The office was long and narrow. Maybe five feet by fifteen. There were three fluorescent tubes hanging from the ceiling. All were broken, so the space was only illuminated by the little light that could filter through the grimy internal window between it and the machine shop. There was enough to see that three high shelves ran the length of the room. They were metal, adjustable, and empty. A metal table was pressed against the concrete wall below them. That was the only piece of furniture in the place. Two wooden packing cases were sitting next to it, as if someone had been using them as chairs. Two more wooden boxes were lined up on its dented, scarred surface. And beneath it someone had shoved three clear garbage bags. Two were roughly crumpled up and empty, but the other was still around a quarter full with something multicolored. It looked like little S-shaped polystyrene peanuts.
The nearer wooden box was rectangular, around fifteen inches wide by twenty long. The lid was wedged in place, but not nailed down. I was curious to see what someone had been trying to pack away, so I wrestled it open with my fingertips and looked inside. And found a good candidate for what the unconscious guy had been crawling in there to fetch. An AK-74, with its skeleton stock still folded along the side. It was one of five that were peeping out from the polystyrene. Certainly a more effective weapon than the 9 mm he’d abandoned outside. If he’d got his hands on one in that confined space, dealing with him could have become a little tricky. Shooting him was turning out to have been an excellent decision.
The other box was the same height and width, but square. I figured that if the larger one contained assault rifles, this would hold ammunition. Or possibly grenades. Luckily it wasn’t too hard to find out. The lid was lying at an angle across the top, completely loose. So I removed it, and saw I could hardly have been more wrong. There was only one item inside the box. A cylinder. It was three inches in diameter. Twelve inches tall. The body was divided into two unequal sections, with three locked spring clips holding them together. The top was domed, with two mounting points for attaching carrying straps. Standard army-issue webbing would fit them. The whole thing was painted matte green—a familiar military color—and it was plain except for two symbols down near the base. They were picked out in yellow. There was a skull and crossbones, meaning poison. And a saber crossed with a test tube. The emblem of Porton Down. The British Army’s main chemical and biological laboratory. A place officially dedicated to defense research. But also where VX gas had happened to be invented. Among other things.
My phone started to ring while I was still standing, staring into the box. Fothergill’s number appeared on the screen. I took a moment to answer. I’d been unsure about one thing before, but now it was crystal clear. He could promise whatever he liked about safety. But there was no way I’d be touching that flask.
“I’m nearly there,” he said, when I finally picked up. “I’ll be parked in a couple of minutes. Then I’ll need you to wrap things up. Right away. We have to talk.”
“OK,” I said. “We can do that. But don’t go back to the factory. Come over here instead. I’ve got something for you.”
“What?”
“Richard, are you trying to spoil my surprise? I worked hard for this.”
“Cut it out. This is no time for games. You still in the place opposite?”
“Yes.”
“Where, exactly? How do I find you? I don’t want to be wandering around some filthy garbage pit for hours.”
“Don’t worry about it. Just back in through the open door. Then hop up onto the loading dock. Watch out for the guy who’s bleeding on it. Then come into the office. You’ll see the entrance.”
“Stay where you are, then. I’ll be there in two.”
It actually took Fothergill four minutes to reach me. He was moving slowly as he approached from the far side of the platform. His shoulders were hunched, and his face looked pale and spent. For the first time since I met him it looked like his years of service were finally taking their toll.
“Where is it, then?” he said. “This thing you want to show me?”
I nodded toward the box. He hesitated, then brushed past me and looked inside.
“Great,” he said. “Better get it in the car. You’ll have to do the carrying, though. Can’t do it with one arm.”
He turned back to me, and was halfway to the door when he stopped dead still.
“Wait a minute,” he said, pointing at the other box with his good hand. “What about that one? What’s in there?”
“Guns,” I said. “A handful of old AKs.”
“Oh. Damn. Guess we’re SOL after all, then.”
“Unless you were hoping for a little black market action, like your friend.”
“That’s not funny, David. Don’t even joke about it.”
“OK, then. Let’s be serious. Tell me—what were you hoping for?”
Fothergill sighed.
“More gas,” he said.
“How could there be more?” I said. “Those guys think they’re on their way to buy more. From me. But that was a setup. I’m here. And now we’ve taken theirs. So think about it. They’re the ones who are out of luck.”
Fothergill didn’t answer.
“McIntyre’s our only problem, now,” I said. “He’s on the run again. But the job’s done, as far as finding the gas is concerned.”
“No,” he said. “It isn’t. I just took a call from London. While I was driving back here. McIntyre’s canister? It was only half the consignment he brought over. He just held it back, to try to frame me. The other one, he’d already sold. To the same people. The ones you let drive away.”
“Are they sure? About the quantity?”
He nodded
“So where is it?” I said. “The other canister?”
“If we’d taken those people like I wanted to, we might have a chance of finding out,” he said.
I didn’t rise to that.
“If it’s not here, you can draw your own conclusion,” he said. “This was their laying-up position, obviously. Where was their forward base?”
“Chicago.”
“Right. At least we have to assume so, unless someone proves otherwise. And they’re heading there now. Toward three million defenseless people. So McIntyre escaping is a nuisance, yes. But nothing more. His whereabouts are the least of our worries right now.”
ELEVEN
Psychological profiling is used a lot in the navy.
Our bosses rely on it during selection. While you’re on probation. And, of course, in your regular operational reviews. Some of the guys try to get a head start by really getting to grips with it, and learning all the latest theories and technical terms. Personally, I can see a use for it, but I don’t go that far. I generally just divide people into two categories. Lean forward, who tend to be hands-on, seat-of-their-pants types who go out and make things happen. And laid back, who prefer to wait for all the information to emerge before they think, analyze, and respond.
Me—I’m a little of each.
But I guess I lean a little more one way than the other.
I pulled out the remaining bag of polystyrene peanuts and poured them carefully into the wooden box, like I was getting ready to send my grandmother’s best china to a distant city on the back of a mule. When even the tiniest chippings were used up Fothergill moved in with the lid, brandishing it like a shield. He laid it across the opening, made sure it wasn’t going to fall, and backed away. I held my breath and jammed it home with the heel of my hand. Then I picked the whole thing up, moved it to the back of his Ford, and secured it with a seat belt.
“You should get moving,” I said.
“What about the guns?” he said. “Better not leave them lying around.”
I stowed them in his trunk, then opened the driver’s door and held it wide for him.
“I know,” he said. “Don’t worry. I’ll be right behind you.”