by A P Bateman
“Who do you suspect?”
“Well, I know Tom Hardy is in this up to his eyeballs.” Stone paused. “You spoke to him at the conference. Do you think it was the same man who you heard in the restroom, or McCray's office?”
“Possibly.”
“I'd be willing to bet definitely. What about McCray?”
“What about him?”
“Did it sound like him?”
“The restroom echoed, distorted the voices. I guess I would never have suspected him, so never linked the dots.”
“What about in McCray's office?”
“Hard to say, I was absolutely petrified. My heart was beating so loudly, I could barely hear a thing. I was convinced I was going to be caught. It would make a lot of sense though.”
Stone shook his head. “Not good enough. Although I would have to agree, it would make a lot of sense. I met with him, rattled him, he certainly looked to have a guilty conscience.”
“Who is this guy Hardy, exactly?”
Stone put his plate down and leaned back against the couch. “Well, that's a long story, where do I start? Tom Hardy has been CIA as long as most people can remember. He's certainly outlasted every hotshot, new initiative director, hostile accountant, crusading politician and departmental cuts. You name it, Hardy's outlasted it. You name the coup or scandal and he can be linked, albeit indirectly to its very core. He's a survivor. That much is true.”
“What about the assassin, the connection? What the Hell kind of project was that?”
“Possibly one of the most evil concocted from Langley, possibly not. There's so much shit that has come out of their special projects departments, nobody probably raised so much as an eyebrow. I got onto this case because the President found out about the program and wanted to know more. My brother was tasked before me, he simply thought I’d be the one person he could trust. He wanted to be assured that nothing like that would ever happen under his own administration. After a lot of digging, I found out that one of the chief researchers and directors was Tom Hardy. Hardy lives a pretty good existence for a company man, so I dug a little deeper. Hardy's indirect involvement in just about everything dark within the agency made me highly suspicious. There were locked files that I managed to unlock. Prominent targets had been neatly taken out of the picture, assassinated, in plain terms and all trailing back to Tom Hardy in some way. A posting, a requisition, a meeting, something. All the jobs were so neat. I'm ex-special forces and I know how untidy even the pros can get, especially under pressure. I started to get more suspicious of the man and his involvement in anything and everything. You see, if he were hiring privateer assassins, then sooner or later there would be a mistake. Assassins are not as professional and well used as people imagine. Even during the days of the cold war the top assassins on both sides perhaps had a kill record of maybe five or six, the law of averages soon level them out. The record connected with Hardy was different. Success following success. And no clue as to whom he had been hiring. I dug deep into the Janus thing, found out a lot of things I would sooner have not and reported my findings back to the President. Certain people were convinced that he had used the disbanded Janus Project to cream money off the top of CIA slush funds. He wasn't using local hit-teams from around the world; he was using an asset, albeit a defunct asset, of the CIA and keeping the set-up fees supposedly destined for local hit-teams.
“When Hardy started becoming linked to bioresearch, that was enough. With the things you lot were researching, I wanted a leash put on Hardy immediately.”
“And?”
“And, that was denied.” Stoned frowned. “The powers that be wanted it to ride, to refrain from scaring Hardy off. Instead, I was tasked to investigate discreetly, which is an oxymoron in terms. Any investigation has to be at full throttle, otherwise you lose pace, and the initiative. And that can be fatal.”
“Worst case scenario?”
“I don't know, how about a contract on the key person in your investigation?” He looked at her, reached out and brushed a lock of hair away from her face. “You were lucky. We both were.”
She smiled, but gently pulled away from him. “So what now? You know, I was scared witless in that outer office, but it could well have been McCray.”
“Still not good enough. Either it was or it wasn't.” He paused. He started to feel indifferent; maybe he had dreamt her presence last night. He wasn't so sure now. “We have to get the red-handed clause on our side.” He looked at her intently, his eyes locked into her own. “Isobel, you trust me, right?”
