by A P Bateman
Stein looked at the entrance to the warehouse. They were bringing Elizabeth Delaney's body out on a gurney. She was wrapped in a black rubber body bag and looked so small next to the men from the city coroner's office. He turned his back on the cop and walked across the loading bay towards her. His eyes weren't like the cop's. They were sore and carried tears. He would not see her again, lay with her in her bed, all the things he wished he could do right now. Simply touch her, see the sparkle in her eyes, the smirk on her tough, pretty face. Just to touch her hand and tell her that she mattered, and that he cared for her. All the things he had never said.
He watched them load the gurney into the back of the station wagon, close the door. She was gone now. Nothing was left of her except what he could remember. Someone had taken everything. All she had, and all she ever would have. She was gone.
TWENTY FIVE
The hotel room was cheap and in desperate need of refurbishment. The papered walls were drab and faded and peeling at the corners and joins. The paper was wood-chip effect and had apparently once been fashionable. Stone doubted it very much as he toweled himself dry after an intermittent, hot and cold shower. He had read somewhere, he thought on a plane, that it was the new healthy thing to do, to shower oneself with warm water then take a blast of icy cold water to tighten the muscles and stimulate the blood and enhance the senses, but it hadn't been through choice. The shower either scalded or froze, or lost pressure altogether. He preferred his showers hot and to have plenty of time in it. However, he had arrived in the city late and had worried about secure parking for the Mustang and this cheap hotel off West 125th and Broadway was all he could find if he was ever going to get his head down for a reasonable rest. He didn't know exactly why he ended up there, but as he drove through the night he simply got to the stage of needing to stop, wherever he was. Besides, the call he’d made earlier to Elizabeth Delaney's parents had put him onto Manhattan and Broadway was central enough. He was close enough to the FBI offices and central enough to conduct his investigation, and although he had positioned himself centrally to do so, there was the underlying feeling of uncertainty that accompanies all investigations. Things have a habit of coming together all at once, and then almost as quickly, because you have to follow another lead, it seems as if you are starting all over again. He still had no idea where Isobel Bartlett was, or indeed if she were in New York at all, but he also had Elizabeth Delaney as a lead and she would be easier to find. He even had an address for her from the FBI database.
Once he had ascertained Elizabeth Delaney's identification, he had simply used the FBI database to get Delaney's address and work details. As a resource for his investigation into the bioresearch facility he had a direct pass into all intelligence and crime fighting databases. He simply had to log on to the internet and use specific passwords on what was termed the Inner-Net. These were unpublicized sites hidden from other browsers and internet traffic. With the right searches and the right passwords, he could get where he needed to go. He soon had the complete FBI file on Delaney and took the fact that both Delaney and Isobel Bartlett attended the same college as the basis for their acquaintance. Once he had Elizabeth Delaney, he was sure he would soon have Isobel Bartlett.
He got dressed quickly, choosing to look formal and officious for his trip to the bureau. When he had finished dressing, he looked every inch the Secret Service agent. Black was the theme, from shoes to suit and to tie. Only his shirt was white, and it was crisp, clean and well starched.
There were a selection of complimentary instant coffee sachets on the dresser and he had earlier chanced using the tired-looking kettle and made a cup of coffee with powdered cream. It tasted terrible and insipid and suited his surroundings perfectly but he needed the caffeine hit and the hotel offered nothing in the way of breakfasting facilities. Not even a bar or a lounge in which to buy a decent cup of coffee.
He packed his bag quickly and efficiently. He was used to living out of a bag or suitcase, used to a life continuously on the move. He'd paid for the room in advance, so just dropped the key into the key deposit box on top of the reception desk. There was no one on duty, nobody to be seen anywhere. He stepped out of the foyer and directly onto the quiet street. The air was crisp and cold. The pollution level was low and the air was easy to breathe. His car was parked around the corner in a fairly secure parking zone affiliated to the hotel and a couple of other buildings in the street. There were no gates or attendants, but plenty of signs informing that it was private property and that fines would be both swift and heavy.
