The Carbon Trail (28 page)

Mitchell held the younger man’s stare for a moment then he slid his hand into his jacket, withdrawing a computer disc. He turned it over in his hands as he talked. “This is the genuine research.” Mitchell paused before continuing. “And I don’t want to give it to you.”

Magee tensed and Tom Evans smiled to himself. Mitchell’s mistrust of the U.S. Government just about matched his own. Mitchell stared directly at Magee.

“What’s on this disc will give the holder the key to altering the carbon atoms in living things. That means both physically changing existing beings and creating new life-forms. It’s dangerous research, so dangerous that I need some assurances before I hand it over to you.”

Mitchell turned to face Richie again, defiance etched on his face. “Don’t even think about taking it from me by force, Richie. The disc’s encrypted and any attempt to decrypt it will wipe it clean.”

Richie glared at him. “We had a deal! You give us the genuine research and we look after your family. Are you welshing on it?” He paused menacingly. “That would be very dangerous.”

Richie hated himself for the implied threat against Karen, a threat that he knew he could never carry out; but they needed the research. Mitchell scrutinised him for a moment and then smiled knowingly. Richie Cartagena wouldn’t harm a hair on Karen’s or Emmie’s heads, regardless of whether he gave the agency his research or not. Richie was in love with Karen, even if he didn’t know it yet.

“OK. Let’s make another deal, Richie. You don’t make idle threats and I won’t call your bluff. We both know that you’d never harm my family. And I’m not welshing, as you put it, I just want some assurances.”

Magee leaned forward, interrupting. “Alright. Like what?”

Mitchell pulled a sheet of paper from his pocket and started reading. It was a list of every Nobel scientist in the States, almost two hundred and fifty of them. Mitchell had sent them an e-mail saying that his research existed, although not its details. Evans smiled again, openly this time. Clever bastard. If Nobel scientists knew about the research then they would make damn sure that the government used it for everyone’s good. There would be no back-room weapons being made in Jeff Mitchell’s name.

Magee held up a hand, halting the monologue and Mitchell placed the list on the table with the computer disc on top.

“What do you want?”

“First, I want Richie to be the one that guards my family. They know him and I have faith in him. Agreed?”

Magee baulked at the thought of his best agent being used as a baby-sitter but Richie nodded firmly in agreement and both men stared at Magee determinedly. After a grudging pause Magee agreed, with a caveat. Richie could do it for three months, long enough to settle the family wherever they moved. Mitchell nodded. Three months should be plenty of time for Richie and Karen to fall in love. He moved on to his second condition.

“There are some people that I want you to find for me. My birth family. I want Emmie to know her grandmother and aunt.”

Magee nodded. He’d expected it. “And?”

Mitchell smiled. “Nearly finished, I promise. I want to know about an agent called Greg Chapman. Who is he and was he tailing me?”

Mitchell missed the glance that passed between Richie and Magee. He kept talking, bracing himself to deliver his final bombshell. None of them were going to like what he said next, even though he knew it had been the right thing to do. Mitchell tapped the computer disc pointedly.

“I’ve e-mailed the decryption key for this disc to all of the scientists on the list and told them that it’s for the advanced research I’ve given to the U.S. Government. The key is in over two hundred parts, one part to each name. I figured that you might gag one of them, but not every Nobel scientist in the States.”

Richie’s mouth flew open and Magee joined Tom Evans in his smile. He gave Mitchell a mock-salute, even as his mind was running through possible ways to crack the code. Magee already knew that there wouldn’t be one.

“Very clever, Dr Mitchell. You trust scientists more than you trust the government. OK, we have a deal. Now, let’s run through the handovers to the Alliance and the North Koreans.”

Chapter Thirty-Seven

Sunday. 6.30 a.m.

Dawn’s first light shone through the bedroom curtains and Jeff Mitchell watched as it played across his wife’s pretty face, dappling her cheeks with gold. Karen turned fitfully in her sleep, huddled-up in an untrusting ball. It contrasted sadly with her relaxed posture of a week ago. Mitchell sat on the edge of the bed watching her as the distant glow of New York’s night blended with the sunrise, then faded slowly, handing over to the new day.

