Against the Clock

by Charlie Moore

  "Just leave it there on the table," Smith said before the small man could hand it to him.

  He did as he was told.

  "Wait a minute, then stand up and walk away. Don't look back." Smith took a burner phone from his jacket pocket. It was new. He placed it on the edge of the bench between them. "Take this phone as you leave. If you think you're being followed, call me. My number is programmed into it. Just hit redial. If you really want this to be the last time, keep the phone with you. Someone will contact you."

  The small man looked bewildered, grateful, and confused all at once.

  "Do you understand?" Smith asked.

  He nodded.

  Smith smiled. The old man could track him via the phone, even listen in to his conversations. It was perfect. He would make sure he took the phone everywhere, he would even protect it. The best kind of surveillance.

  Before the small man had even left, Smith was planning his route to meet with Zelig's men and to interrogate Gerald Maier. But first, he had to get a message to the old man.

  16:54:19

  Gerald Maier hung up the phone and wondered what the hell he had gotten himself into. He had left two voicemails for the lady he knew as Katie Jones. She hadn't called him back yet.

  He clenched the slender USB tightly in his fist, rubbing his balled hand against his forehead, as if willing his mind to erase its contents and turn back time. He wished now so badly that he had not accepted the USB, had not opened it, and had not looked into the data it held. At first glance, the information seemed innocuous, but to his skilled mind, it unfolded quickly into a spider web of facts that now scared him.

  Gerald slammed the USB on his desk, turned to his computer, and hurriedly started deleting local files and search history queries from the computer's digital brain. He deactivated his key-logger software, deleted data for the last few hours, emptied the recycle bin, and rebooted his PC. He wanted no evidence of what he had found, or of his involvement.

  He picked up the phone and dialed the direct extension to his secretary. She picked up promptly as always.

  "Lucy, have you had any calls come through from a Katie Jones?"

  "Not that I'm aware, Mr. Maier. What would you like me to do if she does call?"

  Gerald thought about it for a moment before replying, "Patch her through to my cell phone. I'm leaving the office early today."

  "Yes, of course."

  "Actually, Lucy, can you reschedule my appointments tomorrow? I have a personal appointment tomorrow, and I'm thinking it will run most of the day."

  "No problem, sir."

  "Thanks, Lucy. Once you've done that, turn the answering machine on, I can check it remotely. You can head on home."

  "Thank you, Mr. Maier.".

  Gerald returned his thoughts to the wretched USB sitting on his desk. It looked harmless. but understanding the knowledge of what was hiding inside the drive, Gerald felt disgusted looking at it.

  How had this woman gotten these files? Did she know what was inside them?

  He tried to call her again.

  16:54:49

  Gerald Maier was a good boss. He was rigid, uptight even, but he was consistent, fair and, underneath his gentle arrogance, he was caring. Lucy liked him.

  She finished updating his online calendar with the changes to his schedule before closing down her computer. This would be the first dinner with her husband in almost a week. It was the hardest part of him being a fireman―the rotating rosters meant four days out of eight they passed each other like ships in the night.

  Walking to the lifts in a hurry, she wondered what she could pick up for dinner on the way home. Maybe they could skip dinner…thoughts of her bent over the couch, half dressed, for a quickie made her smile. She trotted faster in her high heels.

  On the ground floor, she skipped out of the elevator, her cheeks surely flushed in anticipation of surprising her husband. She'd be home in eighteen minutes if she hurried. Having sex in twenty, spent, laughing and hungry in forty.

  She paid little attention to the two men walking toward her, then past her, and then entering the lift.

  17:01:36

  Shirin and Barratt arrived at the office suite above Glorietta Shopping Plaza. They hadn't spoken much during their circuitous route. The silence was a welcome reprieve from the chaos of Kitchener Park and Belmont Police Station.

  Getting to Zelig wouldn't be easy. He was a master spy, well protected. Shirin had to rest and plan, and then execute. She had reached equally difficult targets before. It just took time and careful planning. Zelig would be no different.

