The Carbon Trail (19 page)

“Absolutely. We think he tailed him from New York.”

“Why?”

“Evans travelled back to LaGuardia from Jacksonville on the same plane as Mitchell last night, so we checked the inbound manifests for Sunday. He was on the same flight from New York to Miami, sitting two rows behind your man. More than a coincidence, I’d say.”

Magee ran through the options. Evans was wanted States-wide, yet here he was, flying into LaGuardia cocky as hell. Like a man without a warrant on his ass. He knew Tom Evans; there was no way that he wanted twenty years in prison for sedition, or worse, to be executed for treason. There was only one way he was acting like he was untouchable; because he was. Evans had protection, and from someone so high up that he couldn’t be stopped.

Magee ran through the possibilities; Senators, the President’s inner circle and the rich list, plumping for the last. Evans was working for someone so rich that only God could touch them. It only took Magee a second to work out the name. Neil Scrabo; it had to be.

Scrabo wanted Jeff Mitchell watched and Evans was the tail. Poor bastard Mitchell had half the world following him because of his genius. That meant Scrabo must know that there were others after Mitchell’s work by now, if not who they were.

Lemanski tapped her pen sharply against the phone, reminding Magee that she was still there. Magee coughed deliberately loudly, hurting her ears in revenge and then he spoke.

“You did the right thing telling me about Evans. Now forget you ever saw him.”

The call clicked off and Lemanski was left staring at the phone, shocked by Magee’s economy of words. Who the hell did he think he was? Tom Evans was her case now and no self-obsessed New Yorker was going to tell her anything else.

Lemanski headed straight for her boss’ office and rapped the door, looking for permission to follow Evans’ trail. Leo Brookman’s reply was as curt as Magee’s.

“Leave Evans alone.”

Brookman had his own plans for Tom Evans and they began and ended with the Special Ops team in New York.

Chapter Thirty-One

1 p.m.

Neil Scrabo stood in his spot by the Boardroom window and gazed out at 90 West Street’s Gothic façade. When it was built its height must have been impressive, now every tenth building in Manhattan was the same. The intercom buzzed irritatingly and his P.A. Sylvie’s voice echoed through.

“Mr Scrabo.”

“Yes?”

“Mr Evans is here, sir. Shall I send him in?”

“Yes, and hold my calls until I say don’t.”

Scrabo turned towards the door just as the muscled shape of Tom Evans entered the impressive room. Scrabo glanced towards the whisky and Evans nodded, holding up three fingers. He needed a decent shot; it had been a long few days. They sat in silence, sipping at their drinks as Scrabo scrutinised the other man. Evans was the closest thing to a confidante he had, even though he paid his bills. He was fed up with sycophants and Evans was never that; he liked him for it. Scrabo surprised himself by admitting that he wanted their acquaintance to last longer than this contract.

When Evans had sipped for long enough Scrabo signalled him to speak. Evans ran through the trip to Florida, the visits to Greg Chapman’s parents and High School, and the pallor on Mitchell’s face as he’d left. Scrabo interrupted.

“Who is this Greg Chapman? Some old college pal of Mitchell’s?”

Evans shook his head. “I don’t think so. Mitchell was dressed like a Fed and I saw him flash a badge at the parents’ front door.”

Scrabo gave a wry smile. “Impersonating a federal agent? Can’t he get done for that?”

They laughed together at his joke then Evans talked on.

“I’ll find out whatever there is about Chapman. But whoever he is, whatever Mitchell heard in that school scared the crap out of him.” He paused before continuing. “The local agents were tailing him too.”

“Interesting. Do you think you were spotted?”

“Sure of it. They probably have a reel of film just of me.” Both men smiled and Scrabo poured them another drink.

“Just as well I’ve got your back then, isn’t it?”

Evans nodded and lit a cigarette, handing one to his boss.

“What now?”

“Keep following Mitchell. I want to see where else he goes in the next few days. It’s time to suss out the North Korean’s competition.”

“And then?”

“Eliminate it of course.”

***

3.30 p.m.

Richie watched as Karen leaned the groceries against the front door and rummaged for her key. She pushed the door open and ushered Emmie in, kicking it closed with her heel. She looked happier than she had in days and Richie smiled. He had his earlier jealousy under control. Karen Mitchell deserved whatever happiness she could get; God knows she had an ordeal ahead of her with her husband’s health.

Richie turned the radio on and sat back, waiting for his relief to arrive. It was ‘90s day on the station and he laughed as the young disc jockey talked about the oldies he would play. Oldies! That was his youth they were talking about. Karen Mitchell’s too. He imagined them both as teenagers and laughed, remembering the horrors of ‘90’s fashion.

