by Jack Bowie
“Downstairs?”
“But why make everyone go downstairs?”
“The building is supposed to be abandoned. If anyone accidentally came in, it would look perfectly normal–empty.”
“That makes sense. The lab in Amsterdam was underground. Let’s try downstairs.” He headed for the elevators behind the desk.
“I doubt those are going to work, Adam.”
Braxton ignored her and pushed the down button. It remained unlit. After punching at the arrow for another ten seconds, he finally swung his flashlight back to his companion. She stood defiantly in the lobby tapping her foot on the tile floor.
“Ready now?” she asked.
He grumbled under his breath and joined Walker in a search for a stairway. Behind the lobby he found an “EXIT” sign next to a heavy door. He called for her and opened the door into an empty, but not dark stairwell. Emergency power lights shown from silver boxes hung on the stairwell walls.
“Looks like somebody wants to see where they’re going,” Walker commented.
“Which way?” Braxton asked. He shone his light to the left, leading downward, then to the right, going up.
“Well, we said we were going down,” Walker reminded him.
“Guess I’d better not ignore you this time, huh?”
The stairway only went down one floor. Braxton reached for the door, took a breath, and pulled it open.
Behind him, Walker gasped in shock. The small room they entered was nearly identical to the anteroom in the Amsterdam laboratory. This area had a desk, probably for a receptionist to meet infrequent visitors, but the pair had no doubt what was behind the second electronically-secured entrance in front of them.
Unfortunately, this time neither had the access code.
Braxton moved up to the door and peered through a small, reinforced window.
“What do you see?” Walker asked.
“Just what we expected. A floor of laboratories. You were right, Venton moved his operation here.”
“Is anyone there?”
“Not that I can see. But there aren’t many lights on.” Braxton slapped the door with the flat of his hand. “Shit! What do we do now?”
“Well, there is still a second floor.”
“What would be up there?”
“We won’t know unless we go will we?”
He stared at her perfectly-serious face. He had to find out about Venton. Something here would explain about Amsterdam. About Megan. He knew it.
“Your logic is impeccable, Sydney. Lead on.”
He followed her back up the stairway to the second floor. Entering the hallway, he swung his flashlight up and down the dark corridor. It appeared as deserted as the floor below.
“Looks empty from here,” he said. “Should we check it out anyway?”
“I think so,” Walker responded. “Look there.” She pointed her flashlight down the hallway to the right. In the gathered dust on the wooden floor was a well-trodden path of footprints.
“Let’s hope everyone is gone,” Braxton whispered.
They followed the footprints down the hallway until it turned right into another corridor. Another twenty yards and the path split in two, disappearing through open doors to the left and right.
Braxton pointed to the right with his flashlight and nodded to Walker. She returned the gesture and entered the room, while Braxton turned back to the left.
He stepped into an interior office. His flashlight revealed empty, bare walls, but when he lowered the beam, the light shone on stacks of file folders standing randomly over the floor, like the skyscrapers of a bizarre cityscape. In the center of the city stood an ancient metal government-issue desk, its top equally covered in stacks of papers. A small fluorescent desk lamp sat on one corner.
Braxton carefully maneuvered his way through the piles to the desk and flipped on the switch.
“Eeeek!”
He jumped back from the desk at the scream and tripped over a mound of folders, sending him unceremoniously into a sprawl on the floor. He scrambled to his feet and ran into the room across the hall.
Walker stood motionless in the middle of a large room. Scanning his flashlight he saw five commercial vending machines hugging the bare walls. A counter with a microwave oven stood in one corner. Next to Walker was a battered table with five plastic chairs. The room was a well-stocked, and very operable, corporate cafeteria.
The only item out of place was the body hanging from an overhead pipe.
“Why?” Walker cried without turning around. “Why would Paul do it?”
Braxton walked forward and put his arm around her. She was cold and shivering. Just like in Amsterdam.
