The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  He looked down at her and smiled. “Sorry...”

  He plunged her back under the water and held her down with all his might. Her legs and arms flayed wildly as she ran out of breath and she started to take huge amounts of hot, soapy water into her lungs. The water splashed his clothes, and he pressed down harder with annoyance. Eventually her legs dropped down onto the faucets and her arms fell lifelessly across her breasts, covering her nakedness. A few last air bubbles drifted to the surface and broke with a soft pop. Then there was nothing more, no movement as the water became still.

  He knew about drowning and knew that she had slipped into unconsciousness. There was a sudden surge of her body as the nervous system frantically reminded her to breathe and fight for life, and then her body went completely limp.

  The towel was warm and dry from the heated rail and was soft in his hands. He liked the feel of it as he used it to dry himself off. It was soothing on his skin and he wiped it over his face as he looked down at the body in the water.

  It had taken just under three minutes for her to die. It usually did. Three weeks without food. Three days without water. Three minutes without air. And when a bullet rips through the heart or brain, or a knife slices through the veins and arteries in the throat, three seconds to die and bleed out and for the central nervous system to shut down. He saw the number three as scholars saw a Fibonacci number. It always intrigued him.

  TEN

  Isobel Bartlett sat on the edge of the bed with her cell phone in her hand, waiting for the call to be answered at the other end. It was late and she realized that Elizabeth Delaney might be annoyed, but she hadn't wanted to ring on the journey. She had wanted to be safe and secure in her own room. It was like setting herself a base.

  The bathwater was draining in the bathroom and the water was still hot. Steam drifted out through the bathroom where every surface was wet. It looked like a sauna from the bedroom. At this time of night there hadn’t been a great demand on the Hotel's hot water reserves. She had used the complimentary bath salts and was refreshed after her long day. As she looked back on the day’s events, it seemed a world away. It was hard to believe that she had been in Washington giving an impromptu speech to the intelligence agencies and military establishment at lunchtime.

  She got off the bed and dropped the towel to the floor. She was dry enough to put on the robe which hung on the outside of the wardrobe door. The call tone stopped abruptly and her friend was on the line. “Delaney here.”

  “Liz, it's me... Isobel.”

  “Hi girl,” she paused. “You OK?”

  “I'm fine.” She was relieved to speak to the FBI agent. It made her feel secure. “I'm at the Amsterdam Court Hotel. Do you know it?”

  “No. You got an address?"

  “Hang on.” Isobel walked into the bedroom and looked at the hotel's welcome pack on the dresser. She muddled through then noticed the complimentary set of headed stationary. “Yeah, two twenty six, on west fiftieth street.”

  “Got it. You want to meet for breakfast? I'll be over at eight o'clock and we can talk then.”

  “OK,” Isobel paused. “Listen Liz, I think I was followed on the train.”

  “You sure?” There was surprise in the agent's voice.

  “Yes. As sure as I can be. This woman was watching me at the station in Washington. She got off the train in Wilmington, but I saw her again later in the journey. I got off at Trenton, but doubled back and saw her on the station as the train pulled away. She looked real pissed, she was talking into her cell phone.”

  “What happened after that?” The voice was calm but concerned. “Did you keep watching out for a tail?”

  “A tail? Oh yes, I see. Yes I did, but I didn't notice anybody else. I got off at Newark International Airport and rode a taxi into the city from there. Nobody was following... Or at least I'm sure there wasn't.”

  “Look Isobel, try not to worry too much,” she paused. “I know you're frightened, but we're going to sort this thing out. I'm sure the woman was just a coincidence, that's all. Dumb ass probably got off at the wrong station again and lost it when she realized she missed the damn train. Maybe she was a foreigner and couldn't read the schedule. These things happen.”

