The Carbon Trail (7 page)

Chapter Twelve

Monday. 12 p.m.

“What are you working on?”

Mitchell looked up, pulling on his screensaver with a tap. Devon was standing in his office doorway with a look of curiosity on his face. As Devon talked on in his Texan accent Mitchell smiled at how much it reminded him of Dallas, a show on CBS when he was a kid.

“Is that the stuff you talked to the Board about? The new allotrope?”

Devon glanced at Mitchell’s screen then continued without waiting for a reply.

“Hell, it would be great if it were really possible, Jeff, but I just don’t see how our research could be extended to manipulate carbon-based life. Still, the applications would be awesome.”

Devon stopped suddenly, staring into space as if he could visualise them, then pulled himself up short and grinned at his boss.

“You really were just bull-shitting the Board to keep the money coming, weren’t you?”

Mitchell’s smile grew wider and he nodded. The truth was that his words to the Board had shocked him just as much as Devon, although he felt certain that there were facts behind his claims. He’d thought about it and the logic was impeccable. But until he knew why he felt so disconnected from everything, and why he’d been covered in blood five days before, it was better if Devon believed that he was scamming funds to keep their research alive.

Devon’s amused expression changed to one of concern. “Did you tell Karen?”

Mitchell gazed at him, puzzled.

“About last week’s memory lapse in the lab?”

Mitchell thought for a second then nodded. Let Devon think that he’d confided in Karen, it would keep him quiet. But there was a lot more he needed to know before he was ready to talk to anyone, even her. If Karen thought he was losing it he’d end up in the nut-house before he’d bottomed everything out.

Devon stared at his boss for a moment, unsure if he was being bull-shitted or not, then he shrugged and jerked his head towards the door.

“Lunch?”

“I want to tidy some stuff first. I’ll meet you in the canteen in ten.”

As the door closed Mitchell tapped his screen back to life and watched as pages of equations scrolled down. He knew he should understand them but he didn’t. He only knew that he’d found them an hour before, in a folder hidden deep in his hard-drive. Daria had said that they’d be there, in a file marked ‘Café’, but that she had no idea what the contents meant. That made two of them. She’d talked him out of opening the door in the café again, telling him to read the file instead.

Mitchell pulled open the top drawer of his desk to grab some paper and was surprised by the sight of a cell-phone sitting amongst his pens. It hadn’t been there on Friday and it definitely wasn’t his. Who could have left it there? No-one had access to his office except Devon and the cleaners.

Mitchell turned the phone over tentatively then pressed the ‘on’ switch, waiting for the screen to light up. Nothing. It was dead. He gazed at it for a moment then called reception.

“George? Hi, it’s Jeff Mitchell up on fifteen. Could you tell me who cleaned our section this week?”

“Hold on, Dr Mitchell. I’ll check the rota.”

The security guard came back after a moment. “It was two guys called Abassi and Joe this weekend. Is there some problem?”

“No, no problem. Do you have a number for them?”

“Sure. They work at Ubrite Cleansing in Brooklyn. The number’s 347-378-02869.”

Mitchell thanked him and ended the call, preparing to re-dial. His finger halted in mid-air. It might be better to find out more about the phone before telling anyone that he had it. It might be nothing, or it could help him to make some sense of things.

***

The phone store on Hubert was noisy. Offers for free gifts, from laptops to televisions, covered the windows on lime-green stickers. Insistent girls wearing matching sashes handed Mitchell leaflets as he browsed. He quickly found the two things that he was looking for and ten minutes later he was back in his office. As the charging symbol appeared Mitchell pressed the cell-phone on, inpatient to find out who owned it. The handset was black and anonymous and looked like it belonged to a man. When the screen lit up with the image of a baseball Mitchell was sure of it.

The cell-phone rang immediately with a message saying that its voicemail was full. A series of texts followed, leaving Mitchell wondering what to do first. Read them and feel like a voyeur, or listen to the answerphone and invade the man’s privacy completely. He opted for the latter, hitting the answerphone symbol and placing the phone on speaker on his desk, five seconds later the recorded message told him to press ‘One’ for voicemail.