Karen walked quickly down the hall and put the groceries in the kitchen then she hurried upstairs to run Emmie’s bath. It was their afternoon ritual, after kindergarten and before Jeff came home, and she loved the time alone with her little girl. Karen left out the towels and was just running downstairs to put the groceries away when she heard a faint bang at the back of the house. She glanced out of the family-room doors nervously, scanning the deck. There was nothing. She laughed at her own stupidity; she was afraid of her own shadow these days.

As she walked into the kitchen Karen heard another bang, this time from the family-room. Emmie was playing in there; she might have taken a fall! Karen ran into the room urgently to check and the sight that greeted her was worse than any fall she could have imagined. Her three-year-old daughter was lying unconscious on the floor with a woman that Karen had never seen before standing above her. The woman held an empty syringe and a patch of blood was forming on Emmie’s neck. Another full syringe lay near-by.

Karen froze, afraid to move in case the woman emptied the second syringe into her daughter, and afraid not to in case she did the same. Elza Silin smiled coldly at her rival and watched as Karen’s eyes flicked quickly towards a large paperweight beside the TV. Elza wagged an elegant finger at her, as if she was a naughty child.

“Naughty, naughty, Mrs Mitchell. I wouldn’t if I were you. I’m a lot quicker than you think and by the time you reach me your daughter will be dead. She’s just sleeping at the moment; I’ve given her a sedative. But if you attack me I will kill her.”

Karen knew that the woman meant business. She restrained her urge to rush her and spoke, trying to sound calm.

“What do you want from us? We’re not rich.”

Elza laughed, showing perfect white teeth and making her green eyes shine. Karen knew the young woman in front of her should have been attractive, but her beauty was cold; empty somehow.

“Oh, but you
are
rich, Mrs Mitchell. You just don’t value what you have.”

Elza paused for a moment, scanning Karen from head to toe. She knew there was no rationale to men’s taste, but how could Mitchell possibly prefer this anaemic weakling to her? She shrugged. It was academic. Soon Karen Mitchell and her brat would be out of the way and she would be flying off to Russia with Jeff.

Elza’s next words were a lie to keep Karen Mitchell pliable, although Ilya would have thought they were the truth.

“Cooperate and you and your daughter will be safe.”

Karen’s temper flared and she took a step forward, then she stopped, knowing that she would never reach Emmie in time. Angry words would have to be enough.

“My husband will hunt you down and kill you.”

Elza thought for a moment and then nodded. “Perhaps. Unless he blames someone else entirely, the one who ordered me here, and I will make certain of that. Now, enough chat, we’re going on a trip. But not before you have a nice sleep.”

Elza lifted the full syringe and beckoned Karen forward. Karen saw the gun strapped to her waist and knew that it was futile to fight. If she managed to grab the syringe the woman would shoot her, and the gun was too far round her waist to be seized from the front. Karen gave a last glance at Emmie’s frail body and then walked forward, resigning herself to her fate. She felt the syringe push hard against her neck then she slumped to the floor with a thud.

Elza gave Karen a kick to check she was out then she carried the bodies to the waiting van one by one. As the van drove sedately down the back roads of Lloyd Harbor, Richie Cartagena watched the front of the Mitchell’s house, not suspecting a thing.

***

Karen opened her eyes to a kaleidoscope of colour, as blue, green and yellow melted to form abstract shapes above her head. Before she had time to focus a wave of nausea swept over her and she vomited hard, inhaling so much that she struggled for breath. A slim hand grabbed Karen and pushed her face into water. It held her down as she struggled, twisting and pulling to break free. Finally it yanked her up again and Karen gasped for air, shaking her shoulders free from the grip.

She fell back onto the floor and struggled to free her numb hands, but it was no good, they were tied tight. Karen could see the abstract clearly now. It was a rainbow painted on the ceiling above, a crudely crafted decoration. The room was bare and cold, with wooden floorboards and half-hung curtains patterned with cows and stars. They reminded her of an old nursery rhyme. Karen glanced at the ceiling again, understanding this time. She was in an old school. An abandoned one by the looks of it.

The thought was fleeting, replaced instantly by fear. Emmie. Where was she? Karen scanned the room frantically, but Emmie was nowhere to be seen. What had that bitch done with her? Karen’s mind raced with possibilities, all of them bad. Her thoughts were interrupted by a voice that she’d heard before.

“The girl’s fine and she’ll stay that way as long as you behave.”

It was a lie of course and they both knew it, but Karen grabbed at it like a life-line, holding on despite the voice in her head saying that it was crap. She sat very still and gazed at the voice’s owner. The young woman was stunning. Karen scanned her face for some sign of compassion, but there was none. Just cool control and naked hatred filling her jade eyes. Who did she hate so much? Was it her? Really?

Karen’s disbelief showed on her face and Elza laughed; the soccer Mom couldn’t believe that someone wanted her dead. Believe it, Mrs Mitchell. They’d been conversing without words but now Karen broke the silence.