  Isobel felt a little easier at the thought of that prospect. “Yeah, maybe. Listen Liz; I'm indebted to you for this, thanks for agreeing to see me at such short notice. I didn't know who else to turn to. I'll see you at eight down in the foyer. Good night.” She cut the connection and tossed the tiny cell phone onto the bed. As she walked toward the window she tightened the robe around her. She glanced out into the street below. There was no other traffic except for a large Mercedes sedan driving swiftly past.

  Inside the Mercedes the man’s hands gripped the wheel tightly in frustration. He turned right and headed through a suburban street. As was the way of New York, a turn off the main thoroughfare would often be met by near total darkness and the feeling that you were the only person in the city. There were few lights on from inside the buildings. He hung another right and was deep inside a warren of darkened buildings.

  His mind raced. He couldn't get the thought out of his head. It was like an annoying song or tune, rhythmically pulsing between his ears. There was not even the briefest respite from it. Where had he gone wrong? He had followed the only possible woman to fit the description that he had been given, and he had made sure that he stayed in sight of the taxi at all times. He had not lost sight of it once. And he was positive that the woman he had killed in the bath was the same woman whom he had followed across the platform at the station. He would not make such a mistake because he was a professional. He was good at what he did and these things just simply didn't happen. Had never happened.

  His success rate was total. Nobody who hired him could doubt that, because nobody who had hired him had been left anything but satisfied with the service he had provided.

  After he had killed the woman in the bath he had ripped the room apart from floor to ceiling and had come up with nothing. There were no flash drives hidden and the woman hadn't been Isobel Bartlett. She had been telling the truth. The frustration welled within him as he drove. It started in his chest; a palpitation at first and then a driving shudder through his entire body as the blood pulsed rapidly through his veins. His hands trembled on the wheel. He looked at them and felt disgusted with himself for the sign of weakness. His life was one of staunch control and self-discipline. There was nothing random left in his life, not a single element that was out of place, or out of his control. The feeling of anger and despair became more acute. He wanted to scream and shout and pound his fists against something and release the rage from within.

  He screamed at the top of his voice. It was a deep resonance. A growl that came from the pit of his stomach and wore on lasciviously until he was completely hoarse. It released the pressure from within, but he was left with a sour feeling of failure. And he had never felt it before, because he had never failed before.

  Ahead of him a down and out ambled slowly across the deserted road pushing a shopping cart full of empty drinks cans and plastic bottles. He was using the cart as much to hold himself up as to transport his precious cargo. The man was either blissfully unaware that he had become an obstruction, or was arrogantly expressing his pedestrian rights. Either way, the silver Mercedes had to slow down to a crawl. The homeless guy slowed his pace and shouted something towards the car.

  The car stopped. The drivers’ door opened and the immaculately dressed man stepped out and walked round to the trunk. He made an impressive figure in the well-tailored suit and looked like a linebacker or heavyweight boxer at a charity event. The down and out guy was mumbling something and his voice rose until he was shouting animatedly at the vehicle. He was drunk and he half swaggered half staggered to the sidewalk, struggling with his cart as he tried to mount the curb with the tiny wheels.

  The man stepped out from behind the raised lid of the trunk and aimed the machine pistol at the drunk's chest.
There was an eruption of different sounds all at once, which when combined, sounded nothing like an identifiable sound. There was the coughing of the silenced muzzle as it spat out thirteen bullets every second, the impacting of hot copper coated lead into the drunk's body, the sound of empty brass cases spilling twenty feet out onto the sidewalk and rolling into the gutter, and the sound of the spent bullets as they ripped out through his back and slammed into the side of a building some fifty feet further down the street.

  Then came an eerie silence as the man stood over the corpse, the pungent smell of burnt powder and hot oil in the air. The cadaver's eyes stared lifelessly into space and the man felt a little better in relation to all that had happened earlier. He was calmer now, and felt more positive. Death had brought him peace once more.

  As he casually studied the body on the ground he decided what he should do next.

