The Carbon Trail (26 page)

The thoughts ran through Mitchell’s mind quickly and Ilya watched them flitting across his face, mistaking them for thoughts of his family in Russia. If he’d known what Jeff Mitchell’s thoughts really were, he’d have shot him there and then. Mitchell stared at the envelope then ripped it open, quickly withdrawing the pages inside. He scrutinised the photographs, tears springing to his eyes.

The photos were arranged in order, year by year. A woman of forty with a young child; his grandmother and mother. Then two adult women, separately and together, the older slowly becoming the other’s child, until finally the older woman was no more. Mitchell turned the pages until he reached the last one then he stopped, staring at the picture beneath his hand. It was of a thirty-something woman with a young girl, standing outside a wooden house. The image in his mind! The last time that he’d seen his mother and sister.

Mitchell lifted the photograph, holding it close to his face as if he could smell their perfume. Each line and hair was studied as Ilya watched pain etch itself on the younger man’s face and his heart sank as he saw the loss he’d caused. A murderous look filled Jeff Mitchell’s eyes and Ilya knew that if Mitchell decided to kill him then and there he wouldn’t object. He’d been the agent who’d taken the ten-year-old boy from his family. Perhaps he deserved to die.

Instead of Jeff Mitchell striking out, he dropped his head into his hands and wept. Harsh tears of bitterness and loss, and more loss to come. Finally he straightened up and strode silently past Ilya Tabakov, heading for home and the PDF that he’d hidden there.

***

“How much are the North Korean’s paying me?”

Neil Scrabo topped-up his whisky and gave Tom Evans a sceptical look.

“You mean how much am I paying you, don’t you?”

Evans bit back his next words, knowing that they would give too much away. Undercover was harder than he’d thought. Knowing that Scrabo’s days were numbered made him want to tell the smug bastard a few home truths, but he couldn’t and that was that. Instead he smiled at his boss’ put-down, acknowledging that he’d crossed the line.

“Sure. That’s what I meant.”

Scrabo wandered across the Boardroom and took a seat at the conference table. He leaned so far back in his chair that Evans though he was going to put his feet up on the polished wood, but instead Scrabo just stared at him and smiled. He said nothing for a moment, just let the tension build. When he thought he’d put Evans in his place for long enough Scrabo set his glass down and fixed him with a look.

“Nine noughts.”

Evans spat his drink across the room. “What? That’s my cut?”

Scrabo’s nod was barely perceptible but it was there. A thousand questions ran through Tom Evans’ mind. The main one; was there any way to hand Neil Scrabo over to the agency and still get the money? He smiled to himself. His fresh start might be even fresher than he’d thought.

Scrabo was still talking. “Where are you with Mitchell? Our friends are keen to move.”

Evans smiled again, ready to impress his boss.

“He has a secret lab.”

Scrabo sat forward so quickly that he knocked his glass onto the carpet. As they watched the whisky spread across the cream wool Evans wondered how much it would cost to clean. Scrabo’s voice was insistent.

“Where? How do you know?”

“I knew he wasn’t going to do his research here. Too much chance of someone finding it.”

Scrabo gazed at him in naked admiration and Evans smiled. So that was all he had to do to get respect; make a deal with the agency.

“And?”

“And I tailed him there.”

“Good work.”

“That’s what you pay me for.”

Scrabo shot Evans a warning look. There was hubris and there was taking the piss.

“Where is it?”

“Not far away. Long Island. I’ll have the research soon.”

Scrabo rose and walked over to the window. The sun had almost set and the lights of Manhattan were blinking on. It was a picture that graced a million postcards and he got to see it every night. Evans wondered how Scrabo could bear to live anywhere else, but it was surprising what money could make people do.

Neil Scrabo thought for a moment, then without turning he asked the same question Magee had asked.

“When?”

“Two days.”

Scrabo nodded, more to himself than to his bodyguard. “Good, then I’ll set-up the exchange. In two days we’ll both be very rich men.”

Chapter Thirty-Five

Lloyd Harbor. 9 p.m.

Mitchell opened his front door and entered the hallway, startled for a moment by the strange man standing there. He’d forgotten that there were agents living with them now. He smiled to himself at the surreal turn his life had taken, then grabbed a coffee from the kitchen and entered the study, taking a seat behind his desk.

Emmie was at the hospital for one more night, with Karen and Richie standing post. He liked Richie Cartagena. He was a little rough around the edges but his heart was where it should be. He could tell that Karen liked him too. A pang of jealousy rose in Mitchell’s chest then died quickly. He had no right to mind. He would be dead soon, either from the tumour or his own hand, and he didn’t want Karen to be alone. Better she was with a man that he knew would protect her, than some bum she’d meet in a wine-bar years from now.

