Halon-Seven

by Xander Weaver

  Bern, Switzerland

  Monday, 11:05 am

  Switzerland. It was too far out of the way as far as Dargo was concerned. An unusual place to meet especially since his employer, Nil Bayer, was a Russian like himself. This detour to Switzerland seemed pointless. The elegant chateau where they now stood also seemed an unnecessary distraction. Dargo knew that Bayer had rented the house for the week but didn’t know why. Looking at the man, he was starting to draw his own conclusions.

  An aged academic, Bayer’s distinguishing feature was his somewhat egg shaped head. While well proportioned for his lanky body, it was quite wide at the top and very narrow at the jaw. Penetrating dark eyes that hinted at the malignant personality within. A short sprig of dark hair capped the very top of his head. He wore an expensive Italian suit and a delicately framed set of glasses. Bayer was the boss but Dargo had done his homework. Nil Bayer was an extremely wealthy man. Dargo had one of his tech geeks conducting a financial examination of the man. As of the last update, the operative still wasn’t confident he had uncovered all of Bayer’s holdings. After leaving the Russian Science Academy more than two decades earlier, it seemed that Bayer had developed some sort of filament, a component used in every light bulb manufactured within the last twenty years. Though seemingly inconsequential, apparently there was something unique about his design. The rights to the simple technology had made Bayer hundreds of millions of dollars over the last ten years alone. Unfortunately, all the money in the world couldn’t buy the man a winning personality.

  Bayer walked slowly back and forth before the large hearth which was located in the center of the back wall of the richly appointed study. He swirled the remains of his brandy in a snifter as he paced. Dargo stood station to one side of the fireplace and watched Bayer without comment. Bayer had been in the process of berating him, though Dargo refused to be drawn into an argument. Arguing with ones employer was unprofessional.

  Dargo’s full name was Ian Dargoslav. He was a large Russian with short gray hair, gray eyebrows, and a trim gray beard. He had a hard, weathered look about him, but he was in remarkable shape for his age. Though 58 years old, few would have guessed it to look at him. He was still tall and broad shouldered. Dargo had served several tours in the military, first in the Russian armed forces, and later taking his expertise to the private sector, after retiring with distinction. After serving many years as head of security for a wealthy European family, he had once again returned to ‘consulting,’ which was how he came into the employ of Nil Bayer.

  “And you say the attorney, Underwood, has met with the heirs to the estate?” Bayer asked.

  “Correct. He met with Comrade Meade’s lab assistant, Miss Reese Knoland, in Santa Barbara, before flying to Chicago to meet another beneficiary. I handled the surveillance in California and sent a team to follow Underwood to Chicago. After, he flew back to the UK.” Dargo made his report in crisp concise details. His Russian accent was mild but his English marked only with a clipped brevity. He was fluent in English but it was by no means his native tongue.

  “But we still don’t have the location of the schematics, or the transport access codes?” Bayer asked accusingly. Dargo knew the man’s temper was growing short. The operation was taking longer than expected. What Bayer didn’t understand was that these things could not be forced; there was no way to rush progress.

  “I do not believe the lawyer possessed any intelligence. No overt or covert exchange was made,” Dargo confirmed.

  “So we’ve waited for nothing!” Bayer snapped. “I want you to pickup the attorney and Reese Knoland. Use any means necessary to extract the information I require!”

  “With respect, sir,” Dargo said. It was more of a growl than a statement. “That would be a mistake.”

  That brought a thick vein to the surface of Bayer’s forehead. It was obvious he didn’t care to be contradicted by a subordinate. How had the man survived working for the science directorate? Bayer was financing the operation, so by extension, he was ultimately in charge. It seemed something of a power trip for the aging ex-scientist.

  “Walter Meade is dead,” Dargo explained. “He was known to be secretive and circumspect with project details. It is probable that he did not share details of Meridian with his subordinate or his attorney. Bring any of them into custody and we will only draw the attention of the authorities.” Dargo looked Bayer square in the eye. “At that point any hope of finding what you seek will be lost.”

