CHAPTER 23
“They found Graham Ripa's body here in Orient? Are you sure? That sounds...”
Cameron wasn't sure how to finish that sentence, so Bond offered some suggestions. “Improbable? Unlikely? Mind-boggling? Perhaps, 'All of the above'?”
“I'll take 'Inexplicable Probabilities for a thousand, Alex'?”
“I'm sorry...?” American pop culture, especially TV references, were usually lost on Bond.
It would be difficult to forget Graham Ripa, responsible for all those murders Tom Purdue was accused of committing last year, not just kidnapping him and hijacking his Clara Software, that Artificial Creativity program. And that's without getting into the whole business of the Aficionati's plot which sent their disgraced agent Perdita Vremsky into the SHMRG concert as a remote-controlled suicide bomber, killing dozens and creating wide-spread panic. Then there was that fire when they tried to rescue Tom and Terry – the one Terry thought Clara set on purpose.
So it would be easy to understand why Tom could blame Graham Ripa for the stroke that nearly killed him – even the guy's dad was a childhood bully of his own father decades ago. Both he and Terry continued to have nightmares about that night: who could blame them? And Clara's still in the wind.
Yeah, tough to forget someone like Graham Ripa. And here he was, apparently found dead in Orient where Terry's working on a case involving Tom Purdue. Coincidence? Terry's not a big fan of “coincidence.”
“Never mind, Inspector,” Cameron resumed. “I don't want to start thinking what the odds on that would be. So, now what...?”
“That's why I was calling Dr. Kerr, hoping he might've heard something, especially now I know you're also here in Orient.”
“I'd been meditating. He must've stepped out. Not sure when he'll be back.”
“Well, it's safe to assume Osiris is in the building, whatever he's doing here, and Ripa's death was a revenge killing.”
“Knowing Osiris, I don't imagine it was a simple bullet to the head.”
Bond couldn't say officially until after an autopsy's been conducted – “and the local pathologist, a guy named...”
“Femorsen, yes. We've met.”
“...hasn't been able to get here yet. From what appears to be thousands of little pinpricks all over him, I'd say he must've been stung to death. So, no, probably not a quick death.”
Cameron thought it odd they (the Aficionati) would dump the body outside in the open (and in broad daylight, at that) where it could easily be discovered, unless they wanted it to intimidate someone. And if they knew Dr. Kerr was in the area, why not just dump it in front of their motel room?
“Well, here's another wrinkle I haven't told you. Two of the local policemen were here when the body was wheeled out from the factory by a man matching the description of Dr. Kerr.”
“What!?”
“They told me the man waved, as if he's trying to get their attention, then hurried back into one of those old outbuildings (apparently abandoned storage facilities left over from the old factory days).”
“Sounds fishy. First of all, I can't see Terry doing that and, besides, one thing he doesn't do well is hurry.”
Cameron noticed the keys to the rental on his nightstand. “D'oh!” If he didn't drive and he's not at the diner, and there was no response when he rapped on the door to #12...? Unless he's out enjoying a late morning stroll – no, they were going to call Tom at 1:00. He wouldn't just leave.
“I understand his not wanting to disturb you but why leave his phone behind if he's gone off on a mission? Yes, Agent Lautenwerckque? Hang on, Cameron.” He heard some mumbling in the background.
Cameron sat back and looked around the room. If Terry did slip off on his own, that's one thing, but what if something weird happened that intersected with his meditation the moment Bond called? What if – and this would be a “very weird what-if” – Terry was the one who ended up levitating into Room #12?
“Sorry, I'm back,” Bond said, “just talking to a new IMP agent, here.”
“Yeah,” Cameron resumed, “since Terry's phone had been hacked by any number of possibilities, maybe he's afraid that someone's tracking him.”
“Cameron, we've gotten word from inside the factory there's an 'event' going on. I'm not sure what that means,” Bond continued. “Apparently there's been an intruder of some kind, and it's creating some chaos.”
“Oh, I should let you go. I'll try to find Terry and call you back when... wait, what were you saying?”
“There's an intruder at Basilikon, the factory where they're building the mobots, and it sounds like it would be an ideal opportunity for us to infiltrate the place, if only we had more agents. That was basically why I was calling Dr. Kerr. I could really use his expertise, Cameron – and your help,” she added. “Cameron, you there? Have I lost you, too?” Bond sounded a bit edgy. “Okay, Agent Lautenwerckque, roger that, thanks,” she added.
“I'm here – I'm just trying to recall: what time did you call Terry?”