Dragging his thoughts back to the present Mitchell re-opened the envelope that Ilya had given him, flicking through the pages until he reached the photograph at the back. He stared hard at his mother’s face, tracing her smile with a finger, then he closed his eyes, trying to hear her voice. Vague sounds formed into words until finally he could hear her soft tones.

“Vadim.”

His name was Vadim! Mitchell dashed away a tear and gazed at his little sister’s pretty face. Her name was Galina, after their mother. She looked familiar somehow, but not from memory. Then he realised why; she looked like him. They could have been twins. He remembered her crying as he’d left, hugging her doll tight to her chest.
“Vadim, ne ostavlyayte.”
Vadim, don’t leave.

Mitchell cursed Ilya Tabakov with a venom that he’d never felt before and wished he hadn’t released his grip around his neck in the café. Ilya had stolen his childhood and his life, but now he was going to take them back. He would give Richie the photograph next time they met, so that the agency could find his family before he died. It would be a non-negotiable part of his deal.

Mitchell placed the envelope to one side and sipped at his cooling coffee then he reached for his briefcase and opened it, dreading the nightmare that he would find in the PDF inside.

***

The doctor held Emmie’s arm for a moment taking her pulse, then he dropped it gently and smiled. Karen smiled back warily, waiting for the next shock. There wasn’t one.

“She’s fine, Mrs Mitchell. You can take her home tomorrow.”

Karen exhaled, realising that she’d been holding her breath, and then glanced at Richie across the room. She liked him but she wanted Jeff to be there. She knew that he couldn’t; he was busy upholding his side of the deal. As the doctor left Karen walked over to Richie and placed her hand on his.

“Thank-you, Agent Cartagena. Without you we would both be dead.”

Richie gazed down at her hand, feeling the warmth of her small fingers and fighting the urge to entwine them in his. He could smell her perfume. It was warm and light and he wanted to breathe it in. Instead he stood up straight, composing himself into the professional that he knew he should be.

“It was my honour, Mrs Mitchell.”

Karen clasped his hand insistently. “Karen. You can’t call me Mrs Mitchell when you’ve saved my life.”

Richie stared into her dark blue eyes and blushed. “Karen then.” He gently withdrew his hand in an attempt at officialdom. “I’ll wait outside for my relief.”

He crossed the room quickly, desperate for the safety of the door between them. If he stared at her any longer the closeness between them would grow and all sorts of trouble would lie ahead, most of which Magee had outlined for him a few hours before. Karen smiled at Richie’s retreating back, surprising herself with a moment’s curiosity about his life, then she turned back to her daughter and her last night spent sleeping in a chair.

***

“It’s all set.”

“When and where?”

Magee gripped the phone, waiting for Tom Evans to confirm the plan for Sunday night. He glared across the room at Al Schofield. He was standing by the bureau playing with Magee’s ivory abacus. It was three hundred year’s old and a birthday gift from his wife. Schofield liked to break things so Magee waved him irritably to a seat and turned back to his call.

Evans heard that someone else was in the room and he stopped talking, waiting for an explanation. Magee sighed, knowing from his silence that Evans wouldn’t say any more unless he was told.

“Al Schofield is here.”

“What the fuck? Why is that shit-head involved?”

Evans already knew the answer; because he had to be. Schofield headed-up Special Ops for New York State. Magee would never have had him there otherwise; he knew they’d crossed swords frequently when Tom had been an agent. Evans’ press-leak costing Schofield his job as a Presidential aide had been the last quarrel in an already bad marriage.

Magee glanced at Al Schofield and pictured the look on Tom Evans’ face. He hated Schofield as well, so did most people, but his squad was a necessary evil in an operation that could get rough.

“We need Special Ops.”

Evans bit his lip and kept talking, keen to get off the phone now that he knew who else was there. He liked Magee a lot and he could cope with Richie’s moral superiority, but Al Schofield was a cold-blooded prick who’d rather shoot a man than take his name. Their enmity was the real deal; hallmark and all.

“The meet’s on Sunday at twenty-two hundred, as agreed. Top of Scrabo Tower. I said I’d get Mitchell’s research to Scrabo two hours before so he can take a look.”

The roof of Scrabo Tower! What the hell? Magee stared at the phone incredulously and then realisation dawned. The helipad! The North Koreans were coming in and out of the city by helicopter. It was brilliant. New York ran hundreds of pleasure flights each week, who would notice one more?

“OK. You’ll have it by then. Are you going with Scrabo and the Koreans?”

“I’ll have to be arrested at the same as them or they’ll catch on.” Evans hesitated. “There’s something else.”

“What?”

“Scrabo wants to hand Mitchell over to them as well. For future work. The only way I can stop him is to tell him about Mitchell’s cancer.”

