Even

by Andrew Grant

  “Are you sure?” I said.

  “Of course,” Maher said. “It’s hardly the kind of thing I get wrong. He was skinny and slightly effeminate, yes, but certainly not female.”

  “So it’s not Tanya,” Weston said. “She could still be alive.”

  “Are you anywhere with an ID?” Varley said.

  “There was nothing helpful on the body,” Maher said. “And the head and hands had been removed, presumably to hinder identification. But fortunately we’re a little more resourceful than that. One of my technicians hacked into the building security system. Only one person swiped in, but not back out again. His name was Kelvin Taylor. It gave his position as a director of the parent health care company.”

  “Kelvin Taylor?” Weston said. “We know him. Naughty.”

  “He should have stayed in jail,” I said.

  “This is unconfirmed, remember,” Maher said. “Nothing’s guaranteed till we hear back from the lab. We need a DNA match to be sure who he was. Assuming we have a reference sample, of course.”

  “Understood,” Varley said. “But put a rush on it, will you, Doc? It could be important.”

  “What about Tanya Wilson?” I said. “The hostage. Any trace?”

  “Not at this stage,” Maher said.

  “They must have taken her somewhere,” I said. “Any indication?”

  “Nothing, I’m afraid,” Maher said. “But we’ll keep looking.”

  “Keep us posted,” Varley said. “Meantime, what else?”

  “Second thing. Cause of death.”

  “Let me guess. His head was cut off.”

  “No. Seems that nothing in this case is as it appears on the surface. The decapitation occurred postmortem. So did the removal of the victim’s hands.”

  “How do you know?”

  “The blood tells us. Think about the vessels in the neck and wrists. If the heart had still been beating when any of those were severed, blood would have been forced out under considerable pressure. It would have sprayed in a series of diminishing arcs, leaving a completely different pattern. Very recognizable. Whereas in this case, you can see from the extensive pooling that the blood literally drained out of the victim.”

  “So why the chop job?”

  “I don’t know. We may not be able to make sense of it till we find the missing body parts.”

  “Then what did kill him?”

  “Preliminary findings suggest exsanguination due to the introduction of a catastrophic blood thinning agent.”

  “Bleeding to death?”

  “Yes. But no ordinary bleeding. The blood was thinned to such a colossal extent it would have escaped from the vessels even without them being cut.”

  “What can do that?”

  “I’m not sure. A drug of some kind, I’d imagine. But nothing I’ve encountered before. Nothing that acts so fast, anyway. We found a syringe in the sharps bin with traces of an unidentified clear liquid, and several unopened vials in the controlled-drugs cupboard. No labels, obviously. We’ll know more at the lab, but it looks to me like an extreme derivative of heparin or possibly warfarin. Both are commonly available. They’re used legitimately as anticoagulants.”

  “I thought warfarin was rat poison.”

  “That’s one use. Bait is doused with the drug, and if rats ingest it in high enough concentrations they die from massive internal bleeding. It’s a hideous way to go, even for vermin. The same thing happened to this victim. But in his case, the drug was administered intravenously. And it had been altered to increase the potency. Probably by a factor of many thousands.”

  “Would Taylor have known what was happening to him?”

  “Most likely. He probably would have seen the first traces oozing out through his pores before he lost consciousness.”

  “Human ingenuity never ceases to amaze me, Doc. So, down to your last point?”

  “Yes. Well. This is where it gets difficult. We just don’t have sufficient data. All I can definitely tell you is this. There was more going on in the clinic than illegal organ transplantation. But exactly what? I need time in the lab to be certain.”

  “Best guess?”

  “No guesswork. But I can tell you that we found components from miniature detonators. The kind that are activated by radio signals. We’re still looking for traces of explosives.”

  “Any sign of a transmitter?”

  “None. But it doesn’t look like the usual cell phone–based type. We’re thinking in terms of Wi-Fi.”

  “So we’re looking at an Internet bomb factory?”

