Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  “Good evening, Professor Meade,” Nil Bayer said with a toothy smile.

  A chill ran through Walter. The man’s grin did nothing to belie the rock hard indifference that shown in his eyes. His smile was as cold as poor Heinrich’s corpse.

  Walter’s panic went up by several degrees when he considered the man before him and the coded message used to lure him to the bookstore. If Nil Bayer was here, Walter knew his situation was critical. If Bayer knew about the Halon-Seven, the situation was far graver than he’d dared speculate. This man had the reckless ambition and the limitless greed that constituted Walter’s worst-case scenario.

  Walter felt a painful tightening of his chest when he thought of the damage Bayer would do if he had control of Meridian. Though Walter was not prone to panic, if ever there was a time, this was it. He’d walked into this trap. He could already foresee the situation spiraling out of control. Walter needed to get the upper hand and to find out how much Bayer knew. But he was short of breath. He felt weak in the knees and put his hand on the kitchen counter to steady himself. Was this what a panic attack felt like? He needed to keep his head. He had to keep thinking.

  “Take a deep breath, Professor. You don’t look well.” Though the words sounded like concern, Walter knew better. He knew Bayer’s reputation well. The man was gloating. His trap had worked; Walter had walked right into it. Hell, given the circumstance, he’d almost come running into the snare. He’d been so concerned with the discovery of a new source of Halon-Seven that he failed to take precautions.

  “Tell me what you want.” These were Walter’s first words to the man and the sound of his own voice surprised him. His voice was sickly and hollow. The room was spinning as well. There was a constricting pain in his left shoulder. It had been there for some time but he was so distracted he’d only just realized it. As he struggled to take another breath, the truth of his situation dawned on him.

  Bayer nodded to the gunman behind Walter. The man placed the barrel of the suppressor at the base of Walter’s skull, pressing it just behind his right ear. He applied pressure until Walter cried out in pain. Walter felt his knees threatening to buckle but fought to keep his footing.

  “You know very well what I want!” Bayer spat. “You call it Meridian. Your predecessor, Rumsfeld Pellagrin referred to it as ‘Silent River.’ Whatever the name, you know well its power. Give me what I want and I’ll make you a very rich man.”

  Despite his pain, Walter couldn’t help laughing. Bayer had wealth beyond compare, but his only interest was more money and more power. Anything he could hold over the heads of others. “You see yourself as Alexander the Great? You would use Meridian to conquer the modern world? It’s short sighted and pathetic! Meridian holds far more power than you realize. It is the power to unite the entire world. To bring people together, to join them in a way few have ever dared to imagine.”

  Walter now felt the pain in his chest and across his back. His left arm had grown numb. It was a struggle just to remain standing. He could feel the perspiration forming across his chest and down his back. “I’ll never give you Meridian,” his words came out as little more than a raspy whisper.

  The gunman must’ve taken them as a challenge because Meade immediately felt the press of the gun driving into the base of his skull. Walter was forced to his knees.

  Bayer looked down his nose at Walter, distain clear in his eyes. Bayer studied him with detachment. Walter’s resistance was something he couldn’t understand. “You’ll give me what I want,” he said confidently. “In the end, Meridian is not worth your life!”

  Walter smiled and met the man’s eye. So all was not lost. Bayer understood how Meridian could be used toward his own ends for power and wealth but he had no understanding of its true value to the world. If he did, he would know that Meridian was most definitely worth his life. Walter had believed this since the fateful day in 1955 when Rumsfeld Pellagrin invited him to join Silent River. With this understanding, Walter could look proudly on the fact that his heart was now failing. Not only was he willing to die to protect the project, he would go to the grave before allowing someone like Bayer take it from him. He only wished he knew for certain whether Bayer knew about Halon-Seven.

  Greater pressure was applied to the gun at the back of Walter’s head. The room was spinning. Everything was growing dim. Halon-Seven was all that Walter could think of. He needed to be sure. If Bayer knew the secret, he would surely execute the research team and take the project for himself. As much as Walter didn’t want to see the project perverted, the thought of those kids being gunned down somehow seemed more tragic.

