The Carbon Trail (11 page)

Chapter Nineteen

Thursday. 1 a.m.

Neil Scrabo gazed around the Boardroom, ruminating. The North Koreans were a tricky bunch, but clever, he had to give them that. All the power held by one family that marketed itself so well their people treated them like Gods. He steepled his fingers thoughtfully; he’d never understood religion, except for the social kudos that it could bring. He didn’t like religious people much; irrational mass hysterics, all of them. Whether it was incense or begetting, four arms or orange robes, they were all the same in his book. Idiots. Kneeling and praying had been the ruin of too many good suits. He believed in what he could touch.

Scrabo smiled to himself, acknowledging the irony. No-one could touch carbon atoms but they would make him a fortune soon. Scrabo amended his beliefs to include anything that made him money. That was his God. But if people wanted to act like deities then what did he care? He was a pragmatist. The North Koreans had money and he wanted it.

Scrabo turned his thoughts back to reality. Mitchell had said he’d found something that could make them all rich. All he’d asked for was time. Not more money, nothing for himself, only time. It made him suspicious. In his experience men who couldn’t be bought were unpredictable. They had principles and principles always cost money.

If Mitchell really could produce a new form of the carbon in living things, then the sky was the limit medically. But medical advances weren’t what the North Koreans had in mind, and they weren’t what they would pay him for. Even he’d been taken aback at the figure they’d named that evening. It would make him richer than Bill Gates and there was no way Jeff Mitchell’s principles were going to stop him achieving that.

Scrabo walked to the window and gazed down at the street below. The cabs blazed a trail of yellow as they rushed from here to there and the New Yorkers looked tiny, like insects. They were insects, and soon he’d be able to buy them all. He scanned the fading evening sky, wrapping the island in a red-grey gloom. He’d be able to buy Manhattan as well. If that meant Jeff Mitchell had to be persuaded to part company with his principles then that was exactly what would occur.

***

Mitchell’s eyes sprang open and he gazed around him for a moment, confused. The room looked unfamiliar then he saw the blonde head beside him on the pillow and remembered where he was. He’d been dreaming of somewhere else and in an instant he worked out where. Greg Chapman’s apartment! In his dream he’d been sleeping there, in Chapman’s large pine bed.

The thought disturbed him and he slipped quietly out of bed and headed downstairs. He gazed out the kitchen window at the front lawn; neat and full of flowers. Karen had made him cut it at the weekend, bedding down for the autumn. Mitchell admired his domestic handiwork, sipping espresso while he thought.

First he’d known where Greg Chapman had kept his key and now he was dreaming that he’d slept in his bed. Had he been living a double life, with a bachelor pad hidden away? Mitchell shook his head. No, there was nothing to back that up. Every year of his life had been accounted for by Karen, through some judicious questioning. And there were photos of him at college, in the military and at his job. There was no way he’d have found the time for a parallel existence. Besides, the man in Greg Chapman’s photo definitely wasn’t him.

Maybe he was losing his mind. He knew that Karen worried that he was. He’d seen the way she looked at him. She said that he’d been vague for nearly a year, pressing him to see a doctor. Maybe he should if the past few days’ events were anything to go by. Was Elza even real? And the café? What if it was all a hallucination? He had a genius level IQ and everyone knew that it was a fine line... Maybe he’d finally crossed it and the agency was a fantasy as well?

Shaking his head, Mitchell tried to clear his thoughts. As he gazed out again at the grass Karen watched him sadly from the doorway, sensing his confusion. Her heart tightened and she made up her mind. It was time for the hospital appointment that she’d been putting off for months.

***

7.30 a.m.

Devon closed Mitchell’s office door quietly behind him and glanced at the wall clock. Half-past seven; Jeff wouldn’t be in for an hour yet. Plenty of time. He sat down behind the desk and switched on Mitchell’s computer, reaching into his top desk-drawer to see what he could find. The search yielded nothing but rubber bands and chewing gum, plus a year old copy of Playboy that hadn’t been there two days before. It was folded at Miss September; she bore an un-nerving resemblance to a brunette Devon had seen in the staff canteen.

