Panic lb-1

by Nick Stephenson

  “As we discussed, yes,” said suit number one. “My organization can provide up to two hundred million, provided you can meet your side of the deal,” he added.

  “You’ll have the details soon,” said Logan.

  “Good. Now, on to the good part,” said suit number three, relaxing into the chair and putting his hands behind his head. “We need to start thinking about your campaign. It’s election year, so concentrate on keeping your place in the senate for now. Once you’re confirmed for another term, we’ll start putting the wheels in motion.”

  “And what will that involve?” asked the senator.

  “The key to any successful run for office is to get the swing voters on your side early. We can start looking at that now. By the time the election results are in this year, we’ll already know our plan of attack. We can take care of mapping out the next six years in their entirety and get everything in place early. We just need your commitment.”

  “I’ve already said you’ll have it. I’d like to hear some specifics of what your organization can guarantee.”

  “There are never guarantees in politics, Senator,” said suit number two, leaning forward. “You of all people should know that. What we can provide, in exchange for certain… shall we say, policy concessions, is a shot at the title. And that’s more than anyone else can count on, so we need to be sure we’re backing the right man.”

  “You have my word,” said the senator, briskly. “And that’s all I can give for now. You’ll hear from my assistant this afternoon. Now, gentlemen, is there anything else you would like to discuss?”

  “We’ll speak again this afternoon, I think,” said suit number one, getting up and holding out his hand. “We’ll say goodbye for now.”

  Logan remained seated and shook suit number one’s hand. The other two nodded politely, and the three men left the room and walked into the hallway, where Viktor was waiting to show them out. Stark wanted to make sure their guests weren’t left alone during their visit, not even for a second. Viktor shut the door softly behind them.

  “Make sure that the telephone systems are operational by lunch time,” said the senator. “Your encryption software is wreaking havoc with the lines, and I need to speak to the insurance company and my bank in Zurich urgently.”

  “Yes, sir,” said Stark.

  The senator left the room. The colonel stood alone in the plush study and noted with disgust that the value of the furniture alone would be enough to feed a large family for several months, at least. Stark understood that power and money went hand in hand. He understood that the link between politics and wealth was as old as time itself, and he knew that his country’s fate was decided by the privileged few. But he didn’t have to like it.

  Today’s America was different. In earlier times the country had fought itself free of tyranny and had forged an empire that now spanned the entire globe. Perhaps not an empire in the traditional sense, but an empire of economics and political power that affected the lives of more than seven billion people. Today’s America was weak in comparison, left frail by the disease of corruption that went all the way to the White House. Crippled by the endless greed that had sucked the soul out of this once-great nation. A nation that millions of men had died fighting to protect.

  The battle-worn soldier recalled the days when distinguishing between good and evil was a lot simpler. During his combat days, Stark would simply follow orders and trust that his superiors were on the right side. Now, in his civilian life, he found those lines had become blurred, and evil was no longer wearing armor and carrying a rifle, it was dressed in an expensive suit, armed with a bright smile, and carrying a Mont Blanc pen.

  Stark made his way back to the entrance hall, pausing as he passed the photograph of the senator and the president shaking hands at the birthday party. Two men, smiling and laughing in the knowledge they were safe and secure, unaware of the people who had suffered and died to protect their way of life.

  The tiny earpiece nestled in Stark’s ear canal crackled, and Dolph’s voice came on the line. The colonel listened to the report with growing concern and adjusted his orders accordingly. It wouldn’t be long before Blake and his friends discovered what the senator had done. The next phase of the plan would need to be moved up a little.

