Immortal

44

Butch Cutler strode into his hotel room, tossed his key-card onto the bed and gratefully dragged his shoulder holster off. Since he’d been assigned to USAMRIID after leaving the Rangers he’d always felt somewhat uncomfortable carrying a weapon around in public. Not that he was afraid to use it — just that somehow being armed while surrounded by civilians just didn’t float his boat. He laid the weapon down on the bed and yanked off his tie before loosening his shirt and looking at himself in the mirror next to the bed. He looked older now, gray-haired and maybe a little haggard. Once upon a time he’d felt invincible, a soldier in one of the finest combat regiments on earth. Now he just felt weary, a hired hand in powerful men’s games.

Butch poured himself a well-earned drink, and was about to slump into an easy chair when a knock sounded at his door. Without really thinking about it, Cutler was on his feet with his gun in his hand, moving silently across to stand to one side of the door with his back to the wall. Never peer through the peep-hole — block the light, and an assassin has only to shoot straight through the door.

‘Who is it?’

The voice that replied sounded feeble and strained.

‘I’m here on behalf of Colonel Donald Wolfe. My name is Jeb Oppenheimer.’

Cutler frowned uncertainly.

‘He too busy to pick up the phone himself?’

‘He’s not aware that I’m here,’ came the reply. ‘I was hoping that perhaps we could speak privately?’

Cutler thought for a moment, then turned and unlocked the door before snapping it open and pointing his pistol into the wrinkled face of an old man a foot shorter than he was. In an instant, Cutler caught sight of four heavy-set men standing guard nearby.

‘Don’t worry about them,’ Oppenheimer said, gesturing at them with his cane. ‘They’re here to protect me, not to attack you. Can we speak inside?’

Cutler turned aside as Oppenheimer limped his way into the hotel room, his entourage of four guards following him. Two moved to stand outside Cutler’s room, while the remaining two followed the old man inside and closed the door behind them.

‘My apologies,’ Oppenheimer said, ‘for the intrusion. There’s no need for your gun — I wished merely to know how the USAMRIID investigation is proceeding.’

Cutler, his pistol still in his hand, strode across the room and picked up his drink. He cast a glance at the two heavies guarding Oppenheimer, and felt reassured. Both were exuding all the menace of cartoon characters, standing with straight backs and their hands clasped before them, trying to look tough but failing. Both were young but neither looked military, more like nightclub bouncers than close-protection specialists. More to the point, standing as they were in the manner of Mafioso henchmen meant that, if they were armed, they wouldn’t reach their weapons in time to stop Cutler putting a bullet in both their brains. As he had learned long ago, bravado was no match for already having your weapon in your hand.

‘You could have called to find that out,’ Cutler said to Oppenheimer, not putting his gun down. ‘What do you want?’

Oppenheimer leaned on his cane.

‘Your help, Mister Cutler. You are leading the investigation at USAMRIID for Colonel Wolfe, and I believe that I may be able to assist you.’

‘That won’t be necessary,’ Cutler said, taking a long sip of his drink. ‘We have the situation under control.’

Oppenheimer raised an eyebrow.

‘Is that so?’ he asked rhetorically. ‘And what about Ethan Warner and Nicola Lopez?’

‘What about them?’

‘They are hindering your investigation, are they not?’

Cutler chuckled, and drained his glass before speaking.

‘By now Warner and Lopez will have left the state,’ he said. ‘They’re not a problem.’

Oppenheimer shrugged.

‘If only that were true. However, I have it on good authority that they were last seen traveling out into the desert somewhere south of Glencoe.’

Cutler stared at the old man for a long moment.

‘And how would you know that?’

‘Because I make it my business to know,’ Oppenheimer snapped. ‘And right now, what I know could help us both achieve our aims.’

‘Which are?’ Cutler asked, remaining impassive.

‘The acquiring of certain…’ Oppenheimer delicately selected a word, ‘tissues that are required for SkinGen to produce a new drug. Tyler Willis, before his unfortunate death, was working on just such a drug.’

‘Anything that we find will be delivered directly to Colonel Wolfe at Fort Detrick,’ Cutler replied.

Oppenheimer grinned.

‘But if some were to be inadvertently lost,’ he suggested, ‘or left behind?’

Cutler eyed the old man for a long beat of his heart before replying.

‘Such things have happened before, occasionally.’

‘Of course they have,’ Oppenheimer agreed. ‘Human error, environmental issues, sheer bad luck. Of course, you will enjoy a considerable amount of financial good fortune should such an occurrence take place.’

Cutler set his glass down, his pistol still in his hand.

‘And where might these tissues you refer to be found?’ he asked.

Oppenheimer gestured vaguely about in the air.

‘They might well be located by Warner and Lopez in the near future,’ he suggested. ‘Perhaps if you were there you could ensure that viable specimens are passed on to SkinGen instead of USAMRIID.’

‘Viable how?’ Cutler asked.

Oppenheimer’s grin turned cold as he leaned forward on his cane.

‘Alive, Mister Cutler. Just one of them, alive.’

Cutler stood immobile for what felt like several minutes, the beating of his heart thumping in his ears.

‘Who?’

‘Let Warner and Lopez guide you,’ Oppenheimer suggested, ‘you’ll know well enough when you find them. I’ll compensate you fully once you’ve returned them to—’

‘Five hundred thousand dollars,’ Cutler interrupted, ‘all in advance, wired to my account by tomorrow morning, or this conversation is over.’

Oppenheimer ground his teeth in his jaw, his gaze turning icy, but he nodded once.

‘As you wish.’

Oppenheimer produced a card and handed it to Cutler. The card bore the details of a SkinGen subsidiary bank account, as though Oppenheimer were used to bribing people and had made cards specifically for that purpose.

‘Call your bank,’ Oppenheimer said, ‘and clear the transfer with them. One call, Mister Cutler, along with a single live human being, and your work will be done.’

Oppenheimer turned without another word, one of his guards opened the door for him and he left the hotel room. Cutler watched the door close behind them, and stood alone in silence for several moments, looking down at the card in his hand.

The he turned, and picked up his cell phone.