Devon searched the other drawers quickly as the PC’s screen booted-up. At the back of one lay a cell-phone that he hadn’t seen before. It wasn’t Jeff’s, unless it was an old one bought before his time. Devon turned it over in his hand, wondering if he should press it on, then his thoughts were interrupted as Mitchell’s computer sprang to life.

He turned to the keyboard and typed in ‘Einstein’, the password that Jeff always used. It didn’t work! Devon flicked an anxious look towards the door and then back at the screen. When had Jeff changed his password? Then he remembered. Security had made Jeff change it after he’d failed to log-off the week before. But to what? They’d have given him a temporary password but Jeff was bound to have altered it to something easier to recall.

Devon racked his brain for a moment, and then jotted down a list. After two more attempts the computer would lock him out so he had to get it right. He typed in ‘Karen’ and pressed enter. Nothing. Cold sweat dripped down his back as he typed in another word for his final shot. The screen changed quickly to a row of folders. Success! Devon smiled to himself; Jeff had made ‘Emmie’ his new password. He was turning into a real dad.

Devon scanned the folder names quickly and clicked on the one marked ‘latest’. It held nothing but the work they’d been doing together that week. He clicked on all the recent files, then on any others that he could find, but none of them yielded anything resembling the carbon-life work that Mitchell had described to the Board. Maybe Jeff
had
been bluffing last week, because Scrabo had put him on the spot? As soon as the thought occurred to him Devon rejected it. No. One thing Jeff Mitchell wasn’t was stupid. A lie to the Board would be career suicide and he’d worked too hard to get where he was. Jeff was doing the carbon-life research for sure, but he was hiding the data very well.

Devon clicked to enter the document library. He’d just started scrolling through the files when a loud crash in the hall made him jump. He shut down the computer urgently and wiped the keyboard with his hanky, as if some passing C.S.I. would check it for prints, then he stepped to the door and opened it just a crack. What Devon saw made him heave a sigh of relief; a cleaner was in the hall outside, picking-up a broom from the floor. She leaned it against her trolley and entered the main office, turning her back just long enough for Devon to slip across the hall to the safety of his own desk. He had nothing concrete to show for his burglary, but perhaps that meant something as well.

***

As Mitchell hung up his coat behind the office door his thoughts were still on his interrupted night’s sleep. Why had he dreamed about Greg Chapman’s apartment, and why did he have such strong memories of Florida? He’d never been there, he was certain of that. He’d checked with Karen the evening before, covering his questions as vacation ideas. Yet he was still sure that he knew it and knew it very well. Mitchell made a note to look into it further and turned to switch on his PC. Suddenly he stopped and sat back in his chair, gazing warily around the room. Something was different. Someone had been in his office, and not just to clean. He scanned the office and then his desk. The bottom drawer was open half-an-inch. He yanked it out and searched hurriedly through the detritus for Chapman’s phone. It was still there! He thanked God and then searched the other drawers but nothing was out of place.

Mitchell turned back to the computer. If his suspicions were right then it could yield useful information. He typed in his password and went straight to the controls. Someone had accessed his computer at 7:40, fifty minutes before he’d got in. They knew his habits and they knew him, well enough to guess that his password was his daughter’s name.

Mitchell grabbed the phone to call security and then froze, as an instant message popped onto his computer screen. Ten numbers and a message. ‘Go home tonight as normal, then come back to the office at eight and wait for our call.’ There was no signature but Mitchell knew exactly who it was from; Elza.

He lowered the phone and watched as the message dissolved, then he logged-on to the internet, trying to find something that the numbers could fit. There was nothing that made any sense. They were too few for latitude and longitude and everything else was too obscure. Mitchell thought of the call that he’d been about to make and decided against it, narrowing his possible intruders down to two. The only two that it could be. Elza or someone working for the Board. That could be anyone, but Mitchell knew who was the most likely; Devon. Mitchell smiled coolly to himself. As long as he knew who they were then he was one step ahead.

***

The Andaz Hotel. New York City.

