Pandemic pr-2

by James Barrington

  ‘In the den, just off the inner hall,’ Blake replied.

  ‘That’s good,’ Richter said. ‘Now we’ll just walk down the hall and open the main door.’

  ‘What then?’ Henderson asked, a quaver in his voice. ‘You’re going to shoot us somewhere once we’re outside?’

  ‘No,’ Richter said. ‘I’ve got no quarrel with either of you. At present you’re just in my way. The second thing I want you to do is climb into the car you arrived in, drive away and forget you ever came here. Oh, and collect the remains of your buddy before you go. He’s around the left-hand side of the house, trussed up like a turkey for Thanksgiving.’ Richter realized he was getting the hang of the language. ‘I’ll be watching you on the CCTV system, so just make sure you do what I’ve told you. OK? If I see either of you here again,’ he added, ‘I’ll kill you immediately.’

  The small procession reached the front door. Henderson opened it cautiously and stepped outside, glancing behind him and still unsure of what would happen. Blake took a step forward, then span round in the doorway. He dropped his arms and lunged for Richter’s gun hand.

  It wasn’t the brightest of moves, given that Richter was at least two paces behind him and carrying a pistol. Richter stepped back, easily avoiding the outstretched hand, then stepped forward and rammed the end of the SIG’s silencer into Blake’s solar plexus. The man fell gasping to the floor and for good measure Richter kicked him none too gently in the groin.

  ‘Henderson, pick him up and just get the hell out of here,’ Richter snarled. ‘I’m losing patience with you two idiots.’

  He watched the two men stumble through the front door, then pushed it closed and slammed the bolts home. Richter hurried back to the inner hall, located the den and stepped inside. The car parked on the drive outside was clearly visible, as Blake, bent almost double, climbed slowly into the rear seat. As Richter watched, Henderson came into view, half-dragging the other guard Richter had subdued earlier around the side of the house. He seemed to be protesting furiously, but Henderson ignored him and shoved him into the back of the car. He glanced over at the house for a moment before getting into the driver’s seat, then started the engine and drove away.

  Richter looked at his watch. Four zero four. On the button.

  ‘So where are the flasks now?’

  ‘I don’t know,’ Westwood shrugged.

  ‘What the fucking hell do you mean? Of course you know where they are. If you didn’t, you wouldn’t even be here, so don’t try and play games with me. Remember, I can have your wife and kids brought here within an hour, and I can have you talking within three minutes of my starting work on them.’

  Westwood nodded. ‘You probably could,’ he said, ‘but it still wouldn’t help. I can’t tell you what I don’t know, and I don’t know where the flasks are because I haven’t got them.’

  ‘Bullshit,’ Nicholson snorted. ‘I don’t believe you.’

  ‘You will,’ Westwood said. ‘Just think it through. I’ve been here in Virginia every day for the past week. The flasks were discovered in a steel case on Crete. How the hell could I have got hold of them?’

  ‘You sent someone over,’ Nicholson suggested.

  Westwood shook his head. ‘No, I didn’t – someone else recovered them from Stein. Your hired killer Murphy blundered onto the scene, yes, but he was far too late. He collected a lead lunch, courtesy of the guy who’s now got them.’

  Nicholson felt for the first time as if the situation was slipping out of his control. ‘So who is this man?’ he demanded.

  Westwood shook his head. ‘All in good time – and there’s something else. I didn’t come alone.’

  ‘This house is secure. My men are in control here,’ Nicholson snapped.

  ‘Are you so sure about that?’ Westwood glanced again at his watch. Four zero five. He mentally crossed his fingers. ‘So if somebody pressed the buzzer of that door now, that would be one of your men, right?’

  ‘Yes, but nobody’s going to press the buzzer, Westwood. My men have orders not to disturb us.’

  As his voice trailed away into silence, the shrill sound of the buzzer cut through the briefing-room.

  Richter had found his way down to the cellar and stopped outside the closed door to the secure room. He had then checked his watch yet again, taken something from his pocket and placed it in the middle of the floor just in front of the door, then stepped to one side and pressed the buzzer, twice.

