The Immortalists

by Kyle Mills

  He wondered if Karl ever left. If he had a life somewhere or if he planned to spend the next millennium pulling the world’s strings from the jungle.

  They passed through a small gap in the trees, and the man leading him veered off, gesturing toward a table where Karl and Oleg were sitting.

  “Please,” Karl said, gesturing toward an empty chair. Graden took it, silently telling himself that he didn’t have anything to worry about. Nothing that had happened with Richard and Carly was his fault. He’d faithfully played the role set out for him.

  “Did you have a pleasant flight?”

  The small talk seemed out of place coming from his lips. Perhaps intended to put him at ease, it had the opposite effect.

  “I did, thank you.”

  “Then we’ll proceed. I called you both here to discuss the Draman situation.”

  Karl’s expression was passive, but there was something just beneath the surface. Rage.

  “Obviously everyone at this table has underestimated their elusiveness and, admittedly, their luck. How this happened, I’m not sure. Chris, you’ve known them for years and were charged with making certain they considered you one of their closest friends. Oleg, you billed yourself as an intelligence mastermind— a man who would have no trouble with a situation like this one. But now we find ourselves in a very difficult position. Not only are the Dramans and their daughter still eluding us, but they’ve discovered more about our group than should have ever been possible. How did this happen?”

  The question was clearly not rhetorical. Graden knew that he and the Russian were being asked to defend their actions. Perhaps their lives.

  “My jet was used to try to get rid of them,” Graden blurted before Oleg could speak. “But it wasn’t my plan. And I held them at my house until our people came. The fact that they escaped has nothing to do with me. I’m not involved with who’s sent and how competent they are.”

  “You did hold them there,” Karl agreed. “According to our recordings, by telling them a great deal.”

  “That’s not true! I didn’t tell them anything useful—anything they didn’t already know. I had to stall them. How else could I have done it?”

  Karl nodded ambiguously and turned his attention to Oleg, who hadn’t dared to interrupt but whose face had turned increasingly red at Graden’s attempt to deflect blame.

  “And yet they got away. Isn’t that right, Oleg?”

  “You understand the difficulties of finding reliable people who are sufficiently discreet,” he said. “The men I sent were the only ones available, and there was no way to anticipate that they would have to deal with a former special forces sniper.”

  Another noncommittal nod from Karl. “It’s difficult to argue against Chris’s point, though, isn’t it? Planning for the unexpected isn’t what he was hired for. He was asked to keep them there until your people arrived, and he did that.”

  Graden relaxed enough that he dared pour himself a glass of water from the pitcher in the middle of the table. The heat and humidity were getting worse as the day went on, and his chair was the only one not shaded.

  “Karl, I—”

  “And by the time you tracked down this sniper and sent your men to deal with him, he was gone.”

  “We located his house within a few hours.”

  Karl shrugged. “How is that relevant? Too late is too late. Wouldn’t you say that’s true, Oleg?”

  The Russian nodded reluctantly.

  “I see this series of events as being brought about by a lack of thoroughness,” Karl said, scooting back enough that he had a view of both men. “Chris, you didn’t watch Richard Draman or Troy Chevalier closely enough. And Oleg, you weren’t aware that the Dramans had gotten off the plane, and then you destroyed it to no purpose. You also allowed August to be tracked to Argentina, which puts me in the position of having to question all of our preparations up to this point.”

  He waved over the man who had escorted Graden across the garden, and he took a position next to the table.

  “Chris, the work you’ve done for us has been very valuable. And, as you said, you’re not an intelligence officer. Your sphere of influence is medical research, and with this one exception, you’ve covered that area competently.”

  Graden tried not to show his relief at what appeared to be a dismissal. As terrifying as the thought of death had always been, it was much more so now that it was no longer inevitable.

  “But,” Karl continued, “your involvement has been revealed, and we can’t send you back. There could be questions that would be difficult to answer.”

  Graden’s eyes widened a bit. Had his schedule been moved up? Was he going to be given the therapy?

  The answer came when the man standing next to the table pulled a gun from his shoulder holster.

  “No!” Graden shouted, jumping from his chair and holding a hand out. “You said this wasn’t my fault! That I had done a good job for the group.”

  “And I meant that, Chris. But if there’s anything we’ve learned from this, it’s that even the smallest loose end can begin to unravel. Your sudden disappearance would just play into the story the Dramans can tell. My hands are tied.”

  The pain he expected to accompany the sound of the gun didn’t materialize, and he had to look down at the red stain spreading across his chest before he comprehended what had happened. The tropical heat disappeared, as did the sound of the insects and birds. He looked up into the sky and squinted into the sun, watching it fade to black as he sank to the ground.

  Oleg Nazarov maintained eye contact with Karl as two men materialized from the trees and carried away the piece of meat that had been Chris Graden.

