by A P Bateman
“Imagine swimming here in the summer,” Isobel sighed somewhat dreamily. “I bet it's wonderful. Swimming all afternoon and barbequing and drinking wine in the setting sun…”
“Sounds agreeable,” Stone agreed. “Are you a country girl at heart?”
“Oh yes. I used to live in Ohio as a child,” she said. “Masses of wide open spaces and fields as far as the eye could see.”
“I know.”
“You've spent time in Ohio?” she asked.
“No. I just know you used to live out there.”
She looked at him for a moment, puzzled, then flinched away as she realized what he had said. “Anything else you know about me that you'd care to share?” she snapped.
“I didn't mean to offend you,” he apologized. “Sorry, I shouldn't have.”
'”No, you shouldn't have.” She walked away from him and paced along the shore, counter-clockwise to the lake.
“Hey, wait up!” He jogged quickly to catch her up and caught hold of her elbow. “I'm sorry, it's just my ...”
She spun around and glared at him. “Your what? Your job?” She snapped. “Well I don't have to like it. What else do you know about me?”
“It doesn't matter.”
“The hell it doesn't!”
“Look, calm down and get it into perspective. You waltzed out of a government-contracted building with the next doomsday bug in your handbag and expect me to know nothing about you? You're lucky it’s me on the case and not some gung-ho Virginia farm boy from Langley. If it were, you'd be hauled in front of a judge, excluded bail and left to rot until everyone else had forgotten your damned name or that you ever existed.”
“Oh, I'm supposed to be grateful?”
“No. Look, I'm sorry, I…” he paused, looked past her and smiled. She glanced over her shoulder, and then looked back at him.
“What?”
“I think we've found our tramp, that's what…”
“What?” She looked around and stared, but couldn't see anybody. She turned back to Stone, but he was already past her and walking towards the furthest most shore.
They walked silently along the bank and it wasn't until the last few strides that Isobel noticed the man squatting in the reeds, a large old fashioned fishing pole clasped in his hands.
“I was wondering when you'd find me,” the man said as they approached. “That damn car will have frightened off the fish. Sounded like the baying hounds of Hell. Your exhaust pipes need a look at?”
Stone smiled. “No, they're meant to sound like that.”
“Can't imagine why,” the man scoffed.
“I race, occasionally. Classic races, drag events, that sort of thing,” Stone paused. “Are you into cars?”
“No, just know when one's too damn loud, is all.”
“Would you be Joe Carver?”
“Maybe.”
“Maybe yes, or maybe no?”
“Just maybe.” He lifted the pole and the hook and bait came clear of the water. He then swung the pole out across the lake and the bait dropped around ten feet farther out. He kept the tip of the pole close to the water, squinting in the sun's glare, but keeping his eyes on the water the whole time. “You both police?”
“Sort of.”
“How can you be sort of?”
“Same as you're a maybe,” Stone chided. “My name's Rob Stone, this is my colleague, Isobel. I'm an agent with the Secret Service.”
“And what business does the Secret Service have out at my fishing hole?” Carver reached into his fishing sack and retrieved a bottle of cheap label whisky. “Care for an aperitif?” he laughed. “I didn't know I'd have the company of a lady, otherwise I'd have had some Martini in, but at such short notice ...”
Isobel smiled. “No thanks, a bit early for me.”
“Ah! Never too early, never too on time and never too late.” He swallowed a large mouthful from the neck of the bottle and gasped, satisfied.
“So if you're maybe Joe Carver, you'd maybe interested in talking about your missing friend?” Stone asked.
“What do you know about Jeff?” He looked concerned and made to get to his feet. “Is he OK?”
Stone shook his head. “I don't know, but I know one thing,” he paused. “The police didn't take you seriously, but if you level with me, I will.”
The man nodded. “Sure, whatever you say.”
“Good. I take it you are Joe Carver?”
“Yeah man, that's me.” He wiped his brow with the back of his hand and a silver bracelet slipped down from his sleeve.
