by A P Bateman
It could have been anything, but Stone had to go merely by his own conviction and the one word that would be synonymous with Tom Hardy and the assassin he had used. Stone typed in JANUS. The computer suddenly finished booting up and rested on its wallpaper and start menu. Stone let out a deep breath and turned back to Sheriff Harper, who was now studying the silenced .45 Ingram machine pistol from the trunk.
“This is quite a piece of kit,” the sheriff smiled. “I’d like to get one of these for varmints. It would make a hell of a mess on jack rabbits.”
“Probably wouldn’t even hit one with it. Scare the shit out of it though,” Stone replied absentmindedly. “Look here, I'm in to his computer.” He moved the internal mouse pad and opened the e-mail package. At a glance, he saw the received e-mails that had instructed the assassin all along. He scrolled through, noting the times and days of the mail and the e-mail address of the sender, then closed the program down. The tech guys in the service would be able to trace Tom Hardy through the correspondence. He opened up the tracking receiver program and switched on the tracking receiver, which was already connected via its USB cable. It was about the size of an old cell phone. “Is this how it was found?” Stone asked.
“More or less,” Harper nodded. “It was all laying on the front seat of the car, connected together. Some cables may have slipped out when I moved them, but I was pretty careful.”
“And it was all switched on?'”
“Yeah. But the battery died last night.”
Stone nodded. He knew how short the battery life was, but thankfully they did not take long to recharge once the laptop was connected to the car’s power supply. He had been lucky with the password, which had reinstated itself after the battery had died. Stone watched the screen, but there was nothing. He hoped he had made the right move, would never forgive himself if something happened to Isobel. He looked at the map, and adjusted the magnifying glass icon in the bottom right hand corner of the screen. The image played out and became less detailed, but covered a far greater distance. He turned to Sheriff Harper. “Do you know this area?”
“Sure, it's about a twenty mile radius around the town.”
“That's a lot of ground,” Stone said. He just hoped it was enough.
“You know about all this equipment?” Sheriff Harper asked. He put the submachine pistol back in the trunk and looked at the screen.
“A bit,” Stone replied. “Secret Service vehicles are all fitted with trackers, just in case one gets hijacked. And the VIP's car is always kept on satellite navigation screens like this one, so we can watch and keep a constant track of it at all times,” he paused. “But I've never seen one as advanced as this one. This is something else.”
“The guy you killed was CIA?"
Stone shrugged. “Sort of, he was more of a CIA project,” he paused. “And I'd better not say anything else.”
“Sure, I understand.” Harper stared at the screen, frowned, and then looked back at Stone. “Something moved. On the bottom left of the screen.”
Stone looked down but there was nothing. “Maybe you imagined it?”
'”No way!” He stepped forward and looked at the screen intently. “Right there, on the very edge...”
Stone looked, but there was nothing. He studied the map, in particular the bottom left of the screen. There was still no movement. He walked over to the worktop and picked up the submachine pistol.
“What the hell are you doing?” Harper exclaimed.
“Taking a drive,” Stone replied curtly. “Thanks for your help, but I’ve got to go check something out.”
“You’re taking the Mercedes?”
Stone nodded. “Seems appropriate.”
SIXTY THREE
The log cabin was built from vast round lengths of maple, planed smooth and laid dovetailed at the corners to hold the timber in place. The roof was constructed from dark wooden slat tiles and the windows were all double glazed with cedar surround frames. The door looked to be heavy oak, and was accessed via the open porch veranda, that was furnished with padded cane garden seats and an old-fashioned wooden swing chair, which was swaying gently in the cool fall breeze sweeping down from the mountains.
A ski rack was built into the side of the wall, nearest the door and it was obvious to Isobel that the cabin's primary use was that of a ski lodge, which was possibly turned around with an entirely different cliental and used as a hunting lodge in the spring and summer months.
