The Ares Virus

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The Ares Virus Page 7

by A P Bateman


  “Why didn't you answer me when I asked if the FBI will get involved?” She stared at her and held her gaze. “I need your help Liz, I'm scared for my life.”

  “Hey kid, I didn't say they wouldn't get involved. I'm already involved.”

  “What then?”

  “It's just all this talk of military intelligence, the CIA. NSA for Christ's sake! The fucking National Security Agency are heavy shit. They are almost unaccountable. Forget what you hear about the CIA. NSA is where it’s at. Nobody really knows what they do, they don't even ask. The FBI will get involved, but it will need a hell of a lot more intelligence to lock horns with this lot. Some will think you are mistaken, others will think you are just some stupid bitch who got paranoid. Some will think you should have gone to your own security, and others will suspect you as the traitor. They will open up, and thoroughly explore every possible avenue before they take you seriously. Then, and only then, will they listen to what you have to say.” She looked at her friend, who suddenly looked destroyed, her hopes sunken. “But I'm here honey, and I'm not going anywhere.”

  Isobel smiled at Delaney.It was a great relief to have her friend take her seriously. “What do we do then?”

  Delaney took a mouthful of food and chewed thoughtfully. “Where are the flash drives at?”

  “Hidden. In my hotel room.”

  “Where?”

  Isobel hesitated. She couldn't explain why she had lied to her friend. “Under an edge of carpet, under the dresser.”

  She trusted Elizabeth Delaney, but she had suddenly felt the realization of what holding the information on the drives meant. Being in possession of them made them as much her lifeline as her death warrant. No harm could come to her for as long as she held them and as long as she kept others from knowing where they really were.

  “That's good thinking.” Delaney pushed away her empty plate and took a sip of coffee. “Keep them there for the moment. I'm going to get some advice on this and get back to you. I can reach you on the number you called me from last night, right?”

  “Sure.”

  “OK. What I'm going to do is this - I'm going to talk to a bureau friend of mine, a man named David Stein. He has a lot of experience in witness protection and worked in anti-terrorism for a long time.”

  “What does he do now?”

  “Field agent, just like me. I dropped a paygrade recently to join a division with better prospects. Our division investigates any crime covering more than one state, serial offenders or anything remotely politically sensitive,” she paused. “He'll help us get on the right track and together we can find the right approach to make. If we bring you in now, we could end up in a world of red tape and bureaucracy. If the information on those drives gets out of our hands and into the system...”

  “You're not filling me with confidence, Liz.”

  “Hey kid, trust me. I know how it works. We need to be so righteous, so goddamn full of ourselves and clear on the facts that we walk on in and bowl the whole establishment over. If these drives are paired with the other set, and if ARES is as lethal as you say, then we're all in deep shit. Why in God's name would anybody come up with such evil crap?” She looked at Isobel, and then sensed she had said too much.

  “It doesn't always start out that way. Government-funded research facilities come up with the cures or breakthroughs for illnesses all the time. However, you find yourself going for promotion, or being transferred or sidelined to other facilities. Pretty soon you're a world away from what you trained so hard for and what you spent your whole life wanting to achieve.”

  “I'm sorry.”

  Isobel shrugged like it hadn't mattered and took a sip of coffee. “Do you trust him? This Stein guy.”

  “Absolutely.”

  “But I need to know, can I trust him?” She stared into her friend's eyes, her look intense. “I need to trust this man with my life. He may well talk, he may well hand the whole thing over to the FBI, officially. The drives may walk. Somebody may simply walk on in and kill me. These are government agents of some kind and they may well be able to grease the wheels of the FBI, for all I know.”

  Delaney shook her head. “Not a chance.”

  “You'd be so sure with your own life, would you?”

  Delaney smiled. “I know you're out on a limb here, but trust me. Trust me with your life and you'll be OK. We'll get through it together. The FBI will be involved in all its force, but we just have to think our approach through and get it right. Afterwards, we'll have all the support we need.”

  Isobel nodded. “So tell me about Stein. He's a good lay, right?”

  “How did you guess?” She beamed a devilish grin. “And yes, you'd better believe it.”

  “Elizabeth Delaney ...” She scorned her mockingly. “You never change!”

  It lightened the mood and they talked for a while about their own lives and how they had differed to what they had imagined in high school and college. They drank more coffee and this time the waitress felt less intimidated when she came around to pour. She asked them if they had enjoyed their breakfasts, and they both agreed they were excellent, even if Isobel's was hardly touched. The waitress looked at the untouched plate and seemed unsure whether to clear, so left them to go and tend another table.

  After half an hour of talking Delaney had stood up and unhooked her shoulder bag from the back of the chair. “I'll get this,” she said looking at the remnants of service on the table.

  Isobel shook her head. “Not a chance. It's already on my room bill, I arranged it earlier.” She stood up and picked up the small rucksack. The disks were stored inside a small internal pocket. She would have to find another place to store them. She still felt guilt at deceiving her friend, but could still not explain why she had. “What happens now?”

  “I'll go and speak to David. You sit tight and wait for me to call.”

  “I feel like a prisoner.”