He shone his flashlight up to the bloated face above him. It was still recognizable as Paul Venton. He ran the beam of light slowly down the body, stopping at the overturned chair beneath it.
“I don’t think he did, Sydney.”
“What do you mean?”
“Look at the height. His shoes are a good foot above the chair seat. How did he manage that do you think?”
“Then someone killed Paul? But who?”
“I think I finally understand what Taylor meant. Megan’s murderer wasn’t in Amsterdam. He wasn’t even in Vision One. At least not now.”
“You mean it wasn’t Paul?”
“No. One thing had always bothered me. Why would Venton get involved with the militia? If his intent was blackmail, he needed to manufacture the antibiotic first. He wouldn’t have destroyed the Amsterdam lab. It was someone else. Someone that didn’t want the antibiotic produced. The same someone who coordinated the militia attacks.”
“But who is he?”
“The only other person who knew enough about what was going on at Vision One. Benjamin Lawson.”
“Dr. Lawson? But he’s dead!”
“A convenient cover don’t you think?” The deep male voice came out of the darkness.
Braxton turned toward the voice and was blinded by an explosion of light. When the pain had passed, his eyes focused on a short bearded man standing in the doorway. In one hand he held a bright electric spotlight. In the other, a very deadly-looking black automatic.
“Dr. Lawson, I presume?” Braxton said. “You don’t look anything like your picture.”
“That’s the whole point, isn’t it, Mr. Braxton? It really is a surprise to see you. My mercenary must be losing his touch. And Miss Marino, or should I say Walker? How nice to see you again.”
“You killed Paul?” Walker asked. “Why? He was your friend.”
“Paul didn’t have friends. Just facilitators. All he ever cared about was power. And his ego. Why do you think his office is up here? So he didn’t have to get his fingers dirty downstairs. Why did I kill him? Because he was going to ruin my plan. His scientists discovered the damn antibiotic! I couldn’t let him make it.”
“That’s why you destroyed the Utrecht lab,” Walker said.
“I never thought he would succeed. Once you two had broken in, I knew it had to be destroyed.”
“Venton’s second lab must have been a real surprise,” Braxton commented.
“Not really. Paul was a very compulsive man. He always had a Plan B. I assumed he had another lab. It was only a matter of time until he led me to it.”
“What was your plan, Lawson?” Braxton asked. “Why the militia ruse, the attack on the White House?”
“Oh, you connected me to the militia? Singer, my hired mercenary, was right. You two are dangerous.” He walked over to a chair and set the lamp on the seat. The focus of his gun never strayed from his hostages. “They murdered my little brother in Iraq. He went there to make a difference. To contribute to his country. He wasn’t a famous scientist. Wasn’t a sports hero. Just a kid who wanted to be part of something. And they killed him.”
“You mean Desert Storm?” Walker asked. “It was a war!”
“It was a sham!” Lawson yelled. “He wasn’t killed by the Iraqis. He was killed by the poli
ticians and generals. Playing around with their biological toys. When I learned Vision One was trying to develop an antibiotic for C. Pneumoniae, I knew what I had to do, but I needed help. And money.
“Vision One’s IPO solved the second problem and I found the mercenary to deal with the first. Singer came with exceptional credentials. He had all the contacts. We created the militia conspiracy to keep the authorities away from our real target. That and to induce a little terror. Worked rather well, don’t you think?”
“You were at Yale,” Braxton said flatly.
“Undergrad. Heard about the hack. It always impressed me. When I mentioned it to Singer he recognized the significance immediately.”
“But why the charade?” Walker asked. “Why fake your own death?”
“I had been trying to subvert Paul’s efforts. Pushing the designers in the wrong direction. Erasing working files. Paul was getting suspicious. I couldn’t just leave. He would expect me back here. So I had to disappear.” A strange contorted smile appeared on Lawson’s face. “It really wasn’t all that hard. Quite exciting actually.”
