Insequor (22 page)

“Jones, let’s recap from the top, okay?”

“Sure,” said Jones. He was sat at an interview table, downtown. Across from him sat Detective Smith from Homicide and Detective Blackwell from Internal Affairs. Both men were staring with intense seriousness. But Jones was relaxed, almost nonchalant as he leaned back in his chair and spread his fingers on the table.

“I got back to L.A. on the Thursday on a chartered jet. I spent two days at the Melwood Hotel, and then took a cab downtown to see a couple of friends.”

“Who?”

“Some old cop buddies; Jack Molby and Dave Kochansky. They’ve confirmed all this.”

“We know,” said Blackwell, “we just want to hear it from you.”

“Sure, Bill,” said Jones, casting a smile at the Internal Affairs officer. He could see that first name terms were something Blackwell didn’t enjoy.

Jones proceeded to tell them about his evening at ‘Brewsters;’ a bar popular with local cops. He’d watched the game – the Eagles had won 16-12, sank a few beers with his buddies and then strolled back at around 11.30pm as per the hotel lobby security camera. There were witnesses aplenty, bar receipts and even a waitress who recalled him casually flirting with her. It explained the gap between his plane landing and his checking in and there was nothing to place him anywhere near Marco Lowe between the hours of 10 and 11pm.

In truth? The cops were old buddies, the waitress an old girlfriend. When he’d told them about Marco Lowe, the killings and the real reason he was re-assigned Jack and Dave had almost finished his plan for him. And cops could keep secrets.

Blackwell probably knew what he was up against, because it hit him every time he walked into a different precinct to investigate some foul-up or another. It was a wall of silence; of disingenuous cooperation. Maybe he wanted to pick the story apart, maybe he wanted to break down the walls, but he wasn’t showing it. He rounded up the interview, shook Jones’s hand and muttered something about having to get back to HQ. When he had left Smith gave Jones a pat on the back.

“Thanks for your cooperation, I’m sure this will all blow over real soon.”

“Let’s hope. I just want a quiet life.”

“Sure.” Smith opened the door, “How have things been going with that robot guy?”

“Daniel,” said Jones, “is having a hard time. So I decided I needed a break.”

“You quit? Sounded like a good gig.”

“I think it’s time I retired.”

Smith gave him another friendly pat, “Alright for some. Take care and remember…anything you need.” He gave a wink and Jones strolled out through the desks of officers and into the streets.

Outside the hot Californian air flowed thickly into his lungs. Car horns sounded and somewhere overhead a chopper flew by. This town was starting to get to him already and he’d only been back a few days. It hadn’t been since he’d left L.A. that he realised how much he hated it.

Everywhere he looked he saw pictures selling dreams. Whether it was on the TV, on a billboard or a shop window…even on the side of buses. Ludicrous smiles, white teeth and twinkling eyes. Everything was promised to you here…you only had to step onto the sidewalk.

The city was a living organism belching out desires and promises to anyone who dared open their eyes and look. It was the oldest joke in town that every waiter was an unemployed actor, just waiting to be discovered. But the joke didn’t end there; each cab driver, each shop assistant, each hot dog guy; they were all here chasing aspirations that existed only for the very few.

He had often wondered how a city could survive on hope, but after many years had come to the conclusion it was human nature to be blinkered. Everybody’s life was a narrative of their own making and nobody’s had an unhappy ending. The ‘right here’ and ‘right now’ were just parts of a story that was going to have an amazing, and glorious conclusion. Because that’s how the human mind works; and L.A. nourished it.

As he walked around a corner though, something across the street caught his eye and he stopped. Looking down from across the road was Marco Lowe’s face; twenty-foot-high and dressed in some kind of space suit promoting his latest flick. The face was chiselled, the hair perfect and the eyes looked as they always did…fake. Big brown discs of emptiness. Someone had photo-shopped a star into the corner of his pupil making it look as if he was staring into deep space. Jones knew that look; had seen it a dozen times when he and Lowe had exchanged pleasantries.