Mitchell knocked the phone off abruptly and moved swiftly to the door, checking the corridor outside; it was empty. He re-entered the office and locked himself in then hit the symbol again. A minute later, he’d listened to over twenty messages in four different voices looking for someone called Greg Chapman. The name sounded strangely familiar, but Mitchell couldn’t remember from where. The voices ranged from official to anxious, female to male; all of them asking one thing. Where was he? The last message had been left a day before, as if they’d located Chapman or given up.

Mitchell scribbled down the detail from each call. Whoever Greg Chapman was, he was making a man called Magee pretty mad. He sounded like the boss. The other messages were less authoritative; colleagues or friends? The woman didn’t sound loving exactly, but she was warmer, younger, warning Chapman that her boss would be pissed if he didn’t return their calls soon. A secretary? Working for whom? Magee?

Greg Chapman had obviously lost his phone, but how had he lost it at Scrabo? It was a secure facility. Maybe someone Chapman knew had lifted his phone by mistake and brought it into Scrabo with them? Perhaps Chapman had given up looking and bought a new handset by now. The idea was squashed when Mitchell dialled the cell’s number from his desk-phone. It rang loudly, confirming that the line was still live. The phone provider would have killed it dead if the owner had reported it lost.

Mitchell flicked the answerphone to greetings and listened to Greg Chapman’s voice. It was deep and soft and Mitchell was certain that he’d heard it somewhere before, but where? Maybe the guy worked at Scrabo. Mitchell lifted his desk-phone quickly and dialled through to personnel. A girl answered brightly.

“Human Resources. Jenny speaking.”

“Hi, Jenny. It’s Dr Mitchell in R&D here.”

“Hello Dr Mitchell, how may I help you?”

“I’m trying to find if we have a Greg Chapman working here. He’s left something on our floor.”

“Just hold on, I’ll check.”

“Could you check the names of the cleaning detail for this floor as well, please? He might be one of their crew.”

“No problem. I’ll call you back.”

She called five minutes later with no news, but a suspicious tone in her voice.

“There’s no-one of that name at Scrabo, or in any of the cleaning teams. What did you find? It could be a security breach.”

Mitchell whipped out his ready prepared excuse.

“Sorry for bothering you Jenny, I’ve just found out that my wife lifted a work colleague’s phone by mistake and put it in my briefcase. It must have fallen out when I opened it earlier.”

“Oh…well maybe security should have a look, just in case.”

“Don’t trouble them, please. I’ve just spoken to the owner, Mr Chapman, and he won’t be happy if someone looks through his personal stuff. I’ll give it back to him tonight.” Mitchell cut the call with a hurried. “Sorry to bother you. Thanks.”

If no-one linked to the firm had dropped the phone, then who had? And why did the name Greg Chapman sound so familiar? Mitchell pressed the text symbol; there were fifteen unread. He opened them one by one. The messages got more irate as they progressed, ending with someone called Richie Cartagena texting. ‘For fuck’s sake Greg, call Magee, or your ass is on the line.’

Mitchell scrolled to the outgoing calls. The last one had been made at ten o’clock on Wednesday night. Thirty minutes before the tape had gone dark in his lab. Were they linked? What the hell was going on here?

Just then his office door rattled and he looked up to see Devon pressing his face against the glass.

“Hey, Jeff. Put those girly mags away and open the door. We’ve work to do.”

Mitchell wrenched the charger from the wall and pushed it into his case with the cell-phone. Then he opened the door with a forced grin, joining in Devon’s joke.

“You got it in one, buddy. But hey, you’ve got to do something to liven up a boring day!”

Chapter Thirteen

3 p.m.

Rosie Pereira stood at the corner of West and Vesey scanning the street for Brunet’s car. It was nowhere to be seen. He’d missed five hourly-check-ins and Magee had messaged her to get downtown stat to see what was going on.

