by A P Bateman
She sat back in her seat and thought about professor Leipzig. They had killed him. They had murdered him and then made it look like an accident. But why? Was it because Leipzig stood in their way, or was it because Leipzig planned to eradicate ARES and concentrate on more beneficial science? Developing a multi-antidote or anti-virus to the world’s most hideous viruses and diseases. Or was Leipzig in on it with them? By taking him out of the equation, did they stand to gain more money? Certainly. But surely there would have been enough to go round. Billions as opposed to millions. The questions swirled round her head and left her feeling giddy, her accusations were capricious. She was convinced that Professor Leipzig was a good man. He had merely been an obstacle to them. And they had coldly, calculatingly taken him out of the way.
Philadelphia came and went, and with it about another sixty people filed into the train. Even so, the Silver Amtrak was still under half full and nobody had come through and told Isobel she was in the wrong carriage. Or maybe they knew most were in the wrong seats and simply didn’t bother because of the train's capacity. Either way, she was grateful for the legroom and grateful that she didn’t have to share her seat. She looked at her watch. It was a little after nine. She decided that she could do with stretching her legs and slipped the rucksack over her right shoulder as she got up from her seat. She walked down the aisle and past the old couple, who were now both sound asleep. After three carriages she came to the small buffet cart, which was closed. It would seem that it had been open for business until Philadelphia, but would be closed now until Trenton. She guessed that the guy had needed a break and had taken off because of the lack of trade. She went to turn around, but someone caught her eye in the next carriage. She leaned against the wall of the carriage and studied the woman, who was approximately thirty yards further down the train. She was reading a magazine and Isobel knew she had seen her before. She felt the pang of excitement, of shock all at once. It was the plain-looking, yet understatedly attractive woman from the station back in DC and she had watched her leave the train at Wilmington. She was positive it was the same woman, but how could it be? The woman had left the train, walked in animated telephone conversation along the platform and straight towards the exit. At least that’s what she thought she had seen. Why had the woman boarded the train again and when? She had watched from the window, but she had lost interest once the woman had disappeared from view. Could she have simply made a mistake and got off at the wrong stop? The train had remained in Wilmington for around ten minutes to allow the track time to clear ahead. She could simply have got back on in another carriage. Isobel tried her very best to be rational, but there were too many questions to be asked. You don’t start an almost four-hour train journey and get off after ninety minutes. And even if you were not going all the way to New York, you still wouldn't make such a silly mistake so soon. And besides, Wilmington station has a huge sign declaring the destination spread across half the platform. If you're in Wilmington, you know you’re in Wilmington. A train out of Wilmington is about the best thing the damn town's got.
The woman glanced up. Isobel froze. The woman tried her best to look through her but failed. Isobel turned around and walked quickly back to her seat. The train rushed through North Philadelphia station. There was no scheduled stop.
Her heart pumped, blood surged around her veins. She had caught the woman out. It was quite possible that she could have made a mistake at Wilmington, but the woman’s reaction to seeing her had told a different story. Isobel dropped back in her seat, the rucksack clutched firmly in her hand. She tried to think, but was failing to concentrate. For the first time since she had left the facility she was actually scared. Not uneasy, not paranoid but actually scared rigid. She knew that she had caught the woman out, but what was more, she knew that the woman knew it too. Her mind started to race. There was no scheduled stop at Cornwells Heights. The next time the train came to rest would be in Trenton. She had no idea of what to expect in Trenton. She needed the police, or at the very least she needed a crowd. Then she needed a way into New York and a quick way of getting to Elizabeth Delaney. Newark International Airport was going to be her safest bet, for the crowds at least. Hell, from there she could just bite the bullet and get a taxi the forty minutes or so into the city.
She craned her neck to see down the aisle, but from where she was seated she couldn’t see very far. The train started to slow, at first slight, but increasingly until they travelled at approximately half speed. Trenton was nearing and several passengers started to gather up their belongings and start the disembarkation shuffle. Edging their way closer and closer towards the doors. The train surged a whole lot slower again and continued to break. The railway sidings became more built up, and there were the shells and wrecks of old decommissioned trains alongside the track.
Isobel got out of her seat and picked up the sports bag and kept the small rucksack handbag over her right shoulder. She joined the shuffle and edged towards the door, standing in line as they waited to leave. A guard, the first she had seen since DC walked slowly past, easing himself politely through the blockade of passengers. Perhaps he was the buffet cart steward returning from his impromptu break.
“How long does the train stop in Trenton?” she asked, beaming the man a smile.
The guard looked puzzled for a moment, then shrugged. “Two and a half minutes, tops.”
She nodded a curt thank you and braced herself while the train drew into the station and came to a halt. She left with the throng of passengers and walked calmly towards the exit. The platform was colder than in DC. The night air dropping a few degrees along the way. She pulled the collar of her coat up around her neck. She glanced out of the corner of her eye, straining her peripheral vision to the maximum. It hurt her eye and she could feel the start of a headache but she strained to see as much as she could. The plain-looking woman stepped out of the furthermost carriage and walked casually amongst a group of foreign students. She looked out of place. And she looked uncomfortable. Isobel knew the woman had not intended to get off at Trenton. That was obvious. She had left her carry-on bag on the train.
