Chapter Six
After finishing his rounds, Murphy arrived back at the mail room. Stepping through the grey steel doors, he surveyed his “kingdom” with a critical, roving eye.
Tucked back in the corner of the 28th floor, the mail center served all 500 employees of Diversified Research Inc. with both internal and external correspondence.
The portly man basked in bright rows of fluorescent lights and the hum of voices added to the drone of machinery, the gentle vibrations the lifeblood of his world.
Murphy erroneously felt his position at the head of the department gave him an equal standing within the company’s political hierarchy.
His eyes fixed on Charlie Davis, the most recent hire under his direct control. Davis flitted in and around the cubicles and sorting machines, loading letters and moving packages onto carts for distribution. Davis saw Murphy enter and wove a path across the busy floor, intercepting Murphy at his office door. The younger man handed him a clipboard.
“Mr. Murphy, I prepped the afternoon deliveries and got all the outgoing packages ready to be shipped. I need you to sign-off the packing slips so the messenger can take them.”
Only twenty-two, lean and tall, Davis was a bright kid who learned fast and moved faster. One of the senior managers had already twice requested his transfer as an assistant.
Smart and ambitious.
The burning envy turned Murphy’s stomach rancid.
Little cockroach!
He signed the papers and handed them back to Davis, eyes finally falling on the door to his “private office”.
Originally a large storage closet, he’d commandeered the room and furnished it to give himself an illusion of prestige unwarranted by his position or talent. While the tiny box lacked an exterior view, the small room did possess one unique quality that no other office in the building had. Located next to the security system closet, with the elevator shaft on the other side, it put him in a position of almost total privacy. The remote location also gave him access to all the equipment in the adjoining space, including phone lines and video surveillance feeds. Within a week of taking the office, he had his eyes and ears on everything that went on at Diversified.
Between the phone and video taps he installed and the mail he routinely read, he easily put together groups of sensitive and valuable documents, selling them to the highest bidder. This little side-line had made him a comfortable living for the past five years, but the ambitious malcontent still yearned for something more.
Moving inside, he locked the door behind him and closed the blinds, blocking out any observance from the drones populating the rest of the cube farm on the other side of the wire-reinforced glass.
Containing only the few…and barest…necessities, the office showed not one shred of personal warmth. It boasted no family photos, no office knick-knacks and few of the creature comforts common even in today’s modern, minimalist workspaces.
He lowered his sizeable bulk into the chair and unlocked the large side drawer of the utilitarian steel desk. Inside rested a small but very sophisticated audio/video recording device. The drawer also contained the two other things he wanted hidden. One was a bottle of the best Tennessee Sour Mash Whiskey money could buy and the other was a small bag of very high-grade cocaine. He dumped out a small mound of the fine white crystals and sniffed them through a rolled-up twenty-dollar bill.
The drug slid through his system like a monorail train, numbing his nose as he turned on the wall-mounted plasma screen.
He took the bottle from the drawer and after dumping the cold coffee from a chipped cup, poured himself a drink, sagging deeper into soft folds of his leather chair. Leaning back against the chair’s groan of protest, he put his feet up on the edge of the desk.
My favorite time of the day, he thought, a conspiratorial grin emerging on his round, piggish face. The work’s all done, yet plenty of time to do a little snooping. Let’s see what’s going on.
Activating the video link, he looked for anything his real employer would be interested in. He watched the screen expectantly as it cycled through the feeds. Concentration high, he basked in the bird’s-eye view of the unsuspecting people going about their jobs, completely unaware of his voyeuristic intrusion on their privacy.
Seeing her appear on the screen, Murphy stopped the automatic rotation on the scene in Jenny’s lab.
If she only knew, he thought, mocking the image on the viewer. See, you’re not as smart as you think you are.
He stared lasciviously as she donned her white coat, the starched fabric covering her ample curves. God, that’s one good looking woman. Too bad she’s such a stuck-up little bitch. He watched her intently as he sipped the whiskey, pornographic thoughts running rampant. Maybe she just needs the right man to tame her.