The Mustang was dull and grubby, dirtied and smeared by the journey from Washington. The roads had been damp and greasy and the car would benefit from a short stop-off at a car wash. But that would have to come another time, after the investigation had been completed. Rob Stone's life was a continuous period of sporadic compromise. His life was quite literally on hold until he completed the mission that had been tasked to him.
The V8 lumbered somewhat lazily into life then ticked over raucously as he hit the de-misters and allowed the screen to clear. The engine raced energetically, and then started to steady itself as it warmed and settled into an unhurried tick-over. He blipped the throttle a couple of times, and the echo thundered off the surrounding buildings. Satisfied that the engine had warmed sufficiently, he wound the window down to aid the demisters, then selected first and crawled out of the car park.
Broadway was calm, but it was a Sunday and still early. He got his speed up to thirty and settled into the traffic. The lights were forgiving and he managed to catch most on green, racing the occasional amber and chancing he'd get through before red. At Worth on Broadway he readied himself for the turning and checked it down past Thompson Street. He turned onto Federal Plaza and looked out for a parking space. The road was almost empty and he got into an hour bay across from 32 & 34 Federal. Three doors up from 26 Federal Plaza, home to the FBI's New York office.
There are fifty-six FBI field offices in the United States and all of them look the same. Smoked-glass windows and marbled flooring in the foyer with the official emblem etched into the stonework like some kind of proud mosaic. You are met by at least two guards, who are United States Marshals. The same is true of other institutions such as the Federal Reserve and the Secret Service.
Stone was used to these buildings, because they mirrored the Secret Service exactly. They too, had field offices around the country and operated in more or less the same way as the offices of the Bureau, albeit on a smaller level.
He took out his leather wallet and flashed his Secret Service ID at the first marshal, who studied it briefly before passing it to his partner.
“How can we help, Sir?” The second marshal asked, passing the wallet back to him. He checked his log, then looked back at him. “You don't seem to have an appointment, Sir.”
Stone took out the folded envelope from his jacket pocket and passed it to him. “I don't have an appointment, no. But this will make allowances for that. And I need to see the Field Office Director, Warren Oats if remember rightly.”
The marshal read the letter and slipped it back into the envelope. There was no change in expression on his face. “FOD's not in his office at present, Sir. What with it being the weekend, and all. Duty Liaison Agent is best we can do at such short notice. I'll go and give him a call, tell him you're on your way.” The marshal walked to the nearby desk and picked up a red telephone receiver.
The other marshal stepped forwards and guided Stone towards an electronic walk-through metal detector. “This way Sir, if you will.”
“I'm carrying.”
“All right Sir,” he paused and picked up a deep tray. “Make it safe and place it in here please.”
Stone took the compact-looking Sig Sauer P229 out from his hip holster and released the magazine. He jacked the slide, ejecting the chambered .357 round, and then dropped the weapon, magazine and stubby .357 sig cartridge in the tray. He reached into his inside jacket pocket and took out a sp
are magazine and added it to the tray. Then, he delved into his trouser pocket and retrieved a lock knife with a three inch folding blade and dropped it in the tray.
“That's it,” he said and stepped through the metal detector.
The marshal took the tray and put it in a locked drawer behind the desk. The second marshal returned from making his telephone call and nodded curtly.
“Agent Sanchez will be with you shortly,” he paused and pointed to a small waiting area just ahead. “Take a seat.”
Stone did not want to make himself too comfortable, so preferred to stand. He walked over to the waiting area and studied the pictures on the wall. They were of various highly decorated agents within the New York field office. Underneath were inscriptions of their names and a brief synopsis of their achievements. To the left of the pictures was a brass plaque with a list of the names of agents and specific dates. He looked up at the plaque, found the date he wanted then looked at the name: Andrew Robert Stone. He felt a lump forming in his throat. The inscription at the top of the plaque read for the entire list of names. It read: For the few who gave so much, for so many. Beneath this, the inscription simply read: Killed in the line of duty.