  Years had passed since her husband had been killed. She still mourned him. Still felt the pain of his loss, and still felt the anger and hatred deep in her blood for those who had taken him from her. She had given so much to find his killers. Had invested so much of herself to track down each and every one of them that now, she felt hollow inside. She couldn't remember the good times with Harry, only the moment he died. Only the pain of seeing him die. These people had taken even that from her.

  And now, after all the events over the last day, she was certain without doubt Zelig was behind it. But why? And was there anyone else?

  It wouldn't be enough to kill him. No. She would abduct him, torture him. Punish him. And she would make sure every single person to blame was held accountable. This vendetta was all she knew now. All she was.

  "Having your office above a shopping plaza has its advantages," Barratt said, unpacking freshly purchased clothes from one of the stores below. Taking the new clothes with him, he headed for the executive en suite. A moment later, Shirin heard the shower running.

  Changing back into black cargos, a dark shirt, and her black boots, Shirin camped at her computer, logged on, and caught up with missed calls and emails.

  There were three voice messages on her cell from Gerald Maier. She played them.

  "Ms. Jones, this is Gerald Maier. It's important that we speak as soon as possible. Please contact me as soon as you get this message."

  He sounded clearly concerned. She saved it and moved to the next message.

  "Ms. Jones, this is Gerald Maier again. It is very important that you call me as soon as you get this message."

  His voice had grown audibly more stressed. He must have looked at the contents of the USB. Something must have spooked him. He sounded scared.

  The next message from him was blank. He'd hung up without saying a word.

  Shirin looked at the time stamp for his last call: 16:53, only eight minutes ago. He was probably still there. She picked up the handset connected to the computer and initiated the bounced call to Gerald's office. Anyone tracing the call would be bounced from tower to tower, country to country. She had ninety seconds on the line before even the best equipment could track her true location.

  The line rang. No answer. She tried the cell number attached to his business card. No answer.

  "What's happening?" Barratt asked, toweling his hair dry. He was clean-shaven now, wearing blue jeans and a black polo, un-tucked.

  "Our accountant, Gerald Maier, tried calling me a few times. He didn't sound right. Now he's not answering his phones." She swapped to another screen on her computer. She activated the tracker web app and followed the prompts, logging in the search criteria for the bug assigned to Gerald Maier.

  "You bugged him," Barratt said knowingly.

  "I attached a tracking device to the Flash drive." Her fingers danced over the keyboard. A satellite image came up on the screen. It was blurred, unintelligible. But, as Shirin input distance parameters, it flashed into focus incrementally.

  Barratt came closer to the screen, watching in awe as Shirin worked the data. "This is military grade. Where did you get this?"

  "I know people who know people," she said absently as she zoomed into the beacon attached to the USB. "If he's got the drive with him, he's still in his building."

  "Too bad you don't have audio on that thing," Barratt commented with wry sarcasm.
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  "I don't," she said, not picking up on the quip. "But maybe I can hack into his cell phone and triangulate a location…"

  "Yeah, well, I'm making us a coffee while you do that."

  17:06:03

  Smith walked into Gerald Maier's office. He walked with confidence, still wearing the disguise from his meeting with Patch; there was no need for Zelig's two agents to see his real appearance. They were expecting him―that was enough.

  On his way, he had deposited the package at a pre-determined drop site for the old man. It had taken longer than he had liked, but this distraction with the accountant had inadvertently provided an opportunity. for the old man and his team to spend more time on investigations into what the package contained before he had to pick it up again and deliver it to Minister Jordan.

  Turning his attention to the accountant, he carefully placed a leather doctor's bag on the table and looked curiously at the man he was about to interrogate.

  Gerald was seated in his executive chair, his shirtsleeves pulled up high, his forearms strapped to the armrests of the oversized chair with wide Velcro-padded strips. His chest, waist, and legs were also secured. A gag was fixed over his mouth. His eyes were open wide with fear as he fought pointlessly against his restraints. This man had spirit, Smith thought. It was almost a shame to break it.