“I'd have to check my phone log to be sure, considering I've flown across six international time zones since around midnight. Here it is,” after a pause, “yes, just about fifteen minutes ago. Why?”
“And what time did your surveillance pick up the disturbance at the factory?”
“Uhm – let's see... – about ten minutes before that...?”
What are the odds Terry got “transported” into the factory accidentally? Could he have gone back only ten minutes in time? Not exactly the Most Likely Scenario.
Cameron took a deep breath and sighed.
“It gives me no pleasure to say I'm pretty sure where Terry is. He's... uhm, likely found a way into the old Ratchet Factory, probably after some clues about the body they'd found Monday. I suspect he's probably that 'event' you mentioned, the one about an intruder? So... tell me where I should meet you.”
They met at what was euphemistically called “The Crime Scene,” then drove on further to where Ripa's body had been dumped. Neither Sheriff Diddon, about ready to call the Iowa State Police, nor her deputy were thrilled about the IMP calling jurisdiction, and even less thrilled when Bond ordered them to stay behind as back-up.
Agent Lautenwerckque (who'd rather be more informal and have everybody call her “Calliope-Jane”) drove the rental jeep the IMP found on their way from the airport, as Inspector Bond brought Cameron up to speed. Despite her “Germanesque name” with its bizarre spelling, Calliope-Jane was what she preferred calling “a Southern Black Woman of Well-Rounded Proportions.” With a passion for guns and a preference for fast cars, she was disappointed the jeep was not one of the latter and their allotted firearms fell well below the mark of the former.
Quiet and analytical, with lots of dark hair, Agent Gertrude Hurdie looked the opposite of “larger-than-life-baby” Calliope-Jane and her flame-red afro. A product of the Bronx, Hurdie preferred her life to be basically uneventful. Typically, she'd still be analyzing a problem's possible solutions when Calliope-Jane's already jumped into action, relying on her “larger-than-life” gut.
A ten-year veteran of the IMP's American Branch, Agent Chris Shendo viewed himself as the IMP's token male on this detail. Refusing to be relegated to the back seat, he insisted on riding shotgun.
Shendo then received another hurried message from their undercover agent on the inside. He'd left them a fake ID badge “dropped” near a nondescript doorway warning them they would only have a few minutes. This tunnel took them into the heart of the lab, but he warned them to be careful: the place was chaotic. He also complained about the assault's suddenness, catching him off guard: why'd the IMP send in some old white-haired dude alone?
“Yes,” Cameron thought, “that'd be Dr. Kerr, stumbling in where others boldly go.”
“What is he even doing there?” Shendo's irritation mounted steadily. “He's jeopardized the whole mission. We weren't due for another week.”
“What 'assault,' Shendo,” Bond demanded. “Osiris is my case – why wasn't I informed?” Months of planning and waiting were now wasted. But Shendo's shoulders slumped in his seat: he refused to say another word.
It surprised her Ritard would knowingly let her continue on to Iowa if there was another on-going mission involved with Osiris, restricting the capacity of her team because it was “only a reconnaissance operation.” She and her out-numbered agents would certainly walk into a trap, most likely ruining the mission, and no doubt be killed. Her paranoia over increasing tensions with the American Branch Office made her wonder if this was a plan to discredit her and, in the process, secretly protect Osiris by allowing him to escape again. Whatever prompted Dr. Kerr to break into Basilikon – how'd he get in if their undercover agent was oblivious to his arrival? – she could safely assume he did so unwittingly, the way he usually operated. Unless he hadn't been completely forthright with her in their previous conversations which may also explain why Cameron's being fairly tight-lipped.
Agent Lautenwerckque brought the jeep to a screeching halt mid-field, irritation clear in her voice and especially evident on her face. “Now, look here, Agent Shendo, whoever you think you are, what the fuck...? I do not like walking into something 'chaotic' with these Mickey Mouse guns. What exactly's going on? What're we getting into?”
“Okay,” Shendo relented, “this undercover agent isn't just gathering intel on Osiris' company. We've discovered a musical terrorist organization operating here. With our supposedly coordinated effort, he's supposed to scuttle their project.”
“Which is...?”
Regardless of the number of agents, whether it was five or fifty-five – or in this case, four agents and Cameron plus God knows if they can count on Dr. Kerr – they had to move. Once inside the warehouse, Shendo found the fake ID badge, not that any of them looked remotely like this Dr. Piltdown. He explained as briefly as possible “what's going on,” except the situation escalated quickly with the arrival of this man, Osiris. “He's apparently in charge.”
“Which,” Bond said, “if you'd asked, I'd've told you.”