She darted from station to station around the lab, her agitations obvious to the man watching. His curiosity rising in a steep curve, he ransacked his desktop for the remote control and turned up the sound. Jenny’s soft voice came from the monitor’s built-in speakers, floating across the office.
“I can’t believe it. It finally works, after all this time, it finally works.”
He watched as her demeanor visibly changed. She began to move around the lab with swift precision. Something big had just happened, he could feel it. He continued to observe the action, trying to remember what she was working on…and then it came to him. The Ever-cell project. That’s it.
He didn’t know all the details, but he knew that if it worked it could power a car and that meant that everyone in the world would want one. His heart did an evil little two-step as he contemplated the monetary possibilities. This could be the big one, the one that puts me over the top.
The cocaine and the drink were momentarily forgotten in a rush of adrenaline while he quickly punched buttons, activating the DVR. Leaving the machine to its intrusive task, he went to his computer and tapped franticly at the keys, calling up the company’s research information data base.
I’d better find out what this project is all about.
An hour of diligent reading later, he turned off the computer and rummaged through the desk drawer once again, this time removing a disposable cell phone. He touched the buttons, supremely confident his real employer would be very interested in this latest development. Listening to the computer-generated rings, he began formulating a plan to “acquire” the plans for the Ever-cell and if he could arrange it, the battery itself. He leaned back in his chair and smiled, silently taunting Jenny's image on the screen.
All that time, you thought you were better than me. Just think, in just a few days I'll be rich and you’ll be up the proverbial creek. I kinda like the symmetry in that.
The rings stopped after three, giving way to the clear, crisp tones of a man’s voice. “Hello?”
“I need to meet with you…right away,” Murphy said, trying to keep the excitement racing through his veins from bleeding over into his words.
“Don’t be stupid,” The irritated voice on the other end chastised angrily. “We can’t afford to be seen together. It’s too dangerous. I’ve told you that before. Don’t call this number again.”
“Don’t hang up,” Murphy quickly continued, hoping his quarry hadn’t abandoned the conversation. “You’re going to want to hear this. Trust me.”
The impatience remained thick in the voice. “So, tell me now…if it’s so important it can’t wait.”
“I can’t go into this on the phone,” Murphy said, his nerves tingling in anticipation. “Meet me at the usual place in an hour.”
“I said, I’m busy today,” The statement fell like a boulder, the words weighted with annoyance at the disturbance. The speaker continued, noticeably obstinate and still clearly apathetic. “I can’t make it.”
Murphy’s tone climbed an octave, the anxiety edging into the words. “Clear your schedule. What I have to tell you is worth it.”
The mystery voice fell silent. The only sound on the li
ne was the small puffs of his steady breathing.
Murphy’s mind raced as he changed his tack, voice now taking on a hushed, conspiratorial air. “I’m telling you, this is big,” he paused, dangling the chum before the wary shark. “It’s probably the most important…and most profitable…meeting you’ll ever have.”
The bait disappeared with a small grunt and an undisguised warning traversed the wires.
“You better not be over-estimating your importance,” the voice said. “I don’t like wasting my time.”
Murphy swallowed hard, gripping his emotional reigns tighter before speaking again. “I promise you, you’re not wasting your time.”
“Fine,” the voice growled, thick and menacing. “I’ll be there in an hour. Don’t disappoint me…and don’t make me wait.”
While Murphy concocted an elegant and forceful reply, he heard the pronounced “Click” of the connection being broken before he could launch any retort. Bastard!
Pointing the remote at the monitor screen, he cut the power, breathing a heavy sigh of relief. He downed the last of the whiskey in the chipped cup and blew one last line of coke before he dropped the bag back into the drawer. Rising from the chair he donned his coat, closing the door behind him as he left.
He boarded the elevator and pressed the button for the basement parking garage. The car seemed to be descending at a crawl, allowing plenty of time for his mind to run through all the things that could go wrong at this meeting.
