The Assassin's Case (6 page)

NINE

Colonel Cane didn’t slow the SUV as he arrived at the Biodyne complex. The second vehicle close behind him, he rounded another curve and the complex became visible. He drove on a cleverly disguised paved road which wound its way through the desert. The dirt to either side of the road had been piled up so that it was invisible unless you stumbled across it. The road’s entrance off Route 9 appeared to be nothing more than a dirt track, as a maintenance crew insured sand remained on top of it until well away from the highway.

              Located in a town built to house the employees of a copper mining and smelting operation, closed four years ago, Biodyne’s operations were virtually invisible. Located south of the dry lake bed known as Playas Lake, the town was nestled in Playas Valley between the natural barriers of Animas Mountain and the Little Hatchet mountain range.

              There were no fences surrounding the complex, but nothing, not so much as a rabbit or a coyote, entered its border without their knowledge. An elaborate system of sensors and cameras provided perimeter security. Secrets were made to be kept. Unwanted visitors were turned away by men dressed as mine employees. Deadly force would be used if necessary. The project was too important. Security the imperative. The work they were doing here was meant for the protection of the United States. A job Cane long ago dedicated his life to.

              He drove past a rock outcropping which housed a concealed guard post and stopped before a shoddy plank building, one of many which comprised the small town.

Cane turned to the man in the passenger’s seat. “Stow the vehicles. Have the team mobilized and in security in an hour. Inform the techies they better come up with something.”

              Cane stepped out of the vehicle beneath the star littered sky and approached what used to be the mine’s office, turned the knob on the door and entered. Heels echoing on the plank floor he moved to an interior door. After swiping his ID through a scanner, the door slid opened and he passed through. A few steps inside he stopped at a wall which held an elevator entrance. He passed his ID in front an electronic eye and the door slid open.

* * * * *

Colonel Cane stared across the table at the mole. The traitor. Like everyone else involved in the operation he had passed extensive security checks, yet somehow he slipped through. Cane would find out how in time, but that was of secondary importance at the moment.

              “Where will the exchange be made?”

              “I don’t know.”

              “How is Grant Sawyer involved?”

              “Who?”

              Cane leaned his forearms on the table and pressed his teeth together, causing his jaw muscles to bulge, and glared at the man. He knew he looked intimidating. No, he didn’t only look it. This man somehow infiltrated the operation and his organization also somehow compromised Dr. Morgan. Cane still couldn’t imagine how or why. Not only a genius, Morgan had integrity. Oh yes, as head of Security for Biodyne he and Cane had indeed butted heads, but still. Even at the expense of his family, how could Morgan risk allowing his creation to fall into the wrong hands.

              Cane removed the forty-five automatic from its holster and laid it on the table. “Tell me again.”

              The man swallowed. He looked like any other computer nerd. Skinny. Glasses. Pale. “I told you, the exchange was supposed to be made at a mall in Gulf Shores. Morgan chose it because he could travel there under the guise of visiting his sister. No one would be suspicious.”

              “What happened?”

              “I don’t know, I swear it. I haven’t been contacted.”

              Using his palm, Cane ratcheted the pistol’s slide. The move was for show. Dramatic affect. He had removed the bullet in the chamber before coming into the room. He pointed the pistol at the geek’s face. “So, tell me. What possible use do I have for you now?” 

* * * * *

Grant’s foot smashed into the center of the bar’s two glass doors. They swung wide and he rushed in. Leading with his gun he tracked for targets, prepared to open fire and dive to the side if necessary. His gun locked on a man sitting with his head bowed in a chair.

It was him. Jimmy Boom Tedesco. What the hell was he doing? Praying?

              Grant kept his gun trained between Tedesco’s eyes and scanned the bar for signs of ambush. Moving to the right, Grant put his back to the wall, away from the doors which had slammed shut behind him. “I haven’t heard from my sister. If I don’t know in thirty seconds she’s all right, I’m going to whittle you away, piece by piece, bullet by bullet.”