“Of course.”
Stone smiled. “I was afraid you'd say that.”
FIFTY EIGHT
The bottle of Jack Daniels lay on its side, clear and empty and discarded somewhat impotently. It was of no use to him now. The glass bore the remnants, about an inch and a half and was still gripped tightly in his left hand. The room was dark and stale and a thin plume of cigar smoke wafted up from the still burning cigar in the ashtray. There was no clean air left in the room and the cigar smoke clung to everything inside, contaminating with its pungent callous odor.
The gun in his right hand was a nickel plated Colt M l 91 1 .45 automatic with mother of pearl grips. It was big and heavy and the .45 slug was both large and powerful. It was becoming an increasingly obsolete weapon the shooting world and law enforcement agencies in particular, had long since passed it by in favor of less powerful, but higher magazine capacity 9mm pistols, or the compromise of the more modern .40 or .357 sig models with more power than the 9mm shell and a good capacity of ammunition. But Hardy had a soft spot for this weapon, if one can possess the particular emotion for such things. He had used one when he had served at the end of the Vietnam War. Had carried one on every continent bar Antarctica. He liked the power, the tension safety in the grip, the single stack magazine and thinness which meant it was easier to conceal than more modern wider pistols. He looked at the inscription on the side of the fore slide. T.H – Thank You – H.N.S. A gift from General H. Norman Schwarzkopf, Jr. for his services during and after Operation Desert Shield and Desert Storm. Hardy had been the supreme commander’s eyes inside Kuwait. Hardy turned the pistol over in his hand. He liked the feel of it. Liked its simplicity, its heavy weight and especially its power. No double taps needed with a .45. One shot one kill. He liked the power most of all. After all, he would only get one go at blowing the top of his head off and he wanted to get it right. He wanted to pull the trigger and have the lights switched out in an instant with no transference of pain or shock. He didn't want some lightweight, faster than sound bullet deviating on impact and exiting from the wrong spot. He didn't want to lay there in the dank, odor-filled room dying in his own mess of blood and skull. He wanted the cannon that was the Colt .45 and he wanted it over in an instant.
He sipped some more bourbon, almost the remainder of the glass, and moved the .45 to rest in his lap. The drink he had chosen to dull his sorrows and increase his courage was an appropriate one. It was both smooth and strong and went down so easily. And now, after draining the bottle, but for one remaining mouthful, he was almost ready. He looked around the apartment. There wasn't a lot to show for a man in his late fifties, and the thought of what little he had to show for his existence willed him closer to slipping the muzzle of the pistol firmly under the soft, sagging flesh of his chin.
There was nobody left in his life. There were the ex-wives, now only one left with a monthly alimony check and her taste for the finest things that life could offer her on his salary. She had been living with another man for three years, but would continue taking a chunk of his CIA salary until she wed her lover, and fiscal cunning had ruled that out of her life. She was both happy and content to service one man and take money from the other. The thought made Hardy want to commit two counts of homicide before the one count of suicide. His children were grown and scattered around the world and had not spoken to him in years. They had never been close to their father, he had served too many embassies arou
nd the world and spent too little time at home and they had merely sided with their mothers and taken the college fund money without guilt or hesitation. He wanted to leave this world with a mystery surrounding him, and maybe a little guilt on the heads of the strangers who had once been his family. He had left them everything in his will. He had no time for pettiness and smiled at the thought that they would all assume they had all been disinherited. He had laundered and legitimized and invested a substantial sum of money that he had creamed from the CIA slush funds he had access to over the years and he was in fact a wealthy man. The only problem in being a wealthy man within the CIA was that everyone would know that there was an anomaly. So he had waited for his retirement. But that would still hold as many pitfalls, so his next option had been to disappear completely. And therein laid the predicament, because what he had accumulated from his slush funds was not enough to disappear from existence and fund him through to his twilight years in some damned third world country with a damn tin pot despot as its leader. And so it was that greed had taken him.