“Our connection with this agent is limited and only one-way, given his high level of infiltration. He only informed us yesterday. We've recently managed to install a second agent in place to assist him. Unfortunately, we have no direct contact with either. Basically, they're on their own. This unauthorized interference puts them both at risk.”
“Hm-mmm.” Calliope-Jane shook her head. “I do not like the sound of that.
Does this hallway never end? Who's got the architectural plans?” When no one responded, she said, irritably, “Oh, come on, seriously?”
Shendo admitted the undercover agent had sent them but they're in his office computer and the system's down, so they're inaccessible.
Cameron began fiddling with his phone, typing furiously. “Their security's pretty lax, but I found them. Also, their cameras are down. What...? Just a simple hack into Basilikon's files. So, who wants a copy?”
“Hey, I like this kid, Bond. Glad you brought him along!” Calliope-Jane looked over at Shendo with a distinctly snubbing “Hunh!”
Bond was trying to read the tiny files on Cameron's phone before realizing her middle-aged eyes had gotten the better of her. “Shendo, this is your operation, apparently. Any idea where we should head?”
“I think he'd said this leads from the area outside the main labs, where they're working on the project's latest reboot.” He explained last year's life-sized “suicide robots” were too big to be effective.
“Chatter from the intel I'd received,” Bond said, “from co-operative agents! Apparently they're close to unveiling some kind of bumblebee-sized drones.”
Shendo assumed Osiris' arrival has probably accelerated their target release date of mid-summer. “Not sure, except our agent is involved with developing their remote control capabilities. That's what they'd wanted Purdue's software for.”
“Clara!”
“Clara? Who's she?” Calliope-Jane pointed out a side opening further down the hallway. “These windows are damn creepy,” she added parenthetically.
Cameron explained it was an artificial creativity software that could write its own music and Kerr's friend Tom Purdue developed it.
“You mean, he named it Clara like in 'Clara Schumann'? Damn, that's cool!”
“The plan was to use the rhythmic layer as a way to encode directions and control the Mobots through musical streams.”
“Mobots...?”
“It meant either 'Music Robots' or maybe 'Mozart Robots'. Dr. Kerr wasn't sure.”
“I really hate to be the one to mention this,” Agent Hurdie said, “but for a place that's supposed to be in a state of chaos, does anyone think it's a little too quiet?”
“Damn, girl, did you have to say that?”
Considering they're so close to the main lab, Bond did find it disconcerting.
“If your inside agents managed to derail the security cameras, it's possible the Basilikon Security Guards aren't aware we've made entry.” On the other hand, Bond was aware they were talking way too much.
Cameron thought perhaps a plan might be helpful. “So, about these 'Basilikon Security Guards'...?”
“You'll know them when you see them.”
“Meanwhile,” Shendo said, “we're acting like Dorothy and Company traipsing down the Yellow Brick Road on our way to a picnic.”
“Why do I feel like we're about to run into some Flying Monkeys?”
A young man in a scientist's white coat stepped out from the side hallway, gesturing for them all to keep quiet. After Shendo and the others immediately drew their guns, he raised his hands. The man was short, wiry, a dark-skinned African (Cameron guessed possibly an Ethiopian), with curly close-cropped hair and a trim beard.
“Oops, sorry.” Calliope-Jane appeared to blush, then smiled.
The ID badge clipped to his lapel informed them his name was “Abathur.”
Cameron asked if they were near the Main Lab. The young man nodded.
He glanced back toward the doorway closing the other end of the hallway, then nodded his head toward the side hallway.
In a clipped East African accent, the young man asked, “Can you tell me which way to the center of town?”
“Ooh, I've got this one,” Calliope-Jane said, pointing. “We just drove from there.”
“No, that's our secret identification greeting.” Shendo introduced him as “one of those agents I mentioned?,” nodding his head at him. “Agent Mbira, now that we're here, where do you need us to be?”
“For the moment, not to be caught,” he explained. He motioned them toward the lab's decontamination room. “Please remain very quiet.”
With some trepidation, Agent Hurdie wondered why the lab needed a decontamination room.
“The Mobots are dusted with a fine uranium powder – makes it easier to locate the spent ones out in the field.”
“Tell us about these 'Mobots',” Bond asked as he ushered them into a gray locker room, “what is the intent of...” but the sound of footsteps from further down the hall cut her short. It was hard to tell how many of the guards there might be, given their boots reverberating in the empty hallway.
Mbira whispered the Basilikon Guards were still searching for this intruder but he's heard nothing new. “He seems to have vanished.” It was important they lay low until after things had calmed down some.
