“One man lives here?” Beth asked.
“A very hard working one,” Carl replied. “He and my father were good friends. I’ve known him since I can remember.”
If anything, the night air was colder here, and there was a mild breeze. So as they went up the steps into the alcove shielding the massive oak front door from the weather, they both looked forward to getting inside.
Standing under an immense candlelight sconce over the entrance, Carl stepped up to the big iron ring on the front door and rapped it three times against the metal plate under it, creating a noise that surprised Beth by its loudness. Hearing a whirring noise, Beth looked up, where she saw a camera lens telescoping out to get a better look at them.
A few seconds later, dressed in slacks and a yellow and white-striped pullover that made him look much younger than his age, Frank Irby opened the door. Seeing Carl’s crutch, which apparently wasn’t visible on the closed circuit TV system above, he said, “Good God, Carl, what happened to you?” He stepped back so his two visitors could get out of the cold.
When they were inside, Carl said, “You know how people say something is a long story . . . this crutch is one of those. This is my friend, Beth Corbin.”
Irby bowed almost imperceptibly. “Carl is traveling in good company these days. May I take your coats?”
“We can’t stay,” Carl said. “We only have enough time to see the material you found on Echols.”
“It’s in my study. Come on back.”
Irby turned and set off across the foyer, whose floor was an intricate pattern of inlaid hexagons in four different shades of gleaming wood. Bringing up the rear, Beth took the opportunity to take a better look at the place. Rather than envy Irby for his opulent surroundings, she found the scale of the place cold and impersonal, more like a public building than a home. Their footsteps were even creating an echo. On one wall was a huge painting of a woman in a diaphanous dress that looked more like a nightie than something you’d wear in public. The woman was feeding a flock of birds with funny curved beaks from a shallow bowl she was carrying. Behind her, the walls and columns in the painting were decorated with Egyptian writing. Beth shifted her attention to Irby, who was saying something.
“Carl, I don’t want to upset you, but I have to say that after reading this stuff about Echols, I don’t believe what happened to your father was an accident.”
Carl’s pulse, already rapid at the anticipation of what he was about to see, quickened. “After talking to the medical examiner a few days ago, I’d already come to the same conclusion. That’s why I came to you asking about him.”
They followed Irby into a study even larger than the foyer. Here, the light reflected richly off raised wood paneling that extended up the wall higher than a person could reach. The paneling on each wall was capped above by a half-circle landscape fresco in vivid colors of blue and green. Behind a carved desk that four men would have a hard time moving, there was a free-standing claw-foot cabinet bookcase that must have been fifteen feet long and eight tall.
Irby walked to his desk and picked up a stapled sheaf of papers. He turned and held them out to Carl. “Here’s what I received.”
Carl and Beth walked over to Irby and Carl took the papers. He turned them in his hand and began to read. At the same instant that he realized he was looking at the warning insert for a cholesterol-lowering drug, he felt something tap him lightly on the back of his jacket. Then he was hit by an object that felt as big as a piano. A million knives cut into him, and every muscle in his body knotted up, dropping him to the floor, where he was twisted into a fetal position. His brain on fire, he didn’t even feel it when Beth toppled onto him.
Chapter 49
CARL WAS IN a land of blinding lightning and wispy figures that hovered over him. His entry to that world had been abrupt, but his exit was gradual, so that it was a while before he became fully alert. With every part of his body still tingling, his eyes wearily focused on three sets of pants and shoes standing over him. He tilted his head back and his eyes traveled up to the faces of three men: Irby, someone he’d never seen before, and Patrick Meggs, who was reading something. It was another heartbeat before his mind shouted the last name back at him.
Meggs.
What the hell?
Carl tried to get off the floor, but couldn’t move his arms around in front of him. His feet weren’t listening to him either.
“Don’t struggle, Carl, it won’t help,” Irby said gently.
Through his confusion, another name burst inside his skull: Beth.
He looked back at floor level, craning his neck through the minimal visual field available to him. Not seeing her, he rolled to his left, onto his hands, and over. As he settled on his left side, he saw her on the floor, trussed up as he was.
Her eyes fluttered open. “Carl? What . . . what’s going on? What happened?”
“I’m not sure.”
Carl rolled back so he could see the three men. “What did you do to us?”
“Taser gun,” the man standing between Irby and Meggs said. “Very effective when you wish to disable but not kill someone from a distance.”
His accent was heavily Germanic. Normal looking around the eyes, he had prominent cheekbones and a strange lower face: square-jawed with odd planes and angles as though it was a first-pass clay sculpture. He grinned, distorting his face even more. “I’m sorry, I should introduce myself. I was told you wanted to speak with me. I’m Jan Echols.”
Echols abhorred dirty cars, wrinkled underwear, and drawers without plastic organizers. He always folded his bath towels lengthwise in thirds, then in half the other way before putting them on the shelf, rounded end facing out. He lived in Switzerland because it had the cleanest streets of any country on the planet. Among the things that disturbed his sense of order more than any other was the continued existence of people he had been assigned to kill. So as he looked down at Carl, he saw only a piece of litter fouling his universe.
