The Nemesis Program

Chapter Fifty-Five

It was the bruised stranger who spoke first, flinching at the pain from his split lips. ‘I’m Jack Quigley, CIA. Who the hell are you two?’

‘That’s funny. The CIA are the good guys now?’ Roberta said.

Ben looked at his watch. He said, ‘This is Roberta. I’m Ben. We can leave proper intros for another time, Quigley. There are more pressing matters right now, like getting out of here within the next nineteen minutes.’

Quigley motioned at the dead body on the floor. ‘Your friend there have a name? Looks like his neck’s broken.’

‘I wouldn’t have done it to a friend,’ Ben said. ‘His name was Daniel Lund. He was one of them.’

‘I figured maybe you were one of them as well,’ Quigley said. ‘And that I was next on your list after this Daniel guy.’

‘Relax, I’m not going to hurt you,’ Ben said. ‘We’re all in the same boat here. What do they want with you?’

‘I got in their way,’ Quigley said, tight-lipped. ‘I guess I need rubbing out, like everyone else who does.’ The fury he was holding in suddenly boiled over, and with a passion that reopened the cuts on his face and mouth and started them bleeding again, he burst out, ‘The bastards killed my girlfriend, Mandy. They even killed my dog. And they killed Mitch too. I know that now.’

Ben caught the name and remembered hearing it before. He instantly made the connection. ‘Mitch Shelton, the CIA agent who drowned? Lund told us about him. Did you and Shelton work together?’

Quigley replied, ‘He was my friend. I had no idea he’d got mixed up with these people. I still can’t believe it.’

‘He got involved, but he wanted out,’ Roberta said. ‘At the time of his death, he’d hooked up with a journalist, and they were going to blow the whistle on the whole thing.’

‘So they murdered him and fixed it up to look like an accident,’ Quigley muttered bitterly. He shook his head in barely contained rage. ‘That’s what I figured. Motherfuckers.’

‘The journalist’s not around to tell the tale either,’ Roberta said. ‘He had a little car smash.’

‘Yeah, right. Just like my house had a little gas leak. Totally destroyed, with Mandy inside. And it was my fault, because I asked her to go let the dog out while I was working late. That was the night I was with Blumenthal and he told me about the Nemesis Program, before they got to him, too. That was no heart attack.’

‘You know about Nemesis?’

‘Just what Herbie Blumenthal told me.’

‘Who was he?’

‘Science guy in D.C. Ex-DARPA. He worked for them, too. Told me he’d quit and wanted to go public with the dirt he’d uncovered, said he needed my help. I didn’t believe him at first. I didn’t want to believe him. It was Blumenthal who put me on to Mandrake Holdings and Triton. Triton, you have any idea what that is?’

‘None,’ Roberta said, glancing quizzically at Ben.

‘Blumenthal talked about some kind of … of a machine,’ Quigley went on. ‘Some technology they’ve been working on for years. A weapon, but like no other weapon that’s been used before. The new warfare, he said. Claimed they can cause things to happen. Disasters. It sounded crazy.’

‘Trust me, it’s not crazy,’ Roberta said. ‘It’s real and we’ve seen it in action.’

Quigley stared at them incredulously from between his swollen, bruised eyelids. ‘You’re not kidding, are you? But it’s impossible. Technology like that doesn’t exist.’

Roberta smiled darkly. ‘You have no idea. Nobody does, that’s the whole point. But stick around, I get the feeling you’re going to see for yourself.’

‘How did they catch you, Quigley?’ Ben asked.

‘Mandrake Holdings,’ Quigley replied. It’s a corporation with offices in New York. They’re involved in this somehow. I wasn’t thinking straight, walked right into it. Next thing I knew I was taken to some cellar someplace and these two guys were beating up on me. Wanted to know everything I knew about the Nemesis Program. Then they stuck me on a plane and, well, here I am. What’s your story?’

‘You lost a friend,’ Roberta said. ‘So did I. Yours wanted to blow the whistle on them from the inside, she was trying to expose them from the outside. She called me for help. When I got there, it was already too late.’

As Roberta and Quigley went on talking, Ben broke away from them and started pacing the floor. Time was slipping away fast and they had to find a way out of this place.

He hurried over to one wall and examined it. The plasterwork was old and crumbly in places where the salt air had permeated it, but the stone behind it was thick and solid. He craned his neck upward to peer at the high windows. Above the massive cobwebbed latticework of rusty steel girders, the roof itself was heavy-duty tin plate. Long ago in the building’s history there had been a first floor up there and the roof space had been used as a storage area of some kind. Ben spotted a dusty coil of rope looped around one of the beams, some forty feet out of reach. It didn’t look promising.

He ran back across the dusty floor to the entrance and leaned his weight a few times against the steel door. It barely moved half an inch before the chain outside became taut. Had some miracle provided him with a pair of heavy-duty bolt croppers capable of shearing the galvanised steel links, the gap in the door would have been too narrow to jam them through. The door hinges were massive affairs and set deep into the stone of the wall. Ten men with sledgehammers couldn’t have budged them in an hour. And Ben didn’t have an hour.

