by Barber, Tom
‘I want you two downstairs with the doctors. Find out everything they know. Take one aside each.’
‘What about Gunnar, sir?’ Josh asked.
Shepherd thought for a moment. ‘Let him go. You’re right. He’s not involved in this.’
Dr Glover was sitting in the lab at Kearny Medical when the lift doors opened again. He saw the terrifying man and woman who had kidnapped him unloading a series of canisters from the lift, dragging them across the polished tiles towards the lab. The man with the machine pistol rose from his chair and started speaking with them on the other side of the glass. The trio talked for a moment, the woman scraping the sides of her boots on the white floor, taking off some mud.
Earlier, Glover had been given exact orders as to what was required and why he was here. He’d been informed in graphic detail of the consequences if he failed and had spent the last hour both waiting for these canisters to arrive so he could get started and also praying that police officers would suddenly appear and save him.
But they hadn’t.
He watched the trio talk. Then they simultaneously turned and looked over at him. The large man walked over to the lab, his machine pistol in his right hand. He reached into his pocket with his left and pulled out the vial containing the virus. The doors slid open and he walked towards Glover.
‘We’re ready to begin.’
Not far away, the neo-Nazi who had sucker-punched the cop was hauled into the Hoboken Police Department, his hands cuffed behind him and an officer gripping him on either side. One of them was the cop he’d sucker-punched. The guy’s nose had just about stopped bleeding, but it was going to swell up nicely by the morning. They dragged him over to the booking desk, both of them using more force than was necessary and slammed him against the counter. The cop behind the desk looked up as if he’d seen this a thousand times before. He probably had.
‘Name,’ he asked with a bored, monotone voice.
‘Listen,’ the skinhead said. ‘I need my phone call right now.’
‘Name?’
‘Will Peterson.’
The cop started writing.
‘Listen to me guys, I need to make this phone call. It’s urgent.’
‘Shut the hell up,’ the guy he had punched said, dabbing at his face. ‘You broke my nose, you asshole.’
‘Date of birth and home address?’
‘Phone call.’
‘Date of birth and home address?’
‘Phone call.’
‘Screw you,’ the cop with the busted nose said.
Peterson cursed. ‘Listen to me. I know my rights. Just give me my call. Then you can lock me up for the rest of the month.’
‘Jesus Christ, just give him his damn phone call,’ the cop behind the counter said, rubbing his temples.
The two cops looked at each other then dragged the skinhead across the reception area to a payphone by the wall. When they got there one of them pulled Peterson around and undid the cuffs, freeing his hands momentarily.
‘One call. You’ve got thirty seconds.’
‘Enjoy it,’ the guy with the busted nose said. ‘You’re gonna be in jail ‘til next Christmas.’
Peterson pulled two quarters from his pocket quickly, tucking them into the slot. He pushed a number, fast. It was one he always dialled from memory, and one he dialled often.
C’mon. Pick up.
He was in luck. It rang twice then was answered.
‘John, it’s me,’ Peterson said. ‘Listen. I need your help and I need it right now.’
TWENTY FOURAs the clock ticked on into the afternoon, Archer carried two cups from the drinks machine over to Shepherd’s desk. To the right, Gunnar was just being released. He’d been taken out of the interrogation cell and was being led towards the exit. Archer felt the man’s gaze upon him and was relieved to watch the giant go.
Kruger was sitting beside Shepherd’s desk, alone, his head in his hands. Josh was across the detective area, sitting with Maddy Flood at his own desk and talking with her quietly. Archer placed a coffee in front of Kruger then took a seat, drinking from his tea. Kruger looked up, glancing around the building, and Archer took the opportunity to examine him. The medic had patched him up, cleaning off the dried blood and applying some butterfly stitches, but he’d taken a serious beating. It looked like he’d gone twelve rounds for the world title.
‘How’s the face?’
‘Sore as hell.’ Kruger reached forward and picked up his cup of coffee. ‘Thanks.’