  For several long seconds John Nicholson did nothing. Then he motioned Westwood across to the side of the room where he could keep an eye on him while opening the door. He checked that his pistol’s safety catch was off, walked across to the door and slipped the lock.

  He eased it open a couple of inches and called out, but there was no reply. Then he glanced through the gap and saw what Richter had intended him to see. A small flask stood innocently on the floor a couple of feet away, the letters ‘CAIP’ clearly visible on its side.

  And then the heavy door swung violently inwards, catching Nicholson sharply on the side of his head. He dropped the pistol and fell back, crashing to the floor. In his last seconds of consciousness, he heard a brief exchange begin between Westwood and the new arrival.

  ‘Is that the way we planned it, or not?’ an unmistakably English voice inquired.

  ‘It’s probably taken ten years off my life,’ Westwood replied, ‘but yes, Paul, that’s the way we planned it.’

  Chapter 28

  Monday

  Browntown, Virginia

  The third guard’s name was Ridout, and to say he was annoyed considerably understated the case. Henderson had ripped the duct tape from his mouth before hauling him to the car, and as it turned out of the drive and onto the road, Ridout expressed his sentiments loudly and volubly.

  ‘That scruffy blond bastard’s not going to get away with this,’ he grimaced. ‘Nobody kicks me around like that.’

  ‘You won’t be doing anything about him until we fix your shoulder,’ Henderson said, pulling the car off the road less than a quarter of a mile on.

  ‘We’re going back?’ Blake asked hopefully from the back seat, the pain from his bruised testicles already easing.

  ‘We’re going back,’ Henderson confirmed, switching off the engine and climbing out. ‘Now this is going to hurt,’ he warned, motioning Blake to grab Ridout around the chest.

  ‘Just do it,’ Ridout snapped, his face white and sweating.

  Henderson seized his upper arm and with one swift movement pushed upwards and out. There was an audible click as the end of the humerus snapped back into its socket, the sound immediately eclipsed by Ridout’s howl of pain.

  ‘Jesus Christ,’ Ridout gasped, his voice weak and strained. Cautiously, he rotated his right arm. ‘It still hurts like hell,’ he said, ‘but I can move it.’

  ‘Right.’ Henderson continued to the rear of the vehicle. ‘We’ve got Kevlar jackets and three Uzis here. We can take that guy easily, and Murphy as well.’ He opened the boot and passed out the bullet-proof jackets, then used his security key to unlock a steel box bolted to the floor. Inside were four Glock 17 semi-automatic pistols, three Uzi sub-machine-guns and six boxes of ammunition.

  With hardly a word spoken, they donned the jackets, picked up a pistol and sub-machine-gun each and swiftly began pushing 9mm shells into the magazines. Six minutes after Henderson had halted the car they were ready to go.

  ‘How do we get back inside?’ Blake demanded.

  ‘The back door,’ Henderson said. ‘It’s got an electric lock and an external keypad, and I know the code.’

  Nicholson came to slowly, a searing pain on one side of his head where the door had struck it. For several seconds he had no recollection of where he was, but then recognized the briefing-room. He tried to stand up but his arms and legs refused to respond. He looked down and saw that his wrists were lashed firmly to the arms of the chair. He also realized that his jacket had been removed.

  When he exam
ined the small table in front of him, he noticed a strange collection of objects – a SIG automatic pistol, a kitchen knife, a container of salt, a tin of lighter fluid and a box of matches. Beside them stood the object that he’d seen earlier outside the briefing-room: a small metal vacuum flask bearing the letters ‘CAIP’. Near by, Westwood and another man – fair-haired and slightly untidy – were standing staring at him.

  ‘This is Paul Richter,’ Westwood began, ‘who sorted out your thug Murphy on Crete—’

  ‘Let’s just get some answers to a few simple questions,’ Richter interrupted. ‘First of all, what was CAIP?’

  Nicholson shook his head firmly and then wished he hadn’t as a bolt of pain shot across his skull.

  ‘OK,’ Richter continued, ‘it’s facts-of-life time. You’ve now got two choices. Tell us about CAIP and you might walk out of here alive. Clam up, and we’re going to do some unpleasant things to you until you do tell us. It’s up to you.’

