The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  ***

  “And you offered her a room free of charge?”

  The duty manager nodded. He was impeccably dressed in the hotel's burgundy uniform, which was basically a suit with a little sash of gold embroidery on the lapels. His brass-effect nameplate read: Michael Fukkur, Duty Manager. Stone guessed the guy had heard more than a few sniggers about his surname.

  Stein looked at the register and matched the signature to a copy of the police report which she had signed. It was identical, or at least as identical as two separate signatures could ever be. “And she refused to stay?”

  “Yes. She couldn't get out of the hotel quick enough,” he paused. “Quite understandable really. I couldn't blame her, even if I did offer her a free upgrade to a luxury suite.”

  David Stein was scribbling notes into his pocketbook. He looked up impassively and asked, “What sort of frame of mind was she in when she left?”

  The duty manager thought for a moment. “Shaken, that's for sure. But she wasn't hysterical or anything, more … disappointed. She looked like she had been really let down by someone.”

  David Stein didn’t reply.

  “And how did she leave?” Stone interjected. “Where did she go once she walked out through the door?”

  “I called her a Yellow Cab, direct. The taxi got here in under ten minutes.”

  “You got a time on that?” Stein asked, glancing across at Stone for a moment.

  He looked back at the duty manager. “That would be real helpful.”

  The duty manager nodded. “Exactly ten-twenty. The night porter comes on shift at ten-thirty, but he's been getting later and later recently. I pulled him up on it earlier this week and he's been coming in on time ever since. Last night he was ten minutes early and I made a note of it for his appraisal. He walked into the foyer as she walked out and straight into the taxi.”

  ***

  His impatience was mounting. He knew the importance of the two drives, and knew that she had hidden them in a place other than where she had told the female FBI agent. For some reason she had not trusted her friend. That much was for sure otherwise his search wouldn't have ended in vain. He also knew that he had no other choice in killing the FBI agent when he had. Normally, he would have kept her alive until all avenues had been ascertained. But the woman had been feisty to say the least and the warehouse at the pier was not as secluded as he had first hoped. There had been night watchmen at the entrances and busier looking warehouses, but the one he had chosen had been under renovation. Tools were nearby and work had recently been taking place. He knew that he would remain uninterrupted in his work but not for long, especially as the other warehouses looked to be in operation seven days a week. So he had used the FBI agent for information and a location on Bartlett. He had used her text message to get her out of the hotel and he had eliminated any possible threat by the FBI woman as soon as he was convinced that he knew all she had known.

  He had waited throughout the day and watched her leave the hotel on time. He had waited a little longer to be sure and then gone inside. Nobody had been at reception and he had quickly checked the sign-in register at the desk. He had slipped upstairs and dodged a porter on his way and had Bartlett's door kicked open and her room torn apart within seconds. He searched everything as quickly as he could, and then placed a precision Swiss-made transponder, or homing device, inside the lining of her shoulder bag and a similarly sized voice-activated digital microphone in the lining of her jacket. Frustrated that he could not locate the drives either in the hiding place he’d been told or elsewhere, he had retreated back to his car and waited for the woman to return. Following her could not have been easier in the Yellow Cab and he had managed to procure a room in a cheap hotel across the back street from her street-side room.

  Now, after informing his employers of the situation, he had sent an e-mail to determine whether Isobel Bartlett should be eliminated, therefore severing the link to the set of drives.

  The laptop remained dormant. There had not yet been the message he was willing to come through. But it would come soon. He was sure of it.

  ***

  The old Mustang's V8 engine grumbled and popped as Stone changed down a gear and settled into the line of traffic. The streets were fairly quiet with pedestrians but the traffic was mounting and the progress was becoming increasingly slower as the morning wore on.

  David Stein sat in the passenger seat. He was going through the transcripts of the notes he had taken. They were in some kind of shorthand but at a glance Stone didn't recognize it as anything standard. It was most likely his own abbreviation, his own personal code.

  “So tell me what you know,” Stone paused as he indicated and changed lanes. “Everything that Elizabeth Delaney told you about Isobel Bartlett.”

  David Stein sighed. The memory of Elizabeth Delaney was raw. The man had not yet had time to grieve. “I guess I don't know much. I was up to my neck in meetings and briefings yesterday, couldn't give her much time,” he paused. He was obviously wishing that he had given her more of his time but like so many things in life, it was now too late. “She started by telling me that her friend was in a mess and coming to the city. I just figured that she was getting beat up on by some guy or that she had been cheated on... that kind of shit. That was on the Friday,” he paused awkwardly. “When I was at her apartment.”

  Stone remained silent. He did not want to prompt. Prompting a conversation always seemed to load it towards your questioning, not release the information freely and discovering what was at the core. He switched lanes again, checking his mirror briefly.

  “The next I heard was yesterday morning. She had had breakfast with Bartlett, but she didn't tell me where she was staying. She also told me that Bartlett had hidden a set of flash drives with important information on them, but again, she didn't tell me where.”

  “What did she say about the drives?”

  “She said that Isobel had heard two men talking about taking the drives for blackmail or something, to make a profit out of them. She said that a virus called ARES and an anti-virus called APHRODITE was stored on them. Or half was stored on them, the other half was in the director's office.”