They were finally here. There were no more plans and no days to wait. Today was the day that he gave Ilya and Javadi what they thought they wanted and Evans did the same with Neil Scrabo. Mitchell smiled, remembering Richie’s look of shock at his Nobel list. It had been a stroke of genius on his part; a failsafe to keep America honest. And a one hundred percent pure act of mistrust in his adopted country.

At least he’d trusted them enough to hand his real animal research over. They should be flattered. It was more than the Alliance or North Koreans would get and a second fake version would have been child’s play for him to create; one that would have fooled the American Government’s scientists for years. Long enough to see Emmie through school and Karen safely re-married.

Mitchell’s heart stung at the thought of another man sleeping with his wife and raising his child but he brushed it aside. He wanted them safe and loved when he was dead. He glanced at Karen and sent up a silent prayer that Richie would make his move soon; three months wasn’t very long. He wished that he could guarantee it happening; people missed each other too often in this world. Mitchell shrugged. There were some things that even he couldn’t control.

As he stared at the brightening street outside Mitchell thought about Greg Chapman. He was a piece of the puzzle that still hadn’t found its place. Why did everything about Chapman’s life feel so familiar to him? Magee had looked strangely at him when he’d asked who Chapman was. Someone that worked for him was all that he would say. Greg Chapman had been Magee’s agent; that much he’d already guessed. But what did he have to do with him? If Chapman had been tailing him then perhaps they’d talked; it might explain how he knew so much about the agent’s life. But where was Greg Chapman now?

Mitchell rubbed his eyes tiredly and crossed to the window, gazing out at the garden that he’d cut two weeks before. It felt like he was saying good-bye. He left the bedroom quietly and wandered downstairs, nodding at the suited agent in the hall, pristine even without a wink of sleep. He walked into the study and took the papers that only he knew existed from the lock-box then read the Archaeus file again, still unable to believe what it said. That was tomorrow’s task, today he would finally deal with Ilya Tabakov and make his family safe.

***

The day passed like any other day but Mitchell was surprised by the number of staff who graced the corridors of Scrabo Tower. It was a Sunday for God’s sake; didn’t they have anything better to do? Most of the workers were juniors, eager to impress their bosses by starting the week on top. The people at his level were home in bed or on the golf course, already secure in their lives. But he had to be seen working normally. It wouldn’t do to alert Neil Scrabo or Ilya that something was amiss.

At five p.m. Mitchell checked his watch, switched off his computer and left, waving cheerfully at the guards in reception like he always did. The Lexus was waiting by the kerb and he made small talk with Karen as she drove him home. But instead of climbing out when they reached the house Mitchell shifted to the driver’s seat, just as Richie slipped under the car’s rear seat for the journey’s next leg.

The drive was quick and silent and in thirty minutes they were parked in the clearing outside the small farmhouse. Richie could tell from Mitchell’s rise in tension that they weren’t alone. They’d expected as much; it was all going to plan. Richie lay totally still as Mitchell turned off the engine then said a few words to a man outside the car; Ilya Tabakov. Mitchell didn’t get out of the car to join him, just waited in hostile silence for another hour.

At 19:40 a second car arrived and Mitchell climbed out of the Lexus. As the driver’s door opened Richie heard Russian words. He kicked himself for not paying more attention in language class but he wasn’t kept in the dark for long. Mitchell changed the conversation smoothly to English and left the door open so that Richie could hear. A third man’s voice joined in. It sounded Middle Eastern. Iranian. Behrouz Javadi.

Richie slipped the safety catch off his weapon and listened hard. The plan was for Mitchell to hand over the false file and leave, but Richie had been an agent for too long to think that the exchange would be that clean. Ilya’s next words were clear.

“You have the file?”

“Yes.” Mitchell’s voice was cold, just what Ilya would expect after their last encounter.

“Good, good. Let us go inside.”

“No.”

Richie heard a sharp intake of breath from Ilya then Javadi interjected.

“We cannot exchange out here. You must need your computer.”

“I have a laptop in the trunk.”