“Agent Stone?”
He turned round and was greeted by a smart man in his early thirties. He was tall and thin, and his hair was greased back. Like an Italian waiter.
“Yes.” Stone extended his right hand and looked the man in the eye. “And you are...?”
“Special Agent Sanchez, Duty Liaison,” he paused. “How can I help?”
“I need to follow up a lead in an investigation I'm conducting,” he paused, looked around for a moment. “You got an office we can use?”
Sanchez seemed to think for a moment, weighing up whether it was important enough to warrant an office to talk to this guy.
“Put it this way, agent Sanchez...” He took out the folded envelope and handed it to him. “I want an office, a decent cup of coffee and your complete cooperation in this matter.”
The agent read the letter, and then passed it back to him. “Of course, I think we can manage that, Agent Stone.”
The coffee was hot and strong, and the cream was fresh. The sugar was Jamaican, and it was dark and soft and deliciously sweet. Stone drank it, ever more appreciatively for the memory of the foul tasting coffee he’d had in his hotel room.
He waited patiently, sipping his coffee and occasionally glancing around the room at the other personnel, who were busying themselves at their workstations. There was only a skeleton crew working today, five or six in all. The office was approximately one hundred feet by sixty and made up of about twenty workstations and a small square seating area with a whiteboard. Stone presumed this was for group meetings or briefings. The office area was well lit and devoid of the merest glimpse of natural light. The smoked glass, the focal point of the exterior of the building was unseen from within, blocked from view by a wall of thick blast curtains, which had been fitted throughout the fifty-six field offices and every federal building after the tragic Oklahoma bombing. They could take direct hits from RPG’s.
Stone had told Sanchez why he was there and that Elizabeth Delaney was a person of interest to his investigation. Agent Sanchez had left to make some calls and returned twenty minutes later looking perplexed. He sat down in the chair opposite him. He sipped a mouthful of coffee from his cup, placed it back down on the desk and looked up at him. “Sorry about that, just with you mentioning Elizabeth Delaney, I felt I should talk to someone else.”
“Not quite sure what you mean.”
Sanchez looked past him for a moment, and then stood up. “Agent Stone, this is Special Agent Stein.” He gestured the man towards them and waited for the new arrival to walk around the workstation. “I'm sure that in light of things, Agent Stein will be of more use to you than I can be.” He nodded curtly at them both, then walked away.
Stone stood up and looked at Stein. The man was in his early forties, about six-one and weighed around one-seventy. He looked lean and fit, like a quarterback. He was dressed in faded jeans and wore a sweatshirt under a leather jacket.
“I'm sorry, Agent Stone. Sanchez thought I should talk to you. I was taking some time off today. How can I be of help?”
Stone shrugged. “Beats the hell out of me. I thought Agent Sanchez was helping me, but he suddenly took off like a scalded cat while I was talking. Thanks for coming in by the way. You live close?”
“Two blocks.” Stein walked around the desk and sat down heavily in the chair opposite Stone. “You mentioned Special Agent Delaney. Elizabeth Delaney. I'm involved in an investigation involving her, I guess he thought I'd be a more suitable person to talk to.”
“What investigation?”
Stein sighed. “How about you giving a little and letting us know what you want? Sanchez wasn't exactly clear, but he said you had a letter from the president, granting you access to all areas. How about we start there?” He smiled. “If you don't mind.”
Stone sighed. He knew the drill. He was on the agent's turf and Stein wasn't giving anything up without a fight. “OK, here's the shortened version,” he paused. “I was sanctioned to investigate a government research agency creating a certain product for military research. The order came from as high as it gets, and I was given carte blanche. No stone unturned, no lead left un-followed. Your agent, Elizabeth Delaney, has been linked to a person involved in my investigation. The person concerned is called Isobel Bartlett, a senior technician at the facility. And she has been caught on camera taking this product from the facility. This product is highly dangerous and could cause massive casualties and fatalities if not secured.”