Pereira gazed at her lover and smiled, then her smile turned to tears and she dashed them away angrily. Richie murmured in his sleep and rolled towards her, his tanned arm falling across her naked lap. She stroked his jet-black hair, surprised every time by its softness despite the wax he put in it; his daily attempt at being cool. Richie was cool, he didn’t need to try. It was part of him, like his full lips and dark brown eyes. They changed colour to hazel when he smiled, a legacy of his Irish Mom.

Pereira traced his jawline with her finger and then ran it down his spine. Richie shivered in his sleep and turned again, onto his back, his arms flung wide. She smiled at his unguarded posture, only ever in bed. He was too good an agent to have it otherwise.

The white sheet slipped down from Pereira’s breast as she moved to sit astride her lover, moving sinuously until Richie’s arousal matched her own. She slipped him inside her and rocked back and forth until Richie awoke, giving her a sleepy smile. Pereira placed his hands on her hips and moved faster, desperately seeking some refuge from her guilt, until finally a familiar warmth flooded through her and she finally fell across him, her sighs mixing with her guilty tears.

***

Mitchell knew why someone might think his work important enough to kill a man to protect it, and why the Board had tried to turn Devon into a spy. If he’d discovered a way to manipulate carbon atoms in living things then the applications were endless. The best were medical, helping mankind; he didn’t want to think about the worst. He glanced at the photograph on his desk, smiling at Emmie’s cherubic face. His research could make a difference to her future; good or bad, depending on whose hands it fell into. Whose hands were safe? Not Elza’s that was for sure. What about Scrabo’s company Board?

Mitchell remembered the look on Murray’s face as he’d done the calculations the week before. It had been pure greed. The Brazilian had talked about medical advances, and maybe he really believed that’s what the company would use it for, but Mitchell wasn’t so sure. There’d been something in Neil Scrabo’s eyes that’d said he had other ideas. Whoever held the key to manipulating carbon-based life held the human race’s future in their hands as well. The research couldn’t be allowed to reach the wrong people. Mitchell shuddered for a moment, visions of a 21
^st
Century Dr Mengele filling his mind. Then he shook himself. It was all hypothetical. If he had managed to discover a new carbon allotrope then he’d no idea when or where he’d done it, or where the research was now.

Mitchell thought for a moment longer then clicked on the ‘Café’ file. It hadn’t been opened since Monday by him. He gave a sigh of relief and pressed print, watching as pages of data spewed out. The equations in the file were the key to something, but he didn’t know what yet. Putting the prints in his briefcase, Mitchell deleted the file then scanned his PC to remove any trace. They might still find the file’s shadow, but not without knowing where to look. Daria knew of its existence and that meant that Elza would as well and he definitely didn’t want anything falling into her hands.

Mitchell sat back heavily in his chair and rubbed his face. He liked Devon, but it had to be him that had accessed his computer; no-one else would have thought of his password being Emmie’s name. He’d known that Neil Scrabo wanted Devon to watch him but not that he would try to access his work. His young deputy was playing a dangerous game, far more dangerous than he could possibly know. If Elza knew that Devon was spying she would kill him. Worse, she would kill his family too.

Scrabo must have told Devon some bullshit story to make him look for his research, probably that they were worried about him cracking up. That and the threat of losing his job if he didn’t cooperate would incentivise pretty much everyone. He hoped that Devon had got a hefty payment from Scrabo as well. He didn’t begrudge his young deputy whatever he could get from the bastards; he’d probably earned it in long hours over the years. But Devon was a dead man if he didn’t stop looking.

Mitchell rubbed his temple, trying to get rid of the headache that had been nagging at him for hours. He had to find out who Daria and Elza worked for, and why Neil Scrabo suddenly wanted his research so fast, when he’d said last week that he would wait three months. Once he had all the facts he could make some decisions.

Mitchell shook his head tiredly. All this interest in something he didn’t even understand yet, but until he did, he had to warn Devon off, or he would lose his life.

Chapter Twenty

11 a.m.

“Where are you from, Devon?”

Devon glanced up from his file, surprised to see his boss standing in front of his desk; he hadn’t heard Mitchell enter. Devon closed the file he was working on hastily, knocking some papers onto the floor. He rushed to gather them, blushing as he tried to calm himself down. Guilt was making him nervous; Mitchell couldn’t possibly know that he’d been searching his office.

