Even the Wind: A Jonas Brant Thriller

by Phillip Wilson

``It’s the burden I bear,’’ Mallek said with a hint of irony in her voice.

  Brant pulled out the Beretta to ensure it was in working order. The smell of oil and leather permeated the Range Rover’s interior.

  Mallek’s eyes widened when she saw the gun.

  ``Insurance.’’

  He linked Eichel’s phone wirelessly to the Range Rover’s GPS. Mallek pulled out of the gravel parking lot, executed a perfect three-point turn and headed off in the direction suggested by Eichel’s phone records. Once they’d reached the main road she turned on the Range Rover’s headlights and rolled down the windows for air. Moments later they were winding through a shadowed stand of trees.

  ``It makes perfect sense,’’ Brant said as he eyed the GPS display. ``The phone records show Eichel made this trip every couple of days since he got here.’’

  ``How can you be sure we’ll find anything at the end of this little side trip, let alone some kind of a smoking gun?’’

  ``No, no smoking gun. But I bet we’re going to find something. Maybe even a clean room.’’

  Mallek turned to take in Brant’s expression, an incredulous look on her face. ``Out here in the middle of nowhere? I think you may have been smoking whatever it is that Eichel and his partners were cooking up. There are better locations.’’

  ``Think about it. We’re in the middle of nowhere. You saw the invoices. Someone was buying medical equipment. Allison Carswell stole equipment from the Tufts lab. Why? At first I thought it may have been all about drugs. But I don’t think so.’’

  She thought for a moment.

  ``There’s also the email that Eichel sent Carswell,’’ Brant said, recalling the message he’d pulled off Carswell’s computer. ``They’d been buying shares in pharmaceutical companies and selling short tourism companies and airlines. That’s not about illegal drugs. They were cooking up something else.’’

  ``Selling short?’’ Mallek asked.

  ``Sale of a security they didn’t actually own,’’ he said. ``They were hoping the shares would fall so they could buy them back at a lower price to make a profit.’’

  Mallek shrugged. ``Nice working theory but that’s all it is. You can’t really prove it.’’

  ``We’ll be able to prove some of it if we find the lab.’’

  ``Good point.’’

  She killed the engine when they came to a clearing. Tracks led from the main road down a rutted and pitted trail that twisted and meandered into the forest. Rain continued to pound.

  Mallek parked the Range Rover as far from the main road as she could safely arrange without getting the vehicle stuck in a quagmire of mud at the head of the trail. She failed. In short order, the vehicle’s big tires sank into the soft earth. She revved the engine in a futile attempt to break free, only for the tires to dig deeper into sodden, mucky ground.

  ``Shit,’’ she said through gritted teeth.

  ``We’ll have to go on foot. Eichel’s trail ends here.’’

  ``You’ve got to be kidding. We’re in the middle of nowhere. This was probably just the turnaround point on his cycling route. It was a good guess but this is crazy.’’

  Ignoring her, Brant opened the car door and set his foot into a puddle of mud. He’d had the good sense to change into rain gear. His hiking boots had been damp. A clean pair of LL Bean socks had been about all he could find back in his room. He fully zipped his outer shell.

  ``See those trees over there? The trail leads in that direction. It can’t be far.’’

  ``You’re out of your mind.’’

  ``Indulge me,’’ Brant said, offering his hand for support as Mallek pulled herself from the driver’s seat. She pushed his hand away in protest.

  ``Thanks but I can do it myself,’’ she said as she slammed the door and locked the car. Though thin ribbons of white cloud raced across a gray background of more turbulent weather, the rain was softer among the trees. ``I suppose you’re going to go anyway. I’m not staying in the car by myself. Someone has to protect you from yourself. Don’t forget. That hit to the head was a nasty blow.’’

  ``I’ll get the backpacks and the flashlights.’’

  The trail took them past a barbed wire gate padlocked and rusted shut. On the other side of the gate the trail widened and twisted before disappearing around a bend.

  ``I don’t suppose you have any wirecutters?’’ Brant asked.