Isobel climbed the steps, pushed roughly forwards by Hardy and waited on the open porch for him to open the door. As the door opened, she peered tentatively inside, but before she could take in her surroundings she was handled harshly through the doorway and into the large open plan living area.
“Sit,” Hardy snapped at her, pointing to a large leather couch. Isobel did as she was ordered and flopped down into the deep red couch, her hands still bound behind her back. “Wait there. Move and I'll put a bullet in you.”
Isobel edged forwards and tried her best to perch to the front of the couch, wriggling and straining with her tightly bound hands hampering her. She looked at the unlocked door, her mind full of thoughts of escape.It was tempting, but supposing she even managed to open the catch, where would she go? If she bolted out into the forest, her attempts at evading her captors would be useless with her hands bound so tightly. If she fell and wounded herself, she would be finished.
She looked behind her and saw that Hardy had disappeared. She turned back and surveyed the rest of the room, noticed the telephone on a writing desk by the window and wondered whether she would have time to lift the receiver and dial 9-11. If she simply left the receiver off the hook surely they would have time to trace the number and dispatch a squad car? They would have to give the caller the benefit of the doubt and send someone to close the call. She had no idea where she was, but if she could get to that receiver, maybe the people at the dispatch would hear any conversation between herself and her captors.
The thought was too much to put to rest and she heaved herself forwards and got to her feet. She looked behind her, listening intently for footsteps and then crept across the highly polished wooden floorboards to the writing desk. She turned her back to the desk and bent down, trying her best to stretch her hands out straight and reach the receiver. She managed to get it off the hook, and tensed as it clattered down onto the desk. She craned her neck, straining the muscles to near spasm and nudged her outstretched finger to the nine and pressed. She could hear the tone change as the first number was negotiated. The next bit was easier, and she pressed the one button twice in quick succession. She heard the ringing tone and the voice of someone answering. At the same time, she heard two distant voices gradually becoming louder as they approached. She bounded back across the room and slumped into the couch just as she heard the footsteps clip against the wooden floorboards of the corridor that led off the rear of the room.
Her heart was pounding fiercely and she felt flushed. Even her breathing was heavy and she just prayed that she would not force them to become suspicious. She looked up at Hardy and he stared back at her with contempt.
“My friend here has no doubt been looking forward to your company,” he said, his tone sardonic. “I imagine he's been lonely and craving conversation.” Isobel could sense someone behind her, could even catch sight of a figure in her periphery, but chose to keep her eyes firmly on Hardy's face. The person walked around the couch and into view and Isobel's heart raced and sent a flutter of panic into her throat. She caught her breath and reeled back into the couch, her eyes wide and fixated on the figure. “Of course...” Hardy feigned surprise. “You've already met.”
Professor Leipzig looked down at her and smiled. His once kindly face somehow seemed hard and cruel and his eyes belonged to someone else, not the amiable man Isobel had once known and liked.
“Don't look so shocked, my dear,” Professor Leipzig said quietly. “I hear you've been the proverbial fly in the ointment, my dear. Most disappointing,
if I may say?”
“I… I…" Isobel stopped herself. She now understood perfectly. Leipzig had given way to money. The one common denominator that eventually finds every man his price.
“I'm so glad you could be here for the occasion,” Leipzig smiled. He was lisping slightly. His voice was different. “I have almost everything set, but you see, towards the end, ARES was becoming a joint effort. You were as crucial to the project asI. Without the information on those flash drives, even I would be looking at weeks, maybe even months to culture a working virus. In fact, without the drives I may not have been able to recreate them at all. I'm so glad you're alive, my dear, it will speed up the process no end. Help fill in the blanks, so to speak.”
“But... You're dead,” she said. She had wanted to resist such a contrite and obvious comment, but the words simply fell out of her mouth. “But, the body?”
