The Killing Chase (Beach & Riley Book 2) (8 page)

“That doesn’t make sense, Alan. Why would they accept a technology that would give someone the power to make people do whatever they want? I mean, what benefit would there be for the general public?”

“That’s the interesting part. This technology wasn’t developed for mind control per se. In fact, Professor Gelling and his team had altruistic goals. Imagine patients with psychiatric disorders suddenly able to function normally, or crippled patients able to enjoy a jog in the park – at least in their own minds. Gelling’s team planned to use the technology to at least temporarily ease the suffering for victims of an amazing variety of illnesses, from paralysis to impotence. From there, they hoped to expand on the technology to develop permanent treatments, if not cures, for various psychological and physical ailments. That was the reason the FDA and ethical committees were so enthusiastic – the massive health benefit potential.”

“Wow, I didn’t think of the medical possibilities for such a thing. Guess that’s why I’m not a scientist or an entrepreneur.”

“It goes way beyond that. Imagine a working couple with small children and very little money – people who would struggle to afford the time and money for a decent holiday. With the Hallucineers technology, they could have what they perceive as a week of five-star luxury in Bora Bora, for a mere pittance. People could experience racing a Formula One car, sky-diving, deep sea diving, space travel and weightlessness, you name it. Imagine quadriplegics able to make virtual love, people with severe phobias able to face their fears – the possibilities are almost limitless. Unfortunately, in their naive
t
é
, Gelling and the FDA thought they would be able to control the use of the technology. Devlin had different ideas, and since he owned the company, he had unfettered access – and used it.”

“What about Gelling? Surely he wouldn’t have allowed that?”

“As it turns out, he had no idea what Devlin was up to until I told him. Devlin was paying the famous computer game designer, Eric Rothstein, to covertly program hallucination scenarios to achieve his goals. Rothstein designed the implanted hallucinations that killed Helen Benson, Scott Guthrie, Congressman Taylor, a Capitol policeman, and who knows how many others. He was in the middle of designing a scenario to make the President authorize executive orders, which would have advanced Devlin’s strategy, when we burnt the whole thing to the ground. If we hadn’t stopped him, the Executive Orders, combined with extorted and bribed congressional approvals, would have given him legal authority to do practically anything he wanted. It could have been a seriously frightening future.”

“And my partner is the one who stopped it.” Foxx slapped Alan on the shoulder.

“Believe me – if it hadn’t been for the incredible skills of Jake Riley and the hacker, Equilibrium, Devlin would have succeeded. They’re the silent heroes in this, but as much as I would like to acknowledge their actions, they want to maintain anonymity. I must respect their wishes, so I hope you understand that I’ll leave their roles out of this. It’s not that I don’t trust you – just that you don’t need those details to understand the case.”

“I can respect that. I’d love to meet this Jake Riley guy though – sounds like he would have made one hell of a Marine.”

“And then some!”

Foxx scratched at his facial stubble for a moment. “I gotta be honest, partner – this is a heck of a lot to swallow. Not saying I don’t believe you, but if it all went down like you say it did, what happened to the technology? More importantly, isn’t it possible that our suspect is some poor sap who had one of those implant things shoved into his neck? And if that’s the case, he’d have no idea what he did, right?”

“The thought briefly crossed my mind while we were at the crime scene, but I immediately dismissed it. Project Hallucineers, including all research notes, equipment, and any other relevant materials, was seized by the Attorney General’s Office as soon as the case broke. It’s as though the discovery was never made. There are rumors that Blue Sky Biotech was financially compensated through tax credits or something like that, but from what I’ve heard, the technology itself will never see the light of day again. And I’m sure you can see why.”

“I can see exactly why, but that doesn’t mean it hasn’t. You really think they would lock up something this big and throw away the key?”

“I’m not that naïve, but it seems to me it would be controlled by some highly secret department – maybe the military – so how would it get out? And even if it had, why would they use it to kill some random carpenter and his wife in Poughkeepsie? No, it doesn’t fit. If a secret government department is still messing with the technology, you can bet they’ve got far loftier goals than imitating a psychotic murderer.”

“Yeah, I guess that makes sense. But I’d still like to know what’s going on with that Hallucineers stuff.”

“You and me, both…” Beach stopped as his phone began to vibrate. There was no caller ID, and he didn’t recognize the number. He gave Foxx a puzzled look as he answered the call. “Agent Beach.”

Alan listened for a moment before speaking. “Can’t you just tell me on the phone? Okay, we’ll be there tomorrow – I have to check flight times but I think we can make it by late morning. All right, lunch it is, Dr. Tinsley.”

