Hunter shrugged. ‘You should do what you’re told, when you’re told,’ he said indifferently, and turned to look out of the windshield.
‘Better late than never,’ he said to Reilly.
‘Sorry ’bout that. The traffic’s a bitch. Where to?’
‘First, find somewhere to change the plates. Then get across the Potomac, past Arlington Cemetery and pick up Interstate 95,’ Hunter said. ‘Stay on the Interstate past Springfield, then take any exit you like. Director Donahue and I are going to have a little talk while you drive.’
‘’kay,’ Reilly said, then tossed his handcuffs to Hunter. ‘Here,’ he said, ‘make sure he don’t go nowhere.’
Hunter placed the muzzle of the Glock against Donahue’s neck, snapped one handcuff around his right wrist, then pulled the Director’s arm across his body, and secured the other cuff around the elbow rest on the left-hand door.
‘Just who the hell are you?’ Donahue asked. ‘And who’s the driver?’
Hunter grinned at him. ‘I said there was another man here in Washington that you had to meet, Donahue. Can’t you guess who he is? You don’t know him, but you’ll know his face.’
Reilly turned round and look straight at Donahue.
‘Jesus Christ,’ the Director said. ‘You’re Reilly.’
The sheriff grinned at him, but there was no humour in his face. ‘You got it, Donahue,’ he said. ‘Thanks to you, I’m a dead man walking, but I still think I’m gonna live longer than you.’
Donahue turned slowly back to face Hunter, who nodded at him.
‘Correct, Director. He’s Reilly and I’m Hunter. We’re right at the top of the Roland Oliver kill list, so it really doesn’t seem to make a hell of a lot of difference what we do. Or what we do to you.’
Chapter Eleven
Thursday
FBI Headquarters, J. Edgar Hoover Building, Pennsylvania Avenue, Washington, D.C.
By the time the two guards got back to the building, Myers was down in the entrance lobby and waiting for them.
‘You saw the Director?’ he demanded, without preamble. ‘What happened?’
‘Yes,’ the older man said. ‘We got right to him, but the guy with him pulled a gun on us. Then the son of a bitch smashed the Director across the face with his pistol, and they drove off in a black Ford. The only other occupant was the driver.’
‘I got the plate number,’ the younger guard said eagerly, and handed over a slip of paper.
‘Fat lot of good that’ll do,’ Myers replied, his voice sour. ‘Anything else?’
Back in his office, Myers alerted the Assistant Directors and put out an APB for the black Ford with three occupants. He had little hope that the plate number would help, and he was quite right.
Even as the number went out on the wire, Reilly was crouching at the back of the Ford in a quiet shopping mall parking lot, replacing the plates with ones he’d taken from a parked Honda.
Woods south of Donovan’s Corner, Virginia
‘You’re in real trouble now,’ George Donahue said, without a great deal of conviction, as Hunter and Reilly dragged him out of the car.
‘Tell me about it,’ Reilly snapped. ‘I already had two hired killers bustin’ into my house wavin’ pistols in my face. Just luck I ain’t dead already.’
There was a small clearing in the woods where Reilly had stopped the car, and the two men marched Donahue over to a tree to one side of it and stood him against its trunk. Hunter pressed the muzzle of the Glock into the Director’s chest as Reilly snapped the handcuffs into place, securing Donahue’s arms behind the tree trunk. With Donahue immobilized, Hunter relaxed, and holstered his pistol.
‘Right, Donahue,’ he began. ‘Dick Reilly and I have got a bunch of questions to ask you, but basically they all come down to exactly one – just what the hell is Roland Oliver?’
‘I can’t tell you,’ Donahue said, shaking his head.
‘Is that can’t, or won’t?’ Hunter demanded.
‘OK. I mean I won’t tell you.’
‘Funnily enough,’ Reilly said, chuckling, ‘that’s pretty much what that guy back in Beaver Creek said to me, but I finally persuaded him to tell me what he knew.’
