Immortal (11 page)

Ethan froze, staring at the image.

There, third from left, stood a man with a beard and a huge musket, the butt standing on the floor at his feet and the bayonet resting against his shoulder. The face leapt out at Ethan, and he
fumbled in his pocket and produced a photograph of Hiram Conley, taken just days before by Enrico Zamora in Glorietta Pass. He held the image up to the screen.

‘Goddamn.’

Hiram Conley stared out from the screen at Ethan, a serious expression on his features and a clay-burner pipe jutting from his mouth. Ethan looked at the title of the photograph.

Ethan took one more look at the photograph handed him by Doug Jarvis, and then printed out the photograph from the computer terminal and carefully folded all the documents into his pocket, still
unable to come to terms with what the evidence was telling him.

With a brief thank you to the clerk, Ethan hurried out of the hall.

‘I can assure you, Mister Oppenheimer, that your investment in my company will represent a guaranteed return of between twelve and fifteen percent in real terms over the
next five years.’

Jeb Oppenheimer sat behind a broad glass desk, uncluttered except for a speaker phone and an unobtrusive plasma screen connected to a mini hard-drive and keyboard. The office was carpeted with
deep white pile, the walls painted ice white with massive windows looking out over the Petroglyph and the state park beyond.

‘Fifteen percent?’ Oppenheimer murmured as he caressed the top of his walking cane, the finely polished chrome handle gleaming in the sunlight.

‘Guaranteed.’

The earnest young man sitting opposite Oppenheimer was one of a dozen or so potential investment partners who variously groveled, promised or lied their way into his office each week for the
chance to buy into the SkinGen fortune. Oppenheimer only allowed them this far as a means to relieve the boredom of signing endless legal documents and firing employees who had failed their targets
for the month. Oppenheimer liked targets: they provided leverage, especially when they were kept mostly out of reach of his legions of staff striving desperately to achieve them and their promised
bonuses.

‘Twenty percent then, if we can achieve it,’ the young man said.

Oppenheimer blinked. He was instantly disappointed – the man’s will had broken before Oppenheimer had given any indication that he was even interested, let alone willing to barter.
Just like all those who had come and gone before him he was spineless, a runt begging for scraps from the feast of Oppenheimer’s table, willing to crawl on his knees through the detritus
below to nibble on what meager crumbs he might find.

‘Twenty percent?’ Oppenheimer murmured, to an eager nod from William Hancock.

Hancock’s plan was to harness the remarkable datastorage power of Flash-Ram Memory and the abundance of trashed outdated home computers in order to build small, cheap, portable,
solar-powered laptop computers for distribution to Third World countries. Built-in advertising for major firms would cover manufacturing and distribution costs, leaving the rest for profit. No
batteries, no demand on electrical grids, the computers themselves built from the recycled plastics of their forlorn predecessors now languishing on garbage heaps countrywide. Minimal outlay,
Hancock reckoned, something in the order of twenty-five million dollars. Hundreds of thousands, if not millions, of disadvantaged children would benefit across Africa, India, the Malay Archipelago
and a thousand other territories both obscure and irrelevant to Oppenheimer.

‘And who is paying for these laptops,’ Oppenheimer asked wearily, ‘upon delivery?’

‘The governments of the countries concerned.’ Hancock smiled.

Oppenheimer nodded as though he understood.

‘I see. Mister Hancock, much as I admire the principal behind your business plan, it behooves me to remark upon the astonishing imbecility that seems to have infected your puny
brain.’

William Hancock’s smile collapsed. He opened his mouth to protest, but was silenced by Oppenheimer’s wrinkly hand.

‘Charity is a remarkable thing,’ Oppenheimer said slowly, choosing his words. ‘It makes ordinary men commit acts of near suicidal economic stupidity as though, having made
successes of themselves, they should then hurl themselves off cliffs. Tell me, Mister Hancock, why you wouldn’t instead have built more advanced, more expensive computers and sold them here
in America for ten times the profit?’

Hancock, his jaw agape, struggled for words.