Stone noticed it, looked at the bracelet curiously. “MIA?”
“Yeah.”
“Missing in action,” he said to Isobel. “Vietnam, obviously.”
“Yeah,” Carver smiled. “One of the lucky ones. They let me go. Kept two thousand of our boys and still have them.” He raised his bottle. “God save their souls!” He took a long pull on the bottle and then stared out across the water for a moment, silent.
“Who were you with?”
Joe Carver laughed. “A shit-load of scared kids, that's who I was with, man.” He looked at Stone. “What's it to you?”
“Just interested, that's all.”
“Yeah, well I don't get interested in talking to kids who were too young to be there.”
“Hell, it was your war, do what you want with it,” Stone said.
Carver took another swig from the bottle and looked at his boots. They were army issue and worn to nothing. More holes than fabric and leather. “What would you know about war, Secret Service man? All dolled up in your Armani suit and expensive leather shoes. Why the fuck would you want to know about the hell of war?”
“Hey, like I said, it was your war, keep it with you.”
“And what war was yours? What would you know about it anyhow?”
“Afghanistan. All that was on offer at the time.”
“No shit,” Carver smiled. “A brother in arms...”
“One tour. Nothing in comparison to yours, I’m sure. But we saw some shit…”
“Hey man, in war, there's no such thing as an easy ride. Battle is battle and only we know, right?” He smiled up at him and raised the bottle. “Here's to the lost and the fallen, and the one's still carrying it with them.”
“No, not the one's still carrying it with them,” Stone said. “If they try, they can leave it where it ended. On the battlefield. That's the best place for it.”
Carver looked at him. “It's that easy, right?”
“No. It's real tough. But it can be done,” he paused. “If you can get on the right track. There are people who can help, if you let them. You guys had nothing at the time, but there’s a real infrastructure of help now. You could get some help if you wanted it.”
Carver drank some more and grinned. “Well maybe I'll get a card off you later, Mister Counsellor.” He laughed and jiggled the fishing pole a little, then let it go still once more.
Stone smiled. “So what about Jeff, what's the deal with him?”
Carver sighed. “He just plain disappeared. About a week ago now. Not a word, not so much as a note. It just doesn't add up.”
“Why?” Stone asked. “He's homeless, right?”
“No way!” Carver snapped aggressively. “And nor am I. We live out in the woods a way. He has his own place, and I have mine. We may be out of the system and unregistered, but we have homes and don't stick our hands out for nothin' or nobody.”
“What sort of homes do you have?” Isobel asked.
“Cabins. Prospector types. I started out here with an A-frame survival shelter, built from branches and awning and crap that nobody wanted. Then slowly, bit-by-bit, I got to building a log cabin. It's warm and dry and it does for me. City slickers pay a hell of a lot more for a weekend in less.”
“I'm sure it's lovely,” she commented amiably.
“That it is.” Carver smiled at her, then turned towards Stone. “Jeff and me just finished his, and then he ups and disappear
s into nowhere.”
“I see,” Stone said. “Tell me, does he have any family or other friends?”
“Nope. Not a soul. Accept for me. He’s ex-army too. But he didn’t see battle, on account he’s twenty years younger than me. Just trained for it for twenty years. I guess that’s worse in a way.”
Stone looked out across the lake. He felt a chill in the air, but couldn't decide whether it was just him, or if the temperature had dropped a little. He shivered.
Carver stood up excitedly. “I thought that damn race car of yours had scared them off! But looks like I was wrong!” He held the rod firmly and staggered nearer to the bank of the lake. “Come to papa! Come and get your kisser on my lovely sharp hook!”
Isobel laughed. The sight of the old hobo, unsteady on his feet, numbed by almost a whole bottle of cheap whisky was somewhat amusing.
Stone stepped back out of the man's way and watched the water. Again, he felt the chill. It ran up his spine and tickled at the nape of his neck.