“That is short. Care to elaborate a little?”
“No.”
“Didn't think so. Worth a shot though, right?”
Stone shrugged impassively.
“All right, Agent Stone.” Stein smirked. “I can see you play real hardball. In short, Agent Delaney isn't going to be of any help to you. She was killed sometime yesterday.”
“I'm sorry.”
“Sure you are. Next, I know of this Bartlett woman. She called Liz while I was at her apartment. Wanted to come and see her right away, seemed to be in a real bad situation. I figured her partner was beating up on her, or sleeping with somebody else.”
“Were you and Elizabeth Delaney…” Stone said flatly. He looked down at the wedding ring on Stein’s finger. “…Close?”
“That's none of your business and sure as hell isn't going to help your investigation. Right now, I want to find this Bartlett woman and ask her some pretty searching questions.”
Stone nodded. “What happened to Agent Delaney?”
Stein grimaced. He took out a packet of Lucky Strikes and lit one with a cheap plastic lighter. He inhaled deeply and breathed out a thick plume of smoke. He didn’t seem to mind that smoking was forbidden in the building. Maybe it was just because it was Sunday. Or maybe he’d just lost the love of his life and couldn’t openly grieve because he was married. “She was found tortured and killed in a warehouse on pier seventeen. That's right near Brooklyn Bridge. Busy area, so quite a risky place. She had been cut and burnt, in all the right places for someone to extract information.”
“How did she die?”
“Early days yet, but it was definitely a pistol shot to the back of the head. Medium caliber at close range, according to the coroner.”
“I'm sorry.” Stone said, quietly. He doubted that their affair was a secret inside the bureau. These things seldom are. “What have you got to go on?”
“Agent Stone, this is where our investigations cross paths and carry on in different directions. Like I said, I want to talk to this Bartlett woman.”
“She's not your suspect.”
“How do you know?”
“Doesn't figure. Doesn't even come close. Isobel Bartlett is five-five, one hundred pounds, maybe one-ten. She is a scientist, spends her days looking through microscopes and sitting at a desk. The only
physical thing in her file is occasional horseback riding and a little swimming. Delaney was one-twenty, five-eight and a martial arts expert. She was trained in combat and an active field agent with the FBI. Isobel Bartlett wouldn't be capable of overpowering her. Not a chance in hell.”
“It only takes a gun.”
“Sure,” Stone paused. “But trust me, Bartlett isn't your killer.”
Stein took another drag on the cigarette, and then stubbed it out in an ashtray on Sanchez's desk. The ashtray was designed to look like a no-smoking sign. Stone figured it was a stab at irony, given that there was no smoking aloud in the building.
“Let's assume you're right. What then?”
“I don't follow.”
Stein clasped his hands, linking his fingers, and rested them in a giant ball on the desk. “I need to know Bartlett's association with Elizabeth Delaney, and so do you. I'm looking for the murderer of my friend and colleague and I need to question Isobel Bartlett. You don't give a shit about a dead FBI agent, you just want your product back.”
“Go on...”
“I've got a way to get to Bartlett. It's a long shot, and she'll probably run like hell, but it's all I've got. But it's a hell of a lot more than you've got.”
“Like I said, go on.”
“Agent Delaney's cell phone was at the crime scene. There was a message in her out box, just a simple couple of lines arranging a meeting with Isobel Bartlett at a bar on Ninth Avenue, between West Fiftieth and West Fifty-First. Some flashy gin joint by all accounts, yet to follow it up.”
“Delaney arranged a meet with Isobel Bartlett?”
“No. I've reason to believe the killer arranged a meet, using her phone. He used Delaney as either a distraction, or bait. You see, Delaney spoke briefly to me about Isobel Bartlett. About ARES and APHRODITE, about some professor that was killed ...”
“Jesus Christ!”