  Without looking at the two agents in the room, he spoke to them as though they were invisible.

  "You two can leave now." They looked at each other, and Smith continued, "Be sure to walk out of the lifts with your heads upright. There's a surveillance camera there, and we want a clear timeline of when the two of you left the building."

  Smith sat on the corner of Gerald's desk. He propped one leg up and leaned in a little to get a closer look into the man's eyes. Satisfied, he leaned back, turned his head to the two agents who still hadn't left the office.

  "I said for you two to leave. So leave!" he said more forcefully.

  They hesitated, then left without a word.

  17:07:34

  "I'm in!" Shirin said as her fingers continued to tap away at the keyboard in front of her. Hacking into the provider for Gerald Maier's cell phone had been remarkably easy; expensive and illegal software had facilitated that. But triangulating his location had taken longer than she thought. Given the high density of cell towers in that region of the city, she was able to narrow the field to the size of one block.

  "And?"

  "And…it says his cell phone is in the building, too…"That he had left the USB behind at the office was reasonable, but not his cell phone. Not a man like Gerald. She didn't like the feel of it.

  "What are the chances?" Barratt asked, thinking the same thoughts as Shirin.

  "Not good."

  "Agreed."

  "Something's not right," Shirin said. Her gut was never wrong. She looked at Barratt, the fresh coffee in his hand half gone, and said, "Do you want to finish your coffee or come with me? I'm going to check this out. He called for a reason. And I'm thinking he's not answering for a reason, too."

  "I'm with you."

  Shirin shut down the PCs, grabbed two packed assault bags from a locked compartment hidden within the wardrobe, and tossed one to Barratt. Ten seconds later, they were out of the office and on their way to Gerald Maier's building.

  17:07:42

  Smith carefully, slowly removed the wig from his head and placed it gingerly on the desk beside his bag. He made a show to be slow, precise, not in any hurry. He had all night. And he wanted Gerald to know this.

  Gerald's eyes darted with an alertness born of pure fear. He watched every movement Smith made. He needed to see everything but wanted to see nothing. It was nature's way.

  Next came the cheek in-fills, the prosthetic nose, the fake dental caps, and then, finally, the colored contact lenses.

  "I think it's important, Gerald, that there are no secrets between us. No illusions." Smith spoke calmly, with a warmth that was neither genuine nor artificial. "I think the sooner you can appreciate that, the sooner this will all be over." He paused for effect. "I'm going to ask you some questions, you are going to answer them truthfully, holding nothing back. Do you agree, Gerald?"

  Gerald nodded his head quickly.

  "Very good," Smith said, pleased. Deliberately, Smith unzipped his doctor's bag. His movements were slow and meticulous. The sound of the zipper disengaging seemed unbearably loud in the silence of pure fear. Gerald stared, transfixed as each tooth passed through the metal mechanism.

  Smith withdrew medical grade surgical latex gloves from the bag and carefully pulled them over his hands, snuggling them tight around his flesh until there were no air bubbles, no slack. They were like a second skin.

  Gerald reacted instantly at the sight of the gloves. He fought vigorously against his restraints and screamed desperately through his gag. The veins on his throat threatened to burst. His face turned a deep purple as he tried with all he could muster to break free.

  Smith brought his finger to his mouth, motioning for Gerald to be quiet. "Shhh. Gerald, you should know I don't like noisy people. If you can't be quiet, I'll have to hurt you."

  Without warning, Smith pounced forward, delivered a quick left-cross punch deep into Gerald's sternum. Hard enough to knock the wind out of him, but not enough to break or bruise anything.

  Snot flew out of Gerald's nose from the force of the blow. He stilled, slumped in fits of furious sucking, trying on reflex to fill his lungs with air. Smith reached forward, removed the gag around his mouth, then spoke intimately into his ear.