They had kept Lawson talking for about as long as they could. And Braxton wasn’t getting any good ideas on how to get out from under that automatic. Still, there was one question he had to ask.
“Why Megan, Lawson? She loved you.”
Lawson paused and a look of sadness crossed his face. “She was a very special woman, Braxton. But I couldn’t afford any complications. I came back here to check out Palo Alto and Megan accidentally saw me. I tried to talk to her, explain what I was doing, but she wouldn’t listen. She threatened to expose me, ruin everything I had done, everything I had planned. I didn’t have a choice.”
“You had a choice,” Braxton spit back. “You just cared more about yourself. And your revenge. I knew Megan would never try to fight off a stranger. It had to be someone she knew. I just never figured it was you. Until now.”
“And I never expected to see you two again. You really did surprise me. I was still preparing this little scene when I heard you on the stairs. I thought it was one of the researchers coming back to work.”
“So now we become another part of your plan.”
“Of course. Mad entrepreneur murders two intruders then kills himself in remorse.” He glanced down at his watch. “If I had time I’d update Paul’s suicide note, but I really have to go. Soon this lab too will be destroyed in a terrible conflagration. Over to the corner.”
Lawson flicked his wrist and directed them to the far corner of the cafeteria. Then he approached the hanging body, reached into his jacket pocket and pulled out a small memory stick.
“As a cryptologist, you will appreciate the irony, Mr. Braxton. On this drive are all the formulas and the process descriptions to mass-produce the C. Pneumoniae antibiotic. Encrypted, of course.” Lawson dropped the stick into Venton’s shirt pocket. “Eventually the authorities will realize it contains the information they need. Unfortunately it will take even the incomparable NSA months to decode the content. By then my work will be done. Such exquisite justice. The very microbe they used to kill my brother will bring the leaders of the free world to their knees. Now I’m afraid it’s time to complete this production.”
The sound began softly, like a freight train approaching from the distance. It grew louder and louder until it filled the room with an ear-splitting roar. Braxton felt the pressure push against his chest until he could no longer get a breath.
Lawson turned toward the door and screamed “No!” just as the wall behind him erupted into flame. Braxton grabbed for Walker and yanked her under him as the windows exploded over their heads.
Once the initial shock wave had passed, Braxton poked his head up through the debris. The room was rapidly filling with hot, acrid smoke. Through the haze he saw rubble everywhere. The corridor wall had disappeared, as had Lawson.
“Sydney!” he called, over the deep rumbling of the building. “We’ve got to get out of here. Stay low!”
She nodded in reply, wiping dust and dirt from her face. He grabbed her hand and they ran back to where the main hallway used to be.
The hallway was even worse than the room. It was at least twenty degrees hotter and twice as dark. Spears of fire shot through the floor behind them. They tried to follow the wall, or what was left it, grabbing at the sheet metal studs left after the gypsum wallboard had disintegrated. His hands were cut and bleeding and he could see that Walker was having trouble breathing in the noxious air. They didn’t have much time left.
“There!” he cried when he saw what was left of the familiar “EXIT” sign. They rushed ahead and he was about to pull open the door when Walker yanked him back.
“Wait!” she commanded. “Check the door.” She placed her hand on the metal surface and pulled it back quickly. A look of resignation was etched on her face.
Braxton tried to look back in the other direction. The way was completely obscured. Fire chimney or not, the stairwell was the only way they were going to get out of this inferno. He pulled his hand up into his sweater sleeve, grabbed the door handle, and pulled.
* * *
The San Mateo Bridge hadn’t been too bad, but I-880 had been bumper to bumper all the way up to Oakland. Slattery had lost his patience with Braxton’s behavior, and California traffic, about twenty miles back.
He slalomed through the Posey Tube into Alameda and fish-tailed onto Canal Street. Just in time to slam on his brakes and come to a screeching stop.
“What the hell?” Fowler exclaimed.
Ahead was a jam of police cars and fire trucks. And behind them, the unmistakable red-orange glow of a major industrial fire.