‘Has anyone told you about Dr Tibbs?’
Kruger glanced down and nodded.
‘I heard.’
There was a pause.
‘So what’s your story?’ Archer asked, changing the subject. ‘You said Dr Flood recruited you from South Africa?’
Kruger nodded. ‘We met at a conference in Cape Town twelve months ago, almost to the day. I’m a virologist.’
He saw the blank look on Archer’s face.
‘I study viruses and how they work.’
‘OK.’
‘Anyway, Peter told me over dinner about his recent research. He was very excited. He told me that he’d designed a whole new way of encapsulating radioactive isotopes in the protein shells of a virus. He called it radio viral therapy. His vision was that it could morph into a ground-breaking treatment for lung cancer, if it had the right cultivation of course. And that was where I came in. He wanted me to come and work with him on the next phase of his project.’
‘Which was?’
‘Peter had the blueprints as it were. Given my background in viral genetics, he needed me to put everything together and basically grow the virus at his lab on 66th Street. He offered me a position, working alongside him. I packed my bags and arrived in New York three days later.’
‘That’s a big move.’
‘I jumped at the opportunity. Peter was very well known in his field. And it looks as though Maddy is going to be just as successful. She’s brilliant.’
Archer glanced over Kruger’s shoulder at her. She was sitting facing them.
She sensed Archer looking over at her and glared back.
‘Our work continued throughout this year,’ Kruger continued. ‘The early period was spent finding a suitable base for the virus. Viruses can only grow inside living cells. These can be animal or plant cells, but most are typically bacteria. Given that this was a treatment designed to be administered by inhalation, I found that the only organism capable of culturing Peter’s radio virus was TB. Tuberculosis. Understand?’
Archer nodded. ‘I think so. But I thought TB was potentially lethal.’
‘It is. However, I modified the strain to be fast growing but not capable of harming the lungs. Remember this was supposed to be medicinal, not a weapon. And the longer I worked on the project, the more I realised Peter’s vision could actually be feasible. It was very exciting. A virus that would irradiate a cancerous tumour from the inside. Genius. And ground-breaking too.’
He paused, drinking from his coffee.
‘However, once we tested it on mice a few weeks ago I realised we must have badly miscalculated somewhere, probably with the radiation and its effect on the virus. I implored Peter to throw in the towel and quit. It’s over, I told him.’
‘But he refused.’
‘Not only that. He demanded that I culture six separate samples of it and store them. He felt that the cure was only one mistake or one stroke of luck away. A happy accident, if you will. I agreed, reluctantly. But I could see Peter was starting to unravel.’
He paused, thinking. Archer drank from his tea and continued to listen closely.
‘Have you ever heard of a man called Dr Ronald Mallett, Detective?’ Kruger asked.
Archer shook his head.
‘Can’t say I have.’
‘He is the world’s leading expert on time travel. He’s convinced that it will happen before the end of this century. Although he’s over sixty years old now, Dr Mallett has made it his life�
�s work, devoting all his energy towards research and theory concerning its possibility. But do you know why?’
Archer shook his head.
‘Because his father died prematurely when Ronald was just an eleven year old boy. And to this day, he wants to go back in time and save him.’
He paused.
‘People think that men of science like myself, Ronald and Peter are somehow colder. More analytical than emotional. You know the saying: there are men of science and men of faith. But Peter’s motivations were born of the same pain that Dr Mallett feels. Peter lost his wife decades before she should have died. Maddy grew up without a mother. You lose someone close to you and it unlocks parts of yourself that you didn’t even know were there. That alone was all the motivation he needed to pursue this project. He was convinced he was only steps away from altering the malevolence of the virus.’
He sighed.
‘Then the next thing I know, I’m kidnapped at gunpoint. Will is dead, Frankie is missing and my friend steps off a twenty storey building to his death. All in the name of science.’
‘We’ll find Dr Glover and whoever has the last vial,’ Archer said. ‘That’s a promise.’
‘Like you did at the Seaport?’
