by A P Bateman
Stone drove through the entrance and over the succession of speed humps and parked outside a set of smoked glass doors. A security guard appeared on cue and stood to the side of the doors. The thumb of his left hand was looped through his utility belt. The right hand was resting on the butt of a 9mm Berretta. He was chewing gum and wore mirrored sunglasses.
“Good afternoon, Sir. I'm here to take you up to Doctor McCray's office.”
Stone nodded curtly. “Thanks, lead on.”
The floor was hard and loud under foot. It was a heavily glazed marble and the sound of the two of them walking the corridor echoed around the plain whitewashed walls. Above them row upon row of florescent tubes flickered and gave off a bright, clinically unnatural illumination. The walls were plain, but for the occasional copy of an architectural pencil drawing of the facility and monochrome photographs of the entire complex at varying stages of construction. These were housed inside highly polished chromium frames and were at least four feet square in size.
A short ride in the lift to the fifth floor and another walk the length of an identical corridor and the two men stood outside a smoked glass office door. The guard opened the door and allowed Stone to enter first.
A plump and severe looking woman of what Stone would have called indeterminable age stood up from behind her desk and smiled. The smile was thin and somewhat cruel and did not fit the voice which was warm and full of charm. “Hello, you must be Agent Stone.” She beamed at him, her eyes brighter than the look given by her thin lips. “I'm Agnes Dempsey, Doctor McCray's personal assistant.”
Stone nodded, turned to thank the guard, but the man had already left and they could both hear the footsteps getting lighter as he neared the lift. He looked back at the woman and extended his right hand. He already knew who she was of course, from his research. “Pleased to meet you. Please, call me Rob.” He shook hands with her and was surprised by the firmness of her grip. “Doctor McCray is expecting me?”
“He is now,” she paused, making sure she smiled. It countered her sardonic tone almost perfectly. “You were lucky to catch him, he wasn't due in the office at all today.”
Stone smiled. “Somehow I knew he'd be in. Put it down to a lucky guess.”
The door to the inner office suddenly opened and a smartly dressed man in his mid to late forties stepped in. Stone knew he was forty-six, knew his birth date and knew how many siblings he had. Stone knew more about Dr. McCray than the man's mother did or ever would.
“Agent Robert Stone.” He held out his hand and shook McCray's hand firmly. The doctor's palm was warm and clammy. “So glad you could see me at such short notice.”
“I'm sure,” McCray paused. “Do you mind if I ask to see this letter I've heard about?” He held his hand out expectantly.
“Certainly not.” Stone took out the letter and dropped it into McCray's outstretched hand. He then brushed past, moving the man an inch or two and walked into his office. “Let's get underway, I don't have much time.”
McCray looked stunned, took his eyes off the letter and followed, glancing backwards towards his PA. “Err, coffee please Agnes, for two.” He was visibly shaken at the Secret Service agent’s actions. He stepped into his office and stared at Stone, who was sitting in his chair.
The chair was a reclining leather swivel design, and Stone was easing it gently from left to right. It was a subtle motion, but McCray couldn't take his eyes off the movement. Stone beckoned him in with his hand and pointed to the straight-legged chair intended for subordinates.
“Please Doctor McCray, do take a seat.”
The man was stunned. He ran a hand through his thick greying hair and sat down somewhat hesitantly.
“I trust the letter was in order?” He held his hand out across the desk and smiled a thank you as the doctor placed it obediently in his hand. “Now, let me think ... Where do we start? Ah, yes... ARES.”
McCray looked blankly at him. “I'm not sure that's the business of the Secret Service. Aren't you supposed to guard the president?”
Stone looked at him coldly. “What makes you think I'm not guarding him right now?”
“I don’t understand.”
