Wood looked uncertain. Marquis had visited the office a few times over the last year, but it was always during the day and with a specific administrative agenda.
“All right,” he said, “but I find this highly irregular.”
“Dr. Wood, you’re among friends,” Marquis said. “I, too, have an emotional investment in the success of your project—our project.”
“You’re right,” Wood said, relaxing a little. “Steven, why don’t you tell our friend what we’ve just learned.”
Marquis looked at Harding, who grinned and said, “We did it. Tom did it. Skin 17 is a success.”
“Unbelievable!” Marquis said. “Well done. Dr. Wood! This calls for a celebration,” Marquis said. “Where’s that wine you said you had?”
Wood pointed to the kitchen. “It’s in the—” He stopped abruptly and looked at Marquis. “How did you know I said anything about wine?”
Marquis reached into his jacket with his right hand and pulled out a 9mm Browning Hi-Power pistol. He revealed a small black rectangular object with a short antenna in his left hand.
“I heard you, of course,” he said. “This is a two-channel UHF receiver. And the transmitter is over there in Dr. Harding’s wrist-watch. I was right outside the building all the time, listening to your conversation. I only had to wait for my cue. Dr. Harding was certain you would strike gold tonight, and you did.”
Wood looked at Harding, but the traitor couldn’t look his colleague in the eyes.
“I don’t understand,” Wood said. “What’s going on? Steven?”
“I’m sorry, Tom,” Harding said.
Before Wood could move, Marquis shot him in the right thigh. Wood screamed and fell to the ground. Howling in pain, he writhed and squirmed on the wood floor. Blood poured from a huge hole in his leg.
Marquis calmly stood over Wood and said, “Mmmm, bad luck, eh, doctor? Now, about those new orders. Dr. Harding is to take the formula for Skin 17 and see that there are no copies left. I’m to make sure he does.” He handed the gun to Harding. “He’s all yours.”
Harding squatted down to Wood. He waved the gun barrel at his colleague’s head and said, “I’m sorry, Tom, but you have to give me the combination to the safe. I need that disk.”
Wood was in agony, but he managed to spit out, “You . . . traitor!”
“Come, come,” Harding said. “Let’s not be like that. I’ll make sure you still get the credit for developing Skin 17. It’s just not going to be Great Britain that uses it first.”
“Go to hell,” Wood cried.
Harding sighed, then stood up. He held on to the edge of a counter for leverage, then placed his shoe on Wood’s wounded thigh.
“The combination, Tom?” he asked one more time.
Wood glared at Harding but said nothing. Harding thrust all his weight onto the physicist’s leg. Wood screamed horribly.
“Yes, yes, go ahead and scream,” Harding said. “No one can hear you. The warehouse is closed, it’s night, the street is deserted. We can go on for hours like this, but I’m sure you’d rather not.” He continued to apply pressure to the wound.
Marquis stood idly by, examining the computer monitor and trying to make sense of the hieroglyphics displayed on the screen.
Two minutes later Harding had the answer he wanted. Wood curled up in the fetal position on the floor, sobbing. Harding wiped the blood from his shoe on Wood’s trousers, then went to the safe. Using the combination Wood had given him, Harding had it open in seconds. He removed the Skin 17 master disk and all the backup copies of the previous versions of the specification. He placed everything except the master disk into a plastic bag, then went to the physicist’s desk and rummaged for specific file folders. He found what he was looking for, took the new printout, and stuffed all of it into the bag as well.
“Make sure there are no copies of anything,” Marquis said.
Harding went back to Wood and knelt beside him. “Tom, we have to make sure there are no traces of the formula left. Now, tell me. Do you have any copies at home? Where are the backups?”
“All the backups . . . are with the DERA . . .” Wood gasped.
Harding looked at Marquis. Marquis nodded and said, “Yes, I already got those. They’ve been destroyed.”
“Nothing at your house?” Harding asked again.
Wood shook his head. “Please . . .” he muttered. “I need a doctor . . .
“I’m afraid it’s too late for that, Tom,” Harding said. He stood up and walked away to his own desk. He began to pack, placing personal items and other file folders that he might need in a brown attaché case. Wood began to moan loudly.
After a few minutes Marquis said, “Oh, for God’s sake, Harding! Don’t leave him like that!”
Harding stopped what he was doing and looked at Wood. The traitor nodded grimly, then stepped over to Wood and pointed the gun at his head.
“Thanks for all your hard work, Dr. Wood,” Harding said. He fired once, and the moaning ceased. He then set down the gun on a counter and extracted a long, thin dagger from his attaché case. Harding squatted down, trying his best not to get blood on his clothes, grabbed Wood’s hair, and pulled back his head to expose his neck. Harding positioned the blade against the dead man’s skin as Marquis said, “Oh, must you do that?”
Harding replied, “It’s our way. I know it seems rather superfluous at this point, but I have my orders, too.” He swiftly slit Wood’s throat from ear to ear. The deed done, he dropped the man’s head and stepped away with a disgusted look on his face. Harding wiped the dagger on Woods trousers and put it away, then picked up Marquis’s gun and gave it back to him.
Marquis holstered the pistol and said, “Doctor, make sure you delete all the files from that hard drive. Give me the master disk.”
Harding handed him the disk and began to work on the computer. Marquis opened the black box he had brought with him. It was a peculiar but efficient device with a laptop computer, CD-ROM drive, microdot camera, and developer. He inserted the disk into the machine, adjusted tiny knobs, and closed the cover. He pressed a button and copied the disk’s files onto the hard drive. Marquis punched in more commands, then carefully removed a glass slide from the edge of the developer. He placed it in a tray and maneuvered a magnifier over the slide. A tiny microdot, produced on positive-type film and practically invisible to the naked eye, was now on the glass. Marquis took a piece of thin, transparent film from the black box and pressed it smoothly over the glass slide. The microdot was transferred from the slide to the film. Marquis placed the film in a small plastic envelope and sealed it. He then removed the Skin 17 master disk from the machine, dropped it on the floor, and crushed it with his heel.
The next thing Marquis did struck Harding as strange. He opened the autoclave and removed the Skin 17 prototype—a small piece of rubberlike material stretched on a specimen tray. He placed it inside the jacket pocket on Wood’s body.
“There,” Marquis said. “The only existing record of Skin 17 is now on this microdot. Take good care of it.”
He handed the envelope to Harding, who took it and said, “Right, this hard drive is blank.” Harding put the envelope in his attaché case. “I’ll get the petrol.” He went out of the lab, down the stairs, and into a storage closet in back of the office space, where he had left two five-gallon cans of petrol. He carried them back up to the lab, opened one, and began pouring the petrol all over the floor and furniture. Marquis had placed the plastic bag full of the backup copies and printouts on the floor next to Wood.
“Make sure you gel the computers and the autoclave,” Marquis said, taking the other can, and he poured petrol over the other side of the room. He made sure the body and the prototype were com-pletely covered. The smell was overpowering, but the traitors continued until the containers were almost empty.