Archer didn’t respond.
‘Who knew about the virus?’ he eventually asked, changing the subject.
‘To my knowledge, just the five of us. Unless Peter told someone else.’
‘Have you ever spoken about it to anyone? A wife, or girlfriend, or friend? Just one remark?’
‘No. I’m not married and don’t have a social life outside of the lab. But I guess it’s possible that one of the others might have let something slip.’
‘Any guesses?’
Kruger shrugged. ‘Will- Dr Tibbs- kept to himself. He was a private guy. He was hard to reach outside of work. Dr Glover is the opposite. Frankie likes to go to the bars on the Upper West Side. News of the virus might have come out. Unlikely pillow talk, though.’
He cracked a smile. Archer found himself smiling too, although briefly. Given the events and circumstances of the day, it was unexpected and felt good. Kruger drained his coffee, then shrugged.
‘Sorry, Detective, that’s all I can offer. If I can help in any other way, let me know.’
Archer nodded.
Suddenly a whistle came from above. They both looked up and saw Shepherd leaning over the railing. He was motioning for Archer and Josh to join him.
Archer turned to Kruger. ‘Excuse me.’
‘Of course.’
He rose, tossing his foam cup of tea in the trash beside the desk. As he walked towards the stairs, Josh joining him, he turned and saw Kruger move over to the empty seat by Maddy and put his arm around her. In the hug, her head on Kruger’s shoulder, she and Archer made eye contact.
Her face was cold.
Once they got upstairs, Archer and Josh headed straight into the briefing room. Shepherd was in there with Marquez and Rach, and there was a freeze-frame on the screen on the wall. Judging by the ice rink and familiar surroundings, Archer guessed it was a camera in Bryant Park. He looked at the top right corner and saw Bry Park 42nd SE. The clock next to it said 11:35:34.
‘What do we have?’ Josh asked.
‘Not much, I’m afraid,’ Rach said. ‘This looks out over the area in front of the café.’
They looked closely. The view should have been unobstructed, but the wooden Christmas stalls and tall decorations had blocked off the view by the rink.
‘This is the best shot I can get. And the patisserie doesn’t have any CCTV. Trying to find whoever killed Hansen on camera is a dead end.’
Josh swore.
‘But we’ve got something else,’ Shepherd said. ‘Run the recording, Rach.’
She withdrew the camera shot from the screen and pulled a fifteen second sound clip up instead. She hit Play.
‘Bleeker, where the hell are you?’ a voice said, filling the room. ‘I’ve been trying you all morning. You haven’t told me where we’re meeting tonight and we need to discuss payment. This thing had better be what you say it is.’
‘A tech next door pulled that from Paul Bleeker’s cell phone,’ Rach said. ‘Call came in this morning at 11:05.’
‘British accent,’ Shepherd said, turning and looking at Archer. ‘You recognise a region?’
‘Posh.’
‘Not the kind of guy who mixes with a low-life neo-Nazi.’
‘But sounds like he knows about the virus,’ Marquez said. ‘This thing had better be what you say it is.’
‘He could be another member of the neo-Nazi group?’ Rach suggested.
‘They didn’t seem familiar,’ Shepherd said.
‘OK, so someone he met in prison?’
‘He didn’t exactly sound like a guy who’s done time in gen pop either.’
‘How about employment?’ Josh said. ‘He sounded superior. As if he’s used to calling the shots.’
Shepherd looked at him. Then he turned to Rach.
‘Bleeker’s file?’
Rach nodded and pulled it up onto the screen.
‘Scroll down.’
The team examined the screen. Just like his conviction sheet, the employment history list was long. He’d either quit or been fired from every job he’d had save one, the current.
‘Janitor at Lloyd, Garrett and Jacobs,’ Rach read. ‘Law firm based in the Financial District. Been working there for three months. That could be something.’
She typed the name of the firm into Google and came up with a homepage. She clicked on it, and the page opened up. It was a typical legal firm internet site, a photo of a client and lawyer shaking hands at a desk overlooking Manhattan on a sunny day. There were a series of different headers at the top of the website.