  Chapter 16

  Leopold, Mary, and Jerome stood outside the Columbia halls of residence, fumbling with a folded paper map of Manhattan and trying to look like tourists. A heaving crowd pushed past them, largely uninterested. Every now and then the towering bodyguard would catch the attention of the more curious passers-by, but his cold stare ensured they didn’t linger. Most of the people on the streets were dressed in business suits, many carrying briefcases and wearing thin overcoats. Despite the unseasonal warmth, the threat of sudden rain showers kept the summer wardrobes at bay. One particular figure, dressed unusually in a long coat and brimmed hat, passed close by, but kept his eyes down and his hands in his pockets. A few students passed by carrying stacks of heavy text books, chatting animatedly.

  Though this was an upmarket part of town, there was still no shortage of hustle and the smell of warm bodies mingled with the whoosh of musty metal-tinged air rising up from the subway. The unseasonal heat and the thick humidity of the city were beginning to feel oppressive, as though there were a constant weight pressing in from all sides, prickling the skin.

  Leopold dabbed at his brow with a handkerchief and wished they were indoors taking advantage of the air conditioning.

  “Looks like we’ve got our chance,” said Jerome, pointing at the small group of students heading toward the locked doors that led into the halls.

  The three of them slipped through the doors as they swung closed and crossed the lobby to the elevators where they rode to the thirteenth floor. The corridors were busy as dozens of students returned to their dorm rooms to grab their books for the afternoon classes before going for lunch. Many were standing in the hallway, curiously eyeing the strangers as they walked down the corridor to room 1340, which nestled at the farthest end of one of the lesser-populated areas.

  When they reached the room, Jerome tapped lightly on the door, which opened quickly to reveal the grinning face of a slim, blonde student, her hair hanging casually at shoulder length and her blue eyes framed by expensive-looking glasses. She wore a preppy halter top in navy blue with white polka dots, skinny jeans, and a pair of dark heels. Her expression was paused, as though she had been expecting someone else. With one hand resting on a tilted hip, she looked like a walking J.Crew commercial. Behind her, the girl’s roommate looked up from her bed and shot the trio a quizzical look. She looked and dressed much the same, though was maybe ten or eleven pounds heavier, and didn’t pretend to be pleased to see them.

  “Hi,” said the slim blonde. She had aimed the question at Jerome, but her eyes flickered over to Leopold when she didn’t receive a response.

  “Hi,” said Leopold, “I wonder if you could help us. We’re looking for Christina Logan. I understand that you girls know her pretty well.”

  The slim blonde raised her free hand up to the door frame and looked back at her roommate, who shrugged lazily.

  “What’s this about?” she asked, shifting her weight uncomfortably.

  Leopold glanced at Mary and flicked his eyes in the direction of the girl. Mary took the hint.

  “We’re friends of Christina’s dad,” Mary said softly. “There’s nothing to worry about. We just know that Christina hasn’t been around for a few days, and her dad’s really worried. Would it be okay if we came inside and asked you some questions?”

  The girl looked back at her roommate again. “Sure, I guess.”

  “Thank you. My name’s Mary,” she held out a hand.

  “Isabelle,” said the slim blonde, taking her outstretched palm, “and this is Beth.” Isabelle thumbed toward her roommate.

  “It’s nice to meet you,” said Mary, stepping through into the dorm room.

  Once the police sergeant h
ad crossed over from the hallway, Jerome and Leopold followed, quietly closing the door behind them. The dorm room itself was of modest size, with two single beds separated by a nightstand. The room had two desks, upon which sat an array of jumbled textbooks, handwritten notes, and stuffed animals. Both girls had laptops flipped open on the beds; Isabelle’s was dimmed and Beth was using hers to check email. Jerome and Leopold stood near the door, not quite sure what to do with themselves, as Mary took a seat on the empty bed and motioned for Isabelle to sit down next to her.

  “When’s the last time you remember seeing Christina?” asked Mary.

  “Monday, I think,” said Isabelle.

  “Okay, think back. What were you girls doing last time you were together?”

  “We were at a coffee place around the corner, talking about this week’s study group session and what time we were gonna go over there.”

  “And you three were going over there together?” asked the sergeant.