  “Come on, it's a nice hotel, there must be plenty to do.” She was completely serious, but it sounded condescending nonetheless. “Try and get some sleep or relax and read a book in the bar. There’s a sign for a spa at reception. Get a treatment.”

  “Great,” she said flatly. “Can't I just come with you?”

  “Better not, not just yet at least.” She put a hand on her shoulder and squeezed tightly, reassuringly. “Don't worry. You're safe here. But I wouldn't go and see the sights just yet.”

  TWELVE

  All contact was made through multimedia. There were five e-mail accounts and text messaging on one of three cell phones he used under different network providers. This also enabled him to have near complete coverage across the country. He also managed a Facebook page complete with over four hundred friends whom he had never met. He had cultivated the legend of a divorced thirty year old mother of two. Guys liked to friend single moms. Especially married guys. However, the more friends he had, the more communication traffic went through and the more it appeared unnoticed. Like hiding a needle in a box of needles. He could also use the personal messaging for coded messages. More discreet postings could be shared on particular timelines with the privacy settings keeping it from view to all but certain people. It was simply another medium through which clients could communicate. The more methods there were, the less chance there was of something becoming flagged.

  All payments were made through offshore accounts. He was as faceless as his employers.It was the only way. There was an element of mutual trust. There had to be. Half the payment had been made. It was a deposit. Once the assignment had been completed, the remainder of the funds would be processed. There was always the nagging doubt that they would not pay, but likewise, there was always the nagging doubt at the client's end that if they backed out of the deal, they would be next on his list. It seemed to work. Nobody had previously been disappointed with his work, and nobody had ever avoided the second payment.

  He paced slowly around the room as he waited for the reply. It would take time, but all his e-mail
and Facebook notifications would sound on one of the three cellphones. Once he had this, he would know where to log in to.

  He was naked. His toned body glistened with sweat from his workout and he liked to cool off in the cold air before taking an icy shower. His workout was a twice daily routine. He had reached the rank of black belt in a style of traditional karate made up from Wado Ryu and Gojo Ryu. He had touched on karate and judo whilst serving in the Airborne Rangers. Later, as a civilian, he had trained for three years in a Dojo in California. Later, he was told this was an incredibly short time to reach black belt. But he was a perfectionist in everything he did. And an obsessive. He would start with Taikyoku and then the five Pinan katas. Each would take between forty five seconds and a minute. Each would work every part of his body. Then the Seinshin kata. A powerful display with deep breathing techniques, followed by Saipai – a fast, fluid form that no matter how fit he was always left him breathless. Lastly he would perform full speed techniques for three whole minutes. It was an easily managed work out that he could perform anywhere that worked all of his muscles and kept muscle memory for unarmed combat. In addition to this twice a week he would swim a mile in the pool and three times a week he would run between three and five miles. He also lifted weights every other day.

  The house was a Georgian style terraced town house and situated in a desirable part of town. His neighbors were doctors, IT consultants, lawyers and accountants. The entire street was made up of working professionals. He saw himself as the same. He certainly approached his work with the same degree of professionalism, probably more so. His work was important to him; it was his life. He put a great deal of time and effort into his preparation. There was the physical fitness, of which he performed dutifully regardless of his workload or location. His marksmanship skills were important and he was a member of several exclusive shooting clubs, just to keep his eye in twice a week using either legally held weapons for practice or the vast array of club-owned guns. For his more specialist training he would take off to the Appalachians or Vermont and test himself in the forest and mountains. He would hunt deer, elk, bear or boar and he would test his various types of ammunition from different distances. This gave him the opportunity to test his home loads. Different configurations of bullet weight and shape or grains of powder. Hollow tipped bullets with mercury or magnesium sealed with plastic or wax. Or carefully notched soft lead bullets that mushroomed upon impact. Powdered glass poured into a hollow point cavity then topped with melted wax was his newest invention. It was a fire and forget delivery method. Even fired into an elk’s leg brought on a cardiac arrest within minutes as the glass violated the bloodstream. It was this sort of testing he enjoyed most. Occasionally he would wound the animal purposely, and then hone his skills with a blade. Knives were important tools in his line of work and often overlooked in favor of firearms by other so-called professionals. Anatomically, the large animals were different from humans, but arteries and internal organs still cut the same. Still bled the same. The animals still struggled the same as humans as they died, and had the same look of fear in their eyes. They were more dangerous too.

  His anger was starting to get the better of him lately, and it troubled him deeply. He saw it as a weakness and he despised weakness in every way. He attended anger management classes from time to time and even integrated himself into the support network. Occasionally he would see the irony of city executives calling an accomplished and working assassin for anger management counselling from a contemporary when they felt stressed-out. However, he saw his work as a viable and highly skillful profession and did not look upon it any other way. Granted, for security and operational reasons, he never told a living soul what he did, but he felt no shame and he felt no regret. He loved his work.