“That's it... See? Watch the pole, he's tugging it hard, just a little more and I can make the strike,” Joe Carver was transfixed, possessed by the tip of the pole and the subtle movements it made. “That's it ... There she is... Nice and tasty, come take a bite ... Yes! She's on the hook!” He did a little war dance and pulled the rod upwards. “Look who's coming for supper...”
The bullet passed cleanly through his neck and cut him silent, mid-sentence. He spun around like a top and dropped to his knees and stared directly into Isobel's eyes. He looked puzzled, pleading and shocked. His eyes seemed to question her, ask her what was happening. The second shot took the top half of his head off in an explosion of crimson and pink and white.
For a moment, she stared disbelievingly into the sun, partially blinded by its glare and unable to comprehend what she had just witnessed. And then she felt the dull thud to her side and dropped heavily to the ground.
FORTY
Simply registering at the local video library puts you onto a computer database. If that computer database has a modem, router and internet access, then the moment it logs onto the net, your information can be viewed by anyone with the means, knowledge or inclination to do so.
That is at the most basic level. Take into account the vast amounts of legitimate organizations or services that hold your information on file, and the limits are unbounded. Medical surgeries, banks, credit companies, hospitals, finance administrators, social networking sites and lawyer firms are to name but a few. Add to this any civil or federal law enforcement agencies, who subsequently share information and there is no fragment of your life that people cannot tap into.
Each credit card or bankcard transaction is logged by time and date, the amount spent and the location address. The same goes for any transaction done at a bank's counter, or even over the telephone to authorize a transfer in funds. No money can be debited or credited to another account without the same information being logged. And needless to say, the same is true for extra services your bank provides. Each new service is registered as a transaction whether money changes hands or not. This does not simply apply to banks in general. Indeed, any change or update of information is called an information transaction.
For the computer security expert, it does not take long to find what they are looking for, as long as they have the basic details to start with.
The apartment was cold and bare and unfurnished, except for a table and a single straight-backed wooden chair. It was a bolt-hole, one of many around the country on short-term leases. It was on the third floor of a tenement building, and had direct access to the fire escape outside the window. From the security aspect it was about perfect. There were two exits and no furniture or trappings where vital details could be lost or misplaced, so that when the occupant left, everything with them simply disappeared.
On the table was a laptop computer and a rectangular plastic box around ten inches by twelve and four inches deep. From the side of the box protruded a USB cable that linked directly into the computer. From the computer a cable fed out into the telephone socket in the wall. A power cable fed through a power break unit before trailing off to the sockets above the skirting board, right by the telephone socket. The additional box housed a hard drive with approximately one hundred times the processing power available to home PC's. It was a military design used in the application of housing the billions of codes needed for the launch of intercontinental ballistic missiles (ICBMs). For this application, however, it provided raw power.
At the table sat a gaunt looking man in his early forties wearing a pair of dark, seventies-style pilot sunglasses. His hair was black and thinning and a little greasy and he was holding onto his youth by sporting a ponytail. A neatly trimmed goatee hid his thin lips and weak chin and like so many ponytail wearers, he also displayed an earring in the lobe of his left ear. A cigarette hung loosely from the corner of his mouth and an empty Chinese takeout carton acted as an over-filling makeshift ashtray.
His fingers were long and dexterous and played across the keyboard with as much poise and grace and precision as that of a concert pianist. His eyes never once left the screen and he never once made a typing error. The reams of information spieled across the screen and the extra hard drive whirled and clicked and cracked beside him as it processed the information and threw up what he was looking for.
He paused occasionally to glance down at an open notebook beside him, but his fingers merely slowed momentarily and he kept typing throughout. His thumb glided across the mouse pad and sent the cursor where he wanted with precision, and the casual observer would not have even seen his fingers leave the keys to click the cursor in place.
As if stunned by an electric shock he suddenly ceased typing and his shoulders went slack. He leant back in the chair and took the cigarette out of his mouth and stubbed it out into the carton. He looked pleased with himself, almost triumphant. He had what he had been searching for. It had taken one hour and seven minutes but he had now pinpointed the last information transaction made in the name of Isobel Bartlett.