Richie knew that Mitchell’s next move would be to take the USB from his pocket. The click of a gun’s safety sliding off said that Mitchell had reached for it; the sarcasm in his next words confirmed it.

“Are you going to shoot me, Javadi? Is that how you treat your friends? I’m reaching for the USB that holds the data, if that’s OK with you?”

Richie listened to the exchange, knowing that Jeff Mitchell had a gun pointed at his face and admiring his balls. He wondered if Evans was having this much fun with the Koreans.

***

Evans watched as Neil Scrabo booted up his laptop and inserted the computer-chip that Magee had downloaded the fake research to. Evans smiled as he watched the suave owner of Scrabo Tower staring intently at the computer screen, pretending that he understood what the equations meant. Good luck with that. He had a Master’s degree in Physics and he’d got lost on the first page.

Scrabo kept up the pretence for a moment and then ejected the chip, smiling confidently. He had no idea what the research was about but it looked official enough to keep the North Koreans happy and get the first half of his funds. Their nerds would check the file and the second half would hit his account in ten days’ time. Tom Evans smiled, knowing that Scrabo planned to be in an inaccessible country lying on a beach very soon. He was completely unaware that the shit was about to hit the Korean fan.

Scrabo nodded. “Good work. This should keep them happy. Any fatalities in the retrieval?”

The question was asked in a bored tone and Evans knew that whether he’d answered none or ninety Scrabo wouldn’t have cared. It was just asked to be asked. Evans shook his head and glanced at his watch; 19:45. In five minutes time Scrabo would make the call, then it was ten more minutes to show-time and the helicopter would land on the roof.

Evans sent up a prayer that Magee and Schofield had everything arranged. The last thing he wanted was to have to climb inside a chopper. He hated the bloody things at the best of times; he’d seen too many of them crash in combat. Add North Korean heavies to the mix and it would be the flight from hell. Scrabo cut across his thoughts by handing him a whisky then he raised his own in a toast.

“Salut. This time tomorrow we’ll be in Venezuela with half the money in the bank, and in a week’s time we’ll both be richer than God.”

Evans stared at his drink distractedly then downed it in one. He poured another, praying to Neil Scrabo’s God that it wouldn’t be his last.

***

Richie could feel the tension building outside the Lexus, less in the words being said than in the silences in between. Suddenly the car’s trunk swung open and he tensed, listening as Mitchell’s laptop was removed. Mitchell was using the laptop to show them the research; anything to avoid entering a building that he knew he might never leave. Once he told Ilya he wasn’t going to Russia with him anything might happen.

Ilya said something in Russian and Behrouz Javadi reacted with chagrin.

“Speak English. It’s the only language we all know.”

Ilya’s voice was tired and impatient, as if he was speaking to a spoilt child.

“I said. Just show us the research and we can be on our way. That was all.”

Richie heard the laptop being placed on the Lexus’ hood and its start-up music play, then Mitchell clicked at some keys and called the others over to see.

“That’s the summary and conclusions. The other pages are the detail.”

The clearing was quiet for a few minutes and Richie visualised Javadi and Tabakov peering at the screen. He had no idea if they understood Mitchell’s research or not, but even if they didn’t they would pretend. Richie imagined an identical scenario being played out at Scrabo Tower.

Javadi asked a few questions that showed he actually knew what he was talking about and Mitchell answered him in strained tones. Finally Richie heard the USB being ejected then the Iranian spoke again.

“We must go inside.”

Richie’s hand slid to his gun, ready to move. Then he heard Mitchell’s reply.

“If you think I’m going anywhere with you, Javadi, you’ve got another think coming. I barely trust Ilya and I’ve known him since I was ten, there’s no way I’m getting in a room with you alone.”

There was silence for a moment before the Iranian admitted defeat.

“Very well, Dr Mitchell. But if this research is not genuine, or if it fails to deliver what we need, we will find both of you, and your families.”

A second later Richie heard some words being barked-out in Farsi then a car revved-up and screeched out of the clearing. Richie prayed that only the Iranian was inside when it did. His prayers were soon rewarded.

“You did well, Durak.”

It was Ilya Tabakov’s voice. His words held more than a hint of relief. Mitchell’s were just plain angry.

