his existence, his wife Dana, could also be in danger.

  Slowly the fear within Kerrin grew, turned itself inside out, and changed into hate. His hands that for the past few hours had been trembling nervously with fear, now shook with anger.

  Kerrin swore to himself that he would track down whoever had done this to his family and his friends. He would find those people and destroy them. And if need be, he would kill them.

  For the first time, he knew with absolute clarity that it was now them or him. He would make sure it was them.

  The loudspeaker announced that the cabin crew were going to dim the lights.

  Kerrin felt much calmer now, but he could do with a stiff drink. Perhaps he would read a little to further calm himself down. Reading always relaxed him. It took his mind off his own problems and allowed his mind to soar, to live life through the eyes of the authors, and to experience worlds far beyond his own.

  He reached into his bag and pulled out a copy of 'RAGE', a novel he had started reading over two years before but had never got round to finishing. It was a book about South Africa, and he had grabbed it from his study just as they had left the house. Maybe he would get the chance to finish it before he landed.

  He picked himself up and made his way to the small bar on the upper deck of the aircraft, ordering a double malt whisky and taking residence on a pew beside the small counter.

  --------------------

  At first Laura couldn’t quite believe the coincidence, but on further reflection she realised that it was not so strange after all. Kerrin had to be in Langebaan in two days time to meet Alex Swinton, and there were only a limited number of flights to Cape Town, so there was always a fairly high chance that they would end up sharing the same transportation.

  In actual fact, there was very little for her to be worried about. Whereas she now knew a lot about Kerrin, there was little if any chance at all that K
errin knew anything about her. Why should he? There was no obvious connection between them. As far as he was concerned, she was just another passenger en route to Cape Town.

  The big question was: '"How could she turn this accident of fate to her own advantage?" She decided that the best thing to do would be to somehow introduce herself. If she could make friends with him, then perhaps she would be able to find out a little bit more about his movements and intentions in South Africa. And maybe she would be able to have a little fun in the process.

  She pulled out her compact and while pretending to examine something on her face, she looked at the reflection of Kerrin in the small mirror. He was sitting about four rows back in an aisle seat, skimming through a glossy magazine.

  Laura's taste in men was quite varied. Kerrin was slightly overweight, but not at all unattractive. He easily came within the realm of 'acceptable'.

  The plane was not too crowded, and only half the seats in business class were occupied. On this flight down there was no real distinction between First Class and Business Class, and both groups of passengers were invited to use the small bar on the top floor of the airplane.

  About two hours in, just after the in-flight entertainment episode of 'Friends' had finished, Laura took her headset off and took a quick look back down the aisle. Kerrin's seat was empty. She hadn't noticed him make his way past her to the toilets at the front of the aircraft so she guessed that he might have gone up to the bar.

  She flicked the release catch and slipped out of her seatbelt, straightening herself up and smoothing down her skirt. She stretched, smiled at the woman sitting beside her, and made her way to the stairs going up to the top deck.

  As she emerged into the small area above, she found three people sitting at the small bar: two businessmen who looked like they were talking shop, and Kerrin who was sitting by himself sipping a whisky and reading a book.

  She took the seat beside him, catching the attention of the flight attendant and asking for a Martini. Taking the cocktail stick out of the glass and sucking the alcohol off the green olive, perhaps a little too erotically, she turned to Kerrin.