  “When Mason first told me about his breakthrough, I was skeptical,” Karl said. “But his reputation preceded him, and the possibility that it could be used to create a therapy to reverse the aging process was too great to ignore. I set up a web of satellite labs in remote parts of the world, each working on a tiny piece of the puzzle. I paid government officials to provide human test subjects from their villages and prisons. I raised the three billion dollars it cost. And I controlled the impatience and frustration of the people I recruited while Mason’s work stretched to nearly a quarter century. Some of the men who originally started down this road with me didn’t live long enough to see him succeed. In fact, I almost didn’t.”

  Nazarov looked on impassively, unsure where this was going. The trail of blood leading away from the table suggested that his life was hanging in the balance. Not particularly surprising, nor the first time. Involvement with Karl almost defined an all-or-nothing enterprise.

  “I tell you this because I want to impress on you how far-reaching this is, Oleg.”

  “I understand.”

  “Do you? I hope so. I spoke with the group about you, and they were evenly split on how to proceed. For the first time, I had to cast the deciding vote.”

  Karl poured himself a glass of water while Nazarov stared at the still full one Chris Graden had left.

  “I told them that it would be difficult to make a change at this point. That I have confidence in your ability to operate at a higher level than you have up to this point.”

  “Thank you,” Nazarov said, wiping the sweat from his lip with a napkin.

  “I understand that you joined us just as a number of difficult situations presented themselves, Oleg. But what you need to understand is that next time, the vote won’t go in your favor.”

  39

  Upstate New York

  May 10

  Richard watched Xander squint down at the eight-by-ten photo of August Mason as the guards outside continued to brandish their guns and shout. As long as he and Carly didn’t make any sudden moves, they probably had a fifty-fifty chance of not getting their heads blown off. Until SWAT showed up, anyway.

  “That’s a hell of a story,” Xander drawled between gurgling coughs. “Let me get this straight. August Mason is some kind of south-of-the-border Methuselah, and
his little secret club is hot on your heels. Let me guess—in a flying saucer? I think I’ve got it. Are we through now?”

  “What about Richard’s driver’s license?” Carly said, pointing to where it lay on the seat next to the old man. “That proves he’s who he says he is.”

  “Do you have any idea how many cranks like you I’ve had to deal with over my lifetime?” He slapped the photo in his hand with more force than Richard thought he had in him. “Any six-year-old could get that license over the Internet in about a minute and a half. And as for the picture, I may not be as young as I used to be, but I have heard of Photoshop.”

  Richard wasn’t surprised by the reaction and wondered for the thousandth time if this had been a huge mistake. Getting involved with Xander had a serious drawback—he was a ruthless, backstabbing, geriatric prick willing to do anything to escape the icy hands of death. But, from their standpoint, that was also his upside.

  “I assume you have people who can check if the license is authentic and if Mason’s photo has been altered. When they tell you they’re genuine, my phone number is written on the back. In the meantime, if you could tell your bodyguards to put their guns down, we’ll be on our way.”

  Carly pushed a button, and the back window next to Xander went down an inch. The old man ignored it, a glimmer of interest sparking in his wet eyes.

  “That’s it? No ransom? No demand that I tell your story on one of my television stations?”

  “Actually, we’d prefer you keep this to yourself,” Carly said. “Because of our daughter, we don’t have time for the government to get involved.”

  “So you came to me instead?”

  “We figured you’d be just as motivated as we are,” Richard said. “And you’re one of the few people in the world who can hold their own against a group this rich and powerful.”

  “You’re very good,” Xander said. “I’ll give you that. Very convincing. But then, most insane people are.”

  “Do I really seem insane to you?”

  He ignored the question. “So you think I should help two people who just carjacked me?”

  “The upside for you is youth and possibly a patent on the most lucrative technology in history,” Carly said. “The downside is that one of your assistants spends a few hours checking into our story and finds out it’s bull.”

  “An interesting analysis. I’m ashamed to say it, but you two have piqued my curiosity.”

  With great effort, he rose to bring his mouth even with the crack in the window. “Put your guns down. They’re leaving.”

  His guards did as they were told, and Carly gave her husband a worried glance before easing the driver’s door open.

  Neither of the two men moved as they got out, and Richard felt the knot in his stomach loosen a bit.

  It didn’t last long. A siren—maybe more than one—became audible in the distance and he froze for a moment, trying to calculate which of their planned escape routes would be best.

  His moment of hesitation was all they needed. The man closest to him lunged, slamming into him hard enough to lift him three feet in the air before they came crashing down onto the road. The impact robbed him of his senses for a moment, but Carly’s terrified voice finally brought him around.

  “Don’t hurt him. I’ll shoot!”

  His vision cleared as he was dragged to his feet by a powerful arm snaked around his neck. Carly had a gun aimed in his direction, but the barrel was shaking badly. The guard not using him as a human shield stood only a few feet away from her, his own pistol lined up with her temple.

  “Quit screwing around!” Xander shouted from the limo. “Get ’em in the trunk before the cops get here.”

