“I don’t suppose you could find out if they have any hidden programs...” Harry started to say.
She speared him with a look that made him feel worse than dumb. “If you’re talking about ghost drives, I checked for them. If they are there, then someone else is holding them on another computer. All I know is what you asked me to find. I’m not a mind-reader, you know. If there’s anything hidden, then it’s in another location.” She folded her arms across her chest in a movement that indicated nothing more could be done.
This was more than a letdown. What else could they do? Anastasia walked over and stared at the screen. “Can this computer handle Russian to English or English to Russian translation?”
Maze cast a quick look at her, still looking somewhat unnerved. Finally she unfolded her arms, tapped a button, and waved her hand like a maestro conducting an orchestra. “It can now. What do you want to find out?”
“I need to know anything connected with a man called Nurmelev.” Anastasia spelled the name in English, and then typed it into the computer.
Maze shot her a look of annoyance. “Please don’t touch my stuff,” she said. “Computers are like, you know, sacred.”
“This is important,” Anastasia stated, and her voice went up a notch. “He’s dead, but he used to work with the KGB and run a program that made people into people like me. I need to find out if there are any labs, and...”
The computer geek had already begun to shake her head. “Russia is a closed country,” she stated in a matter-of-fact manner. “I can find out what the KGB is doing now, I can find out what their Prime Minister ate for breakfast, but you’re talking about deep cover. They’re probably so well hidden that people only know by talking and not by computer. And this is Russia, so no one’s talking.”
It was a given that Anastasia was already aware of that fact, but this was one extremely desperate situation. “Please,” Harry said as he walked over. “Someone there turned Anastasia from someone like you into someone, er, different. We have to know.”
For a moment, it seemed as if Maze wanted nothing more to do with it all, but Jason interrupted by saying, “If you’re that hot, you can do this.”
A snort came from her lips. “Boyfriend, I was made to do this. Give me thirty minutes.”
Jason went over to another computer and began playing a game. With nothing better to do than to wait, Harry and Anastasia took a seat on the lone couch and waited.
Time passed, and only the sounds of bleeps, bloops and squeaks came from Jason’s end, while his girlfriend continued her search, occasionally reaching into the bag to grab another carob-infested treat.
“I’ve got something!” Maze announced, and immediately the three other people in the room raced over to her position. “Is this the guy?”
Harry peered at the screen, and the familiar face of Nurmelev stood out. Although this was an image of younger man—the Nurmelev they’d met had been bald and in his sixties, while this picture showed a man twenty years younger with thinning dark hair—the piercing dark eyes stood out, as did the cruel smile on his lips.
Anastasia started to growl deep in her throat, her hands balled up into fists, and for a moment he thought she might actually smash the computer. “Yeah, that’s him,” she said.
“I thought so,” Maze said, triumph lacing every word. “Most of the files on him have been erased, but this one was floating around in another scientist’s résumé.”
“Who is it?” Anastasia wanted to know.
Maze tapped a few more keys, but the screen remained frozen on Nurmelev’s image. She tried again and the screen shifted briefly, but the image of the dead Russian scientist remained. “Whoever is running this,” she said, “doesn’t want any info on Nurmelev getting out. I had to go through the Kremlin in order to get this.”
While it wasn’t what Harry had hoped for, it was something, and he scanned the information in front of him.
Pavel Nurmelev, born in Kiev, died...no information. Educated at the University of Moscow...advanced degrees in biology, biochemistry...applied science...worked at the university in a research capacity...recruited by the KGB, 1981...stationed in Siberia...known acquaintances...
The information stopped at that point, but another question mark popped up, followed by the letter G. “What does G stand for?” Jason wanted to know.
“It could stand for anything,” Anastasia remarked, her immediate anger gone for the moment. Only an icy demeanor remained as she stared at the screen with extreme distaste. “It could mean a name, the name of a program the KGB or its affiliates ran, or something else. There’s no way of knowing.”
Mini-speech over, she went over to plop down on the couch. “You didn’t get a location, did you?” Harry asked.
Tap-tap-tap went the keys and this time, a picture popped up. It was instantly recognizable—Chernobyl. “They’re doing the experiments there?” he asked.
“They’re doing something there,” Maze said with certainty. “All the links I tried took me to this same image. It might be a cover or it might be the real thing. But,” she paused to root through the bag, found one more chocolate and stuffed it in her mouth, “assuming that it is on the real, then it could be anything, not necessarily transgenic experiments.”
A perturbed look suddenly crossed her features. “This picture, it...wait a second. I think I’ve seen this picture before.”
Her fingers danced on the keyboard, and after a few seconds, she nodded, satisfied. “It’s a trick,” she said. “Look.”
Another identical shot of Chernobyl came up...a Wikipedia picture. “I thought it looked sort of familiar,” she said. “Whoever’s running this program, they’re playing some kind of game.”
All of this confused Harry. “So, are you saying that it isn’t Chernobyl?”
Maze shook her head. “No, what I’m saying is that it’s probably the place you’re looking for, but this could be some kind of,” she paused to search for the word, “uh...misdirection. It’s like whoever’s in charge wants the world to look, but doesn’t want them to really know. That’s why they put up the picture, to mislead people, just in case someone like me hacked into their system.”