The last of the Jack Daniels went down as smoothly as the many mouthfuls before and without further ado or ceremony he slipped the gun under his chin and made sure that the angle was acute to its purpose. He cocked the hammer of the Colt .45 back until it locked with a definite click and then closed his eyes and started to gently take up pressure on the trigger.
The sound of the ringing telephone made him flinch and he nearly took the top of his head off there and then. The ringing was incessant and annoyed him. He lowered the gun and aimed it steadily at the telephone mounted on the wall opposite him, near the doorway to the kitchen. He squeezed the trigger and missed. A large clump of plaster and stucco exploded out of the wall and left a hole of about an inch in diameter. He cursed loudly. The telephone continued to ring and he heaved himself out of the chair and staggered across the room.
“Yes?”
“Tom, is that you?”
“What the fuck do you want, McCray?”
“Jesus! What's with you? I just phoned to say get your ass down here now, Isobel Bartlett and that fucking Secret Service agent just turned up.”
Hardy hesitated, stared at the hole he had just made with the pistol. “But…”
“What, you want to waste more time?” McCray snapped. “Your associate obviously screwed up. I can see them on the monitor, right now as we speak. Get yourself the fuck down here and let's sort this thing out once and for all.”
Hardy blinked firmly, tried to clear his head from the fug of alcohol. “Do they have the flash drives?”
“Beats the hell out of me, but you don't, so that probably answers that question. Doesn’t it?” McCray paused. “Christ, what's wrong with you?”
Hardy swayed, propped himself against the wall to maintain balance. “We need a plan.”
“Obviously, so I suggest you get one on the way. I'm going to be unobtainable until you show yourself. I'll get them shown to my office and I'll meet you downstairs. Just hurry.” The line went dead.
Hardy dropped the receiver to the floor and tucked the pistol into the waistband of his pants. He staggered into the bathroom and ran the faucet. He splashed a good deal of water over his face and rubbed it around his neck. He then put his mouth to the tap and drank as much as he physically could. He felt a little better, but was painfully aware that he was drunk. He loosened his collar and looked into the mirror. “Come on man! Second chance! Do you know how close you were to checking out? Get with it!” His reflection disgusted him. He turned away on himself and walked out into the lounge. He had to get a few things together and the forming of a plan was already in his mind. All he needed now was the stability, the soberness to pull it off.
FIFTY NINE
Isobel stared hard at the double glass doors from inside Stone’s Mustang. She looked down at her trembling hands. She looked up again and could see the outline silhouettes of the two security guards through the dark distortion of the heavily smoked glass, could make out one of the men with his thumbs stuck through his belt. The gunfighter's pose of the Wild West. The other man was swaggering, pacing the floor slowly, stopping periodically to peer through the glass and watch the comings and goings of the outside world.
“I can't go in,” Isobel announced emphatically. “No way. Those two will detain me straight away.”
Stone shook his head. “Trust me. I can handle those two rent-a-cops.” He opened his door and looked intently at her. “It's getting close. The time's coming for you to clear your name and point your finger at the guilty party. Are you up to it?”
“I guess ...”
“You guess correct.” He stepped out of the car and closed the door behind him.
Isobel opened her door somewhat tentatively and stepped out. She took in the surroundings around her, possibly for the first time, noticing the flowerbeds, the signs for visiting VIPs and the neat crazy-paved brick work of the paths leading to different doors and walkways. It amazed her how much she had previously failed to notice in her day-to-day working life, but how much she now saw through fresh eyes. It was as if it were her first visit, stepping into the unknown, the unfamiliar.
Stone led the way and stopped at the entrance. He pressed the intercom buzzer, but instead of any inquisition one of the guards merely strolled over and pressed the button to grant them access.
He nodded at Stone like he knew him from old. “Good morning, Sir,” he said with a thin smile. He turned to Isobel and nodded. “Nice to see you, Ma’am. Are you feeling better now?”