With one last warning gesture to stay silent, Mbira, a.k.a. Agent Abathur, straightened his coat and ID badge, and nodded good-bye. When he squared his shoulders and turned, Calliope-Jane was impressed by his confidence.
She looked less forward to facing armed guards.
“Here's hoping their security force is no smarter than your average Storm Trooper.”
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
Basilikon's Main Control Center nestled conveniently at the securest point in the entire building, the hub between various developmental labs and Observation Rooms that overlooked where Graham Ripa had earlier met his experimental demise. Apparently, since the intruder was yet to be found, Osiris insisted everyone continue in full Crisis Mode until he'd been apprehended. Krahang had been the last to arrive at this hastily convened, high-level meeting except for Nurse Selket who, he was tersely informed, had been taken ill after lunch and reluctantly retired to her room.
On the monitor, Shango dwarfed Security Sgt. A-2 who was just informing Osiris and the others they've now discovered how the outer hallways' cameras had been taken off-line (Krahang made sure to frown noticeably). It seems someone replaced the live feed with a still-shot showing only the empty hall. They'd no idea for how long.
“This is an ominous development,” Shango said, his voice crackling through tinny speakers. “This intruder must be craftier than he appears.” They'd discovered it when Cpl. K-9 found Agent Abathur wandering around Hall #4. When A-2 checked in on the monitors and couldn't locate them, the ruse was discovered and quickly dismantled. “Everything's fixed, now.”
“Why wasn't Abathur in isolation with the others?”
“He'd left Decon and was headed there but said he'd lost his way.”
Krahang reminded them Abathur was new. “It's easy to take a wrong turn.”
As his supervisor, Krahang had asked Abathur to finish cleaning up the uranium dust they use on the drones in case the intruder broke into the lab and used it to contaminate the building. “If there's any blame for him not reporting to Isolation promptly, the fault is entirely mine: he was doing Security Duty.”
Osiris had al-Zebani shut off the monitor. “Krahang,” he called back as the others began leaving, “you and Harádov stay behind. This intruder must be found – and destroyed: it's time we release the Mobots.”
Al-Zebani activated the red button merely labeled “Drones.” Drawers opened in the walls of the test room, site of earlier testing, and hundreds of mini-drones emerged. They hovered in formation, fully awake and ready.
“If my crack guards can't find this intruder,” Osiris said, “it'd be fun to watch my Mobots run him to ground.”
Once Osiris left, Krahang wasn't sure what to do. It's one thing to choreograph the bots to attack someone in a closed room; but to search out an intruder wandering loose in the building? He called Sgt. A-2 and asked to have Abathur escorted up from Isolation. “I'll definitely need his help on this one.”
“Sure thing.” Then A-2 asked him what he made of those rumors the intruder had disappeared from a locked interrogation room.
“He's clearly cunning,” Krahang laughed. “Is he hiding in that closet behind you?”
Piltdown also stayed behind, making Krahang feel uncomfortable; but Haradov stayed behind, too, making Piltdown uncomfortable – like things weren't awkward enough.
Piltdown suggested programming a “search command” for an old man with white hair and a beard wearing glasses. “Would that work?”
Haradov laughed. “Many scientists here are old, white-haired men with beards and glasses.”
Krahang figured they'd probably wipe out half the research staff with those factors.
Haradov triumphantly held up a vial of his pheromone, the one that would attract the bots like mosquitoes to sweaty ectomorphs.
“Yes,” Piltdown said, “but you'd have to catch the guy and douse him with it first before the bots found him.”
Haradov sighed. “True.” Saddened, he slipped the vial back into his jacket pocket.
Krahang started to fuss over something in the one panel, a loose wire. “Geez, that's not going to help... where's Abathur?”
Krahang slid under the board like an auto mechanic under the hood, stretched out on his back, when Piltdown bent down to help, accidentally brushing against his crotch. “Can I lend you a hand?” He ignored her but couldn't move out of the way. Whatever he mumbled, she assumed it was Thai for something pleasurable.
She took this as an invitation to continue, first groping, then kneading him, gratified when, eventually, the bulge began to respond. She imagined Harádov stood there oblivious, unable to see what she was doing.
Instead, she was unaware he'd sneaked up behind her until he started to squeeze her buttocks, muttering something she couldn't understand (“probably Israeli for something pleasurable,” she feared) which didn't strike her as enjoyable. She tried wriggling out of his grasp to send him a message, but he took this as an invitation to continue.
