The Secret

TWENTY TWO

By Thursday evening Liam Kelly was disappointed that he hadn’t heard anything more from Steven Dunbar. Over the past twenty-four hours he had undergone a change of heart. His initial reluctance to become involved in anything not entirely above board had been replaced by the seductive thought that he might actually be entering the world of spies and secrets; Bond film territory. He recognised it was a bit soon to be changing from Guinness in the students’ union to vodka martinis at the Ritz — damn, he couldn’t remember if they should be stirred or shaken — but to a 22 year-old red-blooded male the idea of being part of a scenario involving top secret defence establishments, the CIA and classified research was proving very exciting indeed.

Maybe if his association with Steven were to go well, a position with Sci-Med might even be a possibility — after he’d finished his PhD, of course. His research was still important to him, and, up until now he hadn’t even considered an alternative to a career in academia, but it wouldn’t do any harm to widen his horizons a little.

Steven had mentioned at one point that all Sci-Med investigators had to be well qualified in either science or medicine so he was on track there. He didn’t know what other qualifications were required but he could see himself presenting his ID, just as Steven had done… the embossed government crest… the photograph… Dr L. Kelly, Her Majesty’s Sci-Med Inspectorate. Pulling power or what?

Liam put aside the scientific paper he’d been reading; new work on viral receptors had momentarily become less intriguing than wondering how he might speed things up in his other ‘mission’. He’d managed to sneak a look through the stuff on the shelves above Dan Hausman’s desk that very afternoon but without success. There had been no sign of the disk but he’d had to hurry as there were others around in the lab and any one of them might have come into the small office area at any moment. His heart had been pounding and he’d felt physically sick when doing it — perhaps not the best of starts to his new career but lost ground might be recovered if he were to go back to the lab tonight and conduct a more thorough search. He would don a pair of surgical gloves and work his way through the drawers of Dan’s desk.

Steven could not fail to be impressed if he were to turn up with the disk and casually hand it over. It would be a big step in the right direction. He could even see them having a celebratory drink afterwards, just a couple of guys who’d outwitted the CIA in the interests of Her Majesty’s Government. He put on his denim jacket, checked the back pocket of his jeans for his lab card-key and told his flatmate he was ‘going out for a bit’.

Despite having gone into the lab after hours many times before, tonight seemed distressingly different for Liam. He felt nervous, he felt anxious, but most of all he felt guilty. The night was full of eyes, watching him and reading the sign up to no good he felt must be tattooed on his forehead. He hated himself for feeling that way — even his palms were sweaty as he inserted his card-key into the lock and stabbed in his code with his index finger. He didn’t realise that this was the way most normal, law-abiding citizens would feel in a situation like this — about to knowingly do wrong with possible serious consequences.

The darkened entrance hall did have lighting but only dim night-lights that seemed to magnify the size and imagined malevolence of the shadows as Liam made his way to the lifts. He was glad he was wearing trainers: they were quiet and didn’t echo. The lift machinery ground into action and a car started its descent, immediately making him wonder why it wasn’t at ground level in the first place. Someone must have recently gone up in it.

So what? said the voice of common sense inside his head. Lots of people came and went at all hours of the day and night in a place like this. It was a research institute for God’s sake. Research wasn’t a nine till five job. He knew that and yet… Someone had been smoking in the lift was his first thought as he stepped inside and pressed the button. Not allowed, definitely not allowed. Mind you, it could have been someone who’d been smoking outside the building and the smell had still been clinging to their clothes. Shit, he’d gone from being 007 to working for Health and Safety.

The lift stopped and, for a moment, Liam considered going right back down again and making a run for home. His flirtation with the world of shadows and adrenalin rushes was over. This really wasn’t his thing; he was a nervous wreck. A life in academia would be just fine. The world of woolly sweaters and bicycles, seminars and blackboards beckoned him back.

He held down the ‘door open’ button for a full five seconds before finally overcoming his angst and stepping out over the threshold. It’s your own lab, man; you’ve every right to be here, said the voice of reason. Don’t be a complete girls’ blouse. He managed a brave but tuneless whistle as he walked along the corridor to the lab. There it was again, a vague smell of tobacco.

As he reached the frosted glass swing doors to the North lab, he imagined a change in the darkness inside, a change that he couldn’t quite put his finger on but had to ascribe to the blue funk he was in. The lights weren’t on inside but the many windows allowed in light from neighbouring buildings and the street lights below. He turned on the lab lights and paused while the fluorescent strips stuttered into life. The lab looked just like it always did.

Liam walked over to his bench and lit the Bunsen burner. He wanted to create the suggestion of a reason for his being here should a security man look in. He perched on his stool, taking comfort for a moment from the sound and warmth of the burner flame and the air of normality it was providing. He shook his head and just couldn’t understand his nerves. What an idiot.