              Moving slowly, Tedesco held his palms in front of him and sat straight in the chair. He hadn’t changed much. Only his head was shaved to a quarter of an inch, the little remaining hair grey. He was a block of a man, big head, boxer’s flat nose, brown eyes. Muscular, not gym-rat ripped, just big, with natural strength. The hands he held in front of him large enough to belong to an NBA seven-footer. “As far as I know your sister’s fine. I swear it. I didn’t really have anybody on her.”

              “How did you know where she lived?”

              Tedesco looked at the floor. “I’ve known for a long time where both of you lived.”

              “You murdering bastard—”             

              “No. No.” He waved his hands back and forth. “I am a murdering bastard. But it’s not like that.” He dropped his gaze. “I found you because … I needed to … I had this, this … crazy idea. I thought maybe if I talked to you both, told you how sorry I am. But I couldn’t work up the nerve.”

              Grant squeezed the SIG’s grip. He ached to pull the trigger. An almost overwhelming, visceral urge to see the man bleed, to writhe in pain, beg for mercy, threatened to consume him. But, he needed answers. Not the least of which was whether or not the poison on the case would kill him. “Do you have any idea what you did to me? How much I want to—need to—kill you?”

              “Yes.” Tedesco placed his hands in his lap. “You don’t owe me anything. All I ask is for you to give me five minutes. Please. Give me a chance to tell you my story.”

              Grant nodded toward a clock adorned with the Lone Star beer logo. “Clock’s ticking, Boom.”

              “I was an enforcer for the Delfuco syndicate. Yes. I killed a lot of people. But I swear to you I had rules. Carmine knew it. I wouldn’t touch family, wives, children. The men I killed were bad. I know it doesn’t make it right, but they were. Murdering pieces of garbage themselves. But Carmine lied to me. I was his best.” He again dropped his gaze to the floor. “I didn’t know I was going to be killing innocents.”

              A miasma of anger and grief rocked Grant. This killer attempting to justify his heinous acts. Grant detected a tremor in his gun hand and forced it to be still. Tears attempted to surge into his eyes but he bit them back.

Tedesco must have seen something in his face. “Wait. I’m not making excuses. Just here me out. It’s not just about me. Please.” When Grant didn’t respond, he continued. “After the trial, as you know, I went into witness protection. They put me in this small town in Washington State. There was a church. A tiny place, on the same block. I heard them singing on Sundays. One morning I went. I slipped into the back. I don’t know why. The guilt, it was like a cancer, eating me. To make a longer story short, I … well … I found religion. Accepted Jesus.”

Grant studied the man’s face. Everything he knew about behavioral assessment and personal dynamics told him the man was telling the truth. Grant was schooled in proxemics, neurolinguistic programming, and a lot of other fancy terms used in interrogation and interviewing. Facial expressions, eye movement, voice stress, all pointed to, well if not the truth, not lying. Still he scoffed at the idea of the hit man finding religion. A concept Grant long ago abandoned. Since his family died, he hadn’t been on speaking terms with God. “So, you found Jesus. Halleluiah. Maybe I should just send you to see Him.”

This didn’t seem to faze Tedesco. “I know you tried to find me. I don’t blame you. But, so did Carmine. He wasn’t as subtle about it. After the third attempt on my life I went off the grid. I stumbled onto this bar as I was passing through. A couple of bikers were trying to bust up the place and I stepped in. Out of appreciation the owner offered me a job.” He nodded toward a photo behind the bar. It pictured another grizzled old gent who could have stepped from a Remington painting. “That’s him. When he died he left the place to me.”

Grant took a couple of steps forward. “This is all really sweet. But is there a point?”

“After the mine in Playas shut down a few years ago, business declined. I stayed anyway. I’ve made friends here. My place is kinda’ the local hangout. But, it was never about the money. I have plenty. Then a couple of years ago a company called Biodyne moved into the old copper mine. Most people around here don’t even know about it. Soon after, this kind little old man started coming in. Dr. Morgan.”

“Alfred Morgan?” Grant asked.