“I think your friend may be in some trouble,” Slattery answered.
Chapter 67
Vision One Warehouse, Alameda, California
Sunday, 5:15 p.m.
The blast of super-heated air nearly knocked them over. Braxton’s face felt like it had been toasted in the Saharan sun. He managed to pull Walker through the doorway when he saw the apparition.
Lawson was standing on the second floor landing, a six foot length of twisted railing in his hand. Eyes wide with rage, his clothes singed, and flames shooting around him, he looked like the Devil guarding the Gates of Hell. Awaiting his latest inductees.
Lawson seemed to stand motionless, but the railing swung in a slow motion arc toward Braxton and his companion. If he didn’t do something fast, they would surely fall into the depths of the inferno.
He shoved Walker to his right, sending her tumbling down the stairway. Then, rather than trying to escape the swinging shaft, he rushed forward, grabbing it as close to Lawson’s hands as he could. The railing hit with a force that snapped back both of his wrists, but he managed to keep a grip, pulling the weapon down on top of him as he collapsed onto the landing.
Enraged that his attack had failed, Lawson leapt onto Braxton, his fists pounding at the consultant’s chest, punishing his already seared lungs. Finding the railing, Lawson grabbed it and brought it down on Braxton’s throat. His breath left him, and his vision constricted to tiny circles as if he were viewing his last moments through the wrong end of a pair of binoculars.
As Braxton’s legs collapsed he felt something solid – the concrete block wall of the stairwell. In a last desperate effort he braced his feet against the wall, arched his back, and pushed his body upward with everything he had.
The pounding stopped and air rushed back into his starved lungs. Looking up, he saw Lawson pivot backwards over his head, do an awkward somersault, and land feet-first with a fiendish smile on his face. The grin turned to panic, however, as his momentum carried him backwards, past the now missing upper railing. With a maniacal scream, Lawson tripped over the remaining lower rail and fell head first into the flaming depths two stories below. It seemed like an eternity until the grotesque sound disappeared beneath the crackling of the fire.
Braxton collapsed back on the gritty floor, too exhausted to go on, content to l
et the flames finish what Benjamin Lawson could not. He had done what he had come for; extracted his revenge. What more was there for him?
“Adam.” It was a familiar voice that broke through his dream. “Adam where are you?”
He felt someone grab at him. At first he pushed the figure away, it could only be someone else that would give him pain, but slowly the face came into focus.
“Megan?” he whispered. “Is that you?”
“Dammit, Adam,” Walker yelled. “Get up. I’m not going to wait here forever for you.”
“How?”
She was pulling him up. He staggered to his feet, only to have them give way under him. She persisted and he felt a surge of strength fill the voids in his muscles. There was something more, and he knew what he had to do.
They staggered down the stairs, hugging the sidewalls of the staircase to find their way through the black cloud. The heat and smoke became worse the lower they went. Braxton thought he had gone as far as he could when a blast of cool air shocked him back to reality. Falling through the doorway, they tumbled into the alley.
* * *
Where the hell is Fowler?
Slattery paced the pavement of Canal Street watching the Vision One building slowly disintegrate. Fowler had been with him just a minute ago, then he disappeared.
The Alameda Fire Department was unrolling hoses and making the connections that would draw the channel water up to the pumping engine and then out onto the burning structure. What looked like a random scramble of men and women was in reality a well-practiced ballet with life-saving consequences. Slattery watched with a professional curiosity as the firefighters hefted awkward hoses and spun bulky connectors. Within seconds cold bay water was streaming into the building.
As he scanned the fiery landscape, he saw a figure limping from beside the building. As it came closer he saw that it was Fowler, and he was carrying a body.
The Alameda Fire Chief had given him a walkie-talkie so they could communicate during the confusion of the fire. He pulled it from his pocket, never taking his eyes off his friend.
“I need EMTs at the northwest corner,” he yelled into the device. “We’ve got a survivor.”