  40

  Upstate New York

  May 12

  Richard walked to the window and looked out over Andreas Xander’s spotlighted property, now suspecting that contacting the old man would one day top the lengthy list of his life’s mistakes.

  The window was unlocked, but they were on the third story with no way to climb down. And even if they could, they wouldn’t make it ten steps toward the gate. Security was everything he would expect from one of the world’s most controversial billionaires—mounted cameras, random patrols, dogs that seemed perpetually disappointed that there were no intruders to tear apart.

  “Anything interesting?”

  He turned toward Carly, who was sitting in one of the wing-back chairs scattered around the room. As prisons went, it was a comfortable one—an opulent suite with a bathroom almost the size of the backyard of the home he doubted they would ever see again.

  “If there were a lake, it would be full of sharks.”

  She was wearing a suede skirt and sweater selected from the expensive clothing that had been delivered shortly after they arrived. The sweater alone probably cost more than her entire wardrobe, and he realized how much he regretted that.

  “Why don’t you come and sit down, Richard? Try to relax.”

  “How the hell can I relax?” he said, snatching up the phone next to the bed. Dead. Just like every other time he’d checked. “We’ve been here two days and no one’s said a word to us. What’s Xander doing? Is he going to leave us here to rot until he finally keels over? This is kidnapping.”

  A wry smile spread across her face. “As opposed to shooting out someone’s tire and holding a gun to their head?”

  He ignored her. “I can’t stay here any longer, Carly. We need to get in touch with—”

  He caught himself before he said “Burt,” looking around the room for the listening devices that he was sure were there. “We need to get in touch with Susie.”

  “I’m worried about her too, Richard. But she’s in good hands. There’s nothing you or I can do right now but sit here and wait. We’re not dead, and we haven’t been turned over to the police. That must mean something, right?”

  “Don’t give me that goddamn Zen crap,” he said, finally losing the fight to stay in control.

  She refused to take the bait. “Who would have thought that I’d end up the reasonable one?”

  “Shit,” he muttered and then let out a long breath. “I’m sorry, Carly. It’s not you…”

  “I know.” She stood and crossed the room, pulling him close enough that her lips brushed his ear. “I’m afraid for her too. I’m afraid for all of us.”

  41

  Upstate New York

  May 13

  Richard finished tucking his shirt in and went back to watching his wife blow her hair dry in a thick, white robe. How had he managed to find a woman like her? A woman who wasn’t just smart and beautiful, but could stand unwavering in the face of a sick child, an obsessed husband, and now all this.

  She turned off the dryer and faced him, smiling when she saw him staring. “What are you—”

  The sound of a key in the door silenced her, and they both looked at the clock by the bed.

  Their contact with the world outside that room had been governed by its illuminated numbers since they’d arrived. Breakfast had been delivered promptly at eight, as it always was, and lunch wasn’t due for another hour and a half.

  Carly pulled the robe tighter around her neck and took a position next to him, watching nervously as Andreas Xander rolled in.

  “Not morning people, huh?”

  The guard pushing his wheelchair retreated into the hallway and closed the door, leaving the three of them alone.

  Richard straightened in an unsuccessful attempt to conjure a little confidence from his height advantage. “Why are you holding us here?”

  “That seems like a stupid question for a man with your education.”

  “We haven’t been able to talk to our daughter in three days. How long could it possibly take you to find out we’re who we say we are? Like you said, a six-year-old could do it on the Internet in a minute and a half.”

  Carly squeezed his hand. “Calm down, Richard.”

  “You should listen to your wife. She’s giving you good advice.”<
br />
  Xander didn’t look any younger or stronger than the day they carjacked him, but he carried a menacing air that was magnified now that they were trapped on his playing field.

  “So you know now,” Carly said, her distaste for the man bleeding through her effort to hide it. “Isn’t that right, Mr. Xander? You know who we are?”

  “Oh, I know a great deal more than that. My people have gone through all the available information about the plane you were supposed to have gone down on, and they’ve retraced your steps in Argentina—”

  “They were in Argentina?” Richard said. “Did they see him? Did they see Mason?”

  Xander shook his head. “The house on that property burned to the ground the day after you were there. Everyone’s gone, and the owner turned out to be a maze of bullshit offshore corporations.”

  “What about Chris?” Carly asked.

  “He’s dead.”

  “You mean he disappeared? They—”

  “No, I mean he’s dead. My people have seen the body. It’s in a morgue in Eastern Europe.”

  “What happened to him?” Carly said. Her tone suggested that she hadn’t yet been able to completely dismiss their friendship with Graden. It was easier to make the intellectual disconnect than the emotional one.

  “The early talk from law enforcement is that he was developing designer narcotics with a group in Belarus and that it was a professional hit,” Xander said, focusing on Richard. “Maybe you and Mason are involved too. It’s a hell of a lot more likely than the story you fed me.”

  “What about the photo?” Richard said. “Have you had someone look at it?”

  “Three different expert opinions and for once they all agree. They say it’s genuine and taken where and when you said.”