  All of this was true, but there was more to it. Dargo sensed that Bayer had little concern for collateral damage. And though Dargo’s job technically made him a mercenary, he had seen enough senseless death to last a lifetime. He didn’t care to see any meaningless loss of life, no matter how entitled his employer believed himself to be. Dargo had lost a daughter to senseless tragedy and he had strong personal beliefs on the matter. But he knew his employer would view his opinions as weakness so he kept them to himself. He worked for Bayer but he didn’t need to respect the man. Besides, what happened in the field was his purview. Bayer be damned.

  “Very well,” Bayer finally acquiesced. “What course of action do you suggest?”

  Dargo replied without hesitation. “Continue surveillance on all project members. They are only now preparing to get back to work following the death of Comrade Meade. If anything is to be learned, now will be the time. Underwood is likely a dead end. I will leave wiretaps and bugs at his home and office. I do not expect him to be of further use. If he conducts any business pertaining to Comrade Meade, we will know. Keeping a team on him is waste of manpower.

  “Also, my man in London located a burn safe in Underwood’s office. We will not be able to open the safe without triggering the destruction of its contents. I have an alternate plan in mind. I will report back any tangible results.”

  “I thought you considered the man a dead end?” Bayer accused. Frustration burned in his eyes. “Plus, your plan fails to guarantee results…and we have no idea how long it might take for someone to lead us to the schematics or the hardware.”

  “With respect, there are no guarantees. We investigate what leads we have. We cannot force results.” Dargo thought for a moment. He weighed his next words before he spoke. “All of this would be unnecessary if Comrade Meade had been handled with greater care.”

  The pulsing vein returned to Bayer’s forehead just as Dargo knew it would. Bayer had not fully explained what had happened prior to bringing Dargo and his team on board, but Dargo had put things together on his own. At some point Bayer had tried to pick Professor Meade up and force the information from him. It hadn’t gone well and Meade had died while in custody. All of this had happened under the command of Arnold Peck, Dargo’s predecessor. Bayer never explained what happened, but Dargo was part of a small and exclusive community of operators. Word was that a newcomer, someone previously unknown to the community, had hired Peck. A short time later Peck had simply disappeared. Soon after taking the job, Dargo realized Peck had been working for Bayer. And the more he grew to understand Bayer, the more he suspected Bayer had had Peck killed after Meade died on his watch. All of this meant a great deal to Dargo. It indicated that Bayer was prone to rash judgment and thereby prone to mistakes. He could not be trusted and was deadly when crossed. Bayer was too comfortable employing mercenaries and he didn’t have an issue leaving a trail of bodies in his wake.

  Dargo did know a little about Professor Meade’s death. Apparently the old man had been drugged in an abduction attempt several years prior. The team trying to snatch the old man had botched the dosage of a sedative that resulted permanent damage to Meade’s heart. Had it not been for his bad heart, Meade would likely be locked in a hole somewhere with Bayer’s interrogators working on him right now. Dargo found such an approach barbaric. The results of interrogation by torture were unreliable and dangerous. This had been proven when Professor Meade had expired.

  The consummate professional, Dargo would get the information his employer requir
ed but he would limit the number of casualties at the same time. Unfortunately, the situation left him stuck running a series of surveillance operations across the globe, all the while watching his back since he didn’t have any faith in Bayer.

  Finally Bayer relented. “Arrange surveillance on the lawyer. Contact me as soon as you have new information. You are dismissed.”

  Feeling the phone in his breast pocket vibrating even on his way out of the room, Dargo didn’t bother to retrieve the device until he reached the hallway. His employer had a penchant for micromanagement, and it was a situation that would prove unacceptable.

  Dargo tapped the screen. “Da?”

  “The hardware has been secured,” the voice on the end explained, without elaboration.

  “There were no complications?”

  “No,” the voice confirmed. “Yuri said that your Miami contact was most accommodating. But, sir—do you have any idea how much Yuri paid for this hardware?”

