by AD Starrling
Reid’s gaze shifted to me. ‘So, it’s the Crovirs who’re after you then?’
I frowned. ‘I don’t understand why I should become a priority again after all this time. The last attempt on my life by the Hunters was in nineteen ten. ’
‘Whatever or whoever they’re after, they’re getting desperate,’ said Solange quietly. ‘I have rarely known them kill a human in such an open fashion.’
Reid’s eyes never left my face. ‘On the other hand, if you were to become a suspect in an ongoing homicide investigation, it would slow you down considerably and make it easier for them to get to you,’ he continued, understanding dawning in his voice. ‘That’s what it was about, wasn’t it?’
I nodded once. The same thought had crossed my mind after our client’s murder. Silence fell across the room. I looked up from the parquet floor and gazed at Vauquois. ‘I hate to ask this of you, but do you think you can find out more?’
‘No,’ Vauquois replied steadily, ‘I can’t.’ A faint smile crossed his face. ‘However, our contact might be able to point you in the right direction. Excuse me.’ He rose and disappeared through a door at the end of the room.
‘What will you do?’ said Solange softly while we waited for his return.
‘I don’t know.’ I placed the empty champagne glass on the tray. ‘Try to stay alive until I get to the bottom of this, I guess.’
Vauquois finally reappeared with a piece of paper in his hand. ‘Our friend was reluctant, but I convinced him to give us a name at least.’ He passed the note across.
I stared at a name and an address. ‘Who is this?’
‘Someone high up in the Crovir Councils.’
My eyebrows rose slightly. ‘Will he help?’
Vauquois chuckled. ‘I doubt it. But you might find something useful at his place.’
I nodded, tucked the note inside my coat and rose to my feet. ‘Let’s go,’ I said, glancing at Reid.
‘Won’t you spend the night? It’s been so long since we last saw you.’ Solange crossed the room and stopped in front of me.
I leaned down and kissed her gently on the cheek. ‘I don’t want the Crovirs to track us here,’ I murmured. ‘If anything was to happen to either of you, I would never forgive myself.’
A sad smile flitted across Solange’s face. We said our goodbyes and left the building through the back door.
‘They’re nice people,’ Reid said gruffly as we drove away from the city.
‘Yes, they are.’
He stretched his shoulders and yawned. ‘So, where to now?’
‘We’re going to Washington.’
Reid stared at me. ‘Straight into the lions’ den, huh?’ he drawled.
I nodded briskly and looked ahead. ‘Put your seat belt on.’
He stiffened and studied the rear view mirror. ‘Why, we being tailed again?’
‘No.’
Reid frowned. ‘I think I should drive.’
We took turns behind the wheel and stopped for a few hours’ sleep outside Trenton. We had some of Mrs Trelawney’s angel cake for breakfast and made the outskirts of the District of Columbia around six am.
The address Vauquois’s contact had given us was in Capitol Hill, in a leafy suburb just south of Lincoln Park. I parked the Cruiser a few houses down from a large, white, detached Victorian residence and leaned back in the seat. Lights were already on behind the wide bay fronted windows on the ground floor.
I closed my eyes briefly. The events of the last few days were finally catching up on me: I had rarely felt so exhausted. Still, the question of why the Crovirs were so interested in me again would not leave my mind. Even more puzzling was how Olsson fitted into any of it.
An hour later, a black chauffeur-driven Lincoln town car pulled to a stop at the kerb. The front door of the house opened and a man in a grey woollen coat stepped outside. He locked the door behind him and strolled down the steps to the tiled path that led to the sidewalk, a cell phone held to one ear and a brown leather briefcase in the other hand. He acknowledged the driver of the Lincoln with a brief nod and got in the back of the car. The chauffeur closed the door after him, climbed into the front seat and drove off. I put the Cruiser into gear and followed.
The Lincoln headed south and merged with the morning traffic on the I-295 North. It moved to the I-395 South freeway and crawled along Maine Avenue past the Washington Monument Memorial. After turning onto 17th Street and driving by the Ellipse and the White House, it finally pulled into an underground garage below a dark glass and brick tower on Pennsylvania Avenue Northwest.
