by A P Bateman
“I'm in deep trouble Liz, deep shit. I know somebody who was killed in an accident. Only, it wasn't an accident. I’ve taken something from work that I shouldn’t have, but I was only trying to save it.” There was anxiety in her voice. A feeling of helplessness. “Oh Christ, Liz. I'm in deep shit. I need to come to New York and speak to you. I don’t even know if it’s safe for me to talk on the phone.”
Delaney thought for a moment. She sounded scared, sure enough. But should she suggest that she go to the police, or even a closer office of the FBI? She sounded as if she was about to lose it emotionally. She knew that Isobel’s work was highly sensitive, in previous conversations Isobel had skipped over most of what the facility did, and as Elizabeth was with the FBI, she knew not to press her, and respected her friend’s position.
“Liz, are you still there?”
“Yeah, I'm here honey. Look don't panic. Whatever it is, we can work it out.”
“I'm coming tonight. I'm going to get a night train. I'll get a hotel someplace and call you in the morning,” she paused. “Please meet with me, I don't know who else to turn to.” The voice was near frantic, more intense with each moment that passed.
“OK, don't panic. Listen, why don’t you come stay with me?”
“No, I’d feel better in a hotel I don’t want to put you to any more trouble. Besides, I'll be getting in real late.”
“Ok, babe,” Delaney agreed amiably. “Here, let me give you the number to my cell phone. Ring it when you get in, let me know you're OK and where you’re staying.”
“Thanks.” Isobel keyed the number straight into her cell and suddenly felt a little better. At least she had a plan now. “Hey, I mean it, thank you.”
“No sweat honey,” Delaney paused to draw on her cigarette. “Hey, we’ll even have a drink and talk about old times. Take care now.” She cut the connection and turned around to look at her lover on the bed. “High school friends, what can you do? Who said there had to be a rule you stay friends with your childhood best friends forever?”
“Beats the hell out of me.” He stretched his shoulders, yawned and patted the empty space on the bed beside him. “Not too tired, if you know what I mean.”
Delaney smiled. She picked a towel off the back of the couch and wrapped it around her, covering her breasts and most of her backside. “Not now, lover.” She picked up his shirt and pants and tossed them across the bed at him. His gun, cuffs and wallet were on the bedside table. She picked them up and they followed the clothes. The .40 Sig Sauer pistol was nudging two pounds loaded and holstered. It landed in his crotch. He cupped his hands over his manhood and let out a deep breath, his body contorted and his eyes widened as he grimaced. “Now shake your ass back to your wife,” she paused, on her way to the shower. “You’re making the place look untidy.”
SIX
The fall leaves swirled and pirouetted in the wind gaining height slowly, gradually and then dropping suddenly to the wet ground, as if the wind had become bored, then changed its mind and lifted them off the ground again. An empty drinks can scraped along the ground, caught in the gutter. The wind blew it along the edge of the platform keeping it at pace with her footsteps.
She had arrived at the station a little after seven, but had not had enough time to make the seven-ten Amtrak to New York. The next was at eight and would get her into New York at eleven.
The station was emptying steadily. The commuters had long since left Washington DC, the weekend commutes started a little after lunchtime on a Friday and by seven the platform was left with the stragglers. She looked at her watch and then made her way over to a vending machine for a soda. She needed the caffeine. And the sugar. Hell, if they vended alcohol she’d have gone for a Long Island Iced Tea. With full measures.
She had arrived home at five-thirty, called Elizabeth Delaney soon after and had then packed quickly, just the essentials. She had fastened the two flash drives to her key bunch and placed the key bunch in a secure pocket in her hand bag. She had then picked up another two flash drives she kept by her own lap top, and dropped them into her handbag. One was empty and the other held photos, some music and some back up files she’d made over the years. With just this and a well-packed sports bag containing her clothes and toiletries she got on to Amtrak online and got the combined schedules for New York. She tried to think as straight as she could and kept getting a feeling of despair. Was she doing the right thing, should she not simply go to the police? Each time she thought of this, and with the minutes that passed, she kept finding reasons not to go, to simply get hold of the police and return to the bioresearch facility. But she knew what she had heard, knew what had been implied and she knew there was no other choice. She had made up her mind back in the facility. Instinct had taken over, and instinct was going to take her away from here.
She dropped two dollars into the machine and got out a can of cola and some change. She pulled the tab and drank thirstily. She willed the caffeine to take effect. It was going to be a long night and she didn't want to fall asleep on the train. She wanted her wits about her and she wanted to approach Elizabeth Delaney with a sound case. She wanted to be taken seriously and the only way to do that was to be out of the panic that she had been on the phone and delivering her story with conviction. Her friend was a professional and would be looking at every possible angle. If Delaney decided Isobel was wrong to have taken the flash drives and left DC, then she was sure her old friend would help here with some much needed damage control later. But for now, she would hold on to her convictions. She needed to sit back and go over every detail until she was fluent in time and events and could recall every word that had been said. She had bought a pen and notepad with her and as soon as she was underway she would start recording the facts.