“They can’t trace you, can they?” Anastasia asked.
Maze gave her a smug look. “I’ve got blocks in place. Any attempt to try will lead them to a dark place on the Internet. I call it the terminal toilet. It’s a site I designed that contains only viruses, and they are not friendly, if you know what I mean. They haven’t got a chance.”
“Told you she was good,” Jason chimed in.
“I’m the best,” Maze declared, and then turned her attention back to the computer. “It’s definitely Chernobyl, but for all I know, they’re studying the after-effects of radiation poisoning. This place is still a hotspot if the papers are telling the truth. I can’t do anything else. I’ve been shut out. What I showed you before... that was as far as I could go.”
Thanking her, he went over to the couch and sat down. Anastasia took his hand in hers and held it tightly. “Thanks for getting me this far,” she said softly. “I wouldn’t have known where to check.”
A knock disturbed the moment of quiet, and Maze got a look of alarm on her face. “Are we expecting any company?”
Jason went to the window and peered out. “Oh, crap, someone must have seen Anastasia,” he whispered in a fierce undertone. “The police are here. There’s a cruiser outside. Hide!”
Another knock sounded, presumably from the rear door. They were bracketed, and Maze let out a squawk and quickly stabbed a button on the computer. Instantly, all the files disappeared from the screen and she pointed to the second floor. “I just got rid of the information,” she said in a harsh whisper. “They won’t know anything. There’s a small attic on the second floor, end of the hall to the left. Door’s there, there’s a small set of stairs. Use it.”
Immediately, Harry grabbed Anastasia’s hand and they took off as quickly and quietly as possible. He onl
y hoped that the police wouldn’t search the house—and then just as quickly remembered that the FBI knew about Jason, or at least, Farrell did. He wasn’t sure if anyone else had been included in the loop.
Skittering up the stairs, they found the door that led to the attic, and taking care not to make any noise, they entered. Inside, they immediately had to crouch down to their knees as the ceiling was no more than four feet high. It was filled with numerous boxes of books and clothes, and when Harry brushed against one of them, it fell over and a cloud of dust arose. Anastasia sneezed, and then covered her mouth, a guilty look written all over her face. “Sorry,” she whispered.
Searching for another way out, he saw there was none save a small window at the back of the room, which overlooked the backyard. “Can you make it through?” Anastasia asked.
“No.” It was too small. There was no way he could squeeze through.
Nervously, they waited for the inevitable sounds of the authorities banging on the door. “Open up!” one voice yelled. His voice, loud, rough, and demanding cut through the air. “We’re looking for a short, slight teenager along with someone who looks like a cat-girl.”
“You’re talking about a cat-girl?” they heard Maze say. She was really putting on the polite teenager act. “No sir, we haven’t seen anyone fitting that description.”
“Is that so?”
The voice sounded heavy, rough, and impatient, and it made Harry think that someone knew he was here. A second later, he realized that someone had traced Farrell’s car license. That had to be the reason they were here. A fine sweat broke out on his forehead, but he kept still. There was nowhere else to go.
A second later, the sound of shouts along with the echo of the door slamming against the wall resounded through the house. “Hey!” Maze yelled, “You can’t come in here without a warrant!”
“Move aside, young lady, or else I’ll take you in, too.” The policeman’s voice sounded more than a little angry. With a sinking heart Harry knew that the law was about to be trampled on, all in the name of public safety. They were after the wrong person, but no way were they going to believe him.
Now footsteps, thudding and loud, echoed heavily in his ears, and the sound drew closer. The cops were coming! “Go,” he whispered to Anastasia.
“I won’t leave you,” she whispered back, holding him tightly. “I won’t!”
This was not the time to be noble, he thought. “You have to. I can’t make it, but you can. Go,” he urged, and just as the door opened and light flooded in, he heard the sound of glass breaking and knew she’d managed to get out.
Light flooded the area, making him blink. The large form of a policeman appeared in the doorway. “Harry Goldman,” he intoned, “you’re under arrest.”
The cop’s voice sounded satisfied. Job well done and now he could sit down and enjoy Miller time. Harry knew that there would be no escape for him, but at the very least, his girlfriend was safe.
Chapter Six: Breakout—Break-in
The officer made a perfunctory search of the attic with his flashlight, but he was a very large man and there wasn’t much room for him to maneuver. A sound of frustration came out of his mouth when he saw the broken glass and he immediately spoke into his walkie-talkie, “Subject escaped through the window. Be advised that she is very dangerous, use deadly force if necessary.”
After wriggling out of the attic, he cursed and dragged Harry out, tossing him down the stairs. Hitting the wall with a crash, Harry slowly got to his feet, his back and head sending stabs of sickening pain all over his body. Police brutality wasn’t for him.
Out of the corner of his eye, he saw his friends watching in silence and the cop grabbed his shoulder in a painful grip and ushered him over to the door. This was definitely not the moment he’d been hoping for.
“What are you going to do to him?” Maze asked, hand over her mouth. “Where are you taking him?”