“You evil bastard. You stole me from my family and set me to making weapons for scum like that.”

“It was for Russia, for the motherland.”

The venom in Mitchell’s voice shocked even Richie.

“Russia means nothing to me, nothing! This is where I live, this is who I am. Not your Durak. We’re done, Ilya. I did as you asked; now if I ever see you again you’re dead.”

Tabakov’s next words were almost pleading.

“But we are leaving together, Durak, to go home. That has always been the plan.”

Mitchell jerked the driver’s door wide to leave, then he stopped and spun around. Richie could hear Mitchell hadn’t entered the car and he froze, uncertain of what to do. If Mitchell killed the Russian there would be hell to pay, and if he showed himself to stop him, the whole operation would be blown. They’d have to lift Tabakov or kill him and Richie knew that someone in Moscow and Tehran would be primed to check how the exchange had gone. It would only take minutes for Javadi to find out that Ilya had gone.

Richie heard Mitchell’s feet crunch across the dry earth of the clearing and he knew that he was heading straight for Ilya Tabakov, to take his life. What the hell could he do? The answer came to Richie in a flash. He pulled out his cell-phone and pressed dial, holding his breath as Mitchell’s phone started to ring. Mitchell grabbed for his cell and stared at the screen, recognising Richie’s caller I.D. It was a bold move and enough to break his fugue.

Ilya yelled at Mitchell angrily.

“Don’t answer that! This is important.”

Mitchell stared at the old man for a moment as if he couldn’t see him, then he knocked the phone off and turned swiftly on his heel. Mitchell climbed into the Lexus and spat out the last words that his ‘uncle’ would ever hear him say.

“We’re done, Ilya.”

He underlined them with the dust from his wheels as he screeched away.

***

Neil Scrabo made the call at 19:50 on the dot. The North Koreans were nothing if not precise. Night-time was better for the meeting. The helicopter would blend in with the myriad of tourist flights that covered Manhattan’s evening skies, and any attempt to shoot it down would be hampered by the fading light.

Evans watched as his boss made his plans, knowing that in less than an hour Neil Scrabo would be in jail. He smiled, making certain that Scrabo didn’t see. If he knew what his bodyguard had planned he would shoot him on the spot. Evans had spotted the tell-tale bulge in Scrabo’s jacket as soon as he’d entered the room.

Scrabo’s suits were always immaculate; slim-cut testaments to Parisian style. He never even carried a wallet in case it ruined the line, so a bloody great gun was always going to be seen. Evans wondered vaguely if Scrabo even knew how to shoot it, or whether it was just an accessory to suit the day. He imagined him dressing that morning. ‘This is the day I commit treason, so what would be a good look?’ Matching his suit and gun in some attempt at gangster cool.

His reverie was interrupted by a loud whirring overhead then Scrabo’s phone rang once, giving their signal to move. Evans downed his whisky in a single gulp and rose, tugging his jacket straight, then he un-holstered his Glock and walked swiftly ahead. He scanned the hallway expertly then beckoned Scrabo out and pressed the elevator’s button for their single storey ride. The whirring noise grew louder as they ascended and when they opened the door to the roof it deafened them both.

Evans stood in the doorway scrutinising the scene. A Kai Surion helicopter was hovering twenty feet above the helipad, throwing dust and debris across the Tower’s roof. He shielded his eyes and squinted hard, trying to see the pilot’s face. He was black and fit; ex-military without a doubt. Evans squinted again and made out the shape of two East Asian men seated inside the craft. One was small and clever looking, the other pure muscle, carrying an RPK and obviously hired for his blunt force approach to life. Both men’s guns were aimed at them.

Evans raised his weapon and pointed back and for several seconds no-one moved. The small man broke the stale-mate, tapping the pilot on the shoulder to land. Evans waited until the rotor stopped then approached the chopper cautiously, pushing Neil Scrabo behind him. He didn’t give a shit if they shot his boss, but he had to keep up appearances till the end; his own life depended on it. Somewhere on another rooftop Al Schofield was watching everything, ready to give Special Ops the sign to move in. Evans just had to keep everyone fooled until then.