The Ares Virus

by A P Bateman

  Stone stood over the man, breathing heavily and angry with himself that it had not been a more controlled and technically proficient fight. However, no two fights were ever the same and he consoled himself that the worst opponent of all was the man in a rage with little to lose and much to prove.

  Stone lashed out with his foot and connected heavily with the man's ribs. There was no movement, so he bent down and checked his neck for a pulse with two fingers. There was nothing, not even a flicker. The man was dead. He looked around and saw an open doorway at the end of the corridor. He caught hold of McCray's ankles and dragged him backwards. The dust on the floor was swept away as the body wiped it inadvertently clean, pulled roughly and hastily by Stone towards the doorway.

  Stone dropped the body heavily inside the room and checked the pockets and removed a large bunch of keys, which he knew to be the master keys for the entire building.

  The room was intended to be a storeroom of some kind and was fitted with a one way outside lock. The door opened inwards. There were electrical wires protruding from the ceiling but no light fittings. The ceiling and walls were lined with stainless steel. It looked like the inside of a meat locker. Stone remembered McCray's vicious jibe at being scared of the dark. It would certainly have been an unescapable cell. He felt more than a little satisfaction at having turned the situation around. Then he put the emotion to one side, not wanting to gloat over the corpse and without further hesitation he pulled the door closed and made his way back towards the corridor.

  SIXTY ONE

  Her hands and feet were bound together tightly with thin cord. When she attempted to move, the cord cut into her, biting and rasping at her flesh. He fingers tingled with the lack of circulation, stemmed at her wrists and her feet had long since gone to sleep, numbed by the strangulation of blood.

  The air was thin, fume-filled and had lost its purity hours ago. The heat had become stifling and had enveloped her, caught hold of her and refused to release its hostile grip. She was wet from sweat and the gag that bit into her mouth staunched her breath and made her nostrils fight to keep her breathing.

  The car made a great deal of noise from the exhaust beneath her and thundered over the road surface with monotonous continuity. There was no respite, no relief whatsoever. She prayed for an end to it and started to welcome any conclusion.

  Tom Hardy had been rough with her and had exited the building via a covert doorway in the part-developed area of the building. When they had reached his BMW she had struggled, looked around for help and started to scream. Hardy had savagely chopped the side of her neck with the edge of his hand and from that moment onwards she remembered nothing about how she ended up in the trunk. However, when she came around, in the acrid darkness of the trunk, she had been frightfully aware that his subsequent treatment of her had been harsh, business-like and with little benevolence. She had been trussed like a slab of meat and manhandled forcefully. She could feel bruises on her and imagined herself being dropped without leniency into her automotive cell. She could feel her clothes riding up uncomfortably, undone in places and she hoped upon hope that she had not been violated in the intimate sense. She weighed Hardy up as a ruthless and hard man with an agenda and put aside the notion of perverseness. At least it made her situation easier to deal with, to comprehend if she was sure nothing more untoward than physical abuse had happened while she had lain unconscious and never more vulnerable.

  She tried to ascertain how long she had been unconscious, and therefore how long she had been travelling in the back of the car. It was a useless exercise and her watch was behind her back so if she remained bound with the cord she would never be able to verify her calculations. Maybe at their destination she would be able to establish the time and work out how far she was from Washington. She figured on the car travelling at sixty miles an hour or so, so every minute was a mile, and so on. There were four time zones running through the breadth of the country, she knew that. But where were they and how straight did they run? She remembered in elementary school that one ran through the Rockies and that it zigzagged so much that a person could theoretically run around in a tight circle and travel in and out of two different time zones every few paces. She cursed her knowledge of stupid facts, wished she had listened throughout geography and taken note of where the time zones actually were. But it didn't matter any way, and she knew it. Her meandering thoughts were merely compensation for her fear and uncertainty and an exercise in positive thinking. She was making the best out of a terrible situation and if by thinking back to her days at elementary school gave room for a little hope and inspiration, then a subconscious part of her mind was pleased to do so.

  Maybe it was the tedium of the journey or maybe it was the hypnotic rhythm of the passing road underneath, the drumming of the wheels, or the exhaust note droning monotonously at the steady speed but at times her senses were so dulled that she drifted off in fitful bouts of sleep. Or maybe it was the carbon monoxide. She cursed herself, cursed the fact that she could not estimate her journey time and was falling into the trap of letting down her guard, of drifting with events and becoming too passive. She was a fighter at heart and she wanted to resolve this situation through attrition. She would take it in her stride and when the time was right, she would be as strong and resourceful as she had started out to be.

  The engine was working harder now and she was rolling to the sides more regularly. Her angle of lean was also more acute, nudging her towards the back of the car, where she banged her head of the taillight units and could hear the gas sloshing about under her in the fuel tank. It was a big car, with a large fuel capacity and good tank range. The gas sounded low, surely Hardy would be forced to pull in and refuel before long? And the angle of travel, the constant changing of direction. That would supposedly mean narrow country roads, maybe even mountain roads?