“Was someone else...” Leipzig smiled. He glanced at Hardy, and then looked back at her. “Mister Hardy saw to the finer details, or I gather his associate did.It was rather tricky, and a little uncomfortable...” Isobel frowned at him and he shrugged nonchalantly. “Dentistry, my dear.” He beamed a smile at her, and ran a fingernail across his teeth. “We needed a body in the truck, but dental records were only going to prove that it wasn't me who died in the crash. So we merely came up with a way around the problem.”
“Stone knew that was what we did,” Tom Hardy smiled. “That's why that hobo, Joe Carver, had to be taken care of. He was the only person who missed that damned tramp. Kicked up a damned fuss. Went over to Montpelier to talk to the police.”
“The missing homeless guy?” Isobel frowned. “You killed him and put him in the truck?”
“An oversight on my associate's part,” Hardy shrugged. “The man was the right shape and weight, but he had to go and kill the only damned hobo with a close friend. But yeah, he was the patsy.”
“And indistinguishable from myself, after we gave him my set of teeth, of course. Oh, and set him on fire.” Leipzig smiled and chattered his teeth together. “These are better than the originals. And after such an intense fire, there were only dental records left to go on.”
“But the coroner smelled a rat,” Isobel said flatly.
“Ah, my dear, you are delightfully well informed,” Leipzig smiled. “Agent Stone was a little too clever for his own good. I imagine he's thinking along those lines as we speak? Doctor McCray should be here soon and then the little reunion will be complete.”
“The coroner sniffed around a little too much, so he was retired,” Hardy said coldly. “Stone sniffed around, and now he has suffered the same fate.”
“You can be sure of that, can you?” Isobel spat at him. “Besides, you both think you were so clever? It was killing the coroner that led us to Vermont and to Joe Carver. You've already left a trail to follow. If Rob Stone isn't going to be around to follow it, then it's only a matter of time before someone else will be!” She felt choked, hadn't meant to write Stone off, but she needed to unsettle them, keep them talking. She had no idea whether the telephone was still connected to the emergency call dispatch, but she had to suppose it was. If it was, it would record everything.
“So what?” Hardy sneered. “No one has a clue where we are and what we intend to do next. By the time anyone does, I'll be long gone. And ARES will be released on the public and the only anti-virus will be worth billions in ransom. Or legitimate sale. Depends how it plays out.”
“Bastards!” Isobel screamed at them.
“Oh grow up, my dear... What do you think this is all about?” Leipzig stroked her shoulder and she recoiled from his touch, repulsed. “It's all about the money. Nothing else. We're not in this for the sake of mankind and humanity. Any chances of a Nobel Prize went out of the window the moment I started to work for the government. They want secrecy, not articles in Time Magazine.”
Hardy smiled, bent down and caught hold of her by the shoulders. He pulled her to her feet and pushed her harshly away from the couch. “Move,” he ordered her abruptly. “It's time for you to go somewhere a little less comfortable.”
***
Stone had parked the big silver Mercedes off the road, approximately five hundred meters from the stationary red dot in the center of the laptop's screen. The map indicated nothing but green, indicating forest filling up every bit of the screen. It did not register the logging tracks or occasional private driveway.
He had travelled a little way down the bumpy track and had pulled off and parked behind a spinney, a natural barrier of small saplings and thorn bushes. The car was completely out of sight from the track and he checked on the screen of the laptop for the direction of the red dot.It was due east and ahead was only large trees of maple and spruce and cedar. The track would naturally lead him to the destination, but he wanted to remain covert at all times and chose to head straight, around eighty yards parallel to the track.
He had never felt so on edge. He had gambled with Isobel’s life on a hunch. The more he had thought about it, the more it made sense. Isobel was being tracked digitally. That was how the assassin had been on to them so efficiently, how he had turned up when they had been met on the road by the assassin. Her coat and shoulder bag were the only items she had with her in Vermont that she had also had with her in New York. Stone had bought her new clothes and she had binned the old ones back at the motel. Now, there was the slight chance that the assassin’s tracking receiver could still find Isobel. There had been no more digital pulse other than the one Sheriff Harper had sworn he’d seen. The battery would be low or dead by now, but Stone had taken the grid reference where Harper had pointed to. It was all he had now to go on.