‘We have just over sixteen minutes, people,’ he said to Roberta and Quigley, glancing again at his watch. ‘I don’t know what’s going to happen. I do know that we don’t want to be trapped in here when it does. So I suggest we start thinking hard.’

‘This is where Claudine’s oscillator would have come in handy again,’ Roberta murmured, looking around her at the walls of their prison.

‘Be careful what you wish for,’ Ben said. ‘We barely got out of it last time.’

‘What do you think’s going to happen, Ben?’ she asked him anxiously.

He shrugged. ‘Craine could have had us shot. Quigley too. But they’ve gone to some lengths to bring us all here as a neat way of disposing of us that won’t raise too many questions. Whatever they’re planning, we’re not intended to survive it and Craine must be pretty confident we can’t. We can only assume he knows what he’s talking about.’

Roberta nodded grimly. ‘That’s how I see it too. And if my guess is right, we won’t be the only ones. Just three more victims.’

‘Victims of what?’ Quigley said.

‘Something you don’t even want to think about,’ Roberta told him. ‘Just pray I’m wrong.’

Quigley stared at her through his swollen eyelids. ‘What are the chances you’re wrong?’

‘Slim to zero,’ she said. ‘Ben, we’ve got to get out of here, and fast.’

Ben checked his watch once more. Fifteen minutes, thirty seconds. The countdown was racing faster than seemed real. Pressure roared inside his head. Thinkthink thinkthink …

At the distant far end of the vast empty space, half-hidden and barely noticeable among the shadows, was a row of doors. A long shot, but worth trying. He raced across the concrete, wrenched open the first door and found himself inside what must originally have been an office, maybe an accounts room or an administrator’s office. Now it was just a shell, bare and desolate. What might once have been an emergency exit or fire escape leading off from inside had long since been bricked up, along with the window next to it. He kicked the wall so hard it hurt his toe. No way out there, not even if he’d been able to find something large and solid to batter against it.

He left that room and tried the next door. It was larger, just as empty, just as inescapable. So far, the long shot was proving too long. He slammed the mouldy door, wrenched open the last and stepped through.

Nobody would have called it a bathroom in any true sense. The place was little more than a communal latrine that had presumably once served the needs of the factory workforce. The rows of toilets were still in place, dry and grimy, home to generations of rodents.

But it was enough to set off a spark in Ben’s mind. A building of this size must have had some kind of sewer system larger than a domestic waste pipe. Somewhere in here had to be the head of a manhole leading downwards. He began kicking up clouds of dirt and dust and soon found what he was looking for. He crouched down over the heavily rusted iron cover plate. Wiped the dirt away and tried to get his fingertips into the tight gap between the metal edges and the rough concrete into which it was set. It wouldn’t budge. If he could just prise it free … He needed something solid to lever it up with. Something metal. But there was nothing to hand, no handy wrecking bar left behind this time.

Thirteen minutes to go. Time was being sucked away into a vortex.

He leapt to his feet and ran back through the building. ‘What are you doing?’ Roberta asked him.

Daniel’s blank firing Colt Commander was lying in the dust where Ben had thrown it down earlier. He scooped it up. ‘Might have found something,’ he said as he turned to run back to the latrine room.

By the time Roberta and Quigley had joined him, he was already down on his knees and trying to use some part of the dummy firearm to prise up a corner of the iron drain cover. ‘If I can get this up, there might be a way out of here,’ he explained. But even though it was made of proper metal instead of plastic, the gun was a hopelessly inadequate tool for his purposes. He tried the thin, hardened steel of the magazine feed lips. The front sight blade, the beavertail grip safety. None of the weapon’s metal protuberances could gain enough purchase to lever up the cover.

‘What’s under there, a tunnel?’ Roberta said, watching intently.

‘That’s assuming you have no objection to crawling through a little dirt to get out of here,’ Ben grunted as he worked.

‘I’d have married Daniel Lund to get out of here,’ she said.

‘If I had that big old Colt I’d try blasting away some of the concrete around the edge,’ Quigley said, pointing at what Ben was doing.

‘If you had this big old Colt, you’d know why that wouldn’t work,’ Ben replied. He paused for breath. This was no good.

‘Pull the slide off and try the inside of the rails,’ Quigley suggested.

Ben nodded. It wasn’t a bad idea. He worked the slide release and the weapon slid apart in his hands. ‘I see they teach you your weapons in the CIA.’

‘Not the way the USMC do,’ Quigley said.

‘You were in the Corps?’

Quigley nodded.

‘Okay, Marine,’ Ben said, jamming the gun’s slide under the edge of the plate and feeling it start to give, ‘see if you can get your fingers under here and help me lift this thing. On three. One — two — three …’

They heaved, grunting with the effort. With a rending crack the rusted edges broke loose and the plate came up. They let it drop to the floor.

And recoiled at what was inside the manhole. The stench of the filthy water reaching almost up to its mouth was as foul as the decaying bodies of the two drowned rats floating on the surface. The sewer pipe had backed up or collapsed with age.

‘If I’ve got to die,’ Roberta said, ‘I’m not dying in there. Forget it. No way.’

She was right.

Just under ten minutes to go.