  “That seems likely. We need to confirm the volatile material involved, but it would appear that someone has used the place to construct a series of compact devices. And given the presence of the victim and the lack of anyone else, there’s a strong likelihood the devices have already been planted. Or are in transit.”

  “And you’re only telling me this now?”

  “We need time to analyze. Rushing helps no one. A false conclusion can be more dangerous than—”

  “Any indication as to targets?”

  “Nothing. But we’re still looking.”

  “David, what about Taylor? Think back. Everything he said. Was there anything that could give us a clue?”

  “No,” I said. “But he may not have known. He said the people from Iraq took over the organ smuggling a few weeks back. They brought their own doctors. This murder, the drug, the explosives—it could all be their doing.”

  “Damn,” Varley said. “And we can’t ask him now. Look, are there any bombs out there, or not? We need to know. And if so, where? And how many? And how big? Doctor, this is your top priority. Put everyone on it. I don’t care about anything else.”

  “What about Tanya?” I said.

  “I’m sorry, David,” Varley said. “We need a handle on this first.”

  “Then why not start with the memory stick?” I said.

  “What memory stick?” Varley said.

  “The one from the OR,” I said. “Left where we couldn’t miss it. Now we know bombs are involved, I bet it’s some kind of warning. If you want the target, that’s where I’d look.”

  “Doctor?” Varley said.

  “I agree,” Maher said.

  “And you were going to tell me, when?” Varley said. “Christmas? When the bombs have gone off? When I’m up to my ass in casualties?”

  “I’d be at the lab right now, analyzing it,” Maher said. “If I wasn’t here, answering premature questions.”

  “Where is it?” Varley said. “The stick.”

  “Right here,” Maher said. “In my case.”

  “Hand it over.”

  “No.”

  “Right now, Doctor, please.”

  “I can’t. There’s a dozen reasons why not. It would compromise the chain of evidence, for a start. And there may be prints, which would be lost if you started pawing at it. The chip could contain viruses, or other malicious code. Untold damage could be done. You can’t just blunder in.”

  “What brand is it?” I said.

  “I didn’t note that,” Maher said. “Why?”

  “It could be significant. Is it all bagged up?”

  “Of course.”

  “Can I just have a peek? For a second? Through the plastic?”

  Maher sighed. Then he flipped open his metal case, took out a two-by-three-inch evidence bag, and gingerly handed it to me.

  “Sandisk,” I said. “One gigabyte. Probably came from Radio Shack.”

  “Is that important?” Maher said. “What does it mean?”

  “That you should get out more,” I said, tossing the package across the table to Varley.

  THIRTY-THREE

  Time was, you wanted to threaten someone, you’d leave them a note.

  You could use a pen and paper, and write with your “wrong” hand. Or you could type. Or cut the letters out of newspapers. If it was for a whole community, you could phone a radio station with a handkerchief over the mouthpiece. />
  But now we have computers.

  The application of technology really is universal.

  Varley told Weston to dig out a stand-alone laptop, and as soon as it had booted up he slotted the memory stick into a USB port at the side of the machine. The end of the stick flickered blue, and after a moment a dialogue box opened on the computer screen. The title bar read REMOVABLE DISK (E:). A note said the disk contained video files, and a series of options was listed underneath.

  “Click on the bottom one,” Maher said. “Take no action. Then give the thing back to me and let me take it to the lab.”

  Weston chose OPEN FOLDER TO VIEW FILES. Another window opened. It contained a single icon. The image looked like a quarter of a DVD superimposed over a strip of movie film. Beneath that was a file name. Or rather a number: 320. There was no extension. The description was InterVideo Media File, and the given size was 10,082 KB.

  “That’s a chunky file,” Weston said. “Shall I play it?”

  “No,” Varley said. “Let’s absorb the information via ESP.”

  Weston double-clicked on the icon and an image appeared like the front of a 1950s television, filling the screen. It was blank. At first it was silent, but after a moment you could hear a soft heartbeat. It sounded human. It started quietly, almost subliminally, and grew louder by the second.