The pavements were full as people passed by going about their business. Some with dogs, some with kids. But he ignored them all, focusing instead on a man about fifty feet away who was stopping every so often to check in shop windows or stare at his phone. Trouble was he was doing it exactly in time with Jones; who was a professional.

He stepped into a computer games shop doorway startling some kid before skirting around the side and behind a stand. Then he waited. This guy was smarter than he looked. Seeing Jones enter the store he must have guessed he was onto him and dropped back. Damn! Why didn’t he pick a grocery store? Okay, just buy something, anything; you could have been picking it up for a nephew.

He walked to the front and picked up a magazine, he wasn’t sure which one and then headed out of the store and continued up the street. As he neared a bus stop he managed to spot the man’s reflection in an advertisement. He stopped, looked at his watch and then, casually, started to read the timetable.

He wasn’t sure which bus was coming along but he was going to get on it and see just how close this guy was sticking. If it was Internal Affairs, then they’d probably call in an unmarked car to takeover; and that would be difficult to check from the bus.

After a few minutes a number 52a swept around the corner and Jones put away his phone and joined the jostling queue. He didn’t look back until he was sat down, facing forward, his eyes nonchalantly checking his phone. Then, from the extreme of his view he saw the figure get on board, pay for a ticket and take a seat near the front just behind the driver. He didn’t want to make eye contact, so he still hadn’t taken a proper look at the face; all he could see now was the back of some unkempt brown hair.

As they headed out of town it occurred to Jones he didn’t know where they were headed and if he alarmed the man he may jump off at the next stop. But when they got onto a main road and started out toward the ocean, he knew he’d have some time. He stood up and lurched forward, the rocking motion shunting him ahead faster than he would have liked. As he got close to the stranger recognition kicked in and he plonked himself down in the seat next to the man.

“Rupert Brooks,” said Jones.

Brooks looked startled momentarily before, an innocent smile crossed his face. “Good grief, Mr Jones, you startled me.”

“What are you doing in my town?”

“Oh come now, it’s not your town anymore, is it?”

“No,” said Jones, “not for a long time. Don’t think I understand the place. But you’re not here for my story, are you?”

“I’m here to help. You need something from me and I need something from you.”

“What could I possibly need from you, Mr Brooks?”

“The evidence I have that places you with Marco Lowe at a bar on the night of the shooting.”

Jones looked around to see if anyone was in hearing distance. Save an old lady sat near the back absorbed with her thoughts and a couple of kids sat chatting, there was nobody.

“Let’s talk,” said Jones.

The bar smelled cheap but the liquor was expensive. Some dinner jazz ambled along in the background but Jones didn’t hear it. They were in Pasadena and even though it was late morning a few seasoned drinkers were sitting with their quarry. This was the sort of bar were everyone came in with their own struggles and didn’t want to be disturbed whilst they were swamped by them.

“I thought you didn’t drink?” said Brooks.

Jones paused, the bourbon glass inches from him his chin. “I fell off the wagon.” It hit the back of his throat with a warm relaxing splash. “Go on,” he said.

“Well, like I said, the evidence I have places you at the bar Lowe was last seen in on the night of the murder a little after ten o’clock. Have you anything to say about that? Off the record, of course.”

Jones shook his head, “Can’t say I do. What is this evidence?”

“We’ll get to that,” said Brooks. “For now, I have another question; what is Daniel doing in the Kraznik valley in Abraznia?”

“No idea,” said Jones.

“Professor Benedict Grey; ever heard of him?”

“Nope,” said Jones.

“What about these research papers? Seen them before?”

Jones looked at the files on a tablet Brooks had produced. One was
Accessing the Multiverse.
“No, Mr Brooks, and I think this conversation is over.

“But what about my evidence?”

“I don’t believe you have any.”

“Oh really? Take a look.” Brooks slid his finger across the tablet. There was a picture of Jones entering the bar by the airport and leaving, shortly before Lowe.

“A friend of mine is paparazzi,” said Brooks, “he’d been casing Lowe out as there were rumours he was gay. When he saw you…” Brooks made a clicking noise and mimed an imaginary camera. “Now the good news is he told me about the pictures and knew I was interested in you and Daniel, so he sold them to me, original digitals and all. So I have the only copies. He’s also very forgetful and won’t remember taking them, if you know what I mean.”