  ``Oh, let me see. May dear old dad stocked a few in the trunk of his daughter’s $100,000 Range Rover before sending her off to medical school. No, I don’t have any wirecutters.’’

  ``We’ll have to climb over,’’ Brant said without further comment. ``You go first.’’

  Once clear of the gate the going was easy. The trail was rutted, leaving Brant to wonder why the gate would have been rusted if the trail had been recently used. They made quick progress at first, but a narrowing of the path slowed them down.

  The canyon of trees closed around them. A walking trail took them deeper into the woods, past a rocky outcrop then parallel to a small stream. The deeper into the woods they hiked, the thicker the smell of the forest — earthy, heavy and organic. Rain continued to fall, pattering down on the big canopy of leaves above them. Brant scanned the path for signs they remained on the correct trail. Broken branches and leaves, compressed into the spongy soil offered a comforting reassurance of sorts.

  They hiked, both lost in their thoughts with the only sounds their own shallowing breathing, the rain and the undergrowth rubbing up against their rain shells. The light was low, but enough that Brant had no need of the flashlight. Mallek took the lead as Brant tired. He looked on in appreciation as the younger woman deftly danced between the thickened rows of aspens and ferns. She was at home in the woods and she moved with graceful, long strides. Occasionally she would stop, consult the compass she’d brought, then plunge ahead without saying a word. Brant struggled to keep up and to match the easy, loping cantor.

  Mallek stopped dead in her tracks, cocking her head as if catching the scent of an animal. Brant followed as she stepped from the narrow path and began fighting her way through the dense undergrowth. They came to a clearing. A cabin sat in the center of an open field of daffodils. Its windows were dark. No smoke rose from the chimney.

  ``This what you’re looking for?’’ Mallek asked finally.

  ``Could be. Help me with the lock.’’

  The door had been padlocked. Rings had been affixed to the door and the frame. The padlock had been looped through the rings, which were corroded with rust. Through a window, Brant could see a sitting room, a sofa and a cold, black fireplace. He pushed and prodded at the door. The windows rattled in the cold breeze. Water dripped from eves rotted and pitted with holes.

  ``Looks abandoned,’’ he finally said. He was about to give up on the lock when the rings crumbled and broke. The padlock fell to the ground, missing the toe of his right boot by inches.

  ``That wasn’t too difficult,’’ Mallek said. ``But it also makes me suspicious. This place doesn’t look like it’s been used in years.’’

  Brant opened the door as thunder roiled like gunshot in the distance. Moments later, lightning flashed, filling the room with a silver glow. Chairs, tables and bookshelves seemed to levitate. He stepped into the cabin’s main room.

  ``Not what you expected?’’ Mallek stood by his side, flashlight at the ready. A slack-jawed Brant continued to the scan the room for signs of life.

  ``This isn’t right,’’ he said. ``It’s got to be here.’’

  ``Maybe the bedroom?’’

  ``Help me look.’’

  He cleared some of the furniture, stepping over boxes stuffed with newspapers and books. Dust motes stirred to life by the opening of the door hung suspended in the air, illuminated by the occasional flash of lightning.

  The cabin was barren, unloved, abandoned. A search of the bedroom yielded nothing.

  ``What about outside?’’ he finally asked more out of hope than reason.

  ``You saw. Th
ere’s nothing.’’ Mallek shook her head in exasperation. She was growing tired and weary. How long would they chase ghosts?

  ``It’s worth a try.’’

  She followed out the back door and into the clearing at the rear of the cabin. Stones had been buried into the ground, forming a path leading into the woods. They followed the trail to the edge of the clearing where a stand of daffodils yielded to the encroaching forest. Triumphantly, Brant started clearing long tuffs of grass and assorted brush until the vague outline of a door appeared. Satisfied, he stood back to admire what he’d uncovered. Though cloaked in darkness, the prize was clear.

  The doors were unlocked. Without much effort, they removed the remaining vegetation and were soon descending into the dark, dank opening. Stairs led to a small foyer, which led to a larger room that appeared to stretch for seven meters or so in each direction. The space was small but sufficient. Brant searched the room with his flashlight for a bulb or light switch. None was to be found.