“Why?”

Elza smiled. It was an ugly smile. A dry sneer of contorted lips, twisted with emotion. Karen recognised the emotion at once and the weakness that it showed. The bitch was jealous. Of her, of Emmie, of their life. Clarity followed quickly. She wanted Jeff! She wanted him the way only a woman could want a man. That was why this woman hated them so much, they were in her way. Doubt froze Karen for a second. Had Jeff been this bitch’s lover? She pushed the idea away. No. He loved her. That much she was sure of, and nothing else mattered today.

Karen’s mind raced with plans. Jeff would be dead soon and she’d just as soon die as well, but Emmie had her whole life ahead. She had to protect her. Karen pulled herself to her knees and stared unblinking into Elza’s eyes. The strength of her voice surprised her.

“Where is my daughter?”

Elza glanced carelessly towards the corner and Karen could just make out a small shape. She stumbled towards it and pressed her face fearfully against Emmie’s thin frame. She was warm! She nudged her daughter’s face towards her. She was asleep but unharmed and Karen whispered a silent prayer. Her thanks were interrupted by a sarcastic laugh.

“How touching. Mother and child reunited. I should take a picture.”

Karen snarled and the ferocity on her face took Elza aback for a moment, then she smiled; the kitten had claws. Karen Mitchell might make a decent adversary after all. Elza stared at the tableau for a moment longer and then turned, leaving the room and locking the door. Karen didn’t care that they were prisoners. Emmie was alive and that was all that mattered for now. She could think about escape another time.

***

5 p.m.

Mitchell collected a rental car and headed for the farmhouse. He’d spent the day wondering about Greg Chapman. It was self-indulgent and it wasn’t moving him any further on. He needed to find out how far his research had progressed and exactly what Ilya had promised the Alliance.

As the car sped along the Interstate Mitchell thought of the papers from the café. He’d discovered a new carbon allotrope and applied it to plants, playing God by creating new strains. The cages at the café and farmhouse said that there were plans to do the same with animals. He shuddered, thinking of the grotesques that he might already have made. The potential for error was endless; he couldn’t possibly have managed to eradicate it all.

In less than an hour Mitchell was sitting at the farms computer, reading a file and shaking his head. He’d done it! He’d applied the new carbon allotrope to animals, to change them into something else. But what? Clicking on a video file Mitchell watched as a monkey stood upright and walked with its arms by its side like a small child. It didn’t scratch or shake its head; it looked almost human, except for its hair and face. Was this what he’d achieved? Some form of advanced eugenics?

But it was what the primate did next that surprised Mitchell most. The monkey rubbed its hands together and a shower of sparks appeared, then, with encouragement from an out-of-shot male voice, it grasped the bare wires of a lamp. Mitchell watched as the lamp’s bulb glowed into life and the voice said ‘well done’. The monkey was generating electricity!

Animals generating electricity was nothing new, several hundred species could, but they were mostly aquatic; one type of electric eel could generate five hundred volts. Some mammals also carried a charge; human beings did, but it was tiny, 10-100 millivolts, nothing like this. It would take more than one hundred volts to light a bulb!

As the video played on things grew even more bizarre. Over the next ten minutes Mitchell watched as the monkey powered a clock, then a computer and finally an electric car. It was a walking generator! If animals could be physically re-engineered to generate electricity then the possibilities were endless. It would be worth a fortune! And this was with only one change in carbon’s form. What else could be achieved?

Mitchell couldn’t believe that he’d managed it, but it was undeniable. It was his voice on the tape instructing the chimp. He rifled through the papers in front of him, shaking his head. He’d used carbon re-engineering to cause physical changes in a living thing! He couldn’t remember any of it, but God, the logic was pure. Mitchell felt like patting himself on the back. He would have done if the potential applications hadn’t been so perverse.

It was astounding work, so why did he still feel that there was more? Mitchell ran through each file on the desktop, opening and closing them one by one, but there was nothing else to see. He poured a cup of coffee and allowed himself a small smile; if Devon saw him drinking coffee near equipment again he would have a fit.

Clicking on the computer’s document library Mitchell saw that it was filled with more files. A quick scan revealed that most were just the documents from Daria’s coffee-shop and the equations from the ‘Café’ file that he’d seen before. Then he noticed a secure PDF labelled with one letter. ‘A’.

Mitchell froze for a moment, considering what to do. A secure file was high level; it might have firewalls that would shut the whole system down. And what if it contained more advanced research? What could it be, and did he really want to know? The scientist in him overrode the man and he clicked to open the file, pushing through its series of passwords instinctively. Finally the PDF opened to reveal a document unlike any of the others that he’d seen. It was forty pages long and the word ‘Archaeus’ topped the first page. The word scribbled on the papers that he had at home.