  "Nice slow breaths, Gerald. Calm down. Your breathing will be back to normal soon. That's it…nice slow breathing."

  Gerald fought to control his fear, control his breathing, but the trembling and the racking of his body was primal; he couldn't stop it.

  "I would prefer to keep the gag off, Gerald. If I leave it off, will you keep your voice down?"

  Still struggling for breath, he nodded vigorously. His eyes were watering so badly he could barely make out the man in front of him.

  "Very good," Smith said. "The whole floor is empty now. There's no one here to come and help you. So yelling is futile. But I just don't like it. If you yell again, I'll hurt you again. Deal?"

  Again, Gerald nodded.

  "Good."

  Smith carefully removed a wooden box from his bag. It resembled a fine cigar box. He placed it, still closed, at the edge of the desk.

  "Gerald, I think you know why I'm here" Smith ignored the frightened man shaking his head. "You accessed some files. I'm going to need those files, Gerald, and I'm going to need to know where you got them."

  A steeliness rose in Gerald's eyes. Smith knew it well. The spirit of a good man, trying to be strong. It was futile. Without warning, Smith jumped forward again and punched him in the gut before he could finish his denial.

  Gerald buckled as far as the restraints would allow him, coughing, spluttering, wheezing.

  "Holding out on me is useless, Gerald. To be honest, it offends me that you would try."

  Smith sat on the edge of the desk again and waited for Gerald to catch his breath.

  "Gerald, I need you to understand something." Smith moved forward, picked up the gag, and placed it firmly around his mouth again. Gerald tried to shake it off, but Smith was too strong. He continued, "Let me explain something for you."

  Smith opened the polished wood box. Inside, Gerald saw a large, ornate syringe―hospital grade, surgical steel and glass―and beside it, a vial of clear liquid. Smith picked up the vial and showed it to Gerald. He swirled the liquid around. It was viscous, like syrup, but completely clear.

  "This is morphine. Enough to kill three men your size." Smith replaced the vial carefully. "Gerald, I think it's important to understand that you will not leave this room alive. You will die of a tragic morphine overdose."

  Gerald burst into fits of, anger, fear, desperation. Smith questioned briefly if the bindings would hold. They did. He waited for Gera
ld to settle down before continuing.

  "You may have noticed, the bindings holding you in place are padded. There will be no immediate bruising." Smith withdrew a rubber tourniquet from the black medical bag. "I believe you're left-handed…" He moved toward Gerald's right arm. "They will find you in the morning," Smith said softly, as though having a quiet dinner-table discussion.

  Gerald fought all he could to stop Smith from wrapping the rubber tourniquet around his right biceps and pulling it taut. His efforts were wasted. His veins started to swell instantly.

  "Gerald, there is nothing you can do to stop this from happening." Smith returned to his medical bag. He pulled out a white USB, inserted it into Gerald's computer, and with a deep and calming voice said, "There are worse things than dying, Gerald."

  He opened the file from the USB. There were hundreds of images. Without opening the images, he transferred them to Gerald's hard drive. "You seem like a good man. An honorable person. A person who values reputation, pride, being remembered for doing good in this world."

  The files completed transferring to Gerald's hard drive. Smith asked him, "How do you want to be remembered when they find your body tomorrow, Gerald? A man who mysteriously committed suicide, or…" Smith opened the first image, "or a pedophile who got caught and couldn't' live with the shame?"

  Gerald bucked wildly in the chair, almost knocking it over. He fought the restraints, his eyes bulging, his veins throbbing and threatening to explode under the pressure. Tears ran down his face; a rage beyond his reckoning racked his body. He sobbed.

  "Gerald, tell me everything I need to know, honestly, and I will make sure you die with dignity, with pride," Smith said sincerely. "If not, the world will never know the truth. Will never know how you suffered or how hard you fought. They will just know what I leave on your computer."

  Smith stood from the edge of the table, knelt in front of the broken man, and asked, "Gerald, will you help me?"