  Eventually, he found an electrical cord and plugged it in. The room came to life.

  The room’s walls were concrete polished so smooth they seemed to glisten. Wooden shelves lined one end of the room. At the other end, a desk and benches had been fashioned from sheet metal. A half dozen clear plastic boxes sat in a plastic trolley. A small refrigerator hummed in the corner.

  Brant’s eyes widened as he focused on the plastic boxes, each filled with three white mice scratching and sniffing at the walls of their transparent jails. Ventilation holes had been drilled into the blue plastic lids on the boxes. He moved to the refrigerator where he found glass Petri dishes. Flasks, roller bottles and pipettes sat on the metal desk.

  ``Don’t touch,’’ Mallek barked when he’d started to reach for one of the glass trays. ``Those Petri dishes have cell cultures in them.’’

  ``Mouse shit,’’ Brant said, watching the rodents scratching and pawing as they sniffed the air.

  ``What was that?’’

  ``The medical examiner found mouse dander and hair on Allison Carswell’s body. I have a good idea now where it came from. If not from here, probably from the Genepro labs.’’

  ``What is this place?’’ Mallek asked in amazement as she scanned the room.

  ``I’m guessing it’s a storm shelter or maybe an old bomb shelter. Some of the folks around here were pretty paranoid in the `60s. Those were crazy times.’’

  Mallek scanned the bookshelf. Volumes of leatherbound books had been placed in neat rows, their spines facing outward to reveal their titles.

  ``This is high-level biology,’’ she said, remarking on the texts. ``Look at this.’’

  She took the plastic hood off what appeared to Brant to be a large, expensive microscope.

  ``What are we looking at?’’

  ``Well, it’s not exactly a clean room but there’s enough equipment in here to do some serious laboratory work.’’

  ``How serious?’’

  ``DNA sequencing. Growing cultures. Bacteriology. You might even be able to manufacture some kind of biological agent.’’

  ``What, you mean like anthrax?’’

  Mallek pursed her lips. ``As I said, bioterrorism is notoriously difficult. But biological agents have their advantage. They’re almost impossible to detect for one thing. I suppose that in theory you could use some of this equipment to synthesize the beginnings of a weapon. Maybe you could manipulate botulinum toxin or anthrax. You’d need to be extremely careful or you’d kill yourself in the process. I understand why you’d want to do it out here in the middle of nowhere. It makes sense. You don’t want anyone around. But you don’t seriously think Eichel and Carswell were working on a biological agent, do you?’’

  Brant shrugged. ``I don’t know what to think anymore. I’m guessing that whoever killed Eichel, and maybe even Allison Carswell, didn’t want anyone to know about this place.’’

  CHAPTER FORTY-FOUR

  ``That’s about right.’’

  They turned in unison toward the voice. Out of the darkened doorway, Ingrid King stepped into the light. Brant’s eyes focused immediately on the Glock 19 she held with the confidence of someone who knew their way around firearms. The barrel of the Glock swung from Brant to Mallek as she motioned for them to step away from the sheet metal table.

  The Glock 19 was a small gun, easily concealable and light enough for King to handle with ease. But it was also deadly. Brant preferred the larger Glock 26 or a Beretta but he knew the destructive impact of a slug fired from the 19. King continued to brandish the Glock with aplomb, clearly emboldened by the power she held in her slender hands.

  ``Don’t think I don’t know what I’m doing,’’ she said, reading Brant’s mind. ``I know how to use this. Hands in front and in the air.’’

  Brant and Mallek did as they were told. Mallek shot him a questioning look as if momentarily confused, her brain no longer able to process events.

  Ingrid King took a second step into the room. She was dressed in rain gear, the hood of her outer shell pulled away from her face to reveal strands of blond hair pasted to her forehead.

  ``Give me your gun, lieutenant.’’

  Reluctantly, Brant reached for the Beretta, cursing himself for being distracted by the discovery of the lab. After he’d handed the piece over, Ingrid King placed the Beretta snuggly between the small of her back and her waistband.

  ``I’ll shoot if you move any further,’’ she said, her voice flat. ``Now give me the USB drive.’’

