The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  She heard the door open harshly and hit the rubber stopper on the wall and then it sprang to with a loud thud. The echo it made around the room made her flinch. And then the room was silent once more.

  FOUR

  She had moved fast. There was no point in doing it any other way. The conference was in full swing. It was not often that the CIA could talk to the NSA over sushi. It was not often that Air Force Intelligence could mingle with their Army or Naval counterparts whilst swilling down free Californian chardonnay. In all there were nine US intelligence agencies in attendance, denoted by forty-two representatives. By now the talk had probably moved on from the concept of ARES, and the occasion had become a chance for shoulders to be rubbed, and no end of promises and favors to be made.

  In the bathroom she had looked at her watch. It was three-forty. She had waited ten whole agonizing minutes and then had cautiously made her way out. At three fifty-five she was inside her office and had taken her security pass, handbag and her document folder. At four-ten she was inside the late professor Leipzig’s office and opening the overt wall safe. This was a stainless steel cabinet used for the storage of various project related information. The facility was deemed secure by government contracted security operatives, searches were held on entry and exit, otherwise personnel had roaming access within their own departments. It was common practice for senior level personnel to have access to secure documents within their project.

  The formula and genetic map of ARES and APHRODITE was held on two separate flash drives. Half the information was here, the other half was held securely in McCray's office, which was a separate department within the administration wing of the building. As second in command of the research and development, Isobel Bartlett had access to Leipzig's office and safe cabinet. She had access to his files in the admin library and she had access to his login files on the mainframe computer. They had worked together like that in case of illness or what little vacation they could take. The project never stalled because of a person’s absence.

  She took the two flash drives. She knew she had to move fast. She felt alone, trapped. She wanted to call security, but to tell them what? That she had heard two people talking in the bathroom? The nation’s top security and espionage personnel were in the building. Nobody would take her seriously. She had no visual identification, wasn't even sure about the voices, although one had sounded vaguely familiar. Besides, as the facility was full of intelligence agencies what would be so strange about a hypothetical conversation by two colleagues taking about an application or deployment of ARES? But she knew this was no hypothesis. She knew that the two men had been deadly serious, and she knew that Professor Leipzig’s death had been no accident. She felt she had to act, and act proactively. She could always bring the drives back to security later. Right now she wanted to warn McCray of what she had heard. She dropped both flash drives into her leather handbag and made her way towards the administration wing.

  The offices were empty. There was little work to do on these occasions. Research and development were buzzing around the conference, so admin had nobody to answer questions or take suggestions. The office services girls had packed up and gone home before the kitchen had served lunch, and the research center was empty. This cavernous room was nothing more than a library really, with every scientific publication in the field of viral infection, genetics and medicine ever written in either book form or increasingly available on the database as e-book format. It was also a room that many of the senior staff relaxed in under the guise of research. The facility commanded long hours and human nature what it is, the room had been a sanctuary to many. Isobel continued walking down the sanitized corridor. McCray's office was at the end boasting similar views to the function room, with a panorama over the manmade lake and its fountain. His office suite was entered via an outer office, which was manned by McCray’s personal assistant, Agnes Dempsey. A severe woman in her fifties little was known about Agnes, who was something of an enigma. However, she got things done like no other and much of the push for the ARES program was driven by her. It was Agnes Dempsey who devised the scheduling for the project and not, as everyone thought, McCray. Professor Leipzig had once told Isobel in strict confidence of Agnes Dempsey’s husband who had acute bowel and colon cancer. It was APHRODITE that Dempsey was driving forward in the vain hope that their discovery could be applied to medicine in time. Isobel’s opinion of the severe and motivated woman in her fifties, who was feared by people with slipping deadlines or poor accounting of personal budget, completely changed. She knew nothing much of her colleague’s personal lives, but you never could tell what people were living through.

  The door was ajar and she could hear the soft mumbling of voices from within. She entered discreetly. Agnes was not at her desk, but the door to McCray's office was open and there were voices, louder now, coming from inside.

  She froze. Rigid, like ice. The same voices she had heard not half an hour previous, only this time, without the echo from the marbled bathroom, she recognized the voice of one of the men.

  “Power,” the man chuckled. “Power and money.”

  “Just get it, we don’t have much time.” There was the sound of a heavy metal door on a tight, secure hinge. “Right here, both of them together.”

  “Zeus.”

  “What?”

  “Zeus,” he paused. “Ares was the god of war. Aphrodite was the goddess of love,” he laughed loudly. “Pretty corny really. But scientists aren’t blessed with lateral imagination.” The heavy safe door closed and locked. “But Zeus was the God of Gods in ancient Greek mythology. And with both of these, that's what we'll be. Fucking God!”

  “Here, just take these and watch the door. I want to make sure that everything in the office is as it was left.”

  Isobel had to will her legs to move. She glanced around for somewhere to hide, but the office was small and there was nothing but Agnes Dempsey’s empty desk. She threw herself down and curled up beneath the desk, her legs tucked up tight to her chest in the fetal position. She heard the door swing wide and two legs paced over the floor and stopped in front of her. They were unstill and restless. The toes of the shoes were slightly scuffed, the sort of shoe leather that was used every day and had done a bit of mileage.