The only way to deal with Phillip Temple is from strength. I can’t let him see any fear or indecision. If I do, he’ll pounce on it…and I’m toast.
He examined his quickly coalescing plan, carefully reviewing each facet for any possible flaw. He took several cleansing breaths and steeled himself, his rodent-like sense of impending danger tingling uncontrollably.
The elevator doors slid open, dropping him off at parking level 1. He stepped into the cold of the afternoon air, the exiting vehicles creating a steady, chilling breeze as they rolled by. The frigid nip stung his cheeks as he walked, his footsteps masked by the noise of passing cars.
He touched a button on the keychain in his hand and a faint “chirp” echoed off the cinder block walls. A few yards away, the locks sprang open on a white convertible and its taillights flashed in electronic recognition.
Climbing behind the wheel of the BMW Z-3, he turned the key and listened to the comforting whine of the turbocharger, blipping the throttle several times to warm the engine. While the motor settled down to a quiet throb, he replayed the conversation with Temple in his mind. It struck him as odd that someone as greedy as Phillip Temple wouldn’t jump at the chance to own this, or any other, new technology with so much profit potential.
Why is he being so paranoid? After all, he must know Ryan…and her work. I’m offering him the deal of a lifetime. What’s the problem?
The tiny convertible tip-toeing along the icy roads, Murphy drove in heavy silence. He considered his “employer-turned-unwilling-partner” and his possible ulterior motives, all of them dangerous, some of them potentially deadly.
He’s got something up his sleeve! I can feel it. No doubt, he’ll try to screw me, he thought acidly as the city rolled by, streets and shops decorated in festive red and green holiday trim. I’m not going to let that happen…not again, not on something this big.
He looked out his right-side window at the steel gray waves of the Atlantic slowly coming into view between the buildings. Frosted with whitecaps, the crashing breakers were a sinister, symbiotic partner to his dark musings. Not one to trust in others, being completely untrustworthy himself, Murphy planned for the worst-case scenario as he made his way east toward land’s end…and his destination.
Reaching inside the Beemer’s center console, he removed a compact automatic pistol. He checked the safety before slipping the black weapon into the breast pocket of his jacket. No sense taking unnecessary risks.
He turned left along the water-front. Continuing north, he threaded his way between warehouses and dilapidated tenements that stretched down to the daunting granite blocks of the seawall. He came to an abrupt stop before an aged and crumbling red brick building. He looked up the façade at floor after floor of arched windows reaching into the prematurely darkening sky.
Above street level, the six-story building offered run-down efficiency apartments to those chiseling out a bleak existence on the wharfs that stretched along the rocky coast. Below the sidewalk, and hidden from the scrutiny of passers-by, the antiquated walls housed a small basement bar/nightclub. The low-end establishment opened nightly to a collection of hard-scrabble drifters and local toughs who wandered in from the surrounding docks and the ships moored along side.
The acid already brewing in his stomach flared hotly as he briefly considered the safety of his expensive sports car, the sleek machine now parked under a dim streetlight along the curb. He double checked the car’s alarm system and crossed the frozen pavement.
Arriving at the non-descript entrance to the underground watering hole, Murphy watched four unsavory characters emerge from the bar and stagger up the concrete steps to street level. Wobbling to a stop just long enough to light up their foul-smelling clove cigarettes, the polluted men tossed ribald comments back and forth, reveling at the auspicious beginning of their evening of alcohol-soaked debauchery. He shook his head in disgust and descended the steps.
The bar’s heavy door closed with a deep rumble, the noise seeming uncommonly loud as he entered. The darkness quickly enveloped him while the reverberating echo caused a collection of bleary eyes to momentary swivel in his direction. The hair on the back of his neck bristled in fear but the uncomfortable attention of the crowd lasted only a second or two before his presence blended into the scene, fading into alcohol-fogged insignificance.
Taking a step further, his senses were immediately assaulted by a suffocating cloud of thick tobacco smoke while his stomach recoiled at the rank smell of stale beer.