  “Like Dark Side of the Moon,” Lavine said. “Cool.”

  The figure three appeared. Then a two. Then a zero. The digits were white. They swelled up until they filled the screen and shrank back to the center in time with the steady pulse. Out and in, out and in, hypnotically, for fifteen seconds. Then the numbers were replaced by images. A one-legged child leaning on an improvised wooden crutch. Burned-out cars strewn by the side of desert roads. An old lady cowering in the shattered remains of her home. A filthy hospital corridor crammed with listless amputees on stretchers. Each new scene emerged from the center of the last as if pushed out by the relentless throbbing heartbeat until at last the screen faded to red. The number 320 returned. And then text started to appear, scrolling from left to right, one letter at time like an old vidiprinter display.

  Each day that passes, you crush a little tighter the heart of our nation.

  Now, we strike back in symbolic vengeance.

  Leave our soil, or more shall drown in their own blood.

  “David was right,” Varley said. “It is a warning. But it’s the weirdest one I’ve ever seen.”

  “Talk about cryptic,” Lavine said.

  “Strike at the heart of our nation?” Weston said. “Symbolic vengeance? That can only mean one thing. An attack on D.C.”

  “That gives them hundreds of targets,” Lavine said. “Which one? Or ones?”

  “No need to panic,” Varley said. “We have contingencies for this. They’re well rehearsed. All we need is an idea of the time frame.”

  “What about this number?” Weston said. “Three twenty? Why does it keep flashing up all the time?”

  “I don’t know,” Lavine said. “Three twenty. That’s the area code for Minnesota. Could that be what they take as the heart of the nation? It’s kind of in the middle. East to west, anyway.”

  “Or an Airbus 320?” Weston said. “Another hijack?”

  “No,” Maher said. “It’s not a number. It’s a date. Like 9/11.”

  “March 20?” Lavine said. “Why pick that?”

  “Where were those photos taken, do you think?” Maher said.

  “Iraq, obviously,” Lavine said.

  “What happened to Iraq on March 20?” Maher said.

  No one answered.

  “Two thousand three?” Maher said.

  Silence.

  “Shock and awe got your tongues?” Maher said. “That’s when we invaded the place.”

  “Are you sure that was the date?” Varley said.

  “Certain,” Maher said.

  “Then it can’t be a coincidence,” Varley said. “But March 20? That’s tomorrow. We’ve got less than twenty-four hours.”

  “Much less,” I said. “If they’re really being symbolic.”

  “Of course,” Varley said. “The time, as well. They’ll go for 3:20A.M.”

  Lavine checked his watch.

  “That’s less than four and a half hours,” he said. “We’ve got no chance.”

  “Yes we have,” Varley said, getting to his feet. “Make the call. Right now. You know the codes. Kyle, get the car. La Guardia, on the double. Doc, you get to the lab. David, are you coming with us?”

  “No,” I said. “I can’t help feeling we’re missing something.”

  “Yeah,” Varley said. “The chance to save lives, if we don’t haul ass.”

  “Think about it,” I said. “Something here doesn’t add up. Why did Tungsten use Tanya to deliver the warning, for a start?”

  “I don’t know,” Weston said. “But it does seem strange.”

  “We know she was curious,” Lavine said. “Maybe she went snooping around and they caught her?”

  “I can’t see it,” Weston said. “That video must have taken time to produce. They must have had a plan for delivering it. Relying on catching a snooper wouldn’t work. And was Tanya really stupid enough to go down there, alone?”

  “No, she wasn’t,” I said. “And anyway, she told me they were waiting at her apartment.”

  “Which begs the question, why would Tungsten be staking her out?” Weston said.

  “Good questions,” Varley said. “I don’t know the answers. We can unpick it later. But right now, stopping the bombs is our priority.”

  “You should hold fire until we’re clear about what’s going on here,” I said. “You have hordes of guys in Washington. Can’t you put them on it?”