  Isobel already knew the answer to her musings. Vermont had played such a prominent part in the operation so far. Professor Leipzig had been killed in Vermont, near the town of Deal. And Joe Carver, 'Hobo Joe' as he had been referred to, had been killed merely ten miles from Deal, at South Chesterton. And then the Montpelier coroner had turned up floating in the lake. What part did either of those two play, to have been killed so mercilessly? Vermont had been the key throughout; surely it would not be out of the question to expect their hideout, their secret laboratory to be out there as well? The journey time seemed about right and the twisting roads now seemed more obvious, more familiar to her as she rolled and lulled and cracked her head continuously on the inside of the trunk.

  The car slowed considerably and pulled harshly off the road and bounced over a speed hump. Then came to an abrupt halt. A door opened then closed, and Isobel could hear something rattling, unscrewing above her head. The fuel cap. She heard the nozzle of the pump insert, rattle on the metal neck of the tank and then heard the pump start up and the fuel slosh into the tank. She could smell the vapors. The urge to vomit was strong. She suppressed the notion quickly. She was gagged and would undoubtedly drown in her own vomit if she lost control. It was a big tank and the refueling took a good three or four minutes. The nozzle withdrew, rattled on metal and then the cap was screwed up tight. All was silent now, until what had to be five minutes later, she heard the door open and felt the car shake on its suspension. The door slammed shut with a solid thud. The engine started, the car surged forwards and the monotonous tone, the hypnotic rhythm were upon her once more and uncertainty was her constant companion in the darkness of her cell. It must have been another hour, she hoped she had estimated correctly, when the car slowed again and bounced on a short stretch of rough ground. Gravel crunched noisily under the wheels and the car swung in a wide arc, spewing gravel and dirt in its wake. Isobel was slung harshly against the side of the trunk and she could hear the hard plastic of the taillight units cracking under the weight of her head, which now supported her entire body weight and what felt like half a G of inertia.

  The engine died and the door
opened. It slammed, shaking the car unexpectedly and she heard footsteps crunching on the gravel. The trunk opened and she was blinded by daylight and felt a rush of cold air. It was like nectar as she breathed, almost making her lightheaded. She did not see Hardy, but heard his feet crunching on the gravel as he walked away, becoming softer and quieter in the distance. Gradually, the footfalls fell silent and suddenly, overwhelmingly she realized that she had never felt more alone. She tried to move position, but she could not feel her limbs. She felt completely paralyzed.

  Another hour passed. She was more certain of her calculation now, had counted subconsciously in silence. It had comforted her to keep her mind active. She was cold with the trunk lid open. She thought about Rob Stone and whether his fate felt as hopeless and desperate as her own, and she silently prayed that he was all right and unharmed. It had felt as if she had been caught in a whirlwind since she had first made her move and it suddenly dawned on her that ironically, the most she had thought about Stone and the help he had given her, was while they were apart and suffering the same fate. She liked him, felt close to him. Was it was simply because he had saved her life, and more than once? Normally, she would not have been attracted to such a man; god knows he was so different to the men in her previous relationships. But she had felt overwhelmingly close to him when they had arrived back in Washington and she had taken it upon herself to make the move of sharing his bed, if only for sleep and had been pleased, relieved, when her advances had not been rebuked. However, as she had fell in and out of sleep, she knew that her emotions were mixed. Were her feelings for him simply a subconscious act of benevolence and gratitude for saving her life? Or were they deeper, more intimate? They had kissed in the forest, briefly yet passionately and she had drawn away from him then. It had troubled her, this mixture of emotion, so she had left his bed and dressed before she had made a mistake.

  She shook her head, annoyed with herself for drifting into thoughts of insignificance. Such thoughts were ridiculous. Her situation was desperate. Stone was in the same predicament, or maybe even already dead. The thought brought on a wave of adrenaline that surged through her body and left her cold. She attempted to ease herself over onto her back tried to flex her muscles, but the cord gripped her, chaffed and burned her skin. She fell back onto her side, helpless and desperately scared.

  The crunch of the footsteps upon gravel gradually returned, growing louder and ever more determined. She felt a shiver rush up her spine and tingle at the tiny soft hairs at the nape of her neck. She had visions of the barrel of a pistol coughing out the shots, the silent shots she would never hear because the first had smashed into her skull and had left her dying. She thought of the images of both David Stein and of Joe Carver, of their shock and dismay and disbelief at being shot, of the life leaving their eyes and the silent scream which never left their mouths.

  She thought of Elizabeth Delaney. Her friend, whom she had doubted and believed had betrayed her, but had been on her knees, knowing that at any minute the gunman was going to shoot her in the back of the head and that her last moments on earth were spent knowing she was going to die.

  The gravel crunched noisily and then ceased. “Pleasant journey?” Hardy grinned down at her.