  He would call his employers, and offer the contract for free. His reputation as a professional was paramount, and this was merely a temporary hitch. He would achieve his objective and this act of good will would allow his reputation for professionalism to remain unblemished. He would find the woman Bartlett, and he would retrieve the disks intact. He would take her life, watch it ebb from her like a falling tide. And he would feel the peace around him as she took her last few breaths and entered her eternal journey. He would feel great pride at giving her what would last forever. It would be an honor, as it always was. To be there ... at the very end.

  ELEVEN

  The waitress brought the coffee over to the table and poured. The coffee smelled good. Arabica beans, apparently. Isobel didn’t care, as long as it wasn’t the instant sachet type that was in her room. The silence was total. The waitress felt awkward, sensed that there was no point attempting to make small talk and walked away to the next table, where she poured, smiled and received a more welcome reception.

  Isobel buttered a piece of toast and took a bite. She was ravenous. She had not bothered to eat so late in the evening, but wished she had. Before she knew it the toast had gone and she was buttering another slice. She watched her friend. She was drinking the coffee. Strong, unsweetened and black. Isobel had always joked that that was how Elizabeth liked her men. She in turn always joked that once you went black, you never went back. But that wasn’t true. Delaney just took what she could get. And if they were married, then that at least made it far less complicated.

  Elizabeth Delaney had arrived a little before eight, but it hadn't mattered because Isobel had been waiting in the foyer from seven-thirty. They had greeted each other warmly, hugging and kissing cheeks. Not in a chic fashionable air kiss, but in an affectionate and meaningful embrace. It had been a long time since they had last seen one another, and seeing each other again brought back a wealth of good memories.

  They had taken a quiet table in the window and had drunk the complimentary orange juice, which had been freshly squeezed with a little pith left in it and a few pips dotted on top for good measure. Proof it wasn’t out of a carton. It was bittersweet, like Florida oranges at that time of year. They had ordered breakfast, Isobel choosing eggs benedict and a side of crispy bacon. Delaney opted for scrambled eggs, bacon, sausage links, hash browns, sausage pates and fried potatoes. She chose a side of pancakes and maple syrup. She then felt she had to justify her order by explaining that she seldom did lunch and breakfast had to take her through the rest of the day.

  They had not broached the reason for their meeting and were just about to when the waitress brought along the refill of coffee.

  “So tell me everything,” Delaney paused. “From the beginning, and try not to miss anything out.”

  So she did. She told of Professor Leipzig's work on the virus and the antidote, and she told of his accident in Vermont. She told her about the presentation to the security agencies and combined military intelligence representatives. As she told her about the incident in both the bathroom and McCray's outer office, she felt her heart beat faster and her cheeks flush. The memory brought fear to her.

  She told her everything, and when she had finished she sat back in the chair and took a sip of coffee. The breakfasts arrived and the waitress dropped them silently in front of them. She sensed they were remaining silent for her benefit again.

  “So...” Delaney looked thoughtful for a moment, and then looked up at her friend. “You genuinely felt that your life was in danger, and that you couldn't trust the security?”

  Isobel shook her head. “I thought my life was in danger if I got caught in between the information and whoever was planning to take it. I would trust security, but not the establishment. These were government people planning this... I had no idea how deep it would go.” She pushed her untouched plate in front of her. She had suddenly lost her appetite. “I thought I knew one of the voices, but…” She trailed off, thoughtfully looking into the cup of coffee in front of her.

  “But what?”

  “But it just doesn't work out.”

  “Let me be the judge of that. Tell me.”

  “McCray was the project manager, the administration manager. He handled the budget. He was always at loggerheads with Leipzig until we got about two-thirds of the way through the project. They became firm friends. Everyone within the department was talking about it.It seemed so strange.”

  “You suspect McCray?”

  She nodded.“It sounded a little like him, but both times I was just too panicked to pay attention to the details. And that executive bathroom really echoes. In the outer office my heart was pounding so hard and all I could hear was a pulsing in my ears.”

  “Adrenalin, it can be a real bitch,” Delaney mused. “So what's so strange about McCray being in on it?”