Foxx raised a questioning eyebrow.

“We’re going to see the head of the Sherbourne Institute in West Virginia.”

“Is that supposed to mean something to me?”

“It’s where Bryan Adler was incarcerated – and where he died.”

Chapter 8

Jake’s lingering frustration slowly abated as the thick blades of the Royal Thai Army Black Hawk slashed the air in thunderous loops. It was far from a cost-effective means of travel, but that evening’s last flight to Phnom Penh had already left Bangkok’s Suvarnabhumi Airport, and Jake was in no mood to wait for the next afternoon’s flight from Utapao. Mike Lee had called in a favor from an army general, who’d accepted a mere ten-thousand
Baht
bribe to organize the chopper to take the team to the Cambodian border. A further twenty-thousand Baht was required to cover the jet fuel for the two-hundred-and-ten-mile trip then return the machine to base. Then there was a thousand Baht each to keep the two man crew quiet, but it was all chump change for a man of Jake’s means and resolve.

To avoid potential difficulties between the constantly squabbling neighbors, the chopper would land just over a half mile from the southernmost border separating Thailand and Cambodia. The team would walk the rest of the way to the Cham Yeam Border checkpoint, where the Australian brothers had arranged for one of their contacts to meet the group with a minivan. They would continue south for about seventy miles, then east for another seventy to the capital, Phnom Penh. Given Cambodian road and traffic conditions, the drive would take over five hours, but they would still arrive at their destination at least half a day before the next flight from Utapao airport south of Pattaya.

The Black Hawk cut through the air at a hundred fifty knots, making the trip just over an hour and a quarter long – a far cry from the five hours plus it would have taken to drive. As the machine descended to land, Jake checked his watch. His mood cooled by the speed of the trip, he gave Dozer a slap on the shoulder and called out through the flight comms, “I hope your guy is on time.”

“No worries, mate – he’s staying just down the road from the checkpoint. His girl ferries gamblers between the border and the casinos for a living. She wants a baby, so he’s been there on an extended shag-fest for almost three months. I reckon he’ll thank us for giving him a rest.” The big man gave Jake an exaggerated wink as he pulled his headset off and grabbed his pack. 

The chopper touched down, and the group quickly made their exit. Tik tarried a moment to thank and pay the crew, but soon caught up with the others. They quick marched to the border crossing and on to the checkpoint to buy tourist visas and check their passports. Ten minutes later, as they were striding through the car park, a lanky, weary-looking character loped toward them with a raucous and purposely drawn-out greeting of, “Mate!”

Both Phillips brothers put up their right hands to high-five their friend, simultaneously answering his greeting with their own exaggerated, “Mate!”

Jake and Mike Lee looked at each other, shaking their heads. Now they had three Aussies to contend with. Tik watched on, confounded by the vernacular. She’d had her share of trouble trying to figure out the nuances of American slang, and now she was faced with an entirely new lexicon of confusingly misused words. “Crazy Aussies,” she mumbled, assuming an impatient stance.

The Aussies exchanged vulgar, playful familiarities – Priest inquiring as to the hanging status of their friend’s testicles, and Dozer asking if he had any bark left on his
nudger
. There was obviously a long history of friendship among the three, so the others let them alone a few moments until Priest sensed the awkward silence behind them. “Sorry, guys. This is Erik – Erik the Viking.”

“That’ll be enough of the Viking twaddle, mate. Just plain Erik will do, thanks.”

Erik held his hand out to shake with Mike and Jake, then turned to Tik, put his hands together in front of his face and bowed politely. She
wai
ed back, and they made their introductions.

“So what the hell you doing mixed up with these wankers?” Erik motioned toward the brothers.

“I often ask myself the very same question,” Mike said.

Erik ignored the quip. “Just shitting you, mate. The lads have already filled me in.” Catching the stern glance Mike Lee shot at Dozer and Priest, Erik added quickly, “Don’t get your knickers in a twist, Super Spy. They just said you’re on a bit of a mission and need a lift to Phnom Penh. You bloody
Seppos
can be so testy.”

Lee held his tongue.  Without any available contacts in the immediate vicinity, he’d had little choice but to go along with Priest’s suggestion they use their man. It also bothered him that, while he suspected it was a derogatory Oz term for Americans, he didn’t know exactly what Seppo meant.

As if sensing Lee’s resentment, Erik said, “Lighten up, mate. ‘Super Spy’ is what we call all you CIA blokes where I’m from.” He turned to the others and motioned toward the van. “Righto, let’s get this show on the road, shall we?”