  The sunset was shining on one side of his face. The light was bright and golden. The other half of his face was silhouetted. She couldn’t make out his features on the dark side. It gave him the menacing illusion of having half a face. Or two different faces. Like Janus, the two faced god, and namesake of the CIA assassination program. The thought made her catch her breath. He was smiling perversely, like he was getting pleasure from watching her pain and vulnerability. He leaned into the car and caught hold of her legs and pulled them out of the trunk. He then took hold of her, tucking his hands under her armpits and heaved her out of the trunk completely. She was unsteady on her legs and fell down on the gravel. He pulled her up and he held her upright, supporting a little of her weight. Then gradually less until she was standing on her own. Rough hands pulled and ripped at her gag, and it was a blessed relief to breathe through her mouth, although it felt as dry as sand and she was desperate for a drink. Hardy whipped out a knife and sliced at the bindings on her ankles and she felt a sudden rush of blood, of agonizing pins and needles rush up her calf muscles and into her thighs. She tried to move her feet, but the throbbing of blood was so painful that she had to force herself not to scream. She did not want to give the man the satisfaction.

  She wanted to tell him what to do and where he could do it, but the pain was so acute and was showing no sign of clemency. At that moment, Hardy seemed the least of her worries.

  She looked at her surroundings. They were standing in the center of a copse of trees with a rough track to one side and a large log cabin approximately fifty yards to the other. The ground had been graveled, to provide grip to vehicles when the snow and ice of winter melted. The trees were tall and provided a barrier, an enclave in which sat the log cabin.

  “Where am I?” she asked.

  “Somewhere safe,” Hardy replied. “Somewhere we won't be disturbed, by anyone.” He stepped aside and pushed her forwards in the direction of the cabin. “Now hurry yourself up,” he sneered. “I have a surprise for you ...”

  SIXTY TWO

  To gamble with money is one thing, but to gamble with a life is quite another. It's the most crucial of all gambles with the highest odds and the ultimate stake. Stone had never truly gambled with a life before. He had faced tough opposition, and difficult decisions, but he had never gambled on a life and had hoped he would never have to.

  He had driven the Ford Mustang as hard as he dared, hitting the maximum on the rev limiter in almost every gear. After ten miles, he parked and left it to the mercy of the parking attendants at the airport.

  He had bypassed Dulles and gone straight to Washington National, parking at the domestic side of the civil airport. It had taken him a while to find the particular service, but when he had the booking clerk had shown his surprise. Stone had shown him his ID and letter from the President and when that had been scrutinized in great detail, he had thrown the Secret Service issue platinum visa card down onto the desk and told the man to think of a price. The man had thought of a price, doubled it and had then swiped the card and shown him out to the hanger where the Bell Jet Ranger helicopter sat, fuelled and ready to fly.

  Cruising speed had been one hundred and twenty miles per hour and the ground below had swept past easily. The skies were clear and they had had a clear and straight flight path to the municipal airport at Danbury, Connecticut where they refueled and Stone's company credit card had taken another hammering.

  The journey had taken a little over five hours in all, including the fuel stop and the pilot had put down on the softball field at Deal a little after three-thirty pm. The pilot nodded a goodbye, as Stone crouched and ran and looked back to wave.

  Sheriff Harper was leaning against the hood of his police cruiser, his right hand on the butt of his pistol and the left hand holding a thick cigar. He sucked at the end and blew out a thick plume of smoke. The helicopter lifted and pirouetted just above the ground and then lifted high and sped off above the bank of trees fringing the softball field. When the peace and serenity returned, he looked at Stone and grinned. “Got your message,” he said with a smile, through a cloud of thick, pungent cigar smoke. “I'll give you something, you certainly know how to make an entrance.”

  Sheriff Harper drove them to his own house at a steady speed, but he didn’t live far outside the town limits. They bumped and wallowed over a rutted driveway and stopped outside a Dutch barn which had once been painted red and white, but had long since flaked and peeled and was left looking bare and derelict.

  The two men got out of the police cruiser and Harper opened one of the large double doors. Inside was the silver Mercedes.

  “What do you make of that?” Sheriff Harper ran a hand over the bonnet and stood back to admire its lines. “One hell of an automobile. Fa
st as they come, but smooth as silk to drive. I didn't want to get out of it when I got it back here,” he paused thoughtfully. “Damn seats are more comfy than my couch. Cost a sight more too. That leather is as good and soft as you get.”

  Stone was uninterested in the car. He had the door open and took out the laptop. The battery was critically low and he switched on the ignition and put the charger plug into the USB outlet. The laptop went through a quick start up procedure. Stone had thought long and hard about the laptop on the flight to Vermont. He would only get three chances at a log in password, maybe even the one. He suspected that Tom Hardy had supplied the computer and unless Hardy had gone down the route of random numbers and letters then Hardy will also have come up with the password.