She imagined Krahang finally accepted the honor she would soon bestow on him. Haradov was delighted: he always preferred feisty women.
Pushing back with a mule-like kick, Piltdown's heel connected directly with Haradov's groin. With a breathless gasp, the old man collapsed on the floor, pulling her backwards, his hands still firmly on her hips.
Krahang switched around some cables which should initiate a power surge and soon cause one of the main units to overheat. It was only a matter of time before it created the necessary diversion.
“That's it!” Krahang had an epiphany. “Riding off to hunt the cunning fox – only in reverse: we're the hounds, and the Mobots are the horsemen. We dogs sight the fox, then alert the huntsmen.”
He slithered out from under the control board, brushed dust off his hands, and ignored the obvious tumescence in his crotch.
When Abathur's untimely entrance surprised her, Piltdown hurried to step in front of Krahang, not before Abathur noticed Krahang's erection. Haradov rose from the floor, his crotch pulsing in agony, and knocked Piltdown off-balance.
“Sorry,” Abathur laughed when he realized what it sounded like, “they sent me up to see if you needed any help.”
To keep from falling, Piltdown grabbed onto the board, accidentally hitting several buttons.
Immediately, another door in the observation room opened and the bots streamed out into the hallway.
Abathur asked, “anyone smell smoke?”
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
Ifrit al-Zebani, as Director of Basilikon Laboratories, was cursing that damn nurse, Selket, for picking the day there'd be an intruder to get sick. Here he is, stuck playing nursemaid to the Old Man. “I'm wheeling him around the place like I'm nothing more than the hired-help. Okay, so maybe he's my boss, but still...” He'd been surprised Selket retired to her room, clearly “indisposed” not long after witnessing Ripa's execution. She not only looked like an ox, she'd never been sick once in all her years with Osiris. Initially, Shango'd been roped into wheelchair duty but as massive and strong as he was, Osiris was concerned perhaps Shango was a little too massive and strong: he required someone more gentle and empathetic, especially going over doorjambs that felt like speed bumps. What would Shango be like if he needed help in the bathroom?
Then there was the alarm about this intruder! Who broke through their security? Osiris, once Selket had become so uncharacteristically sick, immediately became suspicious, the scoundrel's description, when it came in, incensing him more. Whoever this guy was, al-Zebani assumed some history between Osiris and the villain, his boss' reaction extreme paranoia amplified by dread. Al-Zebani should be acting like a Director, leading the operation to hunt down a man capable of striking fear in Osiris. He needed to dump the Old Man in a safe, secure, undisclosed location.
And now Shango reported there was a fire in the Control Room and that Dr. Piltdown was being detained for questioning because she had apparently accessed the outside entrance in the one remote warehouse. This was only moments before she reported for a meeting with Upper Management: had she let the infiltrator into the building? Stranger yet, he added – al-Zebani could just imagine the snarl playing across Shango's lips – she presumably accessed the same entrance again while they'd all been in the Main Control Room: are there more infiltrators?
As for the fire, it started accidentally in the wiring in the Control Room, but al-Zebani wondered at that word, “accidentally.” Unfortunately, it's gotten into the air-filtration system and smoke now rapidly filled up the various offices and hallways throughout the building. The good news was, the Mobots had been deployed, sniffing out any intruders.
Despite al-Zebani's urgent pleas for a security detail to assist him with Osiris who had now become irrational with uncontrollable rage – “he must be taken somewhere safe, STAT!” – he was unable to make contact. He'd heard Krahang and the new guy – Abattoir? – had run off after Piltdown was detained, and that Harádov went with them. Acrid smoke, smelling hot with its electrical pungency, began to obscure his visibility. Al-Zebani had no idea if they're moving toward the front lobby or away from it. “Signage, the place needs more signage!”
He had no choice. Opening his tablet, he activated his back-up bodyguards, a series of life-size animatronic Salieri-look-alike robots, the Salierotrons. Originally designed for a long-abandoned amusement park project, he'd reconfigured them to look like F. Murray Abraham from the movie, Amadeus. Soon, a dozen of them would locate him and lead them to safety.
Meanwhile, Abathur had taken Krahang, really IMP undercover agent Sam Senn, to meet up with Bond and her fellow IMP agents. Now a group of six armed agents and a civilian, plus their hostage, they ran headlong into the emergency exit's tunnel. Since Cameron was unarmed, Senn had ordered him to stick close to him.
The smoke had gotten thicker, but the distance felt it was getting longer.
“So, Cameron, after we get out of here,” Sam said, “maybe you and me, we could go for a drink sometime?”
= = = = = = =
©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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