  ``What drive?’’

  Ingrid King pointed the gun at Mallek.

  Brant nodded.

  Mallek unzipped her jacket and reached into the inner pocket where she’d stored the USB dongle. She extended her free hand in front of her body as a sign of surrender, indicating she intended no harm or action.

  ``Put it on the table. And you, sit over there.’’

  King nodded in the direction of a metal stool at the edge of the table.

  ``What’s going on, Ingrid?’’ Brant pointed to the Glock with his chin. He fought to hold his voice in check. Thunder cracked in the distance. Brant’s heart leaped and for a moment he had a vision of the Glock spitting bullets into the room. King held her ground and steadied the gun as if she were lining them up in her sights.

  ``You want some answers?’’

  ``Answers would be nice,’’ Brant said, turning imperceptibly toward Mallek.

  ``Yes, I suppose it is time for answers.’’

  A smile crossed Ingrid King’s face as she retrieved the USB. The face he’d found so beautiful just two days earlier suddenly seemed to have taken on an outsized severity and hardness.

  For one of the first times in his life, Brant was scared.

  CHAPTER FORTY-FIVE

  ``You’re owed an explanation, I suppose.’’

  Ingrid King’s face was a pale mask. She stared beyond them, beyond the metal counter, the wooden bookshelves — even beyond the concrete walls of the bunker.

  Brant shifted his weight. The metal stool was uncomfortable.

  They’d been sitting across from each other for 10 minutes. None of them moved. Finally, King cleared her voice.

  ``What do you think of the bunker?’’ she asked, a note of forced frivolity entering her voice.

  ``It’s cosy,’’ Brant said, scanning the room again. The shelter appeared more cell-like with each passing minute. It was small and dank, the air heavy and rank.

  ``Franz found it. He was out hiking one day and stumbled on it. He came back to the lodge with the excitement of a young child. It would be our little nest, you see. But I’m jumping ahead of myself. We’ll get to that. But you have to understand first.’’

  ``What exactly is this place?’’ Mallek asked.

  King clucked as she drew air in through the small opening of her pursed lips.

  ``I would have thought that would be obvious to such a smart girl as you, Christine.’’

  Mallek shot King a look of contempt.

  ``It’s a lab,
of course. It was our little experiment. A place where we could come and get away from John and the other guests. It’s a relief in many ways…now that you’ve discovered it. I suppose there’s no going back to what we all were before.’’

  ``That’s not much of an explanation,’’ Brant said.

  He held his hands in front. His shoulders sagged from the effort.

  ``We really need to start at the beginning. Why don’t we do that, yes?’’

  Brant and Mallek looked at each other, their thoughts unreadable.

  ``I was raised in Sweden. A small town outside Trelleborg. Do either of you know much about Sweden? No? It doesn’t matter. It’s not really important except for a starting point. You need to understand how we got here, you see, and this is the best way. In any event, I grew up in Trelleborg. As with most towns in Sweden, we were near the water. I used to love going to the beach. I would spend hours out on the sand. When I finished high school, my mother and father wanted me to go to an art college in Stockholm. I had other ideas. I took the ferry from Malmo to Copenhagen. From there it was a matter of hitchhiking and then some trains, a bus or two and I ended up in London. I didn’t want art school. Not because I didn’t like art, but because it was what my parents wanted for me and I suppose I was being rebellious.’’

  Ingrid King smiled as she stared at the blank concrete wall and, Brant supposed, the tendrils of her memory floating away somewhere in the recesses of her mind.

  ``I met a fellow…Richard Addison-Smith….Terribly impressed with himself as all those upperclass Brits can be. He was superior to everyone and he made sure you knew it. Anyway, he was good-looking, intelligent, had money. The whole package. I fell in love with him and foolishly followed him to Edinburgh where he had enrolled in the university to study medicine. Everything was going along swimmingly when I found him in bed with one of my friends.’’

  King exhaled as she tightened the grip on the Glock. Though deep into her story, she was unwavering in the intensity with which she held the 9 mm. Nothing was going to pry it from her hands. Not in this life anyways, Brant reckoned.