“Of course you don't.” Stone kept up the stare. “You've read the letter, you know how far my authority extends.” He leant back in McCray's expensive leather chair and stared up at the ceiling. He placed his feet on the comer of the desk, crossing his ankles, then rubbed his chin thoughtfully and looked back at McCray. His stare was not as cold this time, but his eyes were serious and didn't seem to invite questions. “ARES was developed under the late Professor Leipzig as a concept weapon to be used as the first line of attack, solely as a covert 'softener'. Release it and tens, no hundreds of thousands of troops and civilians are killed or rendered incapacitated. The country in question begs for surrender and they beg for the antidote. Correct?”
McCray nodded awkwardly.
“How do you sleep at night? No, don't answer that, it's just a rhetorical question.” He smiled briefly, and then looked stern and cold once more. “So you develop APHRODITE as the counter to the evil of ARES. Now this is something worth developing because it has other attributes, other significant uses. Strains of APHRODITE have had a dramatic effect on flu and the common cold. Other strains are looking good as regards to HIV and AIDS. Maybe even cancer. This is what the late Professor Leipzig was to announce at the combined military and intelligence conference. He was going to announce the wonders of APHRODITE and he was going to suggest major funding and development programs towards worthwhile research. Only, the professor takes a wrong turn on a Vermont mountain road and his subordinate, Isobel Bartlett takes the helm and doesn't manage to plead such a sound and convincing case,” he smiled. “Thought it lacked passion, myself. Maybe we should put it down to nerves and grief. Maybe she doesn’t do much public speaking.”
“You were there?”
“Of course.”
“I don't recognize your name from the manifest.”
“You wouldn't.”
“Who the hell are you?”
“Agent Robert Stone of the United States Secret Service. Just like the letter suggests, and just like the President's signature validates.” He kept his feet on the desk and smiled at Agnes Dempsey, who had just entered carrying a tray of cups and jugs of cream and sugar. She looked horrified at seeing the secret service agent in McCray’s chair, but quickly regained her composure as she placed the tray carefully down on the desk. McCray thanked her and she looked at him with concern then turned and walked back out of the office.
Stone took his feet off the desk, sat forward and reached over tipping a little cream and sugar into one of the cups of coffee, he stirred quickly with the spoon, then took the cup and drank an inch off the top. He made no effort to help McCray, who had to reach almost twice as far to pick up the remaining cup. Stone leant back in the man's chair and pondered for a moment.
“Got to be straight with you. I 'm not liking Leipzig's death. Not buying it as an accident.”
“The coroner seemed to be happy with the verdict,” McCray paused. “What does the coroner say on the matter?”
Stone watched him carefully. He held the man's eyes, and then smiled as McCray looked away awkwardly. “You know, that's the strangest thing, I can't get hold of the coroner because he seems to have simply disappeared.” He watched McCray for a long moment, maybe even a whole minute, as the man remained silent and sipped from his cup of coffee. Stone took another mouthful of coffee and placed the cup down on the leather-topped desk. Drips of coffee ran down the side of the cup and pooled at the bottom. It would leave a ring. Stone didn't take any notice, but McCray's eyes stayed on the spilt coffee. “What do you think to that?”
“I'm sorry, are you accusing me of something?'” McCray feigned indignation.
“Why would I do that?” Stone asked.
“You just seem to be insinuating, that's all.”
Stone shrugged. “Hell, after what I've just said, a
ll I could have insinuated was your involvement in the murder of Professor Leipzig and the disappearance of the Montpelier coroner.” He chuckled light-heartedly, and then looked coldly at him. “Now that wouldn't be the case, would it?”
“Of course not!”
Stone didn't comment. He studied an apparent spot on his fingernail, then looked back at the doctor. “How safe is ARES?”
“What do you mean?”
“I mean, could someone simply pick it up and walk out the door?”
“Of course not.”
“Why?”
McCray sighed. “Because it doesn't even exist anymore. We destroyed it, or Leipzig destroyed it just before he died. He split the genetic and technical information over two high-yield computer flash drives. The same for APHRODITE. Then two drives were stored in his own safe cabinet, one for half of ARES and one for half of APHRODITE, and two drives were stored in my own personal safe.”