  “Yeah. Christina said she’d meet us there around eight-thirty,” said Isabelle. “Then she left and we haven’t seen her since. She said she was going over to meet this guy she’s been seeing.”

  “Belle!” Beth slapped the lid of her laptop closed and glared at Isabelle.

  Isabelle looked nervously at Mary.

  “Fine, tell her,” Beth shrugged, turning back to her computer.

  “Don’t tell her dad,” said Isabelle. “He’d kill her. The guy she’s seeing isn’t exactly someone her dad would approve of. He’s not a nice guy.”

  “What do you mean?” pressed Mary.

  “Well, I never saw it happen, but I’d see Christina with bruises on her arms and legs. She’d say she fell, or that she’d been knocked over during hockey practice, but it never felt right. This guy’s a real piece of work. I’m pretty sure he’s got a record.”

  Mary nodded in support. “What’s this guy’s name?”

  “Hank. I don’t know his last name. Christina would just vanish for days and then say she was just staying with him at his place off campus. I’ll bet that’s where she is. Just don’t say anything to her dad, please,” said Isabelle.

  “Don’t worry,” said Mary, “we’re just trying to find out where she is. We don’t want to get her into any trouble.”

  “You’re probably too late for that,” said Beth, sitting up to face the police sergeant. “Christina’s blind to this guy. She’d do anything for him. She’s completely in love and there’s no talking to her. It doesn’t matter how much of a bastard he can be, or how he treats her. She always defends him and says it’s her fault. Makes me fucking sick. This is the guy.”

  Beth scribbled Hank’s address down on a piece of scrap paper and handed it to Mary. “Here’s a picture,” she said, holding up her phone. “Don’t tell him we sent you.”

  “Thanks for talking to me,” said Mary. “We’ll make sure Christina gets home safe.”

  She stood up and walked over to the door, nodding at the two girls reassuringly. Jerome and Leopold followed her out the door, and they rode the elevator back down to the lobby together.

  “That was good work,” said Leopold, as they walked out onto the street. “You really connected with those girls. Got us just the lead we needed.”

  “You really think the boyfriend has anything to do with this?” asked Mary, as the elevator opened up to the entrance hall with a subdued chime.

  “It’s a good place to start. Besides, if he’s not the one pulling the strings, he should at least be able to tell us where Christina went after she met up with him.”

  “I don’t like the sound of this guy,” said Mary, her expression hardening. “I don’t know if I’m going be able to hold myself back if it turns out he’s beating her.”

  “I wouldn’t worry about that,” said Leopold. “I’d be more concerned about what Jerome might do.”

  Chapter 17

  It had been easy enough to gain access to Hank’s building. As Leopold had predicted, they were immediately buzzed in once Jerome had informed a neighbor they were there to check the gas lines, following the report of a leak. The tenant they spoke to simply told them to let themselves out when they had finished.

  The bodyguard led the way as they climbed the stairs to Hank’s seventh-floor apartment. The only other movement in the building was on the third floor, where a team of decorators was making renovations. The stairwell smelled of new paint, and judging by the mess the decorators had left, it looked like each apartment was being given a full revamp. They reached Hank’s door and Jerome knocked heavily. There was no answer, so he tried the handle.

  “Deadbolts.”

  “Do the honors, Jerome,” said Leopold, gesturing for Mary to stand behind him.

  The huge bodyguard took a couple of big steps backward, lowered his shoulder, and charged. The door frame splintered as the force of his body ripped out the hinges and bolts, scattering pieces of wood all over the floor. Jerome stepped inside, kicking the debris to one side.

  Hank’s apartment was small and modestly furnished. The doorway opened into the living area, which also included a small kitchenette. To the right was a short hallway that led through to a cramped bedroom and a bathroom. The apartment had been recently decorated with a new coat of magnolia paint, except for the hallway, which was still exposed drywall. Overall, the apartment was meticulously arranged and scrubbed clean, with nothing out of place. Nothing except for the dead body that was slumped up against the wall.