  Nicholson still said nothing. The other men exchanged glances, then Westwood turned away. ‘I’ll go put the kettle on, Paul.’

  Richter walked across and ripped both sleeves off Nicholson’s shirt. ‘John’s gone off to boil a kettle of water. When he brings it down I’m going to pour it over your left forearm. That should get the skin bubbling and blistering nicely.

  ‘Then’ – he gestured towards the table – ‘I’m going to take this kitchen knife and score the skin several times. You’ll bleed, but I’ll put a tourniquet on your upper arm so you won’t bleed to death. Then I’ll rub kitchen salt into the wounds, pour lighter fluid over it and set fire to it. And once the flame’s gone out, I’ll start all over again.

  ‘When I eventually get down to the bone, I’ll do the same on your other arm, then begin on your legs. I’ve got all day, so if you don’t tell me what I want to know you’ll never walk or have the use of your arms again. And after all that, I’ve still got the flasks, so even if you hold out saying nothing to the end, I’ve still won. You just think about that now while the kettle boils.’

  Richter smiled, but there was no humour or compassion in it, and Nicholson realized that whoever this Englishman was, he was perfectly capable of doing precisely what he’d threatened. Nicholson knew that, because he’d seen eyes like those before. He looked at such a pair in the mirror every day while he shaved.

  ‘Of course,’ Richter said, ‘you can save yourself a lot of pain if you just answer a few simple questions.’

  Nicholson silently shook his head. Just then the briefing-room door reopened and Westwood walked in, carrying a steaming kettle. Nicholson couldn’t take his eyes off this simple domestic appliance as Westwood stepped across to the table and put it down.

  ‘I don’t like this, Paul,’ Westwood’s voice was low and concerned. ‘It’s barbaric, and it’s not something I’m prepared to participate in.’

  ‘Don’t worry about it,’ Richter said. ‘Just go upstairs and watch the monitors, in case the hired help decide to come back. I’ll call you down when Nicholson’s decided to talk.’

  Westwood nodded, his face still troubled, and headed back to the door. As it swung closed behind him, Nicholson raised his voice at last. ‘You wouldn’t dare.’ Westwood couldn’t hear what Richter replied, and he was halfway up the stairs before he heard Nicholson’s first scream.

  Henderson had worked out a kind of plan. It had to be quick and dirty, because the three of them guessed that the blond-haired man meant to do Nicholson harm, and they had no time to work out anything complex or sophisticated.

  Murphy was an unknown quantity: he could even be the fair-haired man’s accomplice. Whatever, Henderson had decided that the safest option was to take him down too. Murphy had encountered Ridout and Henderson when arriving at the house, so it was Blake who was going to provide a diversion while the other two men entered the property at the rear.

  Blake now sat behind the wheel, his Kevlar jacket ready on the passenger seat beside him, alongside the Uzi. A Glock was tucked into his shoulder holster. Henderson and Ridout both sat in the back as Blake turned the car round and headed back the way they’d come. About a hundred yards from the safe house, he pulled the Ford into the side of the road, watched as his two passengers climbed out, then looked at the dashboard clock. He waited three minutes, then drove on slowly and turned into the drive. He parked carefully and took a map from the glove box. Getting out of the car, he then walked across to the front door and pressed the bell.

  John Westwood was sitting at the kitchen table, his mind a whirl of conflicting emotions. He could still just make out Nicholson’s howls of pain as Richter did whatever he thought necessary to make him talk. He hadn’t exaggerated when he’d said he thought Richter’s technique barbaric, but at the same time he recognized that Nicholson was unlikely to say anything unless some extreme form of persuasion was applied. Richter’s method of persuasion was as extreme as anything Westwood could conceive, so he just hoped Nicholson would cooperate quickly.

  The audible sound of the driveway sensor took him by surprise, and he immediately guessed that it meant trouble of some sort. He picked up one of the Glocks discarded on the kitchen table when Richter had disarmed the two guards. After checking that it was loaded and with a shell ready in the chamber, he headed into the den to look at the surveillance monitors. There he saw a Ford saloon outside, parked broadside on to the house so both its number plates were invisible. The guards had been driving a Ford, but so did a large proportion of the population of America. It could just be a travelling salesman or something.