Stone looked thoughtful for a moment then smiled. “Take me to Leipzig's safe, and bring whatever you need to let me in.”
The walk down to the technical support area was much the same as the walk up to McCray's offices within the administration department, except that these offices were smaller and had plain old chipboard table tops as opposed to leather-clad mahogany. Stone guessed the budget got smaller the further down you went. All money here was spent on production and not on fancy offices for executives. They entered Leipzig's office and McCray went over to the cabinet and opened a series of locks with a set of master keys. Stone looked around the office, trying to get a feel for the dead professor. He felt nothing. There was nothing human about the office, nothing by which he could judge the man or understand him. There were no family photographs - Stone knew that the professor had no wife or children, but it was unusual for the man's office to be bereft of any memorabilia or photographs of any kind. Stone assumed the man lived for science and that nothing else mattered.
McCray turned around. He looked crestfallen. “They're ... they're gone.”
“Who else has access? Apart from yourself and the late Professor Leipzig?”
“Isobel Bartlett.”
“The woman who gave the speech?” Stone was already making his way out of the door. “Where is she?”
McCray didn't have time to relock the cabinet and fussed with the keys as he caught up with Stone. “She's off for the weekend, back in on Monday morning.”
Stone led the pace. It was fast and purposeful. McCray was trotting alongside to keep up. They were back at the lift. Stone pressed the button for the eighth floor and stood back as the doors closed.
“I want all the CCTV footage from her last shift and I want the log for the entrance and exit of all personnel. And I want to know who saw her last and when. Get them to work backwards from end of her shift. Exclude the time she was making her speech, for now. It will give us a narrower window to look through first.”
They exited the lift and walked back down the corridor towards McCray's office. The echo from their footsteps was loud and obtrusive. Stone had to raise his voice over it to be heard.
“I want the footage within five minutes,” he paused. “But first, I want to take a look in your safe.”
“My safe?”
“Sure, got a problem with that?”
McCray looked ashen. “No… I …”
“Good.” Stone breezed past McCray's PA, took off his jacket and dropped it on McCray's desk. It covered some paperwork and knocked a pen out of its holder. Stone didn't put it back. “Your safe. Now. You OK? You don't look so good.”
“I'm fine.”
“Really? I wouldn't be feeling fine if I'd just lost the newest, most deadly super virus made in a long while.”
'”No, I mean I'm fine with you looking in my safe.”
“Of course. Why wouldn't you be?”
McCray didn't answer. Instead, he stepped behind his desk and opened a wall cupboard. Inside the space was a false panel. He slid it across to reveal an iron door with a combination dial. Stone looked at it and shook his head. He could have had it open inside five minutes. McCray turned the dial to co-ordinate the four-figure combination and stood back as he opened the door.
“They're gone!” He looked back at Stone with a look of disbelief. “Someone's taken them...”
Stone nodded expectantly, then looked around the office and turned back to McCray. “You got CCTV in here?”
“No.”
Stone looked at him coldly, the glimmer of a grin starting to set on the comers of his mouth. “Now there's a surprise.”
TWENTY ONE
Stone blipped the throttle between the gear change and the highly tuned V8 roared loudly as the car surged forwards. He was heading for Isobel Bartlett's home in Westchester, but he already knew what he would find.
The CCTV footage showed her going into Professor Leipzig's office at fourten, leaving five minutes later. The camera showed her slipping a shiny object into her bag which further forensic analysis would no doubt show to be the drives. She then made her way towards Dr. McCray's office without hesitation. It showed her walking down the passageway to McCray's door, then exiting soon after. McCray’s office had no CCTV, nor did Agnes Dempsey’s reception. No other persons appeared on the footage. A court prosecution would announce an open and shut case. He had with him a copy of the surveillance on DVD. What he wanted to do as soon as he got the opportunity was have the DVD footage analyzed by the Secret Service computer fraud division. He had a suspicion the experts would show it had been edited.