  “No one’s here; place is deserted,” said Jerome, his hand still resting on his firearm as he returned from checking the other rooms.

  Leopold knelt by the body. The dead man was wearing casual clothes, had short brown hair and was decorated with numerous ear piercings and tattoos. Leopold noticed tiny red marks on the inside of his elbow, probably from drug use. The dead man’s left wrist had been slashed, leaving a gash that ran half the length of his forearm. Thick, dark blood had pooled around his arms and legs, staining the carpet where he sat. He held a serrated knife in his right hand, the blade flecked with dried blood.

  Mary knelt down next to Leopold and fished the man’s wallet from inside his back pocket, tilting the body slightly to allow her access.

  “This is Hank,” said the sergeant, examining the driver’s licence and getting back up on her feet.

  Leopold leaned in closer and examined the wound. Hank’s injuries appeared to have been caused by the serrated blade he was holding, judging by the tears in the flesh surrounding the deep gash on his arm. There were no other signs of injury on the body, although a full autopsy would be required to know for sure.

  “Whoever did this took their time,” said the consultant, squinting closer at the deep cut. “The wound is very convincing.”

  “What do you mean?” asked Mary, getting to her feet.

  “Hank committing suicide is too great a coincidence, considering everything that’s happened,” said the consultant, frowning.

  “Sure, I can buy that. But we’ll need more than circumstantial evidence to prove murder.”

  “And there’s the rub. Whoever is leaving the trail of bodies is making them look just enough like suicides to give a jury enough reasonable doubt to throw out a murder charge.”

  “There must be some evidence we can use.”.

  “The blood pooling around Hank’s body is a little darker than I would have expected,” said Leopold, pointing to the stains on the carpet. “This happens when the heart isn’t pumping enough oxygen into the blood, and is usually caused when something constricts the oxygen supply.”

  “Someone strangled him?” asked Jerome, from across the room.

  “Not likely,” replied Leopold, “otherwise we’d see bruising around the neck. However, I do think his airways were constricted prior to death. Mostly likely something inserted into the wind pipe, which would be much harder to detect during an autopsy.”

  “Why not just let him choke?” asked Mary.

  “The point is to make it look like
a suicide. People don’t usually dispatch themselves by sticking foreign objects into their windpipes, and if Hank had died prior to the wrists being cut we’d be able to tell. Judging by the lack of color around his face and lips, I’m certain it’s the blood loss that killed him.”

  “So the killer stopped Hank breathing just long enough for him to pass out?” asked the police sergeant.

  “Yes. Cutting off his oxygen for long enough beforehand would have made it far easier to arrange Hank in this position. If he’d struggled, the killer might not have been able to be so convincing.”

  “Not convincing enough for you. But I’d imagine it’s convincing enough for a jury,” said Mary. “Just one question: How did the killer get out? The door was locked from the inside when we arrived.”

  “Check the windows,” said Leopold.

  Jerome unlatched the living room window, which opened just enough to fit his forearm through.

  “The windows don’t open all the way,” he remarked. “No chance anyone could have fit their whole body through, even if they did ignore the fifty-foot drop.”

  Leopold took a few minutes to examine the rest of the apartment. The tiny kitchen was littered with unopened mail that had been left on the countertop, and there was a strong smell of decomposing food coming from underneath the sink. He pulled open one of the cupboard doors and recoiled as the smell from the open garbage can hit his nose and he quickly shut the door again. He turned to leave, but noticed a letter lying open on top of the pile of junk mail. He picked it up and studied it carefully.

  “Found anything?” asked Mary.

  “Just a bank statement,” said Leopold. “Nothing unusual. We can use the account reference to check for any irregularities. Should save us getting a warrant, at least.”

  Mary walked over and examined the piece of paper in the consultant’s hand.

  “You can’t just hack in to someone’s private account.”