The policeman didn’t answer immediately. She repeated the question and ran over to block the door. “Where are you taking him?”
For a moment, the cop’s hand strayed to his holster. Instead of taking his gun out, he shoved her aside roughly and said, “If you’re smart, you’ll testify against this punk. If you’re not, you’ll end up in jail just like him.”
Harry caught the expression on their faces, one of total disillusionment combined with helplessness. No mirror was around, but he figured that his face probably wore the same look. A few of the residents had come out to watch the action, and one of them cheered, waving his hand and yelling “Nice arrest!” before his wife told him to stop and made him put his hand down.
“Move it,” the officer ordered, and tossed Harry into the back seat of the police cruiser. He got in beside him, slammed the door, and told his partner, “Let’s go.”
The journey to the station downtown took thirty minutes, and during the journey, Harry sat quietly, hopeful that Anastasia had gotten away unscathed. It was a sure bet that the police would be searching in and around Inwood Park, but he doubted they’d catch her. She was too fast, too strong, and too smart. The only question that remained was where she would go.
As for his friend and Maze, he wondered what would happen to them. He asked the cop beside him, and the answer came quickly. “We’re not after them. We were after you. You stole an FBI agent’s car, so add that to killing two men. Right now, I’d advise you to shut up and listen to me read you your rights. If you say so much as one word, I will slam you one, you got that? Killing cops is something I wouldn’t mind taking revenge for.”
It probably never occurred to this guy that it would have been impossible for any person to have gutted the agents in such a manner. However, the policeman didn’t look to be in a mood to listen to any excuses or any details, so Harry just kept his mouth shut.
Officer Mean proceeded to read him his rights, and once finished, said, “I’m going to assume that you understood what I just said, so just nod your dumbass head and say nothing.”
Harry nodded. This day was not going well at all.
After reaching the precinct, the cop pulled him out of the car and marched him up the steps in front of a group of bystanders. Some of the onlookers took a few snapshots with their cellphones. Selfies, why did they always have to take selfies? While they marched along, the cop who’d made the arrest asked, “You’re not going to cause us any trouble, are you, killer?”
“I’m not a killer,” Harry answered, breaking his code of silence.
The policeman uttered a harsh laugh. “That’s what they all say.” At the height of perhaps six-four and massive all over, he had a round face with plain features and while it would ordinarily have had a mild look to it, it was offset by a shock of red hair and a nasty grin. “You notice that I didn’t cuff you in the car, and I’m giving you some freedom here, so consider that a little trust on my end.”
Once they got inside the station, though, he let fly with a swat to the side of Harry’s head with a ham-sized hand. The impact rocked Harry back on his heels and nearly took him off his feet. A few people, cops as well as civilians, watched the scene go down, but said nothing. It seemed that they were used to the cops smacking suspects around.
“Is that your idea of trust?” he asked in a bitter voice. Weren’t the police supposed to observe a hands-off policy in situations like these? No...upon further reflection, he knew that they wouldn’t. He was a wanted suspect, an alleged killer. The police wouldn’t understand.
“My trust only goes so far,” the redheaded policeman said. He indicated the other cop who’d come in with them, another man-mountain, olive-skinned, and with a pinched face that seemed to have a permanent sneer on it. “And I’m going to add that if you try anything with me and my partner,” he added, “we will be only too happy to exact a little justice on behalf of those two agents you killed.”
“Didn’t kill anyone,” Harry muttered sullenly. He touched the side of his head. It felt halfway caved in, but showing pain wasn’t o
n the menu. “You wouldn’t believe me if I told you.”
Both cops stared at him with looks that read please give us an excuse to hurt you very badly. Officer Mean chortled, “No, we wouldn’t.”
The booking room was full of the usual suspects, drunks, hookers, and tattooed members of some biker gang with long hair, jean jackets and pants. They yelled as one that they were innocent. “Yeah, I’ve heard it all before,” one of the policemen stated in a voice that cut through the air and temporarily stopped the noise.
It soon resumed, louder than before, but not everyone was screaming. There were a few people sitting on the floor, mainly teens, and he noticed them staring out at reality in a stoner’s hazy daze.
“This way, Goldman,” Officer Mean said, and shoved him over to a desk where another cop fingerprinted him. He stood there in silence while he went through the procedure, and once done, the cop handed him a dirty rag so that he could clean his fingers.
A few tabloid reporters with some photographers in tow, hungry for online or paper news, broke away from talking to a group of scantily dressed women to come his way and shout out questions.
“Hey, are you the killer?” one of them yelled and told the photographer beside him to start snapping. Flashes went off and Harry covered the side of his face. Oh, way to make his day even worse, he was going to be on the seven o’clock news report. “Look this way, kid, and get famous! You’re front page news!”
Another reporter rushed over with a mike in hand. “I’m Larry Owen with the New York Daily,” he said in a breathless, demanding manner. “I heard that you’re responsible for the murder of no less than sixty FBI agents six months ago and the murder of two more up in the Catskill Mountains just a short time ago. Give me a statement. Just a few words, that’s all I’m asking here.”
Rise of the Transgenics Page 9