  Stone knew that they were not there and was still figuring out who had taken

  them. “And what did she tell Delaney about the other set?”

  Stein shrugged. “I was busy. Delaney always gets...” he paused, looked sad. “...always got so damn impetuous, go off on a crusade. Most of the time it would draw a blank, that's why promotion or departmental moves kept passing her by. Don’t get me wrong, she was a hell of a law enforcement officer and I’d have had her with me in a firefight or hard arrest every time. She just needed to take a breath sometimes. I didn't pay a huge amount of attention. After a few minutes, I had colleagues pointing at their watches and waving me towards a meeting. I said that I'd have a thorough talk with her later.”

  “Did she say if Isobel suspected that the other set of drives had been taken by these guys, the two she heard talking?”

  Stein shook his head. “Not sure.”

  “I guess it's...” Stone stopped suddenly as his cell phone blurted out a short, shrill tune. He picked it up, answered abruptly and spoke for a couple of minutes, before thanking the caller and dropping the phone back into his pocket.

  “Trouble?” David Stein asked, breaking the silence.

  “For someone, yes. For me? Just another thick fog to try and look through ...”

  ***

  She needed to know for sure. The thoughts running through her head were clouding and she was seeing the possibility of good where she thought there was only bad, and bad where there should still have been a last bastion of good. She felt let down and betrayed, but her memory of events and feelings compelled to trust had clouded the fact. Delaney couldn't have betrayed her. Couldn't have tricked her out of the way and attempted to take the drives from her room. It just wasn't plausible. And where was Delaney now? Why had she not contacted he
r when she had found out that the drives were not where she had been told?

  Like the person who has been cheated on and still lost in a void of denial she still tried to see some good and put everything else down to a clouding of facts. She needed to ask Delaney out straight, needed to hear what had happened. She needed to hear what she so desperately wanted to hear. She picked up the cell phone and dialed Delaney's number. The line rang for a moment, then changed tone and rang once more.

  ***

  David Stein took his cell phone out of his pocket and looked at the display. He turned to Stone, his face ashen. “It's her ... Isobel Bartlett. I re-directed all Delaney's calls to my phone ... I thought I should, you know ...”

  Stone didn't know what the FBI man thought he should have done, but he figured it was the sort of thing that someone showing presence of mind after a death would do. He couldn't imagine being prepared to answer her calls on her behalf and greet the caller with the news. He looked at Stein and nodded. “Better answer it then.”

  The FBI agent pressed the answer button and spoke quietly. “Hello, this is Special Agent David Stein, of the FBI answering on behalf of Elizabeth Delaney ...” He looked back at Stone and shook his head. “She rang off.”

  “I'm not surprised, could you have been more formal?” He smirked, shaking his head. “Call her back, go to received calls and hit dial.”

  Stein fiddled with his cell phone, then held it to his ear. “Nothing ... she must have switched her phone off.”

  “Shit.”

  ***

  Isobel Bartlett had dropped the phone down on the bed beside her. She drew her legs up to her chest and rocked gently on the bed. She was tearful and scared and did not know whom she should trust. The expression of indecision upon her face was agonizing.

  He kept the cross hairs of the sniper scope on the center of her forehead. It would not be long now.

  She would soon be at peace.

  ***

  David Stein tried several times to get a reply with each attempt yielding nothing. Isobel Bartlett had switched off her cell phone and there hadn't even been a messaging service on her line.

  Stone swung the car in a wide arc and mounted the curb, pulling the Mustang to a halt inside the entrance to the Yellow Cab garage.

  “Forget her,” he paused, switching off the ignition. “We'll get to her soon enough. Let's go.”

  He opened his door and walked across the parking area towards the kiosk that acted as an office. Stein followed, he already had his pocketbook in hand ready to take notes.

  “Can I help you?” A mechanic asked gruffly. He was covered in grease and his overalls were stained with oil and ripped at the knees.

  “Yeah,” Stone replied. He flicked open his leather wallet and flashed his ID. “Rob Stone, I'm an agent with the Secret Service, this is Special Agent Stein of the FBI. We need to speak with someone who can tell us about booked pick-ups last night.”

  The man nodded, then slipped a greasy pair of fingers into his mouth and whistled a shrill, loud call. “Yo! Louis! Out front!”

  An overweight man in his late forties worked his way out from a myriad of parked cars and walked over. “Help you?” He was an Italian-New Yorker and his accent was heavy on the goodfella. “What you want?”

  Stone flashed his ID and gold star. “Rob Stone, Secret Service. I need a look at your log for booked pick-ups. We want to speak with a woman that one of your cabs picked up last night from The Amsterdam Court Hotel, on West Fiftieth and Amsterdam. We need to talk to the driver.”

  “You got to be fuckin' kidding' me!” He frowned. “How the fuck should I know where she went?”

  “I don't remember asking where she went,” Stone paused. “I said I wanted to speak to the driver. The manager of the hotel called it in. That means there was a call from here to the driver and a specific driver was allocated the job. We want to know who the driver was and where we'll catch up with him.”