Jones looked at the barman and, with a raise of his eyebrow, ordered another drink. It arrived and he gulped it down. “What do you want?”

“I need to get the story. I need to get to Daniel. This is the end; I can feel it. What’s he doing? The whole world wants to know.”

Jones waved his finger in the air, not even looking at the barman this time. “In case you haven’t heard, I no longer work for him.”

Brooks took out a packet of cigarettes and then offered them. “Care to join me outside?”

“Sure,” said Jones. It had been a long time since he smoked, but this seemed the perfect opportunity to start again. As Brooks opened a side-door the city glare seemed to heighten the effects of the whiskey and he had to breathe deeply until his eyes adjusted. They went around the back were there were a couple of chairs and a table with an ashtray.

Brooks lit his up first before offering Jones the light. “Bob, can I call you ‘Bob?’”

“No,” said Jones, sucking in deeply with a crackling voice. “Look, just tell me what you want.”

Brooks nodded then blew smoke across the table. It swirled upwards to join the L.A smog. “Alright,” he said, Jones noting how he sounded a little like Dick Van Dyke in Mary Poppins. “How do I get into the complex?”

“You don’t,” said Jones.

“Come on,” said Brooks, “you were his Head of Security.”

He shook his head. “Even if you could get a visa, which you won’t, you’d have to get someone to take you to the valley. There’s no road so you’d need to charter a plane. The plane would need clearance from the airport we built which you won’t get. He didn’t just choose this location because it was remote; it’s inaccessible.”

He sat back and took another drag from the cigarette; he hadn’t realised how much he’d missed them. “Daniel spent years working on this plan. You really think he’d pick somewhere he could be disturbed? Hell, I’d never even heard of Abraznia before he mentioned it.”

“There must be a way?”

“No,” said Jones, “so I can’t help you.”

“That’s too bad. If you’re no use to me…” Brooks shrugged. He got up and turned around.

“Wait,” said Jones, “I know this game.”

“Game?”

“You got something to help me; you feign interest, make a deal and then walk away. I was a cop, remember? I used to do plea bargains all the time.”

Brooks’ nose crumpled, “Mr Jones, did you think I was trying to blackmail you?”

“Just tell me where I go from here.”

The reporter turned and stared back up the side of the bar toward the road. A fire truck thundered past, it’ siren echoing off the walls of the alley.

“If you can’t help me, maybe you can help someone else.”

“Who?”

When Daniel got back to Kraznik he literally thought he’d got off at the wrong place. It was unrecognisable. He’d spent six months away but it looked like he’d been gone six years. The whole complex was almost the size of a town and could be seen from some distance away. There was even a Starbucks. Upon landing, one of his assistants greeted him with a ‘cup of joe’ in the familiar paper cup; it even had his name on it. He looked at her sideways but she just shrugged.

They hopped into a car and she dumped a pile of paperwork on his lap. It was mostly procurement approval requests, big ones; the smaller ones he had given Grey authority to process himself but when it was over a million he wanted to know. He was amazed at how many of them there were; some were marked ‘Urgent’ in red or ‘Required Immediately’ in the Professor’s scrawl.

“Take me to Professor Grey,” he said, to the driver in front.

When they got to the complex he was escorted to the top floor of the main office building, there was also a finance office, operations and IT department. Through the glass walls of his workplace Daniel could see Grey was in a video conference with someone. He made his way in without knocking, and neither Grey nor the person on the call acknowledged him. They were speaking in Russian.

He sat at the back and let them continue talking. Grey was working through a PowerPoint of some calculations and diagrams; Daniel couldn’t tell what they were. He occasionally heard the odd English word though; ‘magneto-optical,’ ‘antimatter,’ ‘multiverse,’ and Davis’s name cropped up too.

Eventually, the Professor began to wind up and he killed the call before gathering his notes and standing up to leave; he started when he saw Daniel.

“I didn’t realise you were back.”

“I needed some time to gather my thoughts. Who was that?”