She swilled the remainder of the cola down and looked for a trashcan. She stopped suddenly. A man at the end of the platform seemed to be watching her. He was tall and business suited and carried a brown leather briefcase, and he didn’t seem to be looking, but watching. There was a difference, like when you could feel someone's gaze undressing you. Only this man didn't seem to be looking at her in that way. There was something sinister about the way he had looked. She stopped herself suddenly. She was being ridiculous. Perhaps the guy was just eying her. She suddenly felt paranoid. She dropped the can into a nearby trashcan and strolled down the platform for about fifty yards. She turned around casually, but the man had disappeared. She relaxed a little, but still felt uneasy. His stare had been intense and if he were catching a train, then why had he left the platform?
She clutched her bag tighter in her right hand; the tight grip making her feel more secure. There was a woman on the platform now, right where the man had been. The woman glanced across and then looked back at her timetable. She seemed uninterested in everything around her.
Isobel studied the woman. She was in her thirties. Fit, or at least slim. She presumed both. Her hair was scraped back in a ponytail and she wore little or no makeup. After closer inspection the woman looked plain and unattractive.
She stopped watching and felt foolish and paranoid. There was nothing to suggest she was in immediate danger, and the man had proved to be a false alarm. She looked around for a seat, dropped the bags on the ground beside her and sat down. She reached into her small shoulder bag and took out her cellphone. She kept a large selection of music on it perhaps some of her favorite tunes would calm her nerves a little.
After another ten minutes the music had done its trick and Isobel was a little less tense when the huge silver Amtrak crept into the station, its heavy steel wheels squealing on the iron track as the brakes bought the leviathan to a gradual halt. There were about twenty people on the platform now and the majority seemed in a hurry, picking up their luggage and advancing towards the edge of the platform before the train had come to a halt. There was a guard on the platform. He stood in the center of a thick yellow line and blew a whistle and motioned people away when anyone got too close.
; A girl in her late twenties rushed across the platform, holding the hand of a young man, almost pulling him along. She was pretty and fresh-faced, wore little make-up and wore her long, dark hair in a ponytail. She was dressed casually in fitted jeans, delicate leather ankle boots and a short black leather jacket. The man was more street, and wore baggy jeans with a lot of underwear on show and a tattered skate shirt. His hair was spiked, his lip was pierced and his forearms were almost completely tattooed. They stopped at the yellow line and embraced frantically, lips locked in a searching kiss. It was a platform good-bye. Rushed I Love Yous and hurried assurances to call later. There were tears in the girl’s eyes. The young man seemed indifferent.
The train drew to a halt and the automatic doors parted. Nobody disembarked. Isobel looked up and saw the man in the suit again. He was only interested in getting on the empty train and finding a good seat for the duration of the journey. He launched himself forwards and disappeared for a few moments and then she saw him through the glass, backlit from the carriage lights. He had settled into a seat and was reading a newspaper that had been left behind. The woman she had caught watching her was nowhere to be seen.
Isobel found a backwards facing seat and dropped the two bags on the seat beside her. The carriage was all but empty, save for an old couple who were shedding layers of clothing and folding them into neat bundles. They carried a lot of luggage and had opted for a seat near the luggage rack beside the carriage door. It was also near the lavatory, which seemed mandatory for old folk on long journeys.
She craned her neck to look further down the aisle and caught sight of the plain looking woman who had been watching her on the platform. She was slouched back in a seat, her eyes scanning the pages of a magazine. Isobel tried to see what she was reading, but couldn't make out the title. She settled back in her seat and put the earphones of her cellphone back into place. The pretty girl was kneeling on a nearby seat, her hands touching the pane of the window, tracing the shape of her partner’s hand through the glass. She was mouthing something to him, and he was calling something silently back above the train’s engine as it increased in revs. Isobel had said rushed good-byes and she had had known what it was to leave a loved one alone on the platform or watch them drive away from her college dormitory. She turned away, feeling as if she were intruding on the couple’s moment of intimacy.
She felt a little easier now, more at ease than she had been for many hours. The drives were safe, and her friend was expecting her in the city tonight. She may not have a job after today, but at this moment she at least had piece of mind that she had made the right decision.
SEVEN
He stepped out of the shower and toweled himself down vigorously. He caught sight of his profile in the mirror. His jaw was square and jutted. Some would say it made him look arrogant. He didn’t think so. There was a thin scar running down most of his left cheek. It showed more when he was tanned and showed little with a days’ stubble. He was dry and dumped the towel in the laundry basket, walked out of the bathroom and into the bedroom.
The mirrored wardrobe caught his reflection. He was toned and muscular. He stood six foot four and weighed two hundred and fifty pounds. He could have been an NFL linebacker. There were more scars on his body. A long thin line on his right side just below his ribcage. He took comfort knowing that the man who gave him the scar died that same night. There was a cluster of shiny dimples to the left of his navel. These were bullet groupings from an FBI special agent. It had been good marksmanship, but not as good as his own. He had only needed the one shot as he had lain on the ground bleeding. He looked at the bullet scars daily and they acted as a constant reminder not to get sloppy. Not to be overconfident. His shirt was white, well starched and crisp. His suit was immaculate and free from creases. He dressed quickly and put on a pair of clean, black leather shoes. They were polished to a shine. His wallet was on the dresser and thick with high denomination bills. He checked it quickly and slipped it into his back pocket. He picked up a compact pistol. It was a Glock model 19. The weapon was light due to its polymer construction. He checked the magazine then inserted it into the butt of the pistol and racked the slide chambering the first 9mm round. They were Black Talon dumdum rounds that would mushroom and then fragment upon impact creating a devastating injury. He tucked the weapon into the discreet soft leather belt holster behind his right hip. Next to the holster was a thin black canvas sheath, from which protruded the thin steel handle of a flat throwing knife. He slipped his suit jacket over his shoulders and checked himself in the mirror, before walking purposefully to the door.
