Lock flashed back to the minutes he’d spent in Natalya’s bedroom after Richard Hulme had tracked him down. It seemed like a lifetime ago, but he could still see in his mind’s eye the photograph of the young girl with her family. All that optimism, all that promise. He clenched his right fist and started to draw it back, not even fully conscious that he was doing it.
Frisk watched the blood drain from Lock’s knuckles as he took a step back. ‘That would be an extremely bad idea.’
Lock was aware of a couple of agents at nearby desks watching him.
‘Y’know, when I heard about you running towards that sniper, I thought you just might be crazy. But now I’m positive.’
Lock took a deep breath and counted to ten slowly.
‘Are we done here?’ Frisk asked him.
‘Well, seeing as you brought it up. What about Gray Stokes? Anyone going to be charged with his murder?’
‘It’s ongoing.’
‘What did forensics say about the rifle that killed Stokes?’
‘An M-107 fifty cal sniper rifle.’
‘Traceable?’
‘Missing from a combat unit serving in Iraq.’
‘So we’re probably looking at ex-service personnel,’ Lock stated flatly.
‘I’d say that would be a fair assumption.’
‘And that doesn’t fit any of the animal rights people.’
‘They’re not all known to us,’ Frisk objected. ‘Hell, Cody Parker kept a pretty low profile, and look what he was capable of.’
‘Listen, when I went in the back of that store, I knew straight off I was dealing with something more than a bunch of people who break out in a rash about a beagle being handed a pack of smokes. If someone was prepared to go to all the trouble of laying their hands on an M-107, and learning how to use it, you think they’d miss Van Straten and get the other guy?’
Frisk put on his coat and strode towards the door. ‘For Christ’s sake, Lock, next time bring me something more than a grudge.’
Forty-seven
Brand stood outside the door with two other members of the team. All of them were dressed in full riot gear: visored helmets, body armour and heavy boots. Now that the Hulme situation was resolved satisfactorily, Brand would be taking personal charge of the day-to-day running of the isolation unit. In total they had twelve individuals to look after, brought in on two separate flights. Each of them deemed to be extremely dangerous.
In his hand, Brand held a small monitor which was receiving the live feed from the camera placed on the other side of the door. A peep hole, even one using glass or Perspex, would be far too dangerous.
The woman was lying on the bed, staring up at the ceiling. The other two men would go into the cell, shackle and cuff her, while he stayed on the other side of the door. Any more than two men in the cell along with the trial subject would make movement too difficult. They’d just end up getting in each other’s way. For the same reason no firearms were allowed inside the cell, or the rest of the accommodation block for that matter.
‘Ready?’ Brand asked them.
The men made a final check on their equipment.
‘I don’t understand why they can’t be doped,’ one of them said. ‘It’d make this a whole lot easier.’
‘Can’t run trials on someone with all that shit in their system.’
‘So what do we do if there’s a problem with one of them?’
‘What kind of a problem?’
‘Like they jump us.’
Brand lifted his visor and pointed at the monitor. ‘You’re afraid of a woman?’
‘I’m asking a question is all.’
‘Procedure is you’re on your own.’
Five minutes later, Mareta was led into the examination room, chained and shackled. She didn’t look frightened. Or defiant for that matter. She looked blank.
Richard’s stomach did a back flip. He’d known since his conversation with Stafford that they’d be using human test subjects and had rationalized that maybe they were volunteers. The payment for clinical trials could run into thousands. Lots of money to some people. But who would volunteer for this?
He knew too that research into vaccines against bio-weapons had a chequered history. From soldiers deliberately exposed to high doses of radiation during nuclear testing through civilian drug trials going horribly wrong, live trials were an ethical and legal minefield. Get them right and you could save thousands, sometimes millions of lives; get them wrong and the consequences lingered. Sometimes in the form of birth deformities, for generations.
This was why Stafford had been so keen to have him on board, whatever it took. His best bet, maybe his only bet now, was to go along with what was happening.
‘Why is she restrained like that?’ he asked Brand.
‘Don’t worry, doc, it’s for your safety more than anything.’
‘Might I speak with you in private for a moment?’
‘Sure thing, doc.’
Richard opened a door at the rear of the examination room and Brand followed him through into a small office space.
‘What’s going on?’ he challenged.
‘Hey, I’m just here to make sure everyone’s safe.’
Yeah, right, thought Richard, noticing the look of enjoyment on Brand’s face.
‘You think we were going to put an ad in the Village Voice and get volunteers for this, doc?’
‘Who is she?’
‘Someone this planet won’t miss if it all goes wrong. That’s all you need to know.’
‘That’s not good enough. I refuse to conduct any tests until someone tells me what’s going on here.’
‘Then talk to Stafford. He’ll be here later on.’
‘And what if I’m not here?’
‘That’s up to you. But right now all you’re being asked to do is check them over and make sure they’re fit for purpose.’
The door connecting the two rooms was still half open, and Richard could see Mareta with her two guards. She looked tiny in comparison, the difference accentuated by the body armour. Wearily, he walked back through to her, mindful that his son was in the compound.
Mareta’s body was a tapestry of torture. Richard had guessed as much when he first saw her walking in. Her gait was slow, the length of her stride shorter than it should have been. She walked almost on tiptoes, reluctant to put her heels on the ground — the result of a technique known as falanga. In lay terms it meant the striking of the soles of the feet with a blunt instrument. Repeatedly.
‘I can’t examine her properly when she’s restrained like that.’
Brand traded glances with his two men. ‘She’s too dangerous not to be.’
Richard had to suppress the urge to laugh. The woman was five feet six inches, no more than a hundred and five pounds, and seemed to be on the verge of collapse.
‘She might not look much, doc, but it only takes one blow to your throat or a finger in the right place to snuff someone.’
Richard pulled the chair from behind his desk and put it down next to the examination couch. ‘At least let her sit down.’
Mareta was prodded the few feet to the chair. One man supported her under each arm so she could sit down.
Richard knelt down in front of her so that he was at eye level. She seemed to study him.
‘Hello, my name’s Dr Hulme, what’s yours?’ Richard said, in a tone that suggested he was speaking to a child.
One of the guards snickered.
‘No habla anglais, doc,’ Brand volunteered.
‘She speaks Spanish?’
Another snicker.
‘No, we didn’t kidnap any beaners,’ Brand replied. ‘Although I wish I’d have thought of it. Could have cut a deal with the Minutemen and saved a bundle on air transfers.’
‘Look, I need a name for my file.’