“That was Professor Kinshchak, from Moscow State University. He’s a good friend of mine and has been helping me with some of my preparations. The work we’re doing here has attracted quite some attention. The papers I’ll be able to write after this…”

Daniel nodded, “I’m glad
you’re
getting something out of it.”

Grey paused. “I apologise, that was ill-thought. This is, after all, about you. Would you like a status update?”

“Please,” said Daniel, rising from his chair.

“Why don’t we take a drive?” Grey called out for his assistant and they left the building and jumped into a buggy. The assistant drove and Grey indicated they should do a lap of the complex. First they arrived at the generator house.

“The generators came on line last week, all four of them. We’ve still got the diesel backups but these are geothermal and, theoretically, have a life of four years until maintenance would require a shutdown. However, as we have three that means we can alternate shutdowns if we have to and, crucially, always have a backup.”

“Sounds more than enough.”

“We cannot take chances, Daniel. That is what the United States government did; and look where it got you.”

He found himself wondering what Toby was up to; he’d sure get a kick out of all this. True, he’d put on some pretty good shows himself, but nothing ever this grand. Maybe that’s where Toby had failed – he thought too small. It was always an idea or a pitch. Never a
plan.
Plans have beginnings, middles and ends. The buggy cruised past the goliath like generator house, took a left and then then sped up past some more tall warehouses.

“On our right we have the stores; enough to get the entire crew of two hundred through winter if need be. Next a small hospital, network centre, loading depot and over just behind that you can make out the media centre. Everything’s here and ready.”

And that’s when Daniel saw it; the unmistakeable wide open space, out of place and akin to nothing.

“That’s the collider, isn’t it?”

“Very perceptive. Yes, underneath this area is the collider. I was going to get it marked with some floor paint or something, cones even, but that would have alerted the various government satellites watching what we do. No, better our collider is indiscreet and concealed. We dug in from the sides using the purposeless buildings 41a and 41b.

“As the geological surveys confirmed we had a vast underground cavern, one that would mean we didn’t have to disrupt large amounts of earth so to the spying birds above there was no activity apart from a lot of people and machinery going in and out of these buildings. But, all the buildings here have a lot of people and machinery going in and out of them, right?”

“Right,” said Daniel. He got out of the buggy and stood in the dusty square. It was about the size of a football pitch and as he walked out to the middle he felt the false floor echo louder.

“Exactly how deep is the chamber underneath me?”

“About two hundred metres.”

Daniel looked down, the soft dirt was a few inches deep; his footprints were the only thing around him, connecting him to the edge.

“Doesn’t there need to be a focal point or lens?”

Grey shook his head. “No, we will be firing the particles across a very wide berth. We have used what is called a ‘scattergun’ approach.”

“So how accurate do we need to be with the robot?”

“Within a few metres. We’ve made new calculations which mean we can dispense with the hanging basket I know you were so fond of.”

“That’s a relief. Where will I be?”

“Behind a moveable lead screen; the precise landing point of our friend is pre-determined so all the calculations seem to suggest this is not going to be a problem.”

Daniel nodded. “So, what else is there to see?”

Grey rubbed his hands together and pointed back to near where they had started by the main offices. “The magneto-optical trap.”

The Professor bounded back to the buggy and Daniel followed him, taking one last look at the distant skyline to the east. Somewhere out there the robot was heading toward this spot, the sun setting in front of it.

Within a minute they were back near the offices but this time outside what looked like a multi-story car park. It had levels but no windows or doors and was a skeletal box-like structure, perhaps three stories high.

“So this is where we’re going to store the antimatter?” he said.

“Yes,” said Grey, “it’s been operational now for a week. We’re still running preliminary tests but everything looks good so far. The ant-matter production research has gone well and I’ve already increased our production rate by over 400 percent.”

“It all seems pretty fantastical. I feel I’m being given an overview of an evil despot’s lair like in a James Bond movie. Any minute now you’re going to show me your weak spot and how it can all be stopped if I can get to a particular ‘red button.’” Daniel turned to note Grey was watching him with a crumpled nose and squinted eyes.

“No offence,” said Daniel.

“None taken,” said Grey, “And no ‘red button.’”