  The door to McCray's office closed. The other set of legs joined the first. The shoes were immaculately polished. These shoes had seen little mileage. They had a range of stable mates at home some place. Probably mostly Italian for the spring or summer months or British for fall and winter.

  “You done?” It was the owner of the high-mileage shoes who spoke, his manner gruff.

  “Finished. Just need Leipzig’s set and we're through for the day.”

  Isobel felt that should her heart beat any louder, the two men would surely hear. She kept as still as she could but her legs were shaking uncontrollably. The edge of her shoe clipped the hard floor and her heart felt like it had stopped. She held her breath, willing the two men not to have heard.

  They hadn’t and as they walked out of the office and their footfalls carried down the corridor, she let out a steady stream of breath and started to feel light headed as the rush of adrenalin coursing through her veins subsided.

  She was back in the bathroom now. In a cubicle, her feet tucked up onto the seat. There was little time to lose. She had to get out of the facility quickly. To do this she had to get past the security with the two flash drives. It should be easy enough. It was a rare event for a strip search and that would also be governed by the presence of a female security officer. There were a few but they did not cover every shift.

  She estimated that she had no more than fifteen minutes to get away. Any longer, and she was sure that the two men would discover that the drives had been taken. With Leipzig out of the equation it wouldn’t take anyone too long to discover who else had access. And that could only lead back to her or McCray.

  She opened her leather hand bag and removed the items, placing them in her lap
. There was her purse, hairbrush an old, small can of Mace an ex-boyfriend had once given her, a very sparse cosmetics bag - the mere essentials, and likewise, an emergency feminine hygiene pocket which consisted of a couple of sanitary towels and a couple of tampons. There was also a packet of scented wet-wipes. She quickly slipped the two flash drives out of their clear plastic cases and dropped them into the bottom of the soft leather bag, then discarded the cases in the bin beside the toilet. She opened up the cosmetics bag and dropped the contents on top. To this she added the contents of the hygiene pocket, opened a sanitary towel, rolled it up and wrapped it loosely in the wrapper as if used, pulled out a scented wipe, crumpled it up and poked into the sanitary towel parcel, then placed it carefully on top of the loose contents. The can of mace slotted down the side of the contents, along with the hairbrush. She took a deep breath and opened the cubicle door.

  The exit to the facility was empty. Unusually quiet. However, that was not necessarily a good sign. Security checks become more perfunctory when crowds are thicker. And the facility had many VIP’s today so the guards should be switched on and operating on a higher than usual security condition. She walked at a quick pace, her hand bag in her right hand, the document folder squeezed under her right arm. With her left hand she cupped her stomach as she walked.

  The team of security covering the entrance and exit consisted of four men from a contracted private company called SECURE-EXCEL. Two men operated the foyer and two wearing thick military style jackets stood outside just visible through the opaque glass. They wore uniforms similar to riot police with dark navy combat trousers and calf-high boots. Heavy utility belts at the waist that housed tactical batons and handcuffs, large metal torches and holstered 9mm Berettas. The two security officers were standing by the security check desk, chatting casually yet occasionally glancing over each other’s shoulders. Like they were relaying dirty jokes and keeping a lookout not to get caught. One of the men turned towards Isobel and smiled. He wore seventies style mirrored sunglasses. His name was probably Buck or Hank.

  She rubbed her stomach gently, pushing out her posture to form a small pot. She was slim but managed a fine swollen-looking belly. She walked on to the check desk and stopped beside them.

  “Miss Bartlett.” The man with sunglasses nodded and smiled. Then held out a hand for her security pass, which he checked quickly and handed back to her. “How are you today ma’am? Leaving early for a change?” It wasn't so much as an interrogation, merely an effort at small talk. He seemed friendly and had made the effort to remember her name. She felt bad for not having bothered to learn his.

  The telephone rang at the check desk and the second security officer picked it up and listened, answering questions. The first security officer checked Isobel’s name off his log sheet. The second security officer put down the telephone and held out his hand for her bag. “Mind if I have a quick search?” he asked. “Just routine.”

  “Sure,” she replied casually. She passed the bag to him and waited. “But if you could hurry, I don’t feel so good.” She rubbed her stomach gently and grimaced. The guard unzipped the bag and held it open. “You know, time of the month. I’m really heavy and need to get to a drugstore.”

  The guard stared down at the loosely wrapped sanitary towel which unfixed had naturally started to unravel. His eyes flickered for a moment, and he suddenly lost interest in his search. Regaining a little composure he closed the bag tightly and gave it back to her. “You have a nice day, ma’am.”

  She was in her car heading north on 129. Off at the bridge, then across the Potomac to Georgetown. Past the university and north towards Westchester where she lived in a quiet suburb near Glover Park. The car was a ten-year-old BMW 3 series coupe, but it was well serviced and maintained and with a three liter six-cylinder engine it managed a good turn of speed. Not that Washington offered much in the way of fast motoring, but the traffic was light and she made good progress along the well-travelled route.