Donahue peered around Hunter at Reilly, the apprehension that had been obvious on his face ever since he’d been forced into the car giving way for the first time to an expression of naked fear.
‘What do you mean – ‘persuaded’?’ he asked, a tremor in his voice.
Reilly didn’t answer, just pulled the telescopic baton out of his jacket pocket and snapped it open. He walked over and prodded Donahue lightly in the stomach with the end of it, then swung it sharply back and forward, stopping the swing within inches of the man’s groin. Donahue tensed, and beads of sweat sprang onto his forehead.
Hunter stepped forward, and motioned to Reilly.
‘Later, Dick,’ he said. ‘Perhaps Mr. Donahue might help us without all that.’ He turned back to the Director. ‘I’ll ask you once again. What exactly is Roland Oliver?’
Donahue looked from one to the other of his captors, his face white and tremors running through his body. Then he shook his head again and closed his mouth in a firm and stubborn line.
Hunter looked at him without speaking, then motioned to Dick Reilly. The sheriff closed the baton, crossed over to the Ford and opened the trunk. He reached inside for something and walked back towards the tree. Donahue’s eyes never left him.
Behind the tree, Donahue felt Reilly’s hands touching his, and heard the clink of something metallic. For the briefest of instants, he believed, or almost believed, that the sheriff was going to release him. Then the serrated jaws of the pair of pliers clamped tight around his left thumb and he realized that the nightmare was just beginning.
‘What is Roland Oliver?’ Hunter asked again, his voice expressionless.
Donahue shook his head. Hunter stepped forward to the tree, pulled a roll of black tape from his pocket and roughly stuck a strip over the Director’s mouth. He leaned forward and spoke quietly, almost compassionately.
‘Just nod when you’re ready to talk,’ he said. ‘Take your time,’ he added. ‘We’ve got all day.’
Then Hunter stepped back and nodded at Reilly to begin.
Groom Lake Air Force Base, Nevada
The C-130 Hercules landed a little after two that afternoon and by three thirty local time unloading was complete. Once the doors were closed and locked, and the caskets moved into the large central room of the building, Roger Ketch left his office and walked down the stairs. Ever since he’d assumed control of Roland Oliver he’d always checked the new arrivals. In the beginning, he’d watched the first stages of processing on the monitor in his office, but he didn’t do that any more.
Even with his mind on Hunter and Reilly, Ketch still followed his usual routine, walking round the room, glancing through some of the faceplates on the caskets and occasionally at the attached tags. Almost in the centre of the third row was one he didn’t look into. The tag bore the number 73418.
When Ketch left the room, he closed and locked the door, then walked a few feet to a small grey box secured to the outside wall of the room at eye level. In the centre of the box lid was a combination lock and a keyhole. Ketch undid one of the buttons of his shirt and pulled out a small stainless steel key on a fine chain, which he always wore around his neck. He put the key in the lock and rotated it a half-turn counter-clockwise.
Ketch spun the combination lock until he felt resistance. Ketch stopped and turned the key the rest of the way, listening for the click as the mechanism unlocked, then seized the handle and pulled open the door.
Inside were three gated switches, each with a green light glowing above it. Ketch flicked the first switch and glanced up. Through the frosted glass internal windows he could see the electrically-powered and sound-proofed steel roller shutters descending down the inside walls of the room he’d just left. He waited until the green light extinguished and a red ligh
t glowed in its place, then flicked up the second switch.
Out of his sight, more steel shutters rolled across the ceiling of the room to cover the skylights, sealing it completely from the outside world and any prying eyes. As the last shutter locked into place, banks of floodlights switched on inside the room. Ketch waited until the second green light turned red, then he tripped the final switch. This time there was no delay – the red light illuminated almost instantaneously. Ketch nodded, shut the door, turned the key and removed it from the lock, then spun the wheel to scramble the combination and walked away.
When he’d flicked the final switch into the up position, Ketch had effectively relinquished control of the room and the fate of its unconscious occupants to a different authority.