She clicked on About.
A blurb came up describing how the law firm had come into existence, underneath which was a bio of the three senior partners. Each person in the room scanned them. First John Lloyd, then Simon Garrett. Neither of theirs was relevant. Both men were from West Virginia and both had gone to Harvard, which is where they must have met. The two profile photographs were of middle-aged men sitting at a desk and smiling at the camera, self-assured and successful.
‘Hang on,’ Marquez said. ‘Check out Jacobs’ profile.’
They all looked at the bottom of the screen.
Born in Oxford, England in 1975, senior partner Alistair Jacobs was educated at Harrow School and went on to read Law at Cambridge University.
‘No way,’ Josh said. ‘It can’t be him.’
Rach scrolled back to the homepage. She hovered the arrow over the welcome video and pressed Play. During this, a detective from downstairs had appeared in the doorway. Everyone was so engrossed with the screen that no one had noticed him. He was looking at Shepherd.
‘Sir?’
Shepherd was distracted and didn’t hear him. The video on the screen was a welcome package, showing footage from inside the law firm and introducing the senior partners. Lloyd and Garrett both introduced themselves, then Jacobs came onto the screen and started talking.
‘Here at Lloyd, Garrett and Jacobs, we strive to offer...’
‘Holy shit,’ Josh said.
Rach looked at Shepherd. ‘That’s a match, sir.’
‘What’s his home address?’
Rach got rid of the webpage and started searching. Jacobs didn’t have a police department file, but she ran his name through the Manhattan directory phonebook instead. ‘Got it. He lives in Tribeca, in a tenth floor apartment on 111 Worth Street.’
‘He’s a lawyer,’ Archer said. ‘He might be at work.’
‘He’s a senior partner,’ Shepherd said. ‘And it’s a weekend. That’s unlikely.’
‘Sir?’ the detective at the door said again.
‘But possible,’ Marquez said. Rach pulled up the window of the law firm again and scrolled down to their address. She pulled the two windows side by side. The law firm wasn�
�t far away, just off Water Street in the Financial District.
‘Contact the 1st precinct,’ Shepherd told Rach. ‘Have them send a black and white to both addresses. I want this man here as soon as possible.’
‘Sir?’ the detective at the door said for a third time, louder and with more emphasis.
The whole room turned.
‘Sorry to bother you. But there are two men here to see you. They said it’s urgent.’
‘Concerning?’ Shepherd asked.
‘The situation in Manhattan this morning.’
Everyone in the room stared at the detective. Then Shepherd, Archer, Marquez and Josh headed out quickly, following the man down the stairs to the lower level.
When they got there, Shepherd looked around.
There was no one standing waiting for him.
To the left, Kruger and Maddy Flood were still sitting where Archer and Josh had left them. They watched the commotion with interest as Shepherd turned to the detective.
‘So where are they?’
‘Interrogation Room 3.’
Shepherd walked quickly down the corridor to the interrogation room. He pushed open the door, walked inside and found a neo-Nazi skinhead dressed in black sitting at the table. A brown-haired man in a suit was beside him, the two of them talking quietly.
Shepherd looked at the suited man.
‘You his lawyer?’
The man shook his head, stepping past the desk and offering his hand. At the same time he pulled an ID from his pocket and flipped it open.
‘No. My name is Agent-in-Charge John Faison. I’m with the ATF.’
‘ATF?’ Shepherd said, shaking his hand. ‘What the hell are you doing here?’
Faison pointed at the skinhead in the seat, who nodded to Shepherd.
‘I’d like you to meet Special Agent Peterson.’
Across Queens, Jorgensen had just arrived outside Ray Creek’s address with two other detectives. The three men had already vested up and jumped out of the car, moving straight down the path to the house, a Mossberg in each pair of hands. One detective went down the side alley, careful not to make any noise, whilst Jorgensen and the other made their way to the front.