His next search started when he typed in: Robert Stone.
FORTY ONE
She couldn't breathe. Couldn't force the air into her heaving lungs no matter how hard she tried. She wanted to scream. Wanted to cry. Wanted someone to tell he was going to be all right. She had banged her head as she had fallen and there was a solid thudding in her ears and she felt dazed, sure she would slip into unconsciousness and never wake from her sleep.
She felt rough hands on her, prodding her, holding her at the same time. She could see the tops of the trees in her periphery. She saw the cotton candy clouds passing slowly overhead. The sky was a crystalline blue, washed out. Like an artist brushing the paper of a water color painting with mostly water, and the merest hint of paint. It was unbelievably pale. She wasn't sure if the tone of her vision had paled significantly, like her senses were starting to fade out, heading her towards the unknown.
She managed a little air into her lungs and was grateful for a few more moments to reflect, to prepare herself for what may or may not lie ahead. And as she watched the clouds pass peacefully overhead she also reflected in the beauty of the day and that it was perhaps not the worst day on which to die.
Stone was on top of her now, looking into her eyes and feeling her stomach. He looked worried, shocked but at the same time there was a determined glint in his eye a look of power and purpose. He was focused.
“Isobel,” he said quietly, yet there was an underlying tone of desperation in his voice. “Isobel, are you OK?”
She shook her head, tears in her eyes. “I... I've been hit. ..”
He looked shocked, puzzled. “Where?” He looked at her again, all the while keeping his head below the height of the reeds. “Tell me where!”
“My side,” she said weakly. She laid her hand down flat across her waist and rolled her head almost incoherently. “Just here ...”
For a fleeting moment Stone smiled, a look of r
elief upon his face. “No, you haven't... That's where my shoulder hit you when I took you down...”
The moment the second shot had been fired, the same moment that Joe Carver's head had disappeared in a puff of red mist, Stone had recovered his senses and had taken Isobel to the floor with all the power and force and speed he could muster. Like a blocker taking down a wide receiver on the twenty-yard line, around a hundred and ninety pounds of muscle had cannoned into her slightly built frame and taken her out of the line of fire.
“But... I'm sure I've been hit. ..” She breathed heavily. She was winded to the core. “And my head ...”
Stone rolled off her and kept his left arm across her shoulders, pinning her to the dirt. His eyes were scanning through the reeds, looking for a hint of movement. He had drawn the pistol from its holster and had it ready to aim. Isobel made to get up but he held her firm.
“Stay still! Move, and he'll fire,” he said firmly. “Are you OK?”
She grimaced. “I guess... My head hurts like hell though.”
Stone glanced across at the mess that was Joe Carver. He refrained from making a comparison to Carver’s head. The man was infinitely worse off.
“I can't see anything,” he said. “I have to be able to flush him out before we can move. I need to know where he is.”
“Do you think it's the same gunman?” She winced. “He couldn't have followed us from New York, could he?”
“I’m not sure. Seems too much of a coincidence not to be.”
“What are we going to do? We can't stay here.”
There was a sudden eruption of earth and reeds and small stones and Stone heaved her closer to him, rolled over and over and they reached the edge of a small embankment. He pulled and heaved again, and they rolled and slipped down the four feet or so to the bottom and into a muddy quagmire.
“That answers that,” he said. He stood to a crouch and looked back towards the area of open ground where he had parked the mustang. “It's too far. He must be up in the woods and ...” He was cut short by a plume of mud that sprung up from the top of the bank just in front of his face. He dropped down again, and kept a hand on Isobel's shoulder to hold her still. He wiped the mud out of his face and the corner of his eyes with his sleeve. He looked down at her, his face grim. “The bastard is playing with us... I was a clear target. He took Joe Carver down with two well-aimed shots... And if it's the same guy as in New York, he wouldn't have missed me just then.”