The extreme muscle contractions induced by the Taser had caused Carl’s wound to begin bleeding again. Echols moved closer and his eyes traveled over to where the blood had made a fresh stain on Carl’s pants. “And you, I believe, are Carl Martin. One of those responsible for the death of Ernst Mahler.”
Carl assumed he was talking about the guy who’d followed them to Puerto Rico.
Before Carl could reply, Echols said, “Do you feel proud of that? Did it make you feel like a man? Here’s a message from Ernst.” Echols lifted his foot and stomped on Carl’s wound.
Another lightning bolt ran up Carl’s leg and exploded in his brain. He didn’t want to, but he screamed in pain.
“Enough of that,” Irby said sharply “I do have some feelings about this even though you don’t.”
“Shit,” Meggs said, slapping the papers he was reading. “He knows everything.”
He handed the papers to Irby, who scanned them, then looked at Carl. “Carl, Where did you get this material?”
“I don’t understand,” Carl said. “You’re a part of this?”
“I’m afraid so. It’s not widely known, but Arkansas Pharmaceuticals is a subsidiary of Jaeger Medicamente. That’s where it all originated. But I suspect you know that already.”
Carl suddenly made a connection . . . neurotropic retraining of the constructs . . . “That old lawsuit . . . test subjects having hallucinations after taking one of our experimental pain killers.”
Irby sighed. “An early version I’m afraid. It took a while to get it right. Now please answer my question. Where did you get this material?”
“Looks like it came directly from Jaeger archives,” Meggs said. “He must have broken into their computer system.”
“You killed my husband didn’t you?” Beth said to Meggs through clenched teeth.
“He was an unfortunat
e casualty of our work. I took no pleasure in it. Had I the power, I would have arranged it so no one would have died.”
“You had the power,” Beth hissed. “You just chose to use it for your own selfish goals. They should burn the medical school where you studied and erase the name of it from the face of the earth for not seeing what you are. The fires of hell, where you’re all surely headed, will be too good for you.”
“You’re upset. It’s understandable,” Meggs said, as though he was a big enough man to overlook her outburst. He turned to Irby, “Does Martin have the computer skills to have invaded the Jaeger site by himself?”
“I’m not sure. His friend, Daniel O’Toole, has his own computer security firm. He might have helped.”
Their conversation was interrupted by the sound of a phone ringing. The three men all turned to look at a cell phone on a nearby table close to the gun they’d taken from Carl’s jacket. Meggs picked up the phone, flipped it open, and said, “This is Carl,” mumbling and running his words together so there was nothing distinctive about his voice.
On the floor, Carl cringed, knowing if it was his phone, that could only be The Worm on the other end.
Meggs listened to the phone for an answer but heard nothing.
Then a voice said, “I’ve found those other files. What do you want me to do now?”
“Be right there,” Meggs said. He terminated the call and glanced at the phone. Then he looked at Irby, “I think that was the hacker. He said he’s found the other files.”
“Did the display show a name or number for the call?”
“No. Apparently it doesn’t have caller ID.” He turned to Echols. “Find out who that was.”
It was obvious to Echols that once the hacker’s identity was known, he’d have to be killed, too. This addition of yet another hit to the long list he was already holding in his head pushed his tolerance for disorder nearly to the limit. But since he never refused an assignment, his only recourse was to get the name as quickly as he could and bring all this to a conclusion.
Carl was prepared to tell Echols to go to hell when questioned about The Worm. And he would resist answering regardless of what the German asshole did to him. But instead of asking him anything, Echols reached down and pulled Carl around so he was facing Beth. He then left Carl, picked up Beth’s bound feet, and spun her so she was lying with her feet pointing at Carl’s mid-section.
“Doctor, when you recovered from the Taser, your first thought was to see where this woman was,” Echols said. “I think you care more for her than for yourself.”
To Carl’s horror, Echols suddenly kicked Beth hard in the stomach. She let out a muffled groan as the air rushed out of her.
Feeling sick to his own stomach over what had just happened, Carl fought at his restraints, longing to be free so he could kill Echols.
“That was to show you I’m serious,” Echols said to Carl. “The next one will be in her side, higher up. I’ve done this often and I’m sure I can fracture at least one of her ribs and puncture a lung. You don’t want that, so just tell us who helped you.”
“Don’t say anything,” Beth said, breathing hard, perspiration shining on her forehead. “I don’t matter. You can’t tell them.”
“Was it your friend, O’Toole?” Echols asked.
Carl’s life had been full of tough decisions, but not one of them had been this difficult. If he told them what they wanted to know, he’d be putting The Worm’s life in jeopardy. But if he didn’t . . .
Beth’s body was now covered with clammy perspiration. The kick she’d suffered had made her nauseous, and she felt as though she might vomit. But she was still able to focus on her hatred for these men. Her voice cracking, she coached Carl again. “Don’t help them.”
There was no doubt in Carl’s mind he and Beth were to be killed. Would it be done here, in Irby’s study? It seemed unlikely. But he couldn’t be sure of that. If he gave them the name they wanted, they’d at least have to wait to find out if he’d lied. That would give him time to think.