I stopped the Cruiser on the opposite side of the road and studied the building. There were no visible nameplates or signs outside it.
‘Investment bank?’ hazarded Reid.
‘Lawyers?’ I pondered.
Reid frowned and shook his head. ‘Lawyers don’t go around in chauffeur-driven Lincolns. Not in DC, anyway.’ He paused and glanced at me. ‘Well, we won’t get anywhere just sitting here. What do you wanna do?’
I dragged my gaze from the imposing sky rise and looked at the clock on the console. It had just gone eight. ‘Who do we know in town?’
The man who joined us for lunch a few hours later was an Intelligence Analyst for the FBI’s Criminal Investigative Division. A second generation Italian-American born and raised in New York, Bob Solito still had a heavy Brooklyn accent despite having lived in DC for fifteen years. We first met him during the Louisiana incident and had since crossed paths on a number of other joint investigations. ‘This personal business?’ he said after he placed his order.
I nodded carefully.
Solito sighed. With his sad brown eyes and shoulder length hair, he could have been a human cocker spaniel. ‘Thought so,’ he grunted. ‘You guys normally go through official channels for this kind of intel.’ He popped a white tablet in his mouth and winced. ‘The wife said she’d leave me if I didn’t quit smoking,’ he muttered by way of explanation at our stares. He pulled an envelope from his coat and slid it across the table. ‘That’s all I could get my hands on for the time being. You didn’t exactly give me a lot of notice.’
‘Thanks,’ I murmured gratefully. I opened the brown package and spread the contents on the table.
‘Frederick Rudolph Burnstein is the President and CEO of GeMBiT Corp,’ said Solito. ‘He has no past records or convictions on any criminal database in the world, including NCIC and Interpol.’ The FBI analyst scratched his head. ‘This guy is as clean as a whistle. I mean, he doesn’t even have a speeding ticket to his name.’
I stared at the copy of an article from the Washington Post. It was a review of a recent production of ‘Les Misérables’ held at the National Theatre. At the bottom of the page, a black and white photograph depicted the principal actors and the director posing with famous local patrons of the Arts.
Our guy from Capitol Hill stood out from the crowd: Burnstein’s eyes gleamed with a strange, almost visceral intensity as he stared into the camera, while his crooked nose gave him the appearance of a hawk. His lips were parted in a cold, artificial smile.
‘GeMBiT?’ said Reid. He frowned as he leafed through the fact sheets that came with the article.
‘Genetic and Molecular Bioinformatics Technology,’ Solito explained. ‘The company was first registered in DC in nineteen seventy. Most of its shareholders are in the US and in mainland Europe, and it has close affiliations with universities leading research in molecular biology and genetics on both sides of the Atlantic.’ He paused. ‘At the last count, GeMBiT has pledged four hundred million dollars in research grants this year alone.’
Reid whistled softly under his breath while he studied the printouts. ‘What is it that they’re trying to do, exactly?’
‘Cure cancer,’ Solito replied with a deadpan face. ‘Amongst other things.’
Reid’s eyebrows rose fractionally.
‘Their principal areas of interests are oncology, tissue growth and repair, infectious diseases and
immunology,’ said Solito. He shrugged at our stares. ‘Hey, I’m just quoting all this stuff. I wouldn’t know anything genetic or immunological if it bit me in the ass.’
I stared at the blueprints on the table. ‘Are these the floor plans for the house in Capitol Hill?’
Solito nodded. ‘He had the place renovated five years ago. I’m afraid you’re gonna have to give me more time if you want the ones for the building on Pennsylvania Avenue. I couldn’t find any copies filed with Building and Land Regulation. ’
‘Thanks. These will do for now,’ I said.
‘What’s this about anyway?’ Solito asked curiously. He stared at our expressions. ‘Forget I asked,’ he muttered. ‘I’ll let you know if I find anything else.’
Solito called an hour later. ‘Seems Burnstein loves the opera as much as theatre. He’s got tickets for tonight’s opening performance of La Traviata at the JFK Center. Show starts at six fifteen.’ There was a pause at the end of the line. ‘Oh, and Soul?’
‘Yeah?’