God, what a dump!
Feet sticking to the floor as he moved, Murphy settled onto a tall stool at the heavy oak bar, leaning on the brass rail.
The rock music coming from the ancient jukebox in the corner carried across the cold space, filling the room. The dim lighting created heavy shadows, the darkness concealing tables tucked into alcoves around the perimeter. Unintelligible snippets of muted conversations reached his ears, drifting on the smoky air.
He took in the dregs of humanity sitting at the other stools along the bar, the disheveled occupants already drinking heavily and talking boisterously among themselves. At the booth in the corner, he saw a trio of tired hookers sipping from large glasses. One garishly dressed woman tossed her head back in peals of manufactured laughter, desperately plying her much-abused wares to the men hidden in the darkness.
Off to his right, a battered black and white T.V. rested on a dusty shelf behind the bar, glowing with flickering light. Several patrons watched the hockey game playing on the screen, their bloodshot eyes fixed in single-minded concentration.
Turning back to the bartender, Murphy ordered a martini, drawing a contemptuous glare from the massive, gruff looking man.
“That’ll be six-fifty.” The balding, tattooed man’s eyes hardened in antipathy while he created the concoction.
Continuing to scan the room, Murphy dropped a twenty-dollar bill on the bar for the drink and removed the toothpick from the glass, extracting the pierced olive with his teeth.
A sudden start rippled through him as a loud cheer erupted from the small crowd now gathered around the television.
Guess Boston scored. He thought.
He checked his watch and noted Temple should arrive in the next few minutes. Adrenaline running rampant in his veins, Murphy downed his drink in an effort to steady his shaky nerves and ordered a second. He better show up!
Three minutes later, a tall, heavy-set man pulled out the stool next to his and sat down. The expression on the newcomer’s f
ace bent into a swirling mix of anger, arrogance and blatant condescension.
The man opened the conversation in a harsh rasp, dispensing with any pleasantries while brushing a few errant flakes of snow from the shoulders of his greatcoat.
“Okay, I’m here.” Temple said, his dark, beady eyes darting around the room intently, looking for any sign they were being overheard. “Make this quick. I have work to do.”
Murphy cleared his throat softly, pushing his adrenaline-fueled anxiety to the back of his mind. “All right. I will.”
The new arrival interjected. “And this better be good. I have to tell you, I’m not too thrilled with you dragging me out to this dump in the first place,” the man’s overly polite tone did nothing but further telegraph his overt displeasure. “Do you have any real conception of how dangerous this is?”
Murphy took a quick sip of his drink before answering. “I told you, it’s worth it.”
Temple drew a deep breath, leaning forward to close the gap between the two men. “You idiot!” he hissed. “I can’t believe…”
He broke off his rebuke in mid-sentence as the bartender approached, tossing Murphy a withering stare that made him cringe.
“What can I get for you?” the bartender interrupted. “We’ve got dollar Bud drafts on special and…”
Temple cut him off, his courteous tone not carrying any of the anger he was directing at Murphy only seconds before. “Draft sounds good. Thank you.”
Seeing the bartender depart, Temple turned back, eyes now hard chips of black coal. “I told you not to waste my time,” Temple said. “So, get to it already.”
Murphy could see the anger bubbling hotly just below the surface and held his stare for several seconds, pausing to collect his thoughts at the same time. This has to be just right.
“You know a Dr. Jennifer Ryan…researcher…She made a break-through…a big one.”
MurphyHMurphy waited, taking a sip of his drink and letting the other man digest the intentionally vague revelation.
“So she did, did she?” Temple replied, his demeanor still non-committal, but somewhat less combative. “What kind of break-through?”
Time to set the hook. He thought, heartbeat thudding steadily in his ears.
“She calls it ‘particle manipulation technology’. Ring any bells?”
“You’re talking about cold fusion,” Temple said, shaking his head and giving a small wave of dismissal. “It can’t be done.”