“I forgot to mention,” Echols said. “If you lie about this and send us to a phony address, you’ll get to watch me pull her fingernails out before I kill her.”
Sick as she felt, Beth could still conjure up a clear perception of the pain involved in having her nails torn out. But if it meant defying these men, she could handle it . . . at least she hoped so.
Panicked by his threat, Carl caved and blurted out, “I don’t know his real name, but he’s called, The Worm.”
Noooooo. Beth didn’t say it aloud, but it seemed to her that she had.
Carl told Echols where The Worm lived. Then said, “It looks like a vacant lot, but there’s a doorway behind the bushes. He lives underground.” Immediately after giving them this information, Carl felt dirty and stupid, ashamed and scared, all at the same time.
Meggs looked at Irby. “You realize there’s no way to know where this information is now that it’s been downloaded by this Worm character. He could have duplicated the files and sent them anywhere.”
Carl rolled over so he could see the two men.
“There’s a time printed on each of these documents,” Irby said, showing them to Meggs and letting him have them back. “They were printed less than an hour ago. That and the call we just received indicates they’ve just acquired this information and were still working on it when I called Carl and got him to come over here. So I don’t think they’ve had time to even consider what they want to do with it.
“In any event, those copies have no Jaeger link information on them. They could be nothing more than someone’s ideas for a screenplay. The important thing now is to clean up as much of this as we can.”
“I’ll contact Jaeger and get the sensitive files removed,” Meggs said. “It was stupid of them to leave the information on a computer connected to their network anyway. They’re going to have to share the blame for this.
“You and Echols pick up the hacker and confiscate all his computers and anything that looks like it could store electronic files,” Irby said. “Also take his clothes. That way when his disappearance is noticed, it’ll look like he just left town on his own.
“Then take him, all his things, and these two, up to Artisan with you and put them in two of the deepest and longest mining tunnels there. Dump the hacker’s belongings in one tunnel. Put him and these two far away in another. When you’ve finished with your work above ground, and only then, shut off the ventilation to the tunnels you used for them and the equipment. In about an hour there should be enough methane built up for you to set it off and seal the tunnels.”
“You don’t mean with them alive do you?” Echols said. “Because that’s just not being careful.”
Irby turned and looked over Carl at Echols. “Then do something first, but only after you get there. Now, I don’t want to talk any more about that.”
It wasn’t much comfort, but Carl knew he had a few hours to figure out a solution to this mess. He hoped that somehow The Worm would be able to thwart Echols and not be taken. Considering the guy’s profession and the way he behaved, it seemed likely he was accustomed to evading the police. Maybe he could use those skills to get away. Then, at least, Carl could stop feeling like a Judas.
“Were you briefed in Germany about your primary function on this trip?” Irby asked Echols.
“Of course,” Echols said. “The supplies were shipped on ahead. I picked them up before I came here tonight.”
“Nothing traceable, I hope.”
“I don’t get involved with things at that level.”
Primary function? Carl thought. Supplies not traceable? What the hell were they talking about now?
“When you finish, wipe the bottles clean and put a couple of smeared prints on each one,” Irby said. “Then leave them there.”
Irby crossed behind Meggs and went to his desk where he opened a drawer and got out a rubber glove. He slipped the glove on and took a piece of paper in a plastic sleeve out of the same drawer. “Here’s the statement,” he said, setting it on the front of the desk. “It should be left somewhere obvious in the church.”
Carl rolled back toward Beth and then squirmed around to where he could just see Irby’s head and shoulders behind the desk as Echols walked over and picked up the sleeved document. Irby produced an entire box of rubber gloves and put it where Echols could reach it. “Take these with you. Never handle the document inside with your bare hands. You just got your prints on the sleeve, so you can’t leave that anywhere.”
Echols gave Irby a hard look as he picked up the box of gloves. “I’m not a child. You don’t have to micromanage every detail.”
“Considering what’s at stake, better I instruct you too much than too little. Since the statement explains everything the authorities will find, they’ll be much more likely to accept the situation at face value if they find evidence the document was typed on site. The old manual typewriter I used is in a box in the garage. Pick it up on your way out and put it in Hanson’s room. Again don’t—”
“Leave any prints on it and don’t forget to take the box.” Echols said, scowling.
Carl and Beth were both working hard to process everything they were hearing. Having had access to world news that Beth had been denied, Carl had the advantage. Untraceable supplies, a statement, authorities accepting the situation at face value, clean up as much as they can . . . He made a connection . . . Jim Jones . . . Jonestown . . . Guanya, South America. Oh shit . . . They were going to—
“You can’t do that,” Carl screamed. “You can’t just kill three hundred people.” Carl heard Beth inhale sharply. Whether it was from a sudden pain at being kicked earlier, or shock at what he’d said, he didn’t know.
Irby looked down at Carl from behind the desk, his expression that of a patient teacher. “Carl, they’re not really people. They’re just constructs.”
The Blood Betrayal Page 25