“Austin, Texas. Didn’t I tell you?”

The younger man sat back, attempting a relaxed pose. Mitchell lifted a chair and sat down opposite, smiling amiably.

“Ever been to Florida?”

Devon shook his head slowly, wondering if it was a trick question.

“Not since I was a kid. My Dad used to take us there once a year for the rodeo at Kissimmee. Never liked the place myself – too spread out.” He smiled, remembering. “I’m a small town boy. White picket fences, swings in the yard; the works.”

“You went to the University of Houston, didn’t you?”

“For my first degree. It was U.C. Berkeley for my doctorate.”

Devon gazed across the desk at Mitchell, feeling like he was being interviewed. Mitchell already knew all this stuff so why ask it again? Devon opened his mouth to speak, hoping that he sounded braver than he felt.

“Did you need me for something, Jeff?”

Mitchell stared hard into his deputy’s eyes, deliberately holding the gaze for a second longer than he should. It had the desired effect. Devon’s earlier blush deepened and he glanced away. Mitchell pressed his advantage.

“Were you in my office this morning, Devon? Before I came in?”

Devon stared at Mitchell, shocked. How the hell had he known? Then he realised. Mitchell couldn’t know for sure; he was fishing. Mitchell watched the thoughts running through the young man’s mind, each one of them reflected on his face. Devon was deciding whether to lie to him or not and searching for a good one. Mitchell decided to save him the trouble.

“If you were in my office searching for something, I wouldn’t bother. I don’t keep anything important on that computer.”

It was true, except that anyone listening would have thought that Mitchell actually
did
know where he kept important information, instead of still searching for it himself. Devon’s mouth opened to speak and Mitchell raised a hand, silencing him.

“I know what you were looking for, Devon. Don’t. It’s more trouble than you need. If it’s Neil Scrabo that hired you, tell him that you tried and couldn’t find it.”

Mitchell fixed the younger man’s eyes and made his voice as threatening as he could. “Stop spying for them, Devon, for your own safety. This is the only warning that you’ll get.”

Devon’s mouth closed slowly as Mitchell rose and rested his hands on the desk, leaning towards him. He spoke with more intensity than Devon had ever heard.

“There are people much more dangerous than the Board or Neil Scrabo in this world, Devon. They’ve already killed for this research and if they find out that you’ve been looking for it they’ll hurt you and Amy very badly.”

Mitchell watched as his words slowly sank in. When he was satisfied that Devon had heard, he stood back and smiled kindly at him.

“I’d hate to see that happen, but these are very bad people. Tell the Board that you tried and failed, and then take a week’s holiday from today. You’re owed the time.”

Mitchell turned and left the office so quickly that Devon thought he’d imagined the whole exchange. He knew that he hadn’t imagined its message.

***

“The café’s a bust, Richie. They won’t use it after Brunet’s death.”

Richie Cartagena watched mournfully as his lover slipped out of bed and headed for the hotel-room’s shower.

“They’ll have to meet somewhere, Rosie, and soon, now that they know Mitchell’s under surveillance. Things are getting too hot for it to go on much longer.”

Pereira’s voice echoed from the bathroom.

“Do you think Mitchell killed Brunet?”

Richie shook his head firmly then realised that she couldn’t see him. He yelled across the room.

“Unlikely. Jeff Mitchell’s a lot of things, but a hands-on assassin isn’t one of them. He’d think that it was beneath him.”

“He has military training.”

Richie laughed sceptically. “That doesn’t make him a trained killer, babe. He was an army surgeon; we’re talking special-ops training for the way Brunet was killed. Mitchell must have a guard dog; they wouldn’t trust him enough to leave him un-watched.”

Pereira re-entered the room and Richie watched in silence as she dressed in her black suit. He preferred her naked. He reached out for her and Pereira playfully skipped away, re-starting the conversation.

“Is Magee any closer to narrowing down who
they
are?”

“The money’s on Russia, because of the café, but who knows? That could just be some old cold-war spook at headquarters getting paranoid. My money’s on the Arabs. Saudi or Iran. Syria’s too hot at the moment for them to go looking for new toys.”