  “The book!” Bayer bellowed into Meade’s face. The man was squatting down in front of him but Walter was so lost in his thoughts that he hadn’t heard a word Bayer was saying.

  “Where is the book?” Bayer demanded once more.

  The man was growing red in the face. Walter took a measure of pride in that. His vision was growing more dim and clouded but he could still see the rage in Bayer’s visage. “What book?” Walter finally managed in a hoarse whisper.

  “Your contact told us about the book! We emailed you about it. Just as he promised, you responded immediately. He said you’ve been searching for the book for many years. He told us you hired him to locate it for you…”

  Walter’s mind was spinning. His head was pounding and he couldn’t breath. Why was Bayer asking him about the book? What had Heinrich told— That was it! Heinrich told Bayer about the book! That was their code, their cover story. Heinrich referred to Halon-Seven as if it were a book in all of his communications. That was their arrangement. But when Bayer showed up with his gun-toting goon, Heinrich had maintained the deception. Bayer didn’t know about Halon-Seven. Heinrich, ever the crafty smuggler, spun a yarn about being hired to locate a copy of J.K. Holloway’s lost novel.

  That was it. Walter had received his dying wish. The heartless bastard, Bayer was still in the dark. Walter knew his team would be safe for the time being. Thankfully, there was a contingency plan in place. Arrangements had already been made. In the event of his death, the Meridian project would land in capable hands.

  One last surge of pain coursed through Walter’s body. He felt it from head to toe. The next thing he knew he was lying face down on the filthy linoleum floor. He heard Bayer and the gunman yelling but their voices were miles distant. With some satisfaction, Walter knew there was nothing more they could do to hurt him. He realized his end had come, as he had feared, with his heart giving out before it was time. He had the Russians to thank for that. If they had just left well enough alone. Strangely, though, he now felt ready. His physical pain was slipping away, replaced by a sense of calm as his mind adjusted and accepted the inevitable.

  There was just one thing left undone. One thing that he cared about before he moved on. He knew he was dying of a heart attack. As such, no one would ever know he’d fallen victim to Bayer’s ambition. He wanted to leave a message, point a finger at Bayer and let someone know what had happened. But that time was passed. There was no way left to communicate.

  A smile crossed Meade’s lips in the last moments of his life. There, curled in the fetal position on that horrible floor, he thought of a way to communicate. He couldn’t tell anyone who had led him to this point, but he could leave a clue indicating his death was not entirely due to natural causes.

  Struggling for one last breath of air, Meade clasped his hands together. He wrapped the pointer and middle finger of his left tightly in the grip of his right hand. Prying on his fingers, he twisted with all of his remaining strength. The last sound he heard in life was the snapping of the bones in these two fingers. Strangely, there was no pain. Only relief. His message was sent. He only hoped the warning would not go unnoticed. It was up to Cyrus now.

  Chapter 2

  The Gold Coast, Chicago, Illinois

  Present Day

  Saturday, 4:11 pm

  With no subtle show of reluctance, Tyler Alcot lead the two detecti
ves into the large sitting room of his penthouse apartment. He didn’t care to encourage the men to stay any longer than absolutely necessary. Unfortunately, before Tyler had a chance to get down to business, his aging Spanish maid entered carrying a large serving tray complete with a carafe of coffee and three cups. She looked expectantly at Tyler and his two guests.

  So much for forgoing informality. He had fallen victim to Esmeralda’s practiced efficiency.

  Tyler motioned for the pair of police detectives to join him before taking a place on the sofa. His back was to a massive picture window with an expansive view of the Chicago skyline. It was mid-afternoon and the city was cast in crisp detail. Both detectives reluctantly took places on the sofa opposite Tyler. They obviously intend this to be no more of a social call than Tyler.