  Her mind swam with what had happened. Technically she was a fugitive. No technically about it. She was a fugitive. She had stolen classified government information and was on the run. But she had had no choice. Could she have gone to security? The hell she could have. A privately owned security company who had won the contract by being the lowest bid. The byproduct of ongoing government cutbacks. Buck or Hank, or whatever the hell his name was with the mirrored sunglasses, and his partner who had baulked at a sanitary towel wrapper. The outfit were hardly cutting edge. They would merely do what the most senior person in the place told them. And then who else was there to go to? She knew what she had heard, both in the bathroom and in McCray’s office. McCray’s set of drives had already been taken, and the only other person high enough up to go to was Agnes Dempsey who hadn’t been at her desk. Or maybe she had. Maybe they had killed her and dragged her into one of the other offices? The place had been empty throughout. She tried to concentrate on her driving, tried to concentrate on what to do next.

  Should she go to the police? And tell them what? “Hey, I work for a government research and development agency and we've just created a virus that could wipe out the entire eastern seaboard in four to five days. I think rogue CIA agents want to get the information held of drives that I stole and attempt to play god and ransom the anti-virus, which we called Aphrodite. You know, after the ancient Greek goddess of love. Hey, I think they even killed my boss and made it look like an accident.”

  She could just hear the reply. “You stole what, lady? Hey, why don't you wait there while I give your employer a call? Say, what's their name? The Pentagon you say? And let me get this straight, you stole what exactly? Aphrodite? And where was she from? From Greece, you say? Perhaps we should call the Greek embassy and get them involved…”

  There was nothing else for it. She could not attempt going to anyone inside the facility and she could not go to the police. That did not seem to leave her many options. But right there in the car she could think of at least one.

  FIVE

  Their lovemaking had been frantic. There were no strings attached to their relationship and it had been an act of mutual pleasure and convenience. Now, warm and snug in the afterglow, their legs entwined their skin still moist, she half dozed and thought of warm, snug thoughts. She could feel his heartbeat against her left breast as he rested heavily on his chest, his head turned away from her into his pillow. He slept heavily, drained. She was at that particular stage of sleep where you can design your own dreams and she was putting the scene together like a film set. There was a large bay window; beyond which, the sea tossed up white horses and the cold wind blew salt air onto the window pain. Outside was cold and severe, inside was warm and cozy and safe. There was a log fire in the corner of the room and the light outside was fading.

  The telephone woke her with a start. Beside her, her lover barely sensed the intrusion and shrugged a little, before settling back down into his pillow. She was awake now, and looking around at the stark contrast to her dreaming. The walls were whitewashed and the furniture in the bedroom was modern and featureless without either character or soul. They had been self-assembly pieces like you buy when you’re starting out or starting over. The telephone continued to ring, and was just about having an effect on the man beside her who was starting to roll over onto his back. She fumbled for the receiver, a small cordless thing that looked more like a cell phone. “Delaney here,” she said.

  “Elizabeth, is that you?”

  “Who is this?” She reached for a packet of cigarettes and a small gold lighter, fumbled a flame and blew out a thin plume of smoke from the side of her mouth. “Hey, that’s not you, is it Isobel?”

  “Yes, it is,” Isobel Bartlett paused nervously. “I haven’t spoken to you in a while. How are you?”

  “Fine.” She spoke with a cigarette from the comer of her mouth, flicked the wheel of her lighter almost continuously out of habit and exhaled the smoke from the corner of her mouth. “How are you? What’s it been, three,
four years?” She glanced down and shrugged at the man beside her who was now firmly awake and looking bored. “What can I do for you? You sound a bit upset, if you don’t mind me saying.” She didn't mean to sound so business like, it was just one of those awkward situations and her work made her cut to the chase.

  “I've got a bit of a problem ... With work.” Isobel paused. “Look, you’re still with the bureau, right?”

  “Of course,” she snapped, not meaning to. The last time they had spoken it had been because of Elizabeth’s promotion. She had become 2IC in the New Jersey counter terrorism field office. To ask if she was still with the bureau was strange. She knew something was amiss; the tone of Isobel’s voice was odd. Not sassy and confident like she always remembered her fondly as. She sat up in bed, pulled the sheets over her waist. She slapped her lover’s attentive, inquisitive hand away from her breast. “What’s wrong honey?”

  “I really need to talk to you,” she paused. “I see you're listed in Brooklyn, I called your folks for your new number. It was good to speak with your mum again, but she wouldn’t talk about your work.”

  Elizabeth felt a pang of guilt. She hadn’t forwarded the number to any of her old friends since she moved from New Jersey. Isobel had been the last of her high school friends to break contact with. Now she was running her own desk in Brooklyn there seemed to be no time for her old life. “I'm sorry Izzy, I've been real busy with work and I never went through my address book after I moved.” She took a deep drag on the cigarette and slapped her lover’s hand away again. It annoyed the hell out of her. He could hear that something was wrong, but still he tried for a handful of breast. She got out of bed and walked over to the couch. She was still naked and felt the slight chill from a draft. She felt she could talk more openly now, give her old friend some attention. “Come on girl, speak to me. What’s wrong?”