“Yeah. That’s him. He was real quiet at first, didn’t say much. I left him alone. But after a while we got to be friends. He came in like clockwork. Four days a week. Stayed one hour. Drank one beer. A Shinerbock draft. Everytime.” Tedesco shifted in his chair and for the first time looked Grant in the eye. “You mind if I stand?”

“Just move slow. As captivated as I am by this little yarn, you have no idea how hard this is. Not shooting you, I mean.”

Tedesco nodded and stood. “I can’t imagine.” He seemed unsure of what to do with his hands. They moved toward his pockets, but he must have thought better of it, so he settled for tucking his thumbs into his waist band. “About two weeks ago, the doctor came in as usual. He explained his wife was away on a family vacation and he couldn’t get away from work to go with them. Two days later he comes back. I can see it all over his face. He drinks four beers.” Tedesco held up four fingers. “Four. Something’s happened. Something bad. He’s acting funny. Telling me he may not see me again. But I press him and he finally opens up.”

Tedesco took a breath and paced around the chair. “His family was kidnapped. His wife, his daughter, his son-in-law, and his two grandkids. They were in Puerto Vallarta, Mexico. He cried. Tried to walk out. I asked him questions. Any leads? Were the police looking? What? He wanted to leave, I wouldn’t let him. I told him I might be able to help. Even explained who I was, what I was. It took a lot of coaxing, but I got the story out of him.”

The burly hit man looked Grant in the eye. “Morgan is a scientist. He works for the government. He designed some new chemical weapon. The people that took his family wanted it. The doctor didn’t have a chance on his own.” He sighed. A sound issued from his lungs like a blacksmith’s bellows. “I know you’re going to kill me. I understand. I’ll even welcome it. All I’m asking is for you to let me help Morgan’s family.”

“So, the case has a chemical weapon in it? And you planned on exchanging it for the family?” Grant ground his teeth. “I’m not buying it. Why isn’t the government helping him? Hmm?” Emotion coursed through Grant like electric jolts. The fact that this piece of crap even breathed while his family rotted in their graves was too much. Before Grant even realized what he was doing he shot forward and rammed a kick into Tedesco’s sternum. The man bent double.

“Please. Don’t. He’s telling the truth.”

Grant stepped away from Tedesco and whipped his gun in the direction of the voice. The man that stood at the edge of the hallway was dead. The man who started all this. The old man with the case. Dr. Alfred Morgan.

“No, I’m not dead,” Morgan said. “That was a ploy to keep me free. The authorities have already figured out it wasn’t really me.”

“I don’t understand,” Grant said. “Why all the subterfuge?”

“You’re a part of this now. So, it won’t hurt anymore to tell you. Biodyne is actually a private company clandestinely funded by USAMRIID. The United States Army Research Institute of Infectious Diseases, a division of the defense department. A black operation. You know what this means, yes?”

Grant nodded.

“As you may know the development of chemical and biological weapons is a violation of international treaties. But, we needed something specifically designed for the war on terror. I was tasked to create a virus with unique properties” He pursed his lips and blew a sigh through his nostrils. “And I did it.” The doctor clasped his hands behind his back and paced as he talked, much like a professor giving a lecture. “The virus, officially classified as the Morgan Strain, has a three day incubation period. A terrorist could be infected and take the disease with him. In three days he becomes ill and infects all those around him, killing the carrier and those he exposes, quite horrifically. Then once the disease runs its course it dies with its victims, no longer contagious.”

Grant swallowed. “You mean you infected the case, me, with this stuff?”

“No. I wouldn’t risk unleashing the virus that way, for any reason. Too much could go wrong. More subterfuge. I coated the handle with a strain of Botulism I engineered. Painful but not deadly. You would become violently ill, and if you believed you had been exposed to my virus, well, you understand. Ted …” Morgan shook his head. “I’m sorry, I believe you know him as Jimmy. Anyway, he came up with the plan. He knew we needed leverage. And if my family’s kidnappers believed they were going to die, we would have it.” Tears flowed from the corners of Morgan’s eyes and his voice cracked. “They would have believed they needed me. Needed the cure which I could provide. In exchange for my family. You see?