  Moving swiftly, Esmeralda served the coffee in short cups set upon saucers before leaving the carafe at the end of the coffee table between the two sofas. Without a word she exited the room. Quiet, efficient, and never underfoot. Tyler only wished he had thought to mention the expected arrival of his guests and asked her forgo to usual pleasantries.

  The officers were veteran Chicago police detectives, and they looked the part. Both dressed in cheap blandly colored suits, one was tall and rail thin with short sandy colored hair while the other might have been 5’ 8” if he wore thickly soled shoes. The short detective must have weighed close to two hundred pounds but he didn’t carry it low on his torso like most overweight men. His girth was evenly distributed between his belt and his chin making him look like a giant billiard ball dressed in drab attire. His prematurely bald pate further contributed to his cue ball like appearance. The tall detective’s name was Marsh and the short one went by, appropriately enough, Stubbs. No joke, you didn’t need Tyler’s eidetic memory to remember a name like that. Still, while he had no trouble with their names, Tyler preferred to think of them as Detective Stretch and Detective Cue Ball.

  “What’s the problem?” Tyler asked, anxious to conclude the visit. “I though we had a deal. You said the next time I saw you I should have the rest of the money ready—the job would be done.”

  Detective Stretch leaned forward on the couch doing his best to be intimidating in the opulent surroundings of the spacious penthouse living room. “When we do a job, we like to take a close look at the guy doing the hiring. We gotta be sure the job’s on the level.”

  The look on the detective’s face implied Tyler was expected to say something even though no question had been asked. Tyler remained silent and looked on expectantly. He knew experienced detectives favored this approach. The idea was to say something pointed before letting the statement hang, waiting to see what the suspect said to fill the silence. It could be very effective, but he wasn’t falling for it.

  “The problem,” Cue Ball said, finally picking up where his partner left off. “Is that you asked us to provide a service and we agreed, acting in good faith. The problem is that you weren’t on the level with us.”

  “Good faith,” Tyler said with a laugh. “Provide a service? You make it sound like I hired you to resurface my dining room floor! I hired you to murder my wife!

  “What’s the problem? You’re businessmen. I offered the money and you accepted payment—half down and half upon completion of the job. You took the job and you took the down payment. Now quit screwing around. I want her dead!”

  “That’s just it,” Stretch growled through clenched teeth. “You’re the problem. It’s your fancy watch and your penthouse apartment. Your golf club membership and your big investment firm…they’re all bullshit! We did a little digging and none of it stands up!”

  Crap, Tyler thought. That wasn’t part of the plan. He hadn’t expected these guys to perform any sort of due diligence let alone dig that far into his life. This life was only a veneer. He hadn’t backstopped his credentials at the firm. These guys were supposed to be thugs, here to do the job, collect a fat wad of cash and move on. He had clearly underestimated the sophistication of their operation.

  “Sure,” Stretch continued, still sitting on the edge of the sofa. His eyes burrowed into Tyler as he spoke. “The golf club membership is real. But you only joined two months back. Same for this fancy ass apartment! There’s no lease—you have a month-to-month rental agreement. The last owner was some douche bag defense attorney that went missing.” He laughed to himself, apparently amused with the thought.

  “Can’t say we’re too sorry about that,” Detective Cue Ball said with a matching chuckle. He was sitting back on the couch letting his partner handle the confrontation. The stout man seemed content to watch Tyler squirm.

  “Even your position with Rollins, Cussler, and Robinson is a total sham. Sure, we can call the switchboard. They’ll even put us through to your voicemail. But when I show up and ask for you in person, it’s the damnedest thing—no one’s even heard of Tyler Alcot!”

  As Stretch hammered away a Tyler’s cover, Tyler was becoming more and more uncomfortable. His entire backstory had unraveled. They knew he wasn’t who he claimed. These were hardcore bad cops. There was no way they were letting him walk away from this. But there was some hope. They hadn’t killed him yet. It could be because Esmeralda was somewhere in the house and they didn’t want a witness but he was pretty sure there was more to it than that.