Stone had spent the past few months looking for anomalies. That was the basis of this investigation. After a while there were patterns and from patterns came the overall design. He recognized an anomaly when he saw one. It was slight and it would have remained undetected by most, but he recognized it and if his intuition was correct it would become another piece of the jigsaw.
He knew Isobel Bartlett's apartment would be empty and he knew she would have taken off soon after arriving home yesterday evening. Call it a hunch, or just plain common sense, but you don't steal highly sensitive government property and hang around the house at the weekend. There had been a look of sheer intensity on the young woman's face, and Stone knew what the face of fear and duress looked like. It had been there, as clear as crystal on the face of Isobel Bartlett.
He found a place to park outside the apartment building and brought the Mustang to a halt inside a wide parking bay. He got out and locked the door with the key. He took in his surroundings as he walked. It was in his instinct now, honed through years of training and operating in close protection. He took in the people in the street, the parked cars and entrances to the nearby buildings. If it moved, he saw it and if it didn't move he'd be ready if it did. Every part of his route, wherever he was, was mapped out in his head as he went. He would see exits, cover from attack, possible ambush sites. There would be points at which retreat was further than advance and vice versa and thus creating another reaction to a scenario, his years in the Secret Service, protecting the most powerful man in the world had drilled these skills into him. As a consequence, he never switched off. As an advantage, he was rarely ever caught out.
Isobel Bartlett's apartment was 4a. He pressed the buzzer and waited, but he already knew there would be no reply. He looked at the name above. Mrs. Coleridge. He pressed the button and waited.
“Hello?” The voice was old and frail.
“Hello, UPS. Need to get a package to 4a. Can you let me in to deliver? The items are perishable, some kind of organic farm market box. I need to get a signature from someone.”
There was a click and the lock opened. He stepped on in and climbed the stairs to apartment 4a. The stairwell was clean and the doors to the apartments were painted in various colors, all recently and in a high gloss finish. He stopped outside the door to Isobel Bartlett's apartment and glanced around. He looked back at the door and shrugged to himself.
The door splintered open on his first kick, swung inwards
quickly, and then rebounded back. He nudged the door open and stepped inside. The Sig Sauer P229 was already in his hand and he guided the .357 pistol around the room, looking only through the sights. The weapon and his arm were an extension to his eyes and nothing passed him by without first crossing the path of the short, stubby barrel. He went from room to room, then satisfied it was clear, he hitched up the tail of his jacket and slipped the heavy pistol back into the soft hide holster.
He looked at the entire apartment with a different set of eyes. He had searched out any potential threat with his combat eyes, now it was the eyes of the investigator that went to work.
She had packed quickly, that much was obvious. Although he had no idea of how much she had taken with her. It was the little things he observed like the unopened mail on the couch and the empty coffee cup on the table, yet to make it to the sink. The rest of the apartment was clean and tidy, so he had no reason to assume that she was a slob. The cup was out of character to the profile he was building. An anomaly.
He walked into the bathroom and checked what had been left. There was no toothbrush, toothpaste, shampoo or shower gel. Yet bath salts and various lotions remained. So she had packed just the mere essentials. In the bedroom it was the same story. Most of her cosmetics remained, but there was no night creams or cleansing lotions and there was a full bag of make-up. She had taken what she needed and nothing else. A quick glance in the wardrobe revealed plenty of clothes, but also a few empty hangers indicating that a selection of clothes, though not many, had been taken also.
He checked the kitchen and lounge and looked at the various photographs that were either large prints in frames on the walls, or four by six prints in clever little carousel-type holders. There were photographs of a couple in their sixties, which he took to be her parents, and there was another woman in her mid-twenties, which judging by the resemblance, was her sister. He didn't know, but made a mental note to check her file. There was one photograph of a young man in a Redskins jersey. He looked sporty and shared no features with Isobel so he guessed that he was probably a current, or past boyfriend. A photograph on the mantel confirmed it, as the two were posing for the camera in an intimate embrace. The two photographs looked a few years old, so Stone decided that it was in fact a previous partner, though still special to her to be out on display.