The three-way Aussie banter continued nonstop as Erik guided the van along what Cambodia classified as a highway, but was, in fact, not much more than a poorly maintained dirt road. The right-of-way was constantly overrun by wandering bovine creatures, crazy taxi drivers, even crazier motorcycle riders, seemingly aimless pedestrians, and meandering poultry – all accompanied by a constant cacophony of unnecessary and unheeded car horns. Jake watched in amusement while Mike Lee’s knuckles went white from gripping the grab-handle above him. Erik the Viking was obviously familiar with the chaotic conditions, but his driving style gave Lee no confidence whatsoever in their safety. Meanwhile, oblivious to the madness and in typical Laotian style, Tik fell fast asleep.

Almost five hours later, they entered the outskirts of the capital. The mixture of closely huddled, ugly concrete sheds with modern low-rise apartments, small office buildings, and rickety wooden structures painted a grim picture of a nation still struggling to rebuild from the ashes of the Khmer Rouge regime. The demise of industry, wealth, culture, and education for which Pol Pot was responsible had been catastrophic to the country’s place in a rapidly modernizing Southeast Asia. Cambodia was still crippled by its overwhelming loss of doctors, teachers, architects, engineers, and free-thinkers. The vast majority of intellectuals had been murdered in the death camps or had narrowly escaped to neighboring countries. Predominantly through imported capital, intellect, and skills, the country was gradually emerging from the mire in which the vicious dictator had left it.

About half an hour later they arrived at a small hotel in the middle of the city, near the National Museum.

“This ought to do you,” Erik called out. “It’s basically walking distance to most things. The river’s that way, most of the bars are that way or that way, and the airport’s that way. No worries – it’s all on this map my missus gives the tourists. I reckon you should go see Billy D. for some intel before you go messing with those Ruskies though.”

Mike Lee flared with anger, realizing Dozer or Priest had obviously said more than they should. But Erik cut him off before he could speak. “Keep it in your pants, mate. I don’t know any more than that,” Then he mumbled, “Bloody Seppos – no sense of humor.”

Mike clenched his teeth. He had absolutely no authority over Erik the Viking, and the loudmouth Aussie obviously held Americans of his ilk in contempt, so Super Spy exited the van in silence. The others said their thanks and goodbyes before Erik drove off, leaving the Phillips brothers to deal with Mike Lee’s simmering wrath. But it was Jake who wrapped a big arm around Mike’s shoulders and steered him into the hotel lobby.

“Don’t take the Super Spy thing personally, Mike. Based on what I’ve heard about Erik’s line of work, he’s had to tolerate a lot of crap from your CIA compatriots while working in the Sandbox.”

“Okay, I get that; but what the hell is a ‘Seppo’?”

Behind them Dozer spoke up: “Surprised you haven’t heard that one before, mate. It’s from World War II. A lot of your blokes were stationed in Australia or went there on R&R from the Pacific theater. The Yanks often had access to nylon stockings, chocolate bars, cigarettes, and other goodies that were in extremely short supply, so they had some luck with our ladies while the men were away fighting. Most Aussies resented the invasion of their shores and their damsels, and used rhyming slang to change ‘Yanks’ to Septic Tanks, or ‘Seppos.’”

“Petulant children,” Mike grunted through Dozers guffaws.

“Just messing about, mate – no worries.” The huge Aussie tousled Mike’s hair as he passed en route to the check-in counter. “G’day, love – you got five rooms under, Viking, Erik the, please?”

If Dozer’s massive size wasn’t enough to startle the petite receptionist, his broad accent only added to her trepidation. Priest pushed his brother aside to clarify the request, calming her with his fluent
Khmer
. Obviously relieved, the woman nodded eagerly, handing him registration cards and asking for their passports. Formalities completed, the group headed to their rooms for a much-needed shower and change of clothes. Jake had decided it would be wise to visit the longtime expat, Billy D., to glean as much as they could about the Russian operation before making their move, so they all agreed to meet in the lobby in an hour.

Jake and Mike arrived back at reception first, and waited for the others. Dozer and Priest joined them momentarily, the larger brother making a joke about always having to wait for women. It was only a couple of minutes past the assigned meeting time, but Jake knew Tik too well to ignore her uncharacteristic lack of punctuality. He was about to go to her room when the receptionist called out in broken English, “Call for Mr. Jake, please.”

She held out the handpiece as Jake approached the counter. “Hi, Tik – what’s the holdup?”

A man replied, well-spoken but with a Russian accent. “I understand you’re looking for me, Mr. Riley. If you value Tik’s life, you will stop now.”

The blood drained from Jake’s face. “Ugolev.”