  Dargo smiled and considered Bayer’s condescending tone and the smug set of his shifty eyes. “Not to worry,” he said with a genuine smile. “The client can afford it.”

  Tapping the phone’s touch screen, Dargo terminated the call and continued down the hall. The fact that he had just spent a vast sum of Bayer’s money on what would likely prove a fool’s errand somehow struck him as satisfying. It was unprofessional, but amusing just the same. Besides, whether it was on this job or the next, Dargo knew that he would make good use of his new high tech toys.

  Chapter 5

  Berton Springs, Colorado

  Tuesday, 2:12 pm

  It was early afternoon when Cyrus pulled into Berton, Colorado. A small town nestled in the arms of the Colorado Mountains, it boasted a population of nearly three hundred, according to the sign he passed at the city limits. Berton offered absolutely no claim to fame as far as Cyrus could find. He had Googled his destination prior to leaving Chicago and was shocked to find virtually no information about the town or its history. The place was literally a tiny dot on a map, nothing more. There were no historic annotations, no population statistics, and no Street View images. So much for the information age. Berton appeared to be a virtual black hole in cyberspace.

  This held tremendous appeal to Cyrus.

  The full extent of the city spanned almost a dozen interconnected streets. He quickly understood what the town lacked in population it more than made up for in rustic appeal. A small but modern looking schoolhouse marked the border at one end of town. Main Street was lined with customary businesses such as a diner, a gas station, a general store, and the like. Dead center of town was home to an old but well maintained municipal building that must have been a hundred and fifty years old. According to the signs, the building functioned as the town government center as well as the post office and a very small police station.

  All of this was taken in as Cyrus drove slowly in one end of town and out the other. It didn’t take long. His phone’s GPS app guided him east, up a winding road that stretched further up the mountain. Before long the road resorted to a series of switchbacks as it traversed a steep vertical climb, all the while surrounded on all sides by a dense pine wilderness.

  Finally the GPS indicated a right turn. Cyrus left the wide, deserted blacktop in favor of a dirt and gravel driveway. The path was well maintained and free from potholes that were common to such unpaved surfaces. It was also about a car and a half in width, more than enough room for his four wheel drive Ford pickup.

  The driveway wound deeper still into the wilderness until, after nearly a mile, he finally reached a clearing. The woodland had been driven back to accommodate a large single story house with a giant front yard and a wide circular drive. The driveway looped through the yard allowing vehicles to approach and depart the house without having to turn around. The loop joined with the house at a large portico wide enough for two large SUV’s to park abreast.

  The house itself was a sprawling single story ranch layout finished with a combination of beautiful rustic siding and indigenous rock. Large windows overlooked the front yard that was comprised mostly of flat river rock since grass was not common at the high elevation. The yard at the far right of the house ended at an eighty-foot cliff which yielded a breathtaking view of the untarnished valley beyond.

  Cyrus took all of this in on the slow advance up the drive before parking under the overhang. He parked immediately in front of a pair of oversized french doors marking the home’s entrance. After retrieving a large duffle bag from the bed of the truck, he glanced back the way he’d come. The yard pushed back the wilderness about 250 yards. From there, impossibly dense forest surrounded the property from the west as well as the south—the direction he had come. To the east was the sheer ledge overlooking the valley. To the north, behind the house, the mountain rose at a seemingly impossible grade. Somehow nature had found a way to laden the incline with yet more forest.

  To call the scenery beautiful would be an understatement. Standing still he could hear nothing but the wind gently sweeping through the clearing and the occasional sound of something skittering through the brush beyond the tree line. This was a far cry from Chicago. He could see why Meade found the location so appealing.

  For all of its charms, it was still the commute that Cyrus found puzzling. Berton was a very small town. It barely had a post office let alone an airport. There had to be an airstrip somewhere nearby. It was the only explanation for Meade’s ability to live here while still visiting Chicago, London, and Washington D.C. so regularly. He would take a closer look at a map once he was settled and had a chance to get online.