‘There’s a temporary felony want out for you in Boston. You’ve got forty-eight hours until I call it in.’ Solito hung up.
I stared at the cell phone.
‘What?’ said Reid.
‘Meyer’s going to issue a warrant for my arrest.’
Reid lapsed into silence and stared out of the window at the passing traffic. ‘Well, we knew it was coming,’ he said finally. ‘So, what’s our next move?’
I smiled faintly at his tone. ‘We’re breaking into Burnstein’s place tonight.’
Reid frowned. ‘Won’t the man object to us just waltzing into his place?’ he said skeptically.
‘That’s the beauty of it. He won’t be there.’
Burnstein left for the opera at 17:10. We waited another hour until darkness fell, before leaving the Cruiser and approaching the house. According to Solito’s intel, the GeMBiT Corp CEO’s home security system was state of the art and had been installed in the last three months. It took us eight minutes to disable it.
A few steps inside the house and I could tell that Burnstein was a keen art collector: I had not seen this many original paintings and sculptures outside a national museum for some time.
A search of the ground floor and the upstairs bedrooms revealed nothing of interest. A large study with triple aspect views occupied most of the third floor; the walls were lined with floor to ceiling bookcases, filing cabinets and more artwork. A mahogany Edwardian pedestal writing desk sat beneath the bay window facing the manicured gardens at the rear of the property.
I closed the blinds and switched the lights on. Reid set about investigating the contents of the bookcases and cabinets. I turned my attention to the computer on the desk.
It took several minutes to hack into Burnstein’s system. Halfway through, Reid came up behind me and peered curiously over my shoulder. ‘Do I even wanna know how you learned to do that?’ he muttered, watching my fingers fly across the keyboard.
I paused and thought of the MIT guys who had taught me my skills and who were now the heads of the largest computer and security consultancy firms in the world. ‘Not really,’ I said drily.
Moments later, a dull thud drew my gaze to the other side of the room. Reid had dislodged one of the paintings from the wall. He picked it up gingerly and stared at a small chip in the frame. ‘Do you think he’ll notice?’ he said, setting it back on its hooks.
‘Probably,’ I murmured. ‘That’s an original Rembrandt.’
Reid’s eyebrows rose slightly. ‘It is?’
‘Yeah.’ I turned back to the desk. ‘It’s worth about half a million dollars.’
Stunned silence followed. ‘You’re kidding, right?’ Reid said in a shocked voice.
‘No.’
He frowned. ‘Who the hell keeps that kind of thing in his house?’
I thought about the Monet in my apartment and decided there and then never to tell him about it.
Burnstein’s defence software was better than his home security system. I had just cracked the safety codes to access his files when a thoughtful ‘Ah’ made me look up again. Reid had reached the last filing cabinet, which opened to reveal a strongbox. ‘Somehow, I don’t think this is gonna do the trick,’ he murmured, glancing at the lock pick set on the floor next to him.
I rose from the desk and joined him. ‘It’s a high security composite safe.’ I crouched and ran my fingers over the cold metal door. ‘Inner and outer steel plates,’ I said in a low mutter. ‘High density fire-resistant body. Drill-resistant frames. Chrome-plated steel locking bolts and a spring operated detent system.’ I paused. ‘It probably has a tempered glass relock mechanism as well.’ I looked up into Reid’s blank stare.
‘I worry about you,’ he said dully.
I smiled. ‘Luckily, it has an electronic combination lock.’
Reid sighed. ‘Somehow that doesn’t make me feel any better.’
I looked at the desk. ‘Help me bring the computer over.’ Fifteen minutes later, I opened the safe door.
‘Wow. I thought that was only possible in movies,’ said Reid. He looked slightly impressed.
‘If you have the right software and a couple of wires, anything is possible,’ I muttered, studying the contents of the strongbox.
In addition to a couple of small bags of high quality diamonds, five gold bars and several passports, the safe held a dozen document wallets. Eleven of them contained information about Burnstein’s private investments and GeMBiT Corp.