Isobel disappeared through the exit, then immediately stepped into the men’s lavatory on her right. It was empty and she went straight into a cubicle and locked the door. It felt frighteningly familiar. She breathed deeply and looked at her watch, counting down the seconds. She made a full two minutes and opened the door. Another deep breath and she charged towards the door, pulled it towards her and stepped out into the crowd. She kept her head down and pushed through, using her elbows to barge the unsuspecting people out of the way. She was out on the platform and running for the train. There was a shout from behind her. It belonged to a man. She thought it was a warning from a station guard, telling her that she was too late. She ran on regardless. The doors were starting to close and she leapt into the carriage, making it by less than an inch. The door impacted shut behind her and the sounds of the platform were instantly shut out. She steadied her footing as the train started to move away and walked through into the carriage. She dropped into the nearest seat and stared out of the window, breathless.
The plain-looking woman was back on the platform. She looked troubled, distraught. And she was talking animatedly into a cell phone.
NINE
The man stood in the shadows and watched the passengers intently. His mind worked quickly, like a computer software package processing figures. It was a mechanical process, subhuman. He had the carriage number and the thorough description of the target locked in his mind. He scanned the crowd, hastily looking for resemblances to what he had conjured within his mind. It was like an Internet search, using key words to get closer to the end result. Height and weight, hair color, prominent features, color and style of clothing, a description of how the person moved. All this was in his mind as he scanned the crowd and rejected the possibilities and focused on a match. His eyes locked on to one woman in particular. The description raced in his mind and he finally had the
crucial result. Confident it was her he took the cell phone out of his pocket and checked the woman on the train station platform against the grainy photographed which had been messaged to him earlier. The hair color and style were right, the face was the same. In person she looked a little younger but photographs were never exactly the same in his experience. He walked casually across the platform and joined the crowd heading for the exit.
The crowd started to thin as soon as they were through the main gates. Some went straight to the ticket sales and information booths. Others were simply changing platforms to connecting routes.
The taxi rank outside was sparse but as the crowds waited car upon car drove into the line and switched on their for hire signs. The procession was continuous and the crowd on the sidewalk were soon thinning in numbers.
His eyes stayed on the target. He didn’t lose sight of her for a second, not even as he crossed the street and got into his vehicle, parked in the twenty-minute wait spaces across the road.
Isobel was in the taxi and had started to relax. She was sure she had not been followed from the station, and had sat back in the seat and was taking in the sights as best she could. There was always much to see in New York and at this time of night on a Friday, the city was only starting to liven up. Everywhere she looked there were couples or groups of people on their way back from restaurants, or on their way out to clubs. She wished she were here under different circumstances, wished she could join in on the fun. But even more, she longed for the relative safety of a hotel room and to talk with Elizabeth Delaney.
The taxi pulled up by the curb outside the Amsterdam Court Hotel on 226 west 50th Street. She paid the fare and left the six dollars change as a tip. She was tired and hungry and was pleased with the taxi driver’s recommendation as she climbed the steps to the entrance and walked into the vestibule.
He had kept a lot of distance on the short journey and had watched intently as the taxi dropped the target off outside the hotel. He had watched her pay and had waited for the taxi to move away, before he parked in a nearby space and got out. He fed two dollars and a handful of quarters into the parking meter and walked round to the trunk. He organized what he needed and placed the items in the hold all.
As he climbed the steps and walked into the lobby, he watched the woman at the desk. She was signing the register as the concierge placed a key with a large brass effect tag on the desk beside her. He walked towards the desk and looked at the number.
The concierge was young and arrogant looking. He ignored the man as he dealt with the woman's details, then as she thanked him and walked towards the elevator, he looked up expectantly.
“I’d like a room please,” he paused. “Just for the one night.” There was no trace of an accent, no telltale pronunciations or idiosyncrasies. He didn’t sound southern or mid-western. There was nothing to place him anywhere, but faintly in the United States. “I'll be paying cash, and checking out early.”
The concierge smiled. “That'll be one-fifty, mister ...?”
“Keel.” He dropped three fifty-dollar bills on the desk and wasn't surprised when he was given the key without being asked to sign the register. He knew the bills would end up in the concierge's top pocket as soon as his back was turned. This was New York and everybody had a scam going somewhere.
“Room two one three.”
“Is there anyone available to show me to the room?”
The young man shrugged. “I'm sorry, pal. Just myself on duty tonight, the graveyard shift. It’s difficult to leave the desk.”
The man took another fifty-dollar bill out from his wallet. “Not too difficult to drop a couple of sandwiches and a can of soda up to me in about twenty minutes?” He waved the note in front of the young man and smiled. “Been a long day and I'm kind of tired and hungry.”
The concierge took the bill without hesitation and smiled. “Of course. I'll see what I can do.”