Magee thought for a moment and then said. “Go ahead.” It was better if the Koreans thought that Jeff Mitchell had a sell-by date; that way they’d leave him behind.

Tom Evans paused for a moment, thinking. When he restarted his voice was cold. “Tell that prick Schofield not to go spraying any bullets around. I want to live long enough to be de-briefed.”

Magee glanced across the desk, knowing how close Evans’ words were to the truth. Schofield enjoyed killing, and he hated Tom. It would be the perfect opportunity to take his revenge. Magee shook his head. No. It would be career suicide and Schofield was far too ambitious to destroy himself.

Magee ended the call with “OK. Check in at twelve hundred tomorrow” then he turned to his unwelcome visitor to finalise the plan.

***

The house was in darkness by the time Mitchell closed the Archaeus PDF, the noise of radios and phones in the hallway finally replaced by the occasional deep whisper between the agents protecting his back. Mitchell turned over the final page and sat starting into space, barely able to believe what he’d just read. His last shred of naiveté wanted to believe that it was just science fiction, but the scientist in him had read every equation with growing admiration for his own warped mind.

He remembered writing none of it and yet the work was unmistakably his. The PDF was covered with footnotes and comments, ranging from sharp mathematical amendments to ethical arguments so weak that Mitchell wondered why he’d even tried. The man who’d written this was on barely nodding acquaintance with morality.

Bile filled Mitchell’s mouth and he grabbed at the waste basket, retching into it as quietly as he could. He was disgusted at his own genius, the warped intellect that had produced this file, and even more disgusted at what could follow unless he buried it.

The Archaeus research was eons ahead of his normal work for Scrabo, ahead even of the animal research work he’d seen earlier that evening at the farm. Mitchell had no idea how he’d made the discovery but he was certain of one thing. Absolutely no-one could be trusted with this work.

Mitchell lifted the file’s first page and read the summary paragraph again, dialling down his horror just a notch. It was all just theory; the art of possibility. And theory without clinical trials was mere conjecture; generations of scientists could testify to that. From the page to the test-tube was a huge leap, from the laboratory to the street a much bigger one. There was nothing to say that anything he’d written here would work.

Mitchell exhaled, halting his self-chastisement for a moment. There was nothing in the file that even mentioned trials of this work. He sat in silence listening to the clock tick, his mind churning. It was unusual that there’d been no trials mentioned. Trial details were outlined for even the weakest research, regardless of whether they ever materialised. They were like a scientist’s second date; a hopeful invitation to commitment for reluctant funders.

Mitchell’s heart sank, knowing what it meant. He’d never seen research where trials weren’t outlined at the earliest stage, and his work would be no different. There
had
been trials, they just weren’t documented here. Why weren’t they? And where were the results if trials had taken place? Mitchell knew the answer immediately. They were too secret to document. He must have hidden them in the same way that he’d hidden the PDF, under an obscure name. The same way he was skulking in the dark reading about it now.

The trial results must have been even worse than his work with the animals. If they weren’t then he would have sold them to the highest bidder and be living in wealth by now, or be back in Russia getting a medal from the state.

Mitchell grasped for some shred of redemption. Perhaps he’d thought better of it and destroyed whatever he’d discovered? He shook his head immediately. Any man capable of creating the abominations outlined on the pages in front of him had no scruples. He was barely able to believe what he’d done. It felt like someone else’s work; except that evil twins only existed in the movies. It was his name at the top of the page. Dr Jeff Mitchell. He had done this.

A deep laugh in the kitchen jerked Mitchell back to reality and he stared hard at the pages in front of him, gathering his thoughts. There were no signs of trials of this work at the farm facility, and there’d been none at the café. He’d wanted to keep the work secret even from the Russians, and for that he sent up silent thanks. What the Alliance didn’t know about they couldn’t hunt for. That only left one possibility. Scrabo Tower. He must have carried out the Archaeus research there. It would have been safe enough; the work was so advanced that even Devon wouldn’t have known what to look for.

Mitchell’s mind shot back to the missing time on the CCTV tape from Scrabo’s basement lab. If this was what he’d been working on in the research suite that night, then he might have doctored the video to avoid anyone asking questions. It made sense.

Mitchell glanced quickly at this watch. Four a.m. He wanted to go to Scrabo Tower immediately to check the research out, but it would raise questions all round. Part of him was relieved that he could defer the time he had to face the monster he was. A man who’d used his gifts to pollute the world. The other part was desperate to see if his theory had actually worked.

Mitchell placed the Archaeus PDF in his lock-box and left the study, nodding at the tall agent in the dark. He had less than two days left as Joe-Public, to sleep and bring his family home, then he would face what he’d done and what he had to do.