‘But we’re both successful people, and we can afford to invest in technologies that can help disadvantaged families from poor countries who need access to—’

‘They need clean fucking water!’ Oppenheimer exploded, smashing his cane down across the glass table between them with a deafening crack. ‘They need food, clothes, medicines
and homes! You know what they’ll do with your pissy little computers when they get their dirty little hands on them? They’ll sell them on the black market to stall traders or slave
dealers or witchdoctors or whoever the hell they can, in exchange for a bottle of water and a goddamned chicken nugget!’

Oppenheimer reined himself in, taking a deep breath as he felt his heart fluttering dangerously within the narrow cage of his emaciated chest. His voice rattled when he spoke, dislodged strings
of mucus clinging damply to the walls of his throat.

‘The only reason for the starving and suffering of the masses in the Third World is the incompetence of their leaders. We are asked day in and day out to give a dollar for little children
dying of starvation in Africa, give a dime for the digging of wells in India, give a few bucks to sponsor some fucking baby panda in China. Doesn’t it ever cross your tiny little mind that if
their own governments spent a little less on blowing the crap out of each other and a little more on charity at home, then we may not have to keep shoring up their pathetic legions?’

William Hancock stood bolt upright from the table, his face flushed with impotent fury.

‘Bad things happen,’ he said, ‘when good people do nothing.’

Oppenheimer, with some strain, pushed on the top of his cane and got to his feet, leveling Hancock with an uncompromising glare.

‘Bad things happen when good people act like idiots,’ he snapped back, pacing round the desk toward him. ‘When governments overtax their citizens while reducing social services
and medical care; when bureaucrats waste millions of taxpayers’ money on useless initiatives which are then abandoned; when bankers screw up the economy time and time again and then expect
ordinary people to foot the bill while they award themselves billions in bonuses and retire on million-dollar pensions; when criminals are pampered in jail by spineless human rights activists while
elderly war veterans freeze in their apartment blocks because they can’t afford the heating bills. But do you know who the idiots are? Not the governments, not the bureaucrats, the bankers or
the criminals. It’s people like you, because you’re so busy pissing about trying to solve the problems of people in distant lands who’ll never actually receive the help
you’re offering that you’ve forgotten about your own damned countrymen!’

William Hancock stared at Oppenheimer, no longer able to speak. Oppenheimer jabbed him sharply in the chest with his cane.

‘Get out of my office before I take this and shove it up your ass.’

The horrified Hancock turned in stunned silence and walked stiffly out of the office, passing an attractive young blonde woman who had obviously been waiting outside. Oppenheimer watched her
with interest as she glided in, closing the door behind her and briefly displaying the backs of her long slender legs that disappeared up into a short white skirt so tight it made her ass look like
two peaches wrapped in silk.

‘What have you got for me this morning, Claire?’ he asked, trying to ease his strained nerves and forcing himself to breathe calmly.

Claire Montgomery, Oppenheimer’s personal assistant of the past two months, strode across to the glass desk and leaned forward. Oppenheimer gazed down her blouse as she passed him a file,
catching a glimpse of the pendulous breasts dangling within.

‘From Donald Wolfe, sir,’ Claire said with a smile that suggested she either hadn’t noticed the direction of his stare or was too professional to mention it. ‘He
requested that you look at it immediately, it’s extremely important.’

Oppenheimer dragged his gaze down to the file.

‘Sit down, stay a while.’ He gestured to the chair opposite without looking at her. Claire sat down obediently.

Within moments of opening the file, Oppenheimer had forgotten Claire’s charms and was completely engrossed.

Donald Wolfe had used his position at USAMRIID to obtain information on the events surrounding the Glorietta Pass shooting of three days previously. Bizarrely, the government had not dispatched
a single official person to investigate either the disappearance of the body of Hiram Conley from the county morgue, nor had they officially supported the county sheriff’s investigation into
the disappearance of Lillian Cruz. However, what was intriguing was the two out-of-towners who had been given the lead in the investigation, apparently with the blessing of both the state police
and the sheriff’s office.