“Ham and cheese, and no diet sodas.” He turned his back on the concierge and walked to the elevator. He had travelled around the world many times and he knew that cash called for no questions, at least nine times out of ten. He also knew that at this time of night and with no other staff on duty the concierge would not only make the sandwiches himself and forget to register the transaction, but would also personally make up the room tomorrow morning. Leaving housekeeping none the wiser, with no trace of a man named Keel having ever stayed at the hotel.
Isobel relaxed on the bed. The room was quiet and functional and offered all she needed. She had switched on the television set and was staring up at the ceiling listening to the background sound as she gathered her thoughts and planned what to do next. It was late, almost midnight. She would call Elizabeth Delaney and arrange to meet over breakfast. Then, she would take a long hot bath and try to get a good sleep. She seriously doubted the latter and realized that she would probably see-in every hour on the luminous hands of the bedside alarm clock.
The sandwiches had been delivered in less than fifteen minutes. The concierge’s neck had been broken in less than three seconds. His body lay still on the floor of room two one three. Prone and lifeless. The money had been retrieved from his pocket and his bunch of keys were now in the man’s hands as he searched for the master key. He found it, marked with MK in crudely stamped letters. He slipped it off the fob and set about wiping the other keys free from prints using a clean cotton handkerchief. He repeated the process with the room key and left it neatly beside the key bunch on the bed. He ate a sandwich and chewed deliberately whilst staring at the cadaver on the floor. It was a good sandwich with Virginian ham and Monterey Jack cheese. The eyes of the corpse were lifeless, drained of life like liquid spilt from a vessel. It fascinated him. He wanted to touch the body and feel the heat leave forever. Feel the permanence of death on his hand.
He opened the door and stopped momentarily to wipe the handles free from prints. He took one last look of the serenity, the all-encompassing peacefulness of the body, and then closed the door.
The key slipped easily into the door of two one seven. There was the sound of a television from behind the door.
He gripped the silenced machine pistol tightly in his right hand, then eased the key clockwise and pushed the door inwards with the toe of his highly polished shoe.
There was a large space, a mini vestibule area inside the door where the wardrobe and luggage racks were situated. He stood inside and quietly closed the door, keeping his back to it as he surveyed the room. He could hear the sound of water splashing as she bathed. The door to the bathroom was slightly ajar. He stepped past it and into the bedroom. Her bags were on the floor beside the bed. He searched them quickly with his left hand, his right remained on the butt of the machine pistol, his finger resting lightly alongside the trigger. The sights of the weapon held firm on the bathroom doorway.
The woman continued to splash in the bath. She was happily humming a tune to herself. He didn’t recognize it. But he never listened to music. Didn’t see the point of it.
He slipped his suit jacket off and hung it carefully over the back of the chair. He then unbuttoned his sleeves and rolled them up to his elbows. Loosened his tie and the neck of his shirt and carefully tucked the tail of his tie into his shirt, between the buttons on his chest. He casually opened the door to the bathroom and lunged towards the woman. His movements were swift and decisive. She looked up in terror, but was plunged down into the water before she could truly register what was happening to her.
She splashed and he cursed inwardly as the soapy water rushed over the edge of the bath and onto his clothes. He pressed hard into her throat with his left hand and pushed with all his strength down onto her stomach with his right. He counted off thirty seconds and brought her back to the surface. She gasped and coughed and her body shook uncontrollably as she searched for precious air. She couldn’t talk, she was paralyzed with fear.
“Tell me where the flash drives are.” His voice was calm. It had been a great effort to hold h
er down, despite both his height and weight advantage, but he was breathing easily. “Now!”
She coughed and swallowed. Her eyes were wide and her naked breasts heaved as her lungs worked to breathe. He dunked her again. Her legs kicked out wildly, her hands clawed madly at his face. He brushed them away with his elbows and waited for the seconds to pass. He dragged her back up and waited for her to stop coughing. She panted and moaned and looked at him despairingly.
“Please... Please don't kill me... I'll do anything you want...”
“Where are the drives you stole?”
“I... I don't know what you're talking about!” She screamed.
He held a finger to his lips. "Sshh, quietly please. You are Isobel Bartlett. You stole two flash drives that do not belong to you.” He was quite patient, as if it were a minor misunderstanding. “My employers want them back.”
“My name's Kathy Anderson ... I don't know what you're talking about.” She was shaking, her eyes pleading. "My purse ... Check my purse, it's got my ID in there!” She was almost jubilant.
He frowned at her. He was sure it was her. Same train, same carriage, same description. And there had been nobody else of that description get off at the station. He had followed her all the way and he had checked the room number on the tag. He couldn't have made an error. He released his grip and took the cell phone out of his trouser pocket. He thumbed the screen and looked at the image. He stared between the naked woman in the bath and the image on the smartphone’s screen. They were almost identical. Almost. Only now, in the light of the bathroom and with her make-up washed off he could see there were a few differences. It was not the same woman.
She stared up at him. She was shaking a little less now, sensing his mistake. But she still looked terrified and her eyes pleaded silently with him.