  A black iPhone chimed indicating an incoming message. He thumbed the screen, then put the phone down and scrolled a silver Sony laptop to the email home page. It was easier to look at the message on a larger screen. He read the short, concise e-mail and smiled. He had been thanked and congratulated upon his professionalism. His offer of returning the deposit and completing the assignment free of charge was denied. He would be awarded a substantial bonus upon completion. New intelligence would soon be on forwarded to him. He was to standby and await further instructions.

  THIRTEEN

  There was more to procuring a safety deposit box than Isobel Bartlett had previously realized. There had been her proof of address, two forms of identification, a contact or next of kin and a thick pile of papers to check through and sign. It didn't sound much in this world of ever increasing bureaucracy, but it was enough for her in her fragile state of mind and her patience had long since started to ebb. She was glad when it was done.

  She had been escorted to the safety deposit vault of the bank and given instructions on how the double key lock worked, how the inner drawer was removed, and that she should deposit and retrieve items in the privacy of the booths at the far end of the vault which were secreted by thick red velvet curtains. At the end of the talk the teller had reminded her that security cameras operated throughout. It had seemed like a guarded warning at the time and she wondered how many illicit items were held within the bank's walls. It seemed like a no man's land, a DMZ between the establishment and the last bastion of a willful nation. A place where drug lords could deposit ill-gotten gains alongside wealthy dowagers, putting diamond encrusted necklaces to rest until the next ball or society banquette. A place where the two ends of culture and society place their faith in one resource. The bank stood alone. It seemed to say - place your faith in us, you are all equal in our eyes.

  The booths were approximately the same size as your average department store changing room, but fitted with a table on which was placed a selection of stationary and a pen held on a thin gold-colored chain. Next to the table was a wastebasket with a mailbox style slot. Once something was discarded into the basket, only bank staff could retrieve it. Beside this was a paper shredder. Across the entrance to the booth the dark red, velvet curtain blocked off the vault room and allowed the client all the privacy they could possibly need. She placed the two flash drives in the inner tray. She could not believe it had come to this. She looked at them and thought about the project. There had been so much work, so much time money and effort spent on creating a destructive killer. But from this had come APHRODITE. That was why she was here in New York and that was why she was in the booth locking away the two flash drives. ARES needed to be kept from misuse, but APHRODITE needed to be kept safe to use for all mankind.

  FOURTEEN

  The town of Deal had very little going for it. Or quite a lot. It kind of depended on your point of view. If one horse towns tucked away in the hills, with two bars, a diner, an old fashioned boarding house, a general store and deli, a small pharmacy and an even smaller sheriff's department were your thing, then the town of Deal would be your home from home.

  To most, Deal was neither here nor there.It was too low in the hills to be a ski resort and was not on the route to any of the ski resorts further north.It wasn't on any major roads or routes and wasn't even geared up for summer tourism.It offered the locals a rural, unsophisticated way of life, and that was exactly what they wanted. The spring, summer and early fall offered good trout fishing in the many tributaries which flowed through to Burlington, or down to New Hampshire, but Deal missed out on the vast river flows which offered so much to the extreme sports and thrill seekers who frequented other areas in the vicinity. In fact, if you could come up with something other than hunting and trout fishing, it would be pretty good odds that the town of Deal missed out completely.

  Rob Stone liked the town of Deal a lot. He liked the quiet, unhurried and uncomplicated aura that the town gave off.It was almost a reversed snobbery. A boast that only the free spirited could understand. He didn't mind that Sally's Diner didn't offer eggs benedict or cream cheese and lox bagels at breakfast. He didn't mind that his eggs were a little too over easy and he liked the fact that mos
t people ordered the porterhouse steak for breakfast, himself included. Men sat at the counter and ate their fill, whilst talking about local issues and the people they knew mutually. Their pickups were parked outside with no risk of being towed, and the keys were most probably still in the ignition without the risk of being stolen.

  He drank down the remnants of coffee and pushed his empty plate away, giving himself enough room to look at the folder in front of him. He opened it and started to shuffle through the mounting material. He had been investigating for a little over four months with little to go on. He likened any investigation to a magic eye picture, those annoying patterns of squiggles and colors, which suddenly leapt out at you to reveal stampeding horses or cascading waterfalls, just when you least expected it, or had almost given up completely. An investigation needed to be looked at in various ways, with an open mind.It was suddenly starting to open up, but there was still little he could see. All he knew that when a guy named Leipzig went over a ravine in his truck there was a glimmer of light in the darkness.

  He glanced up and watched the cruiser as it pulled alongside the sheriff department building. A large man in his late forties got out and walked into the front entrance. Stone new him to be Sheriff Harper. He had acquired a short, concise file on him as well. He knew that the man had been the Sheriff for eight years, and had served for twelve years as an officer on the NYPD. Retiring early at the rank of sergeant. He knew the man had been the epitome of a professional police officer, but had moved suddenly with his wife after their eight-year old son had died tragically in a school bus accident.

  Stone gathered up the papers and placed them back in the file. He could understand why a man like Harper had moved to a place like Deal.It was unpretentious and not judgmental in any way.It was the perfect place for people with a lot of baggage to start over again. He dropped a twenty and a ten on the table and walked out of the door. He checked the traffic, but there was none and walked across the road and into the Sheriff's department.

 

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