“I’ve heard about cold fusion. This is different. I did some reading and Ryan’s project relies on capturing the energy released from radio-active waste. According to her papers, this is totally different from anything anybody’s ever even tried before.”
Temple cocked one eyebrow in skepticism. “I’ve read her papers on this and I’m telling you, it won’t work.”
He stood, ready to leave. “I told you not to waste my time, you idiot.”
Murphy pressed on in hushed tones, in spite of the other man’s obvious reticence. “Phillip, sit down. Please. I don’t know what you read, but she really did it. The little bitch really did it. Now, for the right price, you can own it.”
A long, protracted silence filled the space between the men, making the air thick and stagnant with tension.
Temple, sliding back onto the barstool, finally answered. “How do I know this is legitimate?”
Murphy breathed an audible sigh of relief, the small sound masked by the background noise of the club. “I’m telling you, it’s for real. I’ve got the video to prove it.”
Murphy drew a cell phone from his pocket and touched the front. “I took this while she was running the last test.”
He slid the small device along the bar. Temple picked it up and touched the screen, activating the video player. He stared at the display in mild disinterest for several seconds. “So, what? You tapped her lab, big deal.”
“Keep watching. Take a look at the readouts she’s checking,” Murphy said. “You recognize that equipment?”
Temple’s eyes grew wide as the video progressed. He took a large swig of his beer. “This can’t be real. The power level on those readouts is tremendous.”
Murphy dared a thin smile. “I told you it’d be worth your time.”
Temple expelled a heavy sigh as he handed back the phone. “All right. Assuming that what I just saw is real, and I’m not convinced it is, what do you want?”
Murphy’s pulse spiked, blood racing at the thought of how much money rode on his next words. Gently now, not too much…and not too little.
“What do I want? Easy, I want a simple transaction. I bring you the plans for the design and you pay me…ten million dollars.”
“Ten million dollars,” Temple chuckled, again rising to leave. “That’s not even remotely funny…even for you.”
Murphy turned, swiveling his seat away from the older man. He leaned forward, elbows on the bar, as if he had not a care in the world.
“This is no joke Phillip. This project is real and I can get it. Question is, do I sell it you, or do I sell it to someone else?”
His heart nearly stopped beating as the silence stretched on, his internal clock ticking off several excruciating seconds.
Enough screwing around…time to close the deal!
He rotated on the barstool until he was again facing Temple. “Look, you saw the video…you know Ryan…you know this is real. You’ll be rich beyond fantasy. Ten million is chump-change…in the grand scheme of things.”
Temple’s cold gaze burned as he regained his seat once more. “Listen Sean, the negotiations are over. Two million is all this project is worth…and all I'm going to pay. If that’s not acceptable, you can take your offer to someone else.”
Murphy sipped his drink, eyebrows knitted in tight angles as he pretended to consider his options.
Temple continued. “I think you’ll want to take my offer for two reasons. One; you know you won’t get a better price and two, you know you can trust my…err…discretion.”
Murphy took another small sip of his drink, contemplating his next move in this little game of chess that would decide his future.
Temple broke the stilted silence. “You have three seconds to make a decision. Take it or leave it. One…two…”
Downing another sip of his drink, Murphy chuckled. “Don't get your panties in a bunch, I'll take it. But I want five million. I want half a million in cash up front, the rest wire transferred to an offshore account upon delivery.”
After several tense moments, the owner of Temple Corporation, the premier electronics company in the Eastern United States, closed the deal. “Done. I’ll have your first installment by the close of business tomorrow.”
Murphy rose and leaned in closer to Temple, his voice a whisper. “Excellent. I’ll call you later and tell you when and where. Be ready with my money.”
Temple downed the dregs of his beer as he watched Murphy walk toward the exit. He murmured a curse, unheard over the background noise of the bar. “Five million or ten million, who cares?” he hissed. “You’ll never live to spend any of it.”
"Chain Reaction" Power Failure Book I Page 7