There was nothing to see. No Brunet and no car. It wasn’t like him. If it had been Richie, ten minutes disappearing for a cigarette would have been par for the course, but not Claude Brunet. He wasn’t the sharpest knife in the box but he
was
the most conscientious. Something was wrong.

Pereira pushed her dark glasses higher up her nose and stared at the glass tower across the street. God only knew how long it had been left without surveillance. Brunet had radioed in at eight-forty to say that he was following Mitchell. Brunet had been OK then and still OK ten minutes later when he’d watched Mitchell enter the café, from the alley across the square. Then nothing. For all they knew Jeff Mitchell could be out of the country by now.

Pereira tapped her earpiece and waited for an open line. Thank God for Bluetooth. Now that every asshole in New York walked around talking to themselves, government agents didn’t stand out at all. Her earpiece whined and she started to report to Magee.

“There’s no sign of Brunet at the Tower. Or his car. Do you want me to head to the café or wait here?”

She listened in silence as a curious teenager looked on and then jumped as she stuck out her tongue. After a minute Pereira nodded her head.

“OK, send Richie with a car. I’ll wait here until then.”

Stepping back into the shadows, Pereira watched workers enter and leave Scrabo LLC, unable to shake the feeling that Claude Brunet was dead. No-one had been allowed to go more than an hour without checking-in since Greg Chapman had disappeared, and now Brunet had missed a handover. That would make two men they’d lost in the past week.

They’d all known that Chapman was a goner the minute he’d missed his second call, although no-one had wanted to admit it. He was ex-special forces and tipped for the top, and if one of the agency’s best could disappear, then their enemy was way more skilled than they wanted to believe. So they’d kept calling his phone, just like she was doing now with Brunet’s.

Five minutes later a dark sedan pulled up to the kerb and the driver’s side window wound down. Pereira nodded at Richie and climbed in, signalling him to park across the street. She smiled at him despite the gravity of the situation. His jet-black hair was standing on end and she knew that he’d just woken up; it had stood up like that every morning they’d slept together. The memory seared through her and she turned on him angrily to cover the pain.

“Where have you been?”

Richie sat as far back as he could in a car and raised a questioning eyebrow.

“What do you mean, where have I been? Having a fricking life, that’s where. Some of us do, you know. What’s eating you anyway?”

“Brunet has disappeared.”

“What?”

Pereira nodded gravely, pushing a strand of hair behind one ear. It was a familiar gesture and it made Richie want to touch her.

“He was following Mitchell. His last contact was from outside the café just before nine o’clock and now he’s missed our handover.”

“You think Mitchell got him?”

Pereira shook her head. “It’s not his style. But someone did. Magee wants me to stay here – another car’s coming. You’re to check out the café.”

A worried look flashed across her face and Richie wanted to stroke it away, but he knew that any move to do so would earn him a slap. When Pereira spoke again it was almost a whisper.

“He’s dead, Richie, I know it.”

He went to contradict her and then swallowed his words. She was right; it was the only thing that made sense. They wouldn’t have wasted time lifting Brunet, he was disposable. They all were. That made two agents down. Whoever Mitchell’s bosses were, they weren’t playing for laughs.

Richie glanced at Pereira’s slim hand resting on the passenger seat. Her wedding ring was nowhere to be seen. She caught his look and jerked her hand away, sliding it quickly beneath her. Just then the speaker crackled with word of the second car. It was rounding the corner as they spoke. Pereira opened the passenger door then turned back to face Richie, her eyes bright with tears.

“Be careful, Richie. These bastards aren’t playing.”

She was out of the car and across the street before he could reply.

***

5 p.m.

“I’m off home, Jeff. You staying late?”

Mitchell glanced up from his computer and nodded at his deputy.

“Emmie’s got some dance class so Karen’s not collecting me for an hour. Might as well work.”

Devon smiled. “Kids, eh? I’ve all that to look forward to.”

He nodded goodbye and left though the outer office, flicking off the workstation lights as he passed. As soon as the glass doors slid closed Mitchell shut down his screen and pulled the cell-phone and charger from his case. He flicked to outgoing calls and scribbled down the numbers. One toll-free number had been dialled six times on Wednesday and then nothing after that.