‘Who the hell are these two?’ Oppenheimer wondered out loud as he read.

Ethan Warner, a former United States Marine turned bail bondsman and private investigator. Nicola Lopez, formerly a detective with Washington DC’s finest, now partnered with Warner.
Oppenheimer frowned. Donald Wolfe’s contacts had been unable to figure out who Warner and Lopez were working for, but so far had managed to rule out DEA, FBI and even the CIA as interested
parties.

Whoever Warner and Lopez were working for, they could be of little consequence if they were hiring two low-life bondsmen to investigate. Warner & Lopez Inc. operated out of Chicago, which
meant they were a long way from home. The will to travel meant that they needed the work, which meant they were most likely poor themselves, and Oppenheimer knew the power of hard cash to change
allegiances. They could of course refuse, in which case he knew exactly the kind of men who made their own living disposing of people on Oppenheimer’s behalf.

An accident would be arranged, quickly and quietly.

He pressed a button on his speakerphone, and the voice of his events coordinator replied efficiently.

‘Yes, Mister Oppenheimer?’

‘Have my car and driver ready. I wish to leave in the next thirty minutes or so.’

He needed to clear his mind and rid himself of the latent irritation infecting him in William Hancock’s wake. His gaze drifted up to Claire sitting expectantly opposite him. She smiled
softly, one leg crossed over the other to reveal a perfectly shaped thigh and flawless skin. Nerve endings he hadn’t thought about in months tingled evocatively.

Oppenheimer stood up from behind his desk and beckoned to her with one gnarled finger.

‘Come here, Claire.’

His assistant got to her feet and walked slowly round the table to him, a flicker of apprehension passing like a shadow across her immaculate features.

‘What can I do for you, Mister Oppenheimer?’

He smiled, putting his cane to one side and pressing a button on his table top. Instantly, the windows in the office turned opaque.

‘Just like last time, Claire, understood?’

Claire’s beautiful face was now furtive and she refused to meet his eye. Oppenheimer took her thick blonde hair in one fist, turning it firmly in his bony digits so that she was forced to
look at him. A pair of wide blue eyes stared into his, the same eyes that had glittered excitedly a month ago when he had discreetly offered to double her salary after working for the company for
less than five weeks.

‘Your pay rise was performance-related, Claire, remember?’ he rattled. ‘Everyone has to fulfill their commitments if they wish to remain part of SkinGen. Targets, my dear, are
everything.’

Oppenheimer released her hair and gripped her shoulders, turning her to face away from him before pushing her forward and bending her over his desk. He reached down and yanked her skirt up,
reveling in the sight of her sublime ass while with his free hand he began hurriedly unhitching his pants before it was too late.

He knew that Claire wouldn’t last much more than a month or two before she finally quit, but then none of his assistants ever had and the change did him good. This time, she didn’t
even whimper as he penetrated her.

As he gripped Claire’s narrow waist in his gnarled hands, grimacing as he shunted his bony hips vigorously against her prostrate body, he reflected that everybody had their price. Even
Warner and Lopez.

‘Seriously, the place was wiped clean, not a trace.’

Lopez nodded wearily, mentally scratching another avenue of investigation off her list. She was standing in the foyer of a laboratory that handled all forensic investigations for Santa
Fe’s law enforcement agencies, and had been responsible for the investigation of the morgue from which Hiram Conley’s apparently mummified remains had vanished.

‘Any ideas of who might have had a motive for abducting Lillian Cruz?’

The lab technician, an elderly guy by the name of Rodriguez, shook his head.

‘I worked with her a few times out Albuquerque way when she ran the morgue there. She was the best, no doubt about it, been working in the department for as long as I can remember. What
she couldn’t tell you about rates of decay and infestation wasn’t worth knowing. Point is, everyone liked her, never heard a bad word said.’

‘And she never had any contact with Tyler Willis?’

‘
The
Tyler Willis?’ Rodriguez repeated. ‘No way, that guy is stellar, something to do with genetics out Los Alamos way. I’ve read a few of his papers. The high
priests don’t have much time for us guys down in the morgues.’