  Stretch continued and Tyler got his answer. “So when we know that Tyler Alcot ain’t who he claims to be, the question becomes who is he and why’d he really hire us?” He let the comment hang in the air for intimidation sake. It was effective.

  “So we did more digging. You know what? We found some disturbing stuff. Sure, you did a pretty fair job of hiding your identity—even hiding your real name. So we put a tail on you. Sure, you slept here in the penthouse. I guess I’d stay here too, if I had the chance.” He looked around the apartment, taking it in as if seeing it for the first time. “You came and went–the gym, the market, the bar down the street. You actually have a talent. You were very convincing. You went on as if you really were Tyler Alcot and never broke character. Not in the entire week we were watching you.

  “But there’s one thing you can’t hide. One thing you can’t change—no matter how hard you try. While we were tailing you, we lifted your fingerprints. Running prints is pretty easy for a cop, you know.”

  At this revelation Tyler virtually deflated, physically and mentally. He slouched back into the sofa, exhaling in defeat. They had him. They hadn’t just broken his cover ID, they had his real name. Along with it, they knew everything there was to know. If there was a worst-case scenario, this was it.

  “Mister Cooper, isn’t it?” Stretch continued. “Cyrus Cooper?” His eyes searched Tyler’s, or Cyrus’s, as was the case.

  Cue Ball leaned forward, apparently ready to participate. The look on his face made it obvious he was enjoying the exchange. They had Tyler—Cyrus, dead to rights. He was screwed. Cue Ball pulled a small leather bound notebook from the inner pocket of his suit coat, flipped through a series of pages, and consulted his notes.

  “Cyrus Cooper,” he said in that way seasoned police detectives do as they run through the facts of a case. “Twenty-eight years old, white male, 6 foot no inches tall, one hundred eighty pounds. Half a dozen unpaid parking tickets, two moving violations on his record, no known felonies, no known aliases. No wife, no children.”

  Cue Ball lowered his notebook and looked Cyrus right in the eye before he continued without the benefit of his notes. “Freelance reporter for a number of news publications including the Chicago Tribune and the New York Times.”

  “And therein lies our real problem.” Stretch was seething. “We know you didn’t go to the authorities. Mostly because, well, we are the authorities. But also because you’re a reporter—a good reporter from what I read. Good reporters won’t risk getting scooped. So you’ve obviously been keeping our arrangement quiet—at least while you’re writing the story. Unfortunately, it’s a safe bet someone else knows about the story. Maybe someo
ne at one of the papers?”

  “We wanna know who you talked to at the paper,” Cue Ball remarked. “We wanna know who’s aware of the story and we want all your notes. Give us that and you get to walk away from this.”

  Cyrus had been sitting slouched on the sofa while they metaphorically pummeled him with the facts of his situation. He struggled to listen to their words. Paying attention to the sound of their voices would help keep the panic away and it might offer some slim chance of finding a away out of this mess alive. No story was worth his life.

  But hearing that last statement from Cue Ball, Cyrus was thrown for a loop—Shocked to the point he found it possible to push his panic aside for the moment. They were offering a way out? Give up his notes and Gary at the Tribune and he could walk. Could it be that easy? Really?

  Hardly.

  It was an offer far too good to be true. Those notes were the only reason he was still breathing. That and the suspicion he may have talked with someone at the paper. If he gave up the notes he was a dead man. If he so much as mentioned Gary, Gary would be dead too. That flicker of hope quickly faded. There was no way out.

  Cue Ball looked at Stretch. “I told you, he’s not one to go the easy way.”

  “That’s okay,” Stretch said with a shrug. “It’s more fun when they won’t talk. Then we get to make em’ talk.”

  At this threat, rather than collapse entirely under the stress of the situation, Cyrus’s eyes cleared as if his mind had cut through the confusion and come to a decisive conclusion. He slowly pushed himself up from the couch. There was no need to make any fast moves. The two detectives were most certainly armed and he didn’t need to get himself shot before he could put the next stage of his plan in motion.