Woods south of Donovan’s Corner, Virginia
Donahue screamed silently, the tape reducing the sound of his agony to little more than a muffled grunt, but still he didn’t nod his head. Behind the tree, Reilly released the pliers from the Director’s thumb and clamped the jaws around the index finger of Donahue’s left hand.
‘What’s Roland Oliver?’ Hunter asked, his voice soft and emotionless.
Donahue’s head shook once, briefly, then his whole body tensed in a silent howl of pain as the jaws of the pliers bit deeply into the nail bed of his finger. Reilly released the pliers, adjusted their position slightly, then squeezed firmly on the handles again.
‘What’s Roland Oliver?’
The sweat poured down Donahue’s face and bitter tears sprang from his eyes, misting his vision, and he realized for the first time that he couldn’t take it, that he wasn’t going to be able to hold out.
With every passing minute, he’d been telling himself, the chances of his rescue from the clutches of these two psychopaths had been improving. FBI agents and local police would already be combing the area for him, and they’d have helicopters in the air. Once they’d spotted the Ford, that would be it. They’d take out Hunter and Reilly as easily as swatting a couple of flies. All he had to do was hold on, tell them nothing, and everything would be fine.
But suddenly he knew that it wasn’t going to be fine. Hunter and Reilly, he realized, had nothing to lose. Even if FBI agents burst into the clearing at that moment, weapons drawn, he doubted if he would survive the encounter. Hunter or Reilly would kill him without a second thought. And there was no sign of the FBI, or anybody else. No cars, no helicopters. As Hunter had said, they had plenty of time, and he knew that Reilly could and would reduce both his hands to mangled lumps of broken and bleeding flesh if he didn’t tell them what they wanted to know. And God only knew what they’d do to him then.
The realization sent Donahue slumping forward, head bowed, as the pain from his broken hand increased. He lost control of his bladder, and felt the warmth of urine soaking down the front of his left leg. Hunter looked closely at him, nodded in satisfaction, and called out to Reilly, loudly enough for Donahue to hear.
‘He’s tougher than I’d expected,’ Hunter said. ‘I think we need something a little different, Dick, something to really get his attention. Leave his hands and start on his testicles.’
Donahue snapped upright as the pliers released, and pressed his legs close together in a protective gesture that was as pathetic as it was pointless.
Reilly walked around the tree, snapped open his baton and prodded Donahue sharply in the groin.
‘Goddamn it,’ he muttered, ‘the guy’s pissed hisself. Gonna have to be real careful them pliers don’t slip.’
And then Donahue looked up, looked straight at Hunter, and nodded. Hunter stepped forward, ripped the tape off his face and waited. The Director slumped down, sliding down the trunk of the tree until he was in a sitting position.
Hunter waited a couple of minutes, allowing Donahue to compose himself. Then he asked the same question again.
‘It’s a medical research programme,’ Donahue said finally, his voice quavering and weak.
‘That’s bullshit,’ Hunter said. ‘Medical research goes on all the time, but people who find out about it don’t get themselves killed. Or,’ he added, ‘allow somebody to mutilate their fingers rather than talk about it.’
Donahue shook his head, his face twisted in pain. ‘This programme is different,’ he said. ‘It’s not so much research as experimentation. The subjects are taken to a secret facility in Nevada, and a lot of the tests they undergo there are very unpleasant.’
‘What kind of experimentation?’ Hunter asked.
‘I don’t know,’ Donahue lied. ‘I’ve never been there, and the unit doesn’t issue reports about its work. At least, not to me.’
‘Are the subjects volunteers?’
‘Of course not. Most of them are derelicts, the dregs of society. They take tramps, drug addicts and prostitutes. You could argue that the project performs a useful service, getting these people off the streets.’
‘I can think of a bunch of hookers who probably wouldn’t agree,’ Reilly observed.
‘Whatever,’ Donahue said. ‘That’s what Roland Oliver is and that’s what it does.’
‘Strange name,’ Hunter said. ‘Where did it come from?’
‘I’ve no idea.’ That was a small lie from Donahue, to go with the big ones he’d already told and the even bigger ones he was probably going to have to tell later.