“And Jeff Mitchell’s just a straight forward scumbag who’s selling his wares for the highest price?”

“Looks that way.” Richie squinted at her, puzzled. “Why? Have you got a different theory?”

Pereira bit her lip thoughtfully before answering. “It’s just…something doesn’t fit. Mitchell’s the original all-American boy. He fought for his country in Iraq and he has the perfect family and a good lifestyle. Why would he be prepared to throw it all away for a life in exile, or in prison?”

“He wouldn’t be the first.”

“Yeah, I know. But it’s not as if Mitchell can’t know that he’ll get caught eventually. And can you imagine the wife and daughter wearing Abayas in some country with Sharia law?”

Richie shrugged. “Maybe he plans on going without them. He might have another woman lined up.”

Richie didn’t move quickly enough to avoid the slap heading his way.

“Ow! What the hell was that for? I was only saying.”

“You were only saying too much, Cartagena, that’s what! You’ve no romance in your soul.”

The look in Richie’s eyes told Pereira not to say any more. He’d given up his marriage for her. Romance was all he had. She changed the subject hurriedly.

“Anyway, an all-American boy living in Iran? Why?” Pereira paused for a moment then grinned. “Twenty dollars.”

“What?”

“I’ll bet you twenty dollars that Jeff Mitchell doesn’t run.”

Richie rubbed his arm and considered. “With or without the wife?”

“Either way. Mitchell won’t leave the USA.”

Richie thought for a moment and then extended his hand. “Done. Easiest twenty I ever made.”

***

By the end of the day Devon had left New York. Mitchell congratulated himself. He’d saved Devon’s life and thwarted the Neil Scrabo’s intentions in the process. But Mitchell knew that losing Devon wouldn’t stop Scrabo for long. He would find another way to get hold of his work.

For all the Board’s talk of giving him time to develop his research, Scrabo wanted it now. As soon as the thought entered Mitchell’s head he knew that he was wrong. Not in his estimate of Neil Scrabo’s greed but in own use of tense. It wasn’t time ‘to develop’ his research that he needed; he’d already done it! Mitchell was suddenly certain that he’d already developed the carbon-life allotrope; he didn’t waste time wondering how he knew, he just did. So where was it?

The scientist in Mitchell kicked in, running through the protocols that he’d learned throughout the years. If he’d developed a raw hypothesis then the next stage was to do trials. That meant he had to have somewhere to run them. But where? There was high security everywhere in Scrabo Tower. How could he have developed trials there without someone finding out? And there was no-where at his house that would even vaguely suit. That left somewhere else, somewhere that he’d had the equipment and space to carry out his tests.

Mitchell racked his brains, searching for answers, but there was nothing. Since last week his life had just been home and work. Then it came to him. The café. He must have carried out the trials there; it was the only other place that he’d had access to. Was that what the old woman had meant about his work? When he’d been there last he’d gone to open the door beside the kitchen, but it had been locked and she’d refused to give him the key, chiding him to take a rest. He’d known then that there was something behind there, now he had to find out what.

Mitchell grabbed his briefcase and exited the office quickly. He was just about to lock the door when some instinct made him look more closely at his keys. There were four of them. House, office, the key to the Lexus and one more. It was nondescript, like a million others. And small, so small that the lock it fitted had to be custom made. Why hadn’t he noticed it before?

Mitchell stared at it for a moment knowing exactly which lock it would fit, then he raced to the elevator, desperate to prove his theory. Common sense had returned by the time he reached reception and he walked calmly past the guards and exited the building, calling Karen to delay her lift until six o’clock. That should give him time to check things out.

***

5 p.m.

Richie changed the radio station and settled back to listen to some blues while he waited for Karen Mitchell’s Lexus to arrive. Instead he saw her husband walking swiftly along West Street, heading in the direction of the café. Richie radioed in that he was following and pulled out into the early evening traffic, slowing the sedan to a crawl. Magee wheezed down the line that he was to wait; Brad Whitman was on his way and they were to tail Mitchell together. After Brunet and Chapman, Magee didn’t want any more heroes, no matter what they thought Jack Bauer might have done.