Mitchell turned to the incoming calls and made a second list. The toll-free number appeared twenty times, some matching the voicemail times. Whoever Greg Chapman was, he worked for these guys.

Mitchell reached into his pocket and pulled out the brand-new SIM he’d purchased for the phone, then he slipped it into the cell-phone and hit dial, listening as the toll-free number rang. After three rings it cut to an automated line, instructing him to enter his code. Mitchell hung up and tried again, repeating the action five times, knowing that even the least sensitive security system would be alerted after that.

He was right. The cell-phone rang sixty seconds later. Mitchell stared at it, knowing that if he answered he would open a big fat can of worms. He’d already opened it; they would trace his location any minute and then God only knew who could come steaming through his door. Mitchell set the cell-phone on the desk, put it on speaker and pressed answer. The male voice that spoke wasn’t one that had left a message, but then why did he expect it to be?

“Who are you?”

Mitchell sat in silence staring at the phone.

“Why are you calling us?”

More silence.

“We can trace your location.”

This time, he heard a rustle and a second man’s voice came on the line.

“We know you’re in Scrabo Tower. We can be there in five minutes.”

The way the man said it made Mitchell sure that he wouldn’t come. Mitchell swallowed, knowing he was out of his depth, but strangely curious. He recognised the second man’s voice without any idea from where. Finally Mitchell spoke.

“But you won’t come, will you?”

There was no answer, just a soft wheeze at the other end of the line. Mitchell decided to push it.

“Why not? No, let me guess. If you came you think that you would blow something, don’t you? What? What would you blow?”

The voice came back loud and clear. “I don’t know what you’re talking about. This is a classified number. Don’t call it again.”

The phone clicked off and Mitchell stared at it for a moment then he pressed redial, listening as it cut to a local burger bar. He sat for a full five minutes, gathering what little information he had. He’d found the cell-phone of a man called Greg Chapman; Chapman didn’t work at Scrabo, yet his cell was there. When he’d called the toll-free number on the cell they’d traced his location at Scrabo in seconds, yet for some reason they didn’t want to take it further. Classified number? What exactly did that mean? Government? Probably. But the U.S. Government, or someone else’s? The voices had sounded American but that meant nothing nowadays. Every country had their spies living there; it was practically compulsory.

Mitchell turned his thoughts back to the phone’s owner. Greg Chapman didn’t have a woman who loved him, not unless he had another cell-phone just for her. In five days of calls there’d been no frantic female voice, begging Chapman to phone and say that he was OK, just workmates warning him that the boss would be pissed. Mitchell thought of Karen and smiled, thanking his lucky stars for her. At least someone would notice if he disappeared.

He swopped the SIM back and scrolled though the documents on the phone. There was nothing personal, only a picture of the New York Yankees. At least the guy had good taste. So who was Greg Chapman? And what was his phone doing in his drawer? Suddenly Mitchell’s desk-phone rang angrily, jerking him from his thoughts.

“Mitchell.”

“Hello, Dr Mitchell. It’s reception here. Your wife’s arrived to collect you.”

Mitchell glanced at the clock, shocked that his detective work had swallowed up a whole hour.

“Thanks. Tell her I’ll be down in five.”

He pushed the phone, charger and SIM into his desk and made for the elevator, trying to work out what to do next.

***

Pereira’s car speaker buzzed and she glanced at the clock. It was too early for check-in. It had to be Richie.

“Where are you, Rich?”

“How’d you know it was me?” Richie didn’t wait for an answer, the woman was a witch. “I’m in Regan Plaza. I can see the café’s door from here.” He paused long enough for Pereira to know it was bad news. “I’ve found Brunet.”

“Where?”

“In an alleyway opposite the café. He’s dead. It looks like a mugging.”

Pereira snorted. “Mugging, my ass.”

Richie cut across her. “I said it looks like, as in mock-up. It’s a hit, no question. And a clean one. They severed his spinal cord.”