“Yes,” she answered, slightly puzzled, and then she remembered the last time she had been there, and the last time she had seen the guard. “Thanks for asking.”
The second guard approached them. He was carrying a clipboard, which was old and worn and from it was dangling a long length of string with a pen tied to the end and held into place with the edge of the clip. “Do you have an appointment, Sir? I don't see you entered on the log.”
“No, just calling in on spec,” Stone replied breezily. “I take it that's OK?”
“Who did you wish to see, Sir?” the first guard asked.
“Doctor McCray, if he's available. I'm sure he will be, for us.” Stone smiled politely, then added: “You remember me? I trust my credentials are satisfactory?”
Both men nodded like no amount of protocol was going to stand in his way and that nothing was going to be too much trouble. The guard with the clipboard turned on his heel and walked over to the telephone on the check-in desk. He picked it up and started to talk in a hushed tone. After a few moments he replaced the receiver and returned to them. “Doctor McCray is busy in another department at the moment, but he will be pleased to meet you in his office,” he paused, passing the clipboard to his colleague. “I'm to show you up. If you'll follow me.”
Their footsteps on the hard floor echoed around their heads, reverberated by the plain walls and featureless ceiling. The occasional pane or panel of smoked glass changed the tone of the echo every now and then and as they approached the end of the corridor the open doors to various offices and walkways forced the sound of the echo to be gradually muted.
The door to the outer office was gaping open and there was no sign of occupation within. The guard led the way inside, peered behind the door for sight of Agnes Dempsey, then shrugged when he didn’t see her and walked into McCray's open office.
The guard glanced around, and then paced over to the two waiting chairs and pulled one further out from the desk for Isobel. “If you'd care to take a seat, Ma’am,” he paused, waiting for her to sit down. “I'll go take a look for Doctor McCray's personal assistant, see if can get her to make some coffee while you wait.” He walked out of the office, his gait full of swagger.
“That guy just needs a horse and a lasso,” Stone commented dryly.
“Sshh,” Isobel giggled. “I've got to work here. Or at least, if I still have a job at the end of this.”
“You'll still have a job,” Stone said quietly.
Ten minutes passed and there was still no sign of the coffee or the personal secretary. Stone got up from his seat and paced out to the office. He returned a few minutes later, his face blank. “There isn't a soul in the place,” he paused. “It's like a ghost ship. Is that usual?”
“No,” Isobel said flatly. “The other offices are all admin. They're usually busy right up to five o'clock. Maybe there's a training session going on someplace?”
“Yes. That will be it,” McCray paused and Isobel visibly flinched at the sound of his voice. “Sorry to startle you, my dear. What a very pleasant surprise to see you.” He walked around the desk and sat down in his leather chair. “What curious company you keep.” He looked across the table at Stone and smirked. “I see you've chosen the correct chair, this time. And how are you keeping, Agent Stone?”
Stone smiled. “Oh, very well, when all's said and done.”
“Tell me ...” McCray paused. “You've come back here to say that my drives are all safe and well.”
“I was hoping you'd be able to shed a little light on that subject,” Stone said matter-of-factly.
“What could you possibly mean?”
Isobel glared at him. “You know full well what he means.”
“My dear Isobel,” McCray looked at her, aghast. “You are a wanted woman. You left bioresearch with government property in your possession. I could have you arrested on the spot.”
“Now, we both know that isn't true,” Stone chipped in. “Your security personnel were none the wiser when we arrived. They simply thought Isobel had been off a couple of days sick. And as for being wanted, I checked the National Crime List this morning and there's not a mention of Isobel Bartlett anywhere.” Stone lied easily, but hoped that McCray wouldn't see through his bluff. “Now, how can that be? Surely she was reported right after you found out she had taken the files? Surely you went straight to the FBI? The fact that she wasn't speaks volumes for yourself.”
