Murder Inc.: A Sci-fi Thriller: Book 1 (33 page)

“Are you sure you can trust these people?” Samantha asked. They were in Jennings office after not having seen each other all day. With Charlie out of the way, Samantha's role had changed, bringing her into head office more. It meant Jennings could utilize her analysis skills more, bounce ideas around, and make her feel like a more important part of the team. The water dispersion project—code-named
Nightboat
—was only two days away and with everything else going on, Jennings didn’t feel comfortable that they had a good handle on the details.

“Yes. We’ve used them before.”

“On what?”

“A train accident upstate a few years back. They do special projects for the company across North America.”

“Why haven’t I heard of them?”

Jennings shrugged. “You’re not across everything. These people are for special events.” Samantha’s sneer told him she didn’t like it. “I’ll be bringing you in on more from now on. That’s why you’re in here with me now, discussing it. And when Fox is gone, you’ll learn my current role and eventually fill that.”

She gave a curt nod, accepting his plan. “Have you finalized the how?”

“I was thinking about sending in the crew as police officers investigating a disappearance in the area, but it was too vague. We decided to use the cover of a water experiment being conducted by one of the universities.”

“What about security?”

“Department of Environmental Protection agents patrol the reservoir, but we’ve got that covered. We now have the approval to conduct a ‘science experiment’ on bacteria in the water supply. The virus is untraceable. The biologists have been working on it for almost a year.”

“Which waterway are you targeting?”

“Rondout Reservoir in the Catskill Mountains. It supplies the Delaware Aqueduct, which provides half the city’s daily water use. It’ll make a lot of people sick. Hospitals will get full; as will the morgues… it’s a potent virus.”

“Friday?”

“Yes, at midday. This style of drop has worked before. It will kill in large numbers, and there is nothing for treatment yet. We'll release the vaccine later on when the panic is high, maximize the price. Make sure you order enough doses to treat yourself and your immediate family from Watford down at the lab.”

They continued working the finer points of timing, responsibilities, and the increased requirement for their services following the virus' release. Jennings thought of McDevitt—he wouldn’t be happy having to pay for more vaccine, but this one would recoup his lost money from Fox's failed project.

It was 9:22 pm when Samantha suggested they turn off the lights and head back to her apartment. But the incoming call alert sounded from Jennings screen as they headed for the door. He and Samantha exchanged glances. Jennings hurried back and saw Chekov’s name flash. He swallowed the lump in his throat. “I’d better get that.”

He slid into his chair and swiped the screen. To Jennings’ surprise, a blue hologram of Chekov’s head appeared.

“I have information that a policeman is continuing his investigation into the death of one of your employees.”

Jennings hesitated, deciding on the right answer. “I didn’t want to alert you until I knew more. We’re looking into it now, sir.”

“Have you identified the employee?”

Although Jennings had his suspicions, he couldn’t be sure, and wouldn’t speculate at this point. “No, sir. But we’re close. Very close.”

“Make sure your house is in order, Mr. Jennings, just in case the police come knocking.”

“I will.”

Chekov’s expression grew hard and unflinching. “I don’t want to have to send around my men again.”

“I understand.” The hologram disappeared.

“What’s he talking about?” Samantha asked.

“Nothing,” Jennings snapped.

“What’s he talking about, 'make sure your house is in order'?”

Jennings was pleased that Chekov had referred to it as his house. And he was right; Jennings needed to cover his ass. “I need to make sure the off-site servers are updated. That the file servers here are clear, and that the uploads are done hourly for the next week or two in case we do have to shut them down and clear them out quickly.”

“Why would we—?”

“Just do it!” Jennings snapped, causing Samantha to flinch. Chekov had always been one step ahead of the game. “Chekov knows something. And this time, I’m going to listen.”

“Martinez speaking.”

“Cap, it’s me, John. Sorry for calling so late, but I had to talk to you. It couldn't wait until the morning, I know I—”

“John? Slow down. Where—?”

“It’s the woman, Cap. Tabitha Marks. She contacted me.” He knew his voice was racing to keep up with his mind, trying to get it all out before Martinez shut him down, told him the commissioner had personally asked for the case to be closed, or something that would not allow him to meet Tabitha and close these fuckers down once and for all.

“Where are you, John?”