He checked his pistol, which now carried a full fifteen rounds and then holstered it and reached for the silenced submachine pistol. The magazine was full, giving him a total of thirty rounds, but he would have to be careful; the weapon could spit them out at a rate of 13 bullets a second.
He stepped out of the car and looked cautiously around. He felt nervous, apprehensive. He breathed deeply to steady his nerves. He knew from experience that when it came down to engaging with the enemy, his apprehension would be replaced with a fearless, determined desire to complete the task. However, until he made an aggressive move, he would have to carry withhim this burdening emotion he despised so much.
He was ready now. Armed and committed. With another couple of deep, calming breaths, he brought the weapon up in front of him and viewed everything through the crude V and pin sights as he headed across the open bush grass towards the thick belt of trees.
***
Isobel dropped heavily to the floor, partly landing on the bare single mattress that had been pushed into the comer of the room. She sat up, tucked her knees up to her stomach and looked at her surroundings. The floor was made from thick slate in what had been constructed as a sort of utility room. Part of the wall and floor in the nearest corner was covered in thick, clear plastic sheeting, taped into place with heavy industrial duct-tape. To the far side of the room there was a bank of domestic appliances; a washing machine, tumble dryer and large chest freezer. Closer to the door were shelving units stacked with dried and canned goods, and in the middle of the room there was a large meat hook suspended from the ceiling with a drain and angled guttering directly underneath. Alongside the wall, near the hook, was a large wooden butcher's block with a selection of knives, saws and cleavers hanging from the ceiling above it from double ended hooks. Stacked high all down one wall were large cardboard boxes of various dimensions with names she recognized as suppliers and makers of medical and laboratory equipment and supplies. This is where ARES would be reborn. She looked back at the suspended meat hook and the block and the drain. Fitting that they planned to create ARES in this room of death.
Leipzig smiled and swept a hand towards the somewhat macabre in-home abattoir. “For butchering deer and elk, or god knows what else they shoot in these parts,” he said breezily. “The drain takes away the blood as th
e animal bleeds before butchery. This stops the meat from souring and gives it a better flavor. It's a myth that corpses don't bleed, a few well-placed cuts and gravity sees to the rest.”
Isobel shuddered, turned away from the morbid scene in front of her. The room felt cold, but it was more than the fall chill from the mountains; it was a feeling of death and finality. Magnificent beasts, hunted and shot for human gratification, were hauled up on the hook and left to bleed, then skinned and butchered, dismembered. The room stank of industrial strength bleach and disinfectant, but Isobel could still smell death. She looked over at the area covered by plastic sheeting, frowned and then turned her eyes to the floor.
“Ah, so much bewilderment, so much curiosity,” Leipzig smiled. Isobel stared at him, unsure who the man was in front of her. Leipzig was like a hyperactive child, his eyes wide and searching, and his bodily movements quick and concise. He seemed excitable, like a child on Christmas morning with a world of presents under the tree. “Everythinghas a purpose in life, do you not think? Take this room for instance. The hook, the drain, the butcher's block; they are all components of a larger part. The larger part being the steaks on your plate or the roasting joints in your freezer. Without these components,” he swept his hand past the butcher's block and knives “There is no meat to put on the table.” He paced across the room and stood in the center of the plastic sheeting then started tapping it with the toe of his shoe.It was rhythmical, a sort of tune, but Isobel didn't even attempt to guess what it could be. “Can you guess what this could possibly be for? No? This is where the tramp that doubled for me died. It’s been cleaned, but he died in this very room. That coroner also. He was a ladies man. He was lured here by some rather lurid texts, promising the sort of things that wives don’t. Not his own wife, anyway. Seems that the woman he’d recently met on an internet dating site was in fact a middle aged man with the CIA.” He smiled at Tom Hardy. “Hardy got him to come here, while his associate took care of him.”