Richie ignored him and kept on driving. If Jeff Mitchell was heading where he thought he was, then no amount of Magee’s shouting was going to stop him giving chase. Richie watched as the scientist turned into the narrow side-streets that only ever led to one place. Mitchell was definitely going to the café. Richie checked his gun and exited the sedan, keeping to what few shadows there were. He tailed Mitchell as tightly as he could without being seen, until the narrow Manhattan streets opened into the small, paved square with trees at its corners and the red-awninged café set to one side. The café lay in darkness, closed for the day and Jeff Mitchell was nowhere to be seen.

Richie glanced involuntarily at the dark alley where Claude Brunet had died. There was nothing to mark his last stand. It would be the same for all of them. The alley was full of large bins that no-one could have squeezed between, that only left one exit from the square and he was blocking that, so where the hell had Mitchell gone? Richie stared up at the rooftops then scanned the square again, scrutinising every inch of it with well-trained eyes. There was no sign of life anywhere. Not a light or a sound. Jeff Mitchell had simply disappeared.

Richie stepped back into a side-street and weighed his options. Common sense said Mitchell had entered the café, but if he followed him in there, the whole operation would be blown. If Mitchell spotted him, ditto. There was no way for anyone to leave Regan Plaza except via West Street so that was where he would wait.

Richie re-traced his steps until he was back on the main drag. Ten minutes later a dark car pulled up on West Street and Brad Whitman leapt out. He didn’t see Richie until he stepped into his path and pulled him into the shadows, staring him into quiet. Forty minutes later Jeff Mitchell walked past them, his cell-phone clamped to his ear. They heard enough to know that he was calling his wife to be collected. Richie waited until Mitchell was ten feet in front of them then he radioed Magee.

“Mitchell was in the square for nearly an hour. His wife’s collecting him now. Whitman will follow them while I re-check the café. I’m due to handover anyway.”

The wheeze that followed drowned out Magee’s words so Richie asked him to repeat.

“I said if the café is shut, what was Mitchell doing there?”

“No idea. But I’ll tell you this much, his briefcase is a lot fatter now than it was when he went in.”

***

As the Lexus pulled into the driveway Karen Mitchell turned off the engine, glancing at her husband. He looked stressed, more stressed than he’d looked for weeks. She’d got fed up waiting for him to agree so she’d gone ahead and made the doctor’s appointment for the next day and Jeff was going to attend whether he liked it or not. As Karen went to get out of the car she was surprised by Mitchell’s hand on her arm, asking her to stay. She turned towards him and saw sadness in his eyes that she hadn’t noticed before. Karen opened her mouth to speak, but Mitchell got there first. He gazed intensely at her.

“Karen, do you love me?”

His tone said that this wasn’t foreplay. Karen took her husband’s hand, squeezing it in her own as she replied.

“With every part of me.”

Mitchell gazed at her for a moment until she saw tears in his eyes, then he spoke again.

“If I ask you to take Emmie away somewhere with no warning, will you do it for me?”

Karen’s heart tightened with anxiety.

“Why? What is this about, Jeff?”

Mitchell gripped her hand and repeated his words. “Will you do it, Karen?”

She shook her head. “No, not without you.”

He grabbed her shoulders hard. “You must. Even without me. Promise me that you’ll do it.”

Mitchell’s eyes were burning and Karen felt his grip tighten. He was scaring her and he knew it, but he had to make her hear. Karen scanned her husband’s face, then fixed his blue eyes with her own and nodded, feeling relief relax his hands.

“Jeff…”

Mitchell looked at her, pleadingly. “Please don’t ask, Karen. Just trust me, please.”

She nodded and he leaned forward, kissing her lightly on the cheek.

“Now, I have to go somewhere. Kiss Emmie goodnight for me. I’ll be back in a few hours.”

“I’ll be here.”

Karen walked into the house without a backwards glance and Mitchell leapt into the driver’s seat and checked his watch. Seven p.m. If he drove like the devil he’d just make it back to the office in time for Elza’s call. He felt like he was about to be put through some kind of test, but a test of what? As Mitchell reversed out of the driveway, he was suddenly filled with dread about what he would find at his journey’s end.