A moment’s silence marked Claude Brunet’s death and their thanks that it wasn’t one of them, then it was back to business.

“Any activity in the café?”

“No. It’s closed-up for the night. I’ve got the cleaners on the way for Brunet. I’ll wait until they arrive.”

The cleaners; an innocent euphemism for a nasty job that someone had to do. Richie paused for a second, knowing that his next words would rile Pereira even more.

“Magee called through. There’s something up. The agency had a phone-call from Scrabo Tower.”

“Greg?”

“No. Someone else. No name and the number was clean.”

“Are we going in?”

Richie snorted and Pereira arched an eyebrow, annoyed.

“You really think Magee’s going to blow nine months surveillance for a wrong number, even if it’s not?”

Her voice was cool. “You mean they’ve too much invested to blow it now. Even for their dead employees.”

“Something like that.” There was silence for a moment until Richie broke it. “What time are you off duty?”

“Not until midnight….You?”

“The same” He paused for a moment and then continued. “That’s two of us gone.”

“We don’t know that Greg is dead.”

“Yes we do.”

She fought the urge to say the words that both of them knew were coming next. Richie said them for her.

“Life’s short, Rosie. Too short.”

Pereira nodded to herself. He was right. They’d waited for too long. “Where?”

“Bar Seven Five on Wall Street, at the end of the shift. We can have a few drinks.”

The bar in the Andaz Hotel. Pereira knew exactly what would happen if she went there and she was ready. It didn’t need to be remembered anymore, it needed to be done.

***

7 p.m.

Karen Mitchell handed her husband a cup of coffee and smiled. “How was your day, honey?”

Mitchell glanced at her and Karen knew instantly that something was wrong. “What’s the matter?”

“I’m not certain anything is. It’s just…”

“What?”

“I found a cell-phone in my desk at work and it didn’t belong to me.”

He pulled out his own phone and flicked it open to the number reception had given him a few hours before.

“Who are you calling?”

“The cleaning crew for the Tower. They must have found the cell and thought it belonged to me.”

Mitchell dialled the number and it rang several times. Just as he thought that everyone had gone home a woman answered, in a soft Hispanic accent.

“Hello”

“Hi. I wonder if you can help me? I need to speak to whoever cleans at Scrabo Tower.”

Her voice became anxious, as if she was used to being told off. “There is a problem? You are not pleased with the work?”

“No, no, it’s nothing like that, don’t worry. It’s just that someone left a cell-phone in my desk and I’m trying to locate where they found it.”

Her relief was audible and Mitchell wondered what sort of ogre she had as a boss. “Scrabo Tower. Let me look. When did you find it?”

The phone must have been left in his desk at the weekend; he would have noticed it the week before.

“I found it today. It must have been left Friday to Monday sometime.”

“Yes, here it is. A black phone, yes?”

“Yes.”

“OK, they found it in the lab on the lower-fifth floor. We checked and the lab boss is a Dr Mitchell so they left it in his desk.”

“That’s me.”

“It is not your phone? It is damaged?”

“No…I mean yes, yes it’s fine.” Mitchell’s mind flashed back to the blank video-tape. “When did they find it, and where exactly in the lab?”

He could hear the woman flick some pages before answering. “Near the steel door at the back of the main laboratory. On Thursday morning.”

Near the research suite, the morning after the blank stretch on the tape. The woman’s voice cut through Mitchell’s thoughts

“You’re sure that this is OK?”

“Yes, it’s fine. Could you tell me when the operative who found it is in work again?” Mitchell scrabbled around for an excuse to talk to him. “I’d like to give him a reward. It’s a valuable phone.”

The woman’s voice filled with relief. “OK, yes. Tomorrow at twelve. His name is Abassi Idowu. Thank-you, Senor.”

“No. Thank-you.”

Mitchell cut the call and turned to see Karen watching him. The look in her eyes said she wanted to know what it was all about. Mitchell had no answers, so instead he did that most husbandly of things. He kissed her then turned on the TV to watch the news.

***