He swallowed, ran a hand through his hair. His forehead was wet with sweat. “At home, Cap. I was out eating with my mom and kids and… she called. I didn’t think she was going to call; I’ll tell you. I must have left two dozen messages since Sunday night.”

“What changed her mind?”

“Apparently they killed her mother—”

“Who?”

“It’s deeper than we thought, Cap, so much deeper. Janefield is a front for much more. Dominic Curwood, Bryce Adler, Charlie Billings. She claims they were all murdered.”

Martinez considered this. “That’s a sensational claim. Does she have any proof?”

“She’s promised to tell me everything. She wants revenge. I know that’s not always the best motivator, but to be honest, I'll take what I can get right now. She’s on the inside. I can bring these guys down.”

There was a long silence. Gutterson held his breath as if this final command would determine his life from here on out. What would he do if Martinez instructed him not to follow it up? Told him to leave it alone, that he’d had his time and had to move on. Gutterson would quit the department right now. That’s what—

“All right, John, all right. Find out what she has to say.”

For a moment, he didn't know what to say. “Thank you, Cap. Thank you.”

“When are you meeting?”

“The next day or two—”

“No, John,” Martinez snapped. “It has to be tomorrow. You don’t have any time. The commissioner is asking questions. He’s…”

“What?”

“He's taken an interest in this.”

“In what way?”

“I haven't established that yet. He’ll want to meet with us after your meeting and find out exactly what’s going on.”

“Fine. Let’s do it. Take it to the top.”

“Where are you meeting?”

“There are a few options."

“Use the Italian coffee shop on Telford Street. Near the statue of Rudy Giuliani. I did some work with the owner back in the old days. He worked in the department with your old man and me. We’ve used the place before in these situations.”

“I’ll do that. And Cap, I appreciate this. I know I haven’t given you a lot to support my theories, but I’m grateful. Thank you.”

Martinez cleared his throat and spoke in a low, firm tone. “Whatever happens, John, you don’t give up this time. You follow this through until the end, you got me? There’s something here. I’m feeling too much heat for it to be nothing.”

“I will, Cap. For you and for Carolyn.”

Janefield had purchased a dilapidated city administration building on West 57th Street some years ago and fitted the external perimeter with the latest technology to keep their activities undetected by the modern world. The building was two hundred feet long, fifteen levels above ground; a wall of square windows, mostly blinded, with tinted glass those outside could not see through. To the casual observer, it appeared nondescript, but beyond lay a maze of hallways and testing rooms filled with expensive machinery dedicated to the development of disease, viruses, and vaccines. A number of similar facilities existed across the U.S. and the world, working to devise drugs to both cause and prevent many afflictions. In the New York facility, doctors had designed some of the most genius cures and vaccines for the most potent illnesses, along with lethal diseases that could bring humans to their knees if required. Fox had signed off many capital expenditure requests over the years totaling in the tens of millions of dollars.

The entrance sat along a side street, and as Fox moved from the sidewalk through a secure gateway and along a short, paved pathway, a tiny sensor on the building high above flashed a blue light. He glanced up at it momentarily, aware of its location, and walked on. By the time he reached the base of the steps that led up to the sliding glass doors, the scanning device would have relayed his retina information, height, weight, disposition, and numerous other physiological characteristics and compared them against details in the security database. If they matched, the two-inch thick glass doorway would retract, and Fox would be allowed entry. If the comparison failed, the door would stay barred, and the security team would be at the entrance within sixty seconds.

He passed through the doorway and into a modest foyer. Even at this level, away from the laboratories, the smell of bleach and antiseptic cleaning solutions stuffed his nostrils. He reached the elevator and took it to level 3L.

Fox rarely visited. He preferred to leave the technical aspects to others. If he was honest though, it reminded him of what the company did and didn’t do, and as the years had gone on, dealing with that had become more challenging.

He exited the elevator and stood in the foyer, waiting for Dr. Clarence Smith, to whom he had called ahead and alerted to his visit.

Dr. Smith arrived, appearing from a door that led off into the labyrinth of laboratories and testing rooms, his rotund body wrapped in a white coat. Short, wiry, brown hair topped a round head, his chin lost in a thick neck that spoke of a man committed to his job and little else. Beady eyes behind thick-rimmed glass reminiscent of the nineteen sixties peered at Fox. He’d once asked Smith why he hadn’t had corrective surgery; a simple, painless, and highly effective process. Smith had told him that based on the kind of conspiratorial act the company undertook, he couldn’t be sure the procedure wasn’t part of some government undertaking to get inside his head and track his thoughts.