Liam got together a series of bits and pieces of lab glassware and a bottle of culture medium. He really would set up a few cultures before he left just in case anyone should suspect that he’d been in and ask about it. With that done, he took out a pair of latex gloves from the box above his bench and put them on as he walked towards the closed door of the side room where Dan had his desk.

Liam wrinkled his nose as competing smells reached him; one was that damned tobacco smell again and the other was… human vomit. He put his hand to his face — adding latex to the mix — and stopped in his tracks. What the hell was going on? His nerves had returned like a swift incoming tide. Was he really smelling these things or was tension screwing up his senses?

Once again he was tempted to turn and head for home but the office door was only a metre away and his bench alibi looked just fine — as if he’d been working for the past thirty minutes. Five minutes more and he’d be done searching through the drawers. Surely he could hold himself together that long? Of course he could.

Liam opened the office door and light from the main lab entered to reveal a tableau from hell. An Asian man was standing there, pointing a pistol fitted with a silencer at him. Slumped in his desk chair and secured with tape was Dan Hausman. His face, swollen and distorted, spoke of the agony he was clearly in; a pool of vomit where he’d thrown up lay at his feet. Liam felt sickness well up in his own throat.

‘Come inside. Shut the door behind you,’ said Dr Ranjit Khan of Pakistani intelligence.

Liam did as he was told.

‘Sit down in the other chair, back to me.’

Once again Liam complied. His fear was such that he had difficulty controlling his limbs and his mind was rebelling against taking in any more horror but he could now see that the damage to Hausman’s face and bare chest where his shirt had been ripped open had not been done by beating. The thick glass bottle on the desk and the glass dropper beside it testified to that. Smoke was curling up from the neck of the open bottle. Liam recognised the swimming baths smell — the fumes of hydrochloric acid. Hausman’s left cheek was blistering badly and his lower lip was already deformed.

Liam struggled to say something and Khan hit him sharply across the back of his neck with the side of his hand, a blow hard enough to stun him and make sure that he was only vaguely aware of being trussed up with tape like Hausman. When he struggled back into full consciousness his assailant asked, ‘Who the hell are you?’

‘Liam Kelly… I’m a student.’

‘Your colleague here has something I want, Mr Kelly. He’s being rather awkward about it. But then he’s CIA… all that training.’

‘CIA?’ exclaimed Liam, hoping that somewhere in his croaking reply, surprise had registered.

‘I keep telling you…’ groaned Hausman through burnt lips, ‘I don’t have the damned key…’

‘Of course you do,’ said Khan with a calm assurance that Liam found chilling. ‘You’re a credit to your service, but perhaps you’ll feel differently about things when you watch me trickle acid slowly down Mr Kelly’s forehead and see it enter his eyes.’

Liam lost control of his bladder sphincter as his head was jerked back by the hair and Khan filled the pipette with acid. ‘Aren’t you CIA chaps supposed to protect the innocent? Or is that just so much American crap, the sort of stuff your president spouts every time he steps in front of a camera?’

‘He hasn’t got it,’ said Liam, his voice becoming a scream, having risen a full octave. ‘It didn’t come here. Dr Ricard sent it somewhere else.’

Khan seemed surprised. ‘What the hell do you know about this?’

‘Not much,’ Liam gasped as his head was jerked back further. ‘Just that she sent the key you’re looking for to a friend.’ He couldn’t take his eyes off the glass dropper and its contents. It was being held about six inches from his face. The fumes from the open bottle of acid on the desk were already attacking his nasal mucosa.

‘What friend?’

‘Dr Steven Dunbar of the Sci-Med Inspectorate.’

‘Where do you fit into the picture?’

‘Steven has the key; he doesn’t have the disk.’

‘So he asked you to get it?’

‘Sort of.’

‘That’s why you’re here?’

‘Yes.’

‘What’s Dunbar’s interest?’

‘Dr Ricard was his friend. He doesn’t believe her death was an accident.’

Khan didn’t comment but he put down the dropper and replaced the top on the acid bottle. ‘Is that his only interest?’

‘Yes.’

‘Why did he want the disk?’

‘If Dr Ricard sent him the encryption key, he thought she must have had a reason.’

Khan nodded, seemingly satisfied.

Liam could see that Hausman was losing consciousness. He desperately needed medical help. Liam said so to Khan.

‘Indeed,’ Khan agreed. ‘Where do I find Dunbar?’

‘I don’t know.’

Khan looked sceptical. ‘So how did you plan to tell him if you’d been successful?’

‘He gave me a phone number.’

‘Give me it.’

‘It’s on my phone.’

Khan removed Liam’s mobile from the pocket of his denim jacket and flicked through Contacts. ‘Steven D?’

‘That’s him.’

Khan nodded and picked up his pistol, which he’d laid down while he held Liam. He checked the tightness of the silencer before shooting both men through the back of the head.