  “I got better things to do... get the fuck outta here!” He turned to walk away and Stone caught hold of him by the shoulder, digging his thumb deep into the side of the man's neck. He dropped to his knees, his face screwed up in a silent scream.

  Stone turned towards the mechanic, who seemed ready to intervene. “It'll be the last thing you do for yourself ... from then on in, you'll be in a wheelchair. Think about it while you take a walk.”

  David Stein seemed to hover at Stone's shoulder, unsure whether to talk him down or look the other way.

  “I suggest you take a look at the log in that office,” Stone said to him. “While I talk to my new friend here ...”

  Stein looked at the man on his knees for a moment then shrugged like it didn't really matter and walked over to the kiosk. He found the log and flicked back through the pages, then looked up. “Got it here! Guy's name is Rodriguez Fortes.”

  Stone released his grip a little. “This guy, Fortes, is he working today?”

  “Fuck you!”

  Stone buried his thumb deeper, easing it between two tendons and his carotid artery. The man screamed, and then contorted his face into a tight wince. “I'll have you arrested, hell, I could even find a way of shutting Yellow Cabs down for a week. Imagine that?”

  “He's working out on Little Italy,” the man grunted. “Let the fuck go and I'll call him in.”

  Stone smiled. “OK, but I want you to remember two things. When I let you go, if you try and hit me, I'll break your arm.”

  “Sure, whatever,” the man winced. “What else?”

  Stone nodded towards David Stein, who was standing at the entrance of the kiosk. “He takes his coffee black and sour, I take mine sweet and with cream. Spit in either and I'll break both your legs...”

  ***

  Isobel Bartlett wanted to call Delaney's number again. It had either been re-directed, or David Stein had picked up her cell phone. But why would he? Why would Delaney be without her cell phone?

  She got up off the bed and walked through to the bathroom. She ran the faucet and splashed some cold water on her face, rubbed it around her neck, then dabbed herself dry with the hand towel. She needed some fresh air, needed to get out onto the street and take a walk, get some air into her lungs and think things through. After that, she would contact the police and go through the whole story with them. She had no one she could trust and was back at where she had started. Only now, she was in a strange city and would have a lot more explaining to do.

  ***

  He watched her, taking his eye from the sniper scope every now and then to glance at the screen of the laptop. He watched her as she shuffled through the shoulder bag and checked her purse. She then swung her jacket over her shoulders and slipped her arms through. There was a small amount of static on the transceiver, but the equipment was the most expensive there was and of the highest quality available and the interference was short lived.

  He lined up the sight on her temple and then traversed down for a shot to the neck. The precision-made scope held its crosshairs on the point of her carotid artery. He decided that shot to her neck would be most appropriate. After passing through the glass the bullet may be out of shape and off zero. With a shot to the neck the skin was soft, unlike the skull and there was a myriad of veins and arteries which would sever. The bullet may even hit the spine for an instant kill, or rupture her windpipe for a slower though still certain death. He doubted he’d have time for a follow up shot, as when she dropped she would do so out of view, but if there was time then that would seal the deal and a second bullet would not have to travel through the glass.

  He glanced back at the screen of the laptop. He was becoming impatient. He needed an answer to his inquiry and he needed it now. He watched as she slung the bag over her shoulder and then checked the room.

  At that moment he made his decision. Whether she went for her overnight bag determined whether she would live or die...

  ***

  “So you remember the woman?” Stone asked. He was sure that the taxi dri
ver was going to turn up a blank, the guy hadn't been too sure, but suddenly seemed to remember. Stone had asked him, but only gave a brief description, not wanting to prompt a blurred memory to the point of false recognition.

  “Sure, I only had three call-ins for the whole evening. Everybody else, I take off the street.” Rodriguez Fortes sipped some coffee from the plastic carton. “She was smart-looking, plain but real pretty. I picked her up from The Amsterdam Court Hotel, then dropped her off at a hotel on West 71st and Columbus.”

  “Which hotel?” Stein asked excitedly. “Can you remember the name?”

  Fortes shrugged. “The... No, it's gone. It's real shitty on the outside though, but once you're inside its pretty good, I guess.”

  “Thanks, but we don't want to stay there,” Stone paused. “We just want to know the name.”

  David Stein stepped closer to the taxi driver and put a gentle hand on the man's shoulder. “Listen, Bud, It'll be a real help if you could try and remember,” he paused, whispering into the man's ear. “Don't mind my friend, he's just a little impatient, is all. We need to find this woman, and fast. Can you describe the hotel?”

  “Hey, I said that I don't know the name, I didn't say I couldn't help.” He took another sip of coffee, then placed it down on the hood of a nearby taxi and smiled. “If you want to know the quickest way across town, just follow my tail lights.”

  ***

  The lock was an old-fashioned tumbler type, and not the more common key-card as used ever more increasingly in city hotels. There was no kicking this door in. He had wanted to unsettle Isobel Bartlett back inside the Amsterdam Court. He knew how to pick the lock and had a set of special tools for the task. It was a question of feel and gentle probing with the set of custom made titanium picklocks, but he was well practiced and had the lock open in a matter of seconds. He opened the door cautiously and stepped inside.