  “No,” Varley said. “This is too high-profile. We need to get our boots on the sidewalk.”

  “Here’s another thought,” I said. “Why ask for me in particular?”

  “Tanya knew you,” Lavine said. “She trusted you.”

  “But Tungsten didn’t,” I said. “Why would they want me at the clinic? They didn’t know I existed when they made that video. Delivering it was critical. Why make that hinge on me?”

  “Time’s up,” Varley said. “We’ve got to move. Come with us, David. We’ll piece it together on the plane.”

  “No,” I said. “You go. I’m staying here. I’ll figure it out, myself.”

  “If you must,” Varley said. “But be honest. This is about guilt for losing Tanya. Talking isn’t going to help you find her.”

  “I won’t find her in D.C.,” I said.

  “You won’t find her here, either,” Varley said. “Face it, David. It’s been too long.”

  “I told her I was coming for her,” I said. “And that’s a promise I’m not about to break.”

  “You’re one guy, on your own.” Varley said. “What will you do? Sit around and wait for them to call? Forget it, David. Come with us. Help us do some good.”

  Waiting for them to call wasn’t part of my plan. And if it had been, I wouldn’t have got very far. I’d switched my phone to silent before setting off for the clinic. Old habits die hard. Varley’s comment reminded me. I pulled it out of my pocket. I was going to switch it back to normal when I saw an envelope symbol was bouncing around the screen. A new text had arrived.

  having fun playing with my boys? hope so. i’m having fun playing with your girl

  I showed Lavine.

  “Doesn’t sound good,” he said. “Who’s it from? Do you recognize the number?”

  “No,” I said. “I’ve never seen it before.”

  “Call it back,” Weston said. “See if anyone answers.”

  I dialed, then hit the key to activate the phone’s tiny built-in speaker.

  A recorded voice answered after one ring. It was Lesley’s.

  “Please choose from the following three options,” it said. “If you’re David Trevellyan calling in a panic about your soon-to-be-late friend Tanya, press one. If you�
��re the FBI wanting to know the difference between your head and your ass, press two. Everyone else, please call back later. I’m having too much fun to come to the phone right now.”

  I looked around the table and saw three shocked faces. Dr. Maher just looked confused.

  “I don’t understand,” Lavine said. “I thought the Tungsten people had Tanya. If Lesley has her, why did she send David to the clinic to find Tungsten’s message?”

  “The woman is obviously working with Tungsten,” Maher said. “Surely this clarifies things?”

  “No, it doesn’t,” Weston said. “It does the opposite. Lesley and Tungsten are totally separate. Completely unrelated. We proved that.”

  “The evidence suggests otherwise,” Maher said.

  “Wait, back up,” Lavine said. “How can Lesley have her? She’s in jail. After her run-in with David on Tuesday night.”

  “Enough,” Varley said, slamming his palm on the table. “Come on. We’ve got bombs to find. I don’t get this, either, but we’ll make some calls from the car. Now move it, all of you.”

  Twelve chair legs scraped across the floor as Weston, Lavine, and Maher got to their feet. I stayed where I was, looking at the phone, trying to force all the pieces back into place in my head. I was still holding it three seconds later when another text arrived. It was from the same number.

  sorry i missed u. 2 busy 2 talk. u can have tanya back when i’m done with her. meantime have attached picture. promised before but 4got. am i bad?

  I pressed the button and a blurry image slowly filled the screen. Dark thoughts started to form in my mind. I looked at the photograph for another moment, then handed the phone to Weston.

  “Ignore her face,” I said. “Look at her right wrist.”

  “A leather strap,” he said. “And a metal frame. Like that wheelie-cage thing. At Lesley’s house.”

  “Or could it be that cellar place?” Lavine said. “That had white walls, too.”

  “No,” Weston said. “I can see a window.”

  “Give me some car keys,” I said.

  “You’re going there?” Lavine said.

  I didn’t answer.

  “You can’t go on your own,” Weston said. “It’s the same deal as here. She’s a hostage. We need to send a team.”