  “Well, they really looked like friends. For the past year and a half, at least,” she paused. “Prior tohis turning point he saw ARES as a waste of the department's time, money and resources. Another bastard lovechild, from another government think tank. But he really got onside when APHRODITE was born.It was almost overnight. Suddenly, he couldn't do enough for the project or the people involved.”

  “Sounds about right. Maybe he suddenly had some motivation?” Delaney paused and took a forkful of scrambled egg. She chewed quickly and spoke with her mouth full. “He sees it as another waste of time and research and it eats right into his budget. But he also sees the possibilities behind the antidote, this anti-virus. Unleash ARES and sell APHRODITE. He stands to make millions of dollars. Or even more. Honey, if he is the sort of person willing to kill and infect hundreds of thousands of people indiscriminately, then he isn't going to worry about faking a friendship and getting this Leipzig guy out of the way later. Besides, nothing easier than breaking in to your own safe, is there?”

  “I suppose,” Isobel conceded. “But the strangest thing was Leipzig reciprocated the friendship, and that was what really took everyone by surprise. Leipzig couldn't so much as tolerate McCray before.”

  “Maybe they back scratched,” Delaney paused. “Maybe McCray promised Leipzig more funding, more resources. He held the purse strings after all. McCray had an agenda and knew the best way forward was to have the professor onside. Maybe Leipzig was just gullible and walked right into the trap. Probably shared more information than he normally would have. Maybe he unwittingly helped McCray closer. Only to be killed by him. Or someone sent by him.”

  “You don't think McCray killed him personally do you?"

  “Honey, I don't know Jack-shit. All I'm doing is surmising. Hypothetically looking at the possibilities. You're not even sure it was McCray, are you?”

  “I don't know, but it sure sounded like him. The more I’ve thought about it, the more it made sense.” Isobel looked up, there were the beginnings of tears in her eyes. They were moist and glistened in the morning sun. She took a tissue out of her shoulder bag and dabbed her eyes gently. “But what are we going to do about it. The FBI will get involved, right?”

  Delaney remained impassive. “Tell me about this CIA guy at the conf
erence. And the general. What was his name? Chuck ...”

  “Howard. General Chuck Howard. He was a typical gung-ho general in his late fifties. A relic too highly decorated to be cut loose and too old to walk the walk anymore. The military's full of old warhorses like him. He seemed to think of ARES as his weapon and probably couldn't wait to unleash it on some small aggressor they could probably take out in their sleep. The CIA guy was called Tom Hardy and was really low rent, if you know what I mean?”

  Delaney shook her head.

  “Just shabby. Mid to late fifties. Cheap suit, cheap look. Couldn't even get his food in his mouth without a scene. He looked more like a divorced car salesman than a CIA operative.”

  “Cheap suit could come from paying too much alimony. Cheap look could come from living alone at that age in life. Too many TV dinners. Might have made a mess of things because he was eager to get some good buffet down his throat. Besides, CIA guys are pretty plain. Not all tailored suits and designer shoes.”

  “The other guy was though, the NSA representative. David Law, I think his name was.”

  “You didn't mention anyone from the NSA.”

  “It was just some guy. He was clean-cut and tidy, pretty smart. Handsome, I guess. He asked about the dispersal rate of the virus and then looked uninterested. I think he was there for the free sushi and chardonnay as well.” She looked at Delaney. “Do you think they're all in on it?”

  “Lord, no. But there is someone else, and it's someone you've met. They wouldn't have mentioned you in the bathroom if they hadn't of already met you. Does anyone else's voice sound like that of the two men you heard? Think about it, and try to imagine it muffled or echoed around a room.”

  “You think it's McCray, don't you?”

  “Well, you said it sounded like him. And that's enough for me to go on. The guy is an insider, has keys to his own safe, naturally, and is abreast of all information concerning the project. He is also in a position to have put certain pressures on professor Leipzig.”