The last folder was the thickest of the lot and was filled with copies of research papers published in the last fifteen years by a number of universities in Europe. The recurring subject matter appeared to be cell cycle control and DNA transposition. One name in particular, a Professor HE Strauss, appeared as a common contributor in most of the publications and had been highlighted in red ink.
I turned to the computer and typed Strauss in the search box. A single jpeg file and an email reference came up under the results. I directed the arrow over the jpeg file and clicked the mouse once.
An image slowly filled the screen. It was a black and white photograph of a man and a woman taken at night. They were sitting next to a large bay window inside a restaurant. The man was caught with his back slightly turned and in profile: he was leaning across the table towards the woman, whose face was fully illuminated by the chandelier above their heads.
Her hair was dark and tumbled in soft curls past her shoulders, framing a pair of almond-shaped smoky eyes. The light glistened off her full lips and glinted on the thick, intricate sun cross pendant at the base of her throat. She was smiling at the man.
‘This the person they’re after?’ said Reid.
I stared at the picture for timeless seconds, an unfamiliar emotion stirring deep within me. I forced my gaze away from the image and looked up the email. It was from Burnstein and had been addressed to an encrypted account on a remote server somewhere in Europe. Dated several weeks ago, the message was brief: “Arrange Council meeting. Strauss is the key. Must secure at any cost.”
A soft tinkle sounded somewhere downstairs. Reid and I glanced at each other. As I rose from the floor, one of the windows shattered, raining glass shards inside the room. A second later, a smoke grenade clattered onto the wooden boards.
Chapter Six
The Crovir Hunters came silently, their guns fitted with suppressors. We were almost at the first landing when a volley of bullets whined past us and struck the wall. Shapeless shadows appeared through the acrid smoke at the bottom of the stairs. Muzzles flashed faintly in the gloom.
I reached for the swords at my waist.
Bodies swiftly fell before me as we were forced inexorably up the steps. The blades shuddered in my hands, blocking round after round. Behind me, Reid fired the Glock repeatedly. We stepped over the men he had shot and headed for the master bedroom at the front of the property, where we barricaded the door with a dresser.
I crossed the floor swiftly and glanced out
side the window at the empty yard below. ‘You go first. I’ll hold them off.’
Reid looked at me with a frown. Unspoken words filled the silence between us. I didn’t have to state the obvious fact: in a battle with the immortals, he stood at a serious disadvantage.
There was a thud outside the room. The dresser shifted slightly.
‘You owe me for this,’ Reid muttered darkly. He lifted the sash window, clambered over the sill and turned to catch the keys of the Cruiser. He disappeared into the night a second later.
The door crashed open behind me, the dresser scraping across the floorboards with a shriek of tearing wood. I turned to face the men who crowded inside the room. Some held swords. The ones who didn’t had guns.
‘Be careful,’ one of the Hunters murmured to his companions. ‘This is the half-breed.’ The rest of the immortals glanced at each other warily.
I had fervently hoped that Olsson would be amongst them: there were some burning questions I needed to ask my old friend. Still, I had no doubt our paths would cross again if I survived this night.
My breaths slowed while I silently repeated the mantra taught to me by my Edo master. My feet unconsciously shifted into the basic starting stance of kendo. ‘Gentlemen,’ I murmured with a brief nod.
The next sixty seconds were a blur of light and shadows. A bullet missed my head by an inch. Another one scorched a red track across the back of my right hand. The acrid smell of gunpowder rapidly filled the room and spent rounds clattered noisily to the ground. The katana danced and weaved through the air, spilling blood across the walls and the floorboards. Throughout it all, I breathed deeply and steadily.
The last Hunter begged for his life. ‘Please, this will be my seventeenth death,’ he whispered hoarsely at my feet, staring in wide-eyed horror at the blade poised above his heart.
Memories of a vanilla-scented room drifted across my mind as I gazed at the man. I closed my eyes briefly. ‘I’m sorry.’
Sirens blared in the distance when I came out of the house. Crows had already started to gather on the rooftop of Burnstein’s house. The Cruiser screeched to a halt in the middle of the street as I walked down the path to the sidewalk. Some of Burnstein’s neighbours had come out of their houses to see what the commotion was about. They stared at me curiously while I climbed into the SUV.