‘OK,’ Hunter said. ‘How does it work – exactly?’
Groom Lake Air Force Base, Nevada
Maria Slade woke slowly and with difficulty. She felt awful, with a throbbing headache, dry mouth and aching limbs. She tried opening her eyes, but the lights were so bright that they hurt, so she kept them closed, collecting her thoughts, and trying to remember where she was. She recalled the Cedar City hospital, and the nurse, but almost nothing else.
Finally she forced her eyes open, expecting to see the ceiling of the room she had been given at Cedar City, but what met her eyes was totally unexpected. She wasn’t lying in a bed, but inside some kind of a casket, almost like a coffin, with a clear glass faceplate. She looked through the glass, squinting her eyes against the glare, but could see virtually nothing. Only an impression of a ceiling, apparently lined with steel, a long way above her, and the lights. She was lying on a thin but resilient mattress, and she felt warm and – apart from the aches all over her – comfortable enough.
She turned her attention inwards, and tried to move her hands over her body. With a start, she realized she was naked, apart from what felt like fabric bands around her wrists, ankles, forehead and hips. She wondered if she was in some kind of specialist medical equipment, a scanner or something, but it didn’t seem like it, somehow. She could feel a thin tube snaking across her thigh, so obviously her bladder had been catheterized for some reason. This puzzled her, but she didn’t feel panic, or even unease, not then.
She felt a slight jerk, as if her casket were being moved, and she realized, from looking at the lights above her head, that the casket was actually in motion. Then the movement stopped, and for several minutes she sensed, rather than heard, the sound of machinery of some sort, close at hand.
Then the jerk came again, but this time it was different, and the noise of the machinery was much louder. After a few seconds she realized why, as the top portion of the casket lifted smoothly off the lower section she was lying in, and she could begin to see where she was.
At first, nothing made very much sense. By craning her neck upwards to the limit imposed by the fabric band around her forehead, and peering over the rim of the casket, she could just see the tops of other caskets on both sides of her, all with the lids in place. They appeared to be positioned on a sort of conveyor belt. The noise of the machinery was much louder, and seemed to be coming from beyond the foot of the casket which was supporting her feet. The noise was a strange amalgam; grinding and popping, the hissing of hydraulics, and very loud high-pitched squeals from what she supposed might be drive belts of some sort.
Then the horizontal movement of the casket stopp
ed, the fabric bands tightened on her body to hold it firmly in place and she felt the catheter slide smoothly out of her urethra. The head end of the casket began to rise slowly, until she was lying at an angle of about forty-five degrees and was, for the first time, able to see everything in the room.
She looked down at what lay directly in front of her, at what she was supposed to see. She saw the table and what was on it, and realized suddenly that the noises she had heard hadn’t been made by any kind of drive belts.
Then she began to scream.
Woods south of Donovan’s Corner, Virginia
‘I don’t know everything,’ Donahue began, ‘but I can tell you something about it.’
Hunter nodded encouragement.
‘Project Roland Oliver started over fifty years ago, just after the end of the Second World War. It was different then, of course. It began as a very small operation, just taking a handful of people a year. As time went on the benefits began to far out-weigh the risks of disclosure, and the operation expanded.’
‘And what benefits would they be?’ Reilly asked.
Donahue shook his head. ‘I don’t know, exactly, but I understand that a lot of the drugs and the hospital equipment that we take for granted these days were developed directly as a result of Roland Oliver.’
That much, at least, was true.
‘You know the power of the medical fraternity in this country,’ Donahue went on. ‘Once the results started coming in, there was increasing pressure to expand the program, to engage in even faster development. Everything about Roland Oliver was shrouded in secrecy, and there seemed no real danger of the American people finding out about it, so the number of subjects was increased every year.’
‘Nicely anonymous, that word,’ Hunter said. ‘Calling them “subjects” kind of distances you from the fact that every one of them is a living, breathing human being. What happens to them?’
Trade-Off Page 15