“Hello, sir,” Dr. Smith said, holding out his hand.

Fox shook it. Despite his idiosyncrasies, he liked the doctor. He had delivered an incredible number of projects over the years and never asked questions or lectured Fox on the nature of the intended function. Smith had plied his trade in the U.S. Army, and then worked for NASA and the CIA, until Janefield had poached him in the early thirties.

From the pocket of his lab coat, he took a small bottle of blue liquid and handed it to Fox. “You have a good two-hour window. After three it will begin to wear off.”

“Thank you, Clarence. For everything you’ve done over the years.”

Smith chuckled, but his easy smile dissolved. “You’re making it sound like goodbye.” Fox pressed his lips together. “I don’t typically ask about these things, Bryan, but… ” Smith adjusted his glasses.

Fox nodded. “They’ll come for me. I know that much.”

He dropped his gaze. “I’m sorry to hear things have gotten that bad. We hear… whispers over here. Most of it is talk. The connection with headquarters is limited, of course.” He looked up suddenly at Fox. “It’s Jennings, isn’t it?”

“Was he here?”

Smith sneered. “He’s always here. I don't deal with him, though.”

“Keep an eye on Jennings. He's after my job.” Smith’s eyes widened. “But don’t worry; he’s not going to get it.” Smith’s shoulders settled. “Every year it becomes more difficult. The politics of working at this company are harder than ever. The processes have changed. The narrow lines of morality we kept for many years under the Chairperson have disappeared. What remains is a greedy conglomerate more interested in self-profit than the rest of the world. Now I’m not infallible, but I’ve always tried to keep it impersonal—sacrifice for the greater good. It goes in cycles. I hope to see this one through, too.”

“Good luck, sir.”

They shook hands and Fox left the foyer, wondering if he would ever see the sanitized cleanliness of the place again. He messaged his vehicle as he took the elevator and by the time he reached the entrance, the gleaming black Audi idled at the curb. He got in and asked the system to return him to the office.

A minute later, his implant sounded. It was Sash Palinski from IT. He was now working the day shift. Fox answered quickly and they exchanged greetings.

“Sir, I have a data scrambler and a virtual CryptoModule on the line, but do you have extra security, just in case?”

“It’s covered, Sash. Nobody but us is listening.”

“In the course of monitoring Mr. Jennings, who doesn’t seem to take his security seriously, I’ve found out some vital information relating to a Project Nightboat.”

“Nightboat?” Fox shifted position. “That was the early name for…”

“I don’t know specifics, but it’s happening tomorrow.”

Fox slumped against the seat.
Jesus Christ. That bastard went ahead with the project.
In hindsight, he should have known. “Is the location still the Delaware Aqueduct?”

“Yes, sir. The drop will be into Rondout Reservoir at midday.”

“Good work, Sash. Send a summary to my private e-mail address. I’ll message it through to you shortly.”

As he ended the connection, a holomessage appeared from Johan Haremeyer. Fox read it feeling a wash of relief; Haremeyer would be in New York tomorrow. He would meet Fox at four o’clock in the New York office. Fox voiced a quick reply confirming the meeting and sat back, staring out the window, watching the rain run down the sides of grimy buildings as the Audi rolled over the wet roads.
This city,
he thought. Lately, he couldn’t help imagining how much worse it would have been if they hadn’t been doing their work for so many years. He visited India in the early twenties and recalled flying into Mumbai and seeing the sea of blue tarpaulins crammed into every available space across the landscape. The predictions had told of that—too many people, not enough food, water, money, or jobs. Maybe it was to help justify it all to himself. Had they not deviated from the traditional methods of population control, it might have been easier to accept. But the more horrific techniques cut at the edges of Fox’s tolerance. Poisoning waterways was different to how it had once been. He thought of the outcomes if Jennings and his team could get the virus into New York’s water supply. There would be constant sickness; vomiting, nausea—perhaps worse—before death rolled in and killed off the elderly. He tried to stop it once, and Jennings had gone around him. While he couldn’t use his own division’s resources, he could call on help from a friend.

Fox gave the command to connect with his friend, Jonas Whitmore.