  Pulling a key from his jacket pocket, Cyrus released the deadbolt on the front door. He entered a 12-digit code into the security panel just to the right of the doors.

  Inside he could hear the beeping of the home’s alarm system. He tapped another 12-digit code into the touch panel on the wall inside. A pair of different 12-digit codes just to disarm the alarm system? He’d never seen anything like it—at least not on a residence. Not on anything short of a high value military installation. He idly wondered where one draws the line between security conscious and paranoid.

  If the outside of the house was paradise, the inside was warm, tasteful and sparse. The entry way led into a large open floor plan with a substantial living room to the right and a short hallway on the left. A formal dining room was directly ahead with an expansive industrial grade kitchen off to the right. Beyond the living room was a hallway leading to the home’s four bedrooms.

  The floors of the entryway, kitchen and hallways were tiled in large pewter color ceramic while the living room was carpeted in a thick berber. The living room was wide and spacious with a pair of plush couches near the set of large front facing picture windows. Four oversized, cushy matching chairs were scattered throughout the room along with a series of end tables. The far wall of the living room was dominated by the mantle of fieldstone and etched concrete around the fireplace. To the left and right of the hearth were gigantic built-in bookcases that must have been ten feet tall. A great vaulted ceiling rose up over the entryway, living room, kitchen and dining room.

  Cyrus walked around the open area taking it all in. The place was clean—immaculate actually. Everything was very precise. The furniture was arranged just so. The bookcases were free from dust, the fireplace must have been gas fueled because even the walls of the hearth were clean. The logs in the fireplace looked real. He had to touch one of them to be sure they were imitation. Gas it is.

  Looking around, something seemed out of place. He was having trouble putting his finger on it. Then it clicked. There was no television in the living room. Not bad, he thought. This could be paradise after all!

  A walk down the short hallway to the left lead him to a spacious laundry room complete with a washer and dryer that looked out-of-the-box new. There was a countertop and cabinets built in around the washer and dryer. Cabinets hung from the walls over the counters and the machines. No expense was spared. T
he cabinets in the laundry room matched the quality and design of the ones in the kitchen. Likewise, the countertops were the same marble as the kitchen. Meade clearly knew what he wanted when he built the place. He hadn’t skimped on a single detail.

  Across from the laundry room Cyrus found a large walk-in closet. The short hallway ended at a door leading to the four-stall garage.

  Flipping the switch on the wall, Cyrus stepped into the garage. He was standing at the top of a platform five steps above the concrete floor of the wide-open garage bays. The concrete was polished and sealed. The walls were drywalled and painted with the same care and quality as the home’s interior. The ceiling was at least fifteen feet high with row after row of lighting ballast hung to chase away every possible shadow.

  A large Ford F250 pickup truck sat in the closest garage bay. It was jacked up on wide beefy tires. It had a heavy-duty cow catcher on the front and mounting linkage for a snow plow. There was an industrial grade winch attached to the front bumper. Cyrus took a long look at the jacked up 4x4 and tried to picture 80-year-old Walter Meade behind the wheel plowing snow. It was a hell of a thought. He wasn’t sure he could see it. But then again, he wouldn’t put anything past the old man.

  The two center bays were empty, but parked in the far stall were a pair of four wheel drive ATV’s. They were big red Hondas that looked brand new. They had thick rugged tires, and both machines sported rather heavy-duty looking winches on their front ends. He supposed that wasn’t a bad idea living way up on the mountain the way Meade did. It wasn’t like he would be able to get help quickly if he got stuck or ran into trouble. The winch was a good investment. One that, apparently, the old man had made on all his toys.

  And that brought Cyrus to the tarp stashed behind the ATVs. Pulling it back he found a pair of snowmobiles. These also looked like new. So new, he wasn’t sure they had ever been used. Again, up here all alone, the sleds could mean the difference between life and death in case of an emergency. It seems that Walter Meade had thought of everything.