  Westwood proceeded to the front door as the bell sounded, checked that the bolts were fully home and peered at the small surveillance monitor fed by the porch camera. On the screen he saw a man staring down at a road map. Westwood pressed the button and spoke into the interphone system. ‘Yes?’ he inquired.

  ‘Oh, hi,’ the figure replied. ‘Sorry to trouble you, but I think I’m lost. Can you give me directions to Browntown?’

  ‘Easy,’ Westwood began. ‘Turn left out of the driveway and—’ He turned sharply, having detected a faint sound of movement behind him. He saw the approaching figure and raised the Glock far too late. Henderson easily brushed the gun aside and struck out with the butt of his own Uzi. The weapon crashed into the side of Westwood’s skull and he fell senseless to the floor.

  Thirty seconds later Blake was also inside the house, pulling on his Kevlar jacket, as Henderson immobilized Westwood with a roll of plastic tape found in a kitchen drawer.

  Nicholson had proved tougher than Richter had expected – tougher in trying to protect a secret almost half a century old than made any kind of sense. He’d hoped that Nicholson would simply start talking as soon as he saw what Richter apparently intended to do to him. Unfortunately that hadn’t happened. But using the boiling water and lighter fluid was the kind of brutality that really wasn’t Richter’s style – so he had got physical with Nicholson instead.

  The human body is an extraordinarily sophisticated creation, and the human brain the single most complex structure so far identified in the universe. The brain controls the body through nerve impulses, primarily by instructing muscles when to move, and receives feedback from nerves providing information about the immediate environment. One of the principal functions of these nerves is to warn the brain of imminent danger to the body, and in order to achieve this many nerve endings are located in the skin.

  Several of the more aggressive forms of martial art target these nerves to incapacitate or kill an opponent, but accurately applied pressure can also be used to cause intense physical pain. Pain, however, that is of brief duration, causes no permanent damage, and ceases the moment pressure is released. That was as far as Richter was prepared to go, and perhaps Nicholson had guessed this because, despite his screams and howls, he had still refused to divulge the secret of CAIP.

  Richter looked down at him, considering. ‘Maybe I should try a different tactic.’ He walked over to the table and picked up the sm
all flask. Then he glanced back at Nicholson and registered the change in his expression. The fear in his eyes was unmistakable.

  ‘Maybe,’ Richter walked back across the room, ‘I should just shoot a hole in this flask and close the door on you for a couple of days, leaving you at the mercy of these bugs you’re so determined nobody else should find. I’ve seen what they do,’ he added, ‘and it isn’t pretty.’

  He stared at Nicholson, tossing the flask from one hand to the other. ‘Of course,’ he said, ‘if I do that I still won’t know what the hell these bugs are, but I can probably get the CDC or else Porton Down to examine one of the other flasks and find out. But you’d be dead, so I still wouldn’t know what you were planning on doing with them. It’s getting close to the time when you have to make a choice: either die here in a locked room with only a flask full of lethal germs for company or start telling me all about CAIP.’

  As Richter studied Nicholson’s expression he saw the first signs of a smile appear on the man’s face, and realized in the same instant that his gaze was focused somewhere behind him. He span round to find Henderson standing in the open door of the briefing-room, and himself looking straight down the muzzle of a Uzi sub-machine-gun.

  Nicholson’s mocking laugh echoed round the room. ‘I think the cavalry’s just arrived, don’t you, Richter?’

  John Westwood came back to consciousness slowly, squeezing his eyes closed against the pain lancing through his head. He tried to move his arms, to lever himself off the floor, but discovered immediately that his wrists were bound tightly together, his ankles too. He felt the stickiness of the tape on his lips.

  He forced his eyes open to register he was lying on the floor of the hallway. The ‘lost traveller’ looking for directions to Browntown was standing right in front of him, aiming a Glock pistol straight at his midriff. As Westwood glanced up, Blake smiled down at him, then kicked him hard in the stomach.