Outside the house, the street was quiet. There were rows of trees down each side of the road and they were fast losing their leaves. Fall had come quickly this year. The wet leaves swirled gently in the wind, glistening in the orange glow of the streetlamps.
He unlocked the car with the remote. It was a new Mercedes E63. He opened the trunk and dropped a small leather travel bag inside. Next to the travel bag was a carpeted panel difficult to notice in the dull light of the streetlamps. He lifted the panel to reveal a purpose-built rack, fixed tightly so it would not move. The Colt M4 assault rifle that nestled in the rack differed from other M16 variants. It was a completely custom-built special. The carry handle and open sight furniture had been removed and fitted with a Leopold 5.7 x 70 low-light sniper scope. A suppressor had been fitted to the muzzle to be used with subsonic ammunition making it virtually silent to anybody standing a hundred feet away. The trigger had been lightened as had the cocking lever and the ejection port opened up. Instead of standard thirty round magazines he used sixty round double stacked box magazines. They were filled with match grade Swedish soft-nosed hunting .223 ammunition, precision made and more powerful than standard military 5.56mm. Every fifth bullet was a phosphorus tracer round for marking the target. Next to the compact rifle was a Remington pump-action .12 gauge shotgun. The barrel had been shortened to just twenty inches, and the stock cut down just a little to make the weapon less cumbersome to wield, without drastically affecting performance. The last of the weapons was an old but restored Ingram .45 caliber machine pistol with a retractable shoulder stock. The weapon was capable of spitting out thirteen .45 bullets every second and accurate up to two hundred feet. It was a spray gun for keeping people’s heads down. Or knocking down walls.
He replaced the carpeted panel and slammed the lid down. The weapons never really impressed him. He had picked as a good a selection as he thought possible and felt he had about every situation covered up to about five hundred yards. He didn’t really feel anything for them like a civilian hobby shooter would. He looked after them well because it was essential for reliability and accuracy. They were merely the tools of his trade. And he was about to go to work.
EIGHT
The train was fast and smooth. The seats were comfortable and thick on fabric. She hadn’t realized it at first, but she was seated in business class. The train was quiet, nobody seemed to mind. The old couple were still fussing with their clothing arrangements; they appeared to have entirely too many coats. The old man was finally seated, but his companion now found that she needed something in one of their many bags and was making a big effort to coax him to go and get it. He was reluctant and looked displeased. Grudgingly, he got up from his seat and walked unsteadily with the sway of the carriage.
Isobel had watched them for some while and didn’t know what was worse the fact that she had no partner and could not visualize herself with someone else at that age, or the fact that the two old souls were still together after god only knew how many years and seemed to be making each other’s life a misery. She watched as the old man shuffled back to his seat and passed his wife her book. She took it without a word, and then rested her head lovingly on the man's shoulder. He wrapped an arm around her and looked to settle down to sleep. They now looked contented and happy, far removed from the harassed couple who had entered the carriage and fussed and griped for the first fifty miles of their jou
rney. First appearances could be deceptive. She supposed it was a familiarity which grew through both age and time spent together. She guessed she would have to first get past four dates to even think about that.
The train had swept through New Carrollton and BWI, stopping for only a matter of minutes and was rocketing towards the city of Baltimore. There were a few more passengers after the initial few stops, but she didn't expect any heavy boarding until Baltimore. Although there were fifteen stops between DC and the New York, she did not suspect the train to fill considerably other than in Baltimore and Philadelphia and she imagined being able to keep her luggage on the seat beside her and remain relatively un-cramped all the way.
Baltimore came and went, and the train was still less than a quarter full. They stopped for approximately ten minutes in Wilmington, probably allowing space to free up on the track ahead. The plain-looking woman that she had noticed earlier got off the train, her cell phone against her ear. Isobel noticed that there was a quiet understated beauty behind her initial judgment of plainness. The woman strode along the platform towards the front of the train and out of sight.
Isobel felt foolish. She was being paranoid. She knew what she had heard and she knew that Dr. McCray’s files were out of the facility. But did they know that she had taken Professor Leipzig’s drives? Would they know that she knew about them, and knew about their plans?
By now, yes. She was sure of it. But how should she separate paranoia with fact? She was sure that they would have her marked and she was sure that they would do everything within their power to get the information about ARES and APHRODITE back. But how quickly could they move, and what was more, who in Hell’s name were they? Paranoia had taken her over earlier, and paranoia could force her into making a mistake. She needed rational thought and sound convictions if she were to make it.