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CHAPTER 27
Cameron began regretting getting himself into this mess even more, now, finding himself in absolutely the wrong place at whatever time. Even at this distance, he knew these ten things were not “killing bugs.”
Chief Inspector Bond pointed her Glock-27 at them. “Agent Senn, please tell me these are not what you've been calling mini-drones.”
“Dr. Haradóv, do you know what those are?” Senn turned him around and the scientist muttered something sounding like a curse.
“That would be al-Zebani's latest invention, a robotic security force called the Salierotrons.”
In his previous job, al-Zebani was an engineer designing animatronic dinosaurs for an amusement park, he explained, creatures stalking a particular ride that took you deep into the Jurassic era – “apparently some movie rip-off.”
“That explains why they move like a bunch of raptors marching in lockstep. Do you know the program that controls them?”
“Creepy!” Calliope-Jane wondered why they looked like that as Senn fumbled around in the various libraries on his tablet for something.
Haradov said al-Zebani used the basic plan of his raptors but covered them with a “skin” to resemble the actor F. Murray Abraham as Salieri in some other movie rip-off, hence the name “Salierotrons.”
“Harádov, you traitorous lecher, give yourself up.” Al-Zebani's mechanized voice materialized from a whole chorus of Salierotrons.
“And that's even creepier...!”
Fortunately, they didn't move with the speed of a hunting pack of raptors.
Senn's tablet still had access to the different research programs they'd been developing. “Haradov, can you find the one al-Zebani used?”
Ten Salieri heads swung side-to-side in choreographic precision, loping directly for the intruders.
Mbira and Cameron kept focusing on the wall that blocked their escape. “There must be some way to open this gate.”
“Success!,” Háradov shouted. “The 'Raptor_MST3000' – Mini-Salieri T-Rex. Apparently he'd planned to go bigger.”
“Can you disable it, or maybe immobilize them?”
“We're coming to get you,” the Salierotrons taunted in unison, “you double-crossing has-been!”
The closer they got, the creepier Calliope-Jane thought they were and threw a flash-bang grenade into their midst. “Fire in the...”
The noise was deafening but the overall effect sent robot parts flying as the Salierotrons attacked each other. “Only two left!”
Háradov punched text into the program, found the default commands, then hit “Reset.”
With barely ten feet to spare, the two surviving robots stopped mid-track, their left legs poised and ready to step down. A weakened al-Zebani could be heard squeaking from just the one – “God will get you for this, Harádov!” it squawked – which then lost its balance, toppled over, and took the other down with it.
And not a moment too soon.
Agent Mbira found a hidden panel in the side wall that lifted up a rather sizable garage door into the room beyond. And they immediately ran into it.
Neither Haradov nor Senn recognized the location. “This is not part of the normal lab,” Haradov said. “I've never been here.” Senn recalled the blueprints he'd seen of the building before the renovations, so maybe this was part of the old air-filtration system, ridding the toxic fumes from the factory's waste by releasing them outdoors.
“Yes,” Senn said, as they stepped forward cautiously. “Watch your step! See? Large fans and underground vents recessed into the floor.” The room had a much higher ceiling as the floor continued sloping downward. “Apparently, not an area intended for foot traffic. I suspect these filtered the air taken from the factory, then recirculated it.”
Bond pointed toward the ceiling at what looked like closed vents with catwalks. “Or drawing the toxins filtered out of the air to release them there. Any chance we could maybe escape through those?”
He didn't notice any control box. “Maybe it's up on that level above us,” Senn suggested, a kind of mezzanine where a long ramp led to an observation platform. “How d'you get up there?”
What they hadn't noticed was the arrival of Dr. Piltdown, her lab coat covered with soot and her hair uncharacteristically askew.
After clambering through the Salierotronian remains, she brandished her gun, a Sig Sauer P226, pointed directly at Agent Senn, formerly Krahang.
“You double-crossing, perfidious little bastard, you!” Piltdown didn't seem pleased to see him.
There were immediately four guns pointed at her – Bond's, Shendo's, Gurdie's (where, Bond wondered, had Calliope-Jane gotten to?), and also Mbira's, but Piltdown blithely pointed out she'd shoot Krahang first before they'd kill her.
“Abattoir, you, too? I should've known,” Piltdown sniffed. “They always warned us we were never supposed to trust you Dark Types.”
Bond, sensing everybody's trigger fingers were a little tenser now, realized where Calliope-Jane was, but didn't want to give her away. The glare of hatred in those eyes under that afro was seriously intense. By the balcony's edge, largely hidden from everyone's view, Calliope-Jane raised her pistol, ready for a quick shot toward Piltdown's back.
With her free hand, Piltdown called Shango for back-up but nothing he growled back was intelligible over the shouts and gunfire, which made Cameron wonder who's doing the shooting: did more IMP agents arrive?
Haradov took the opportunity of Piltdown's distraction to step forward and start talking.
She immediately swung her weapon around. “Stay away from me, you letch,” unsure which of these guys she should shoot first.
“Ah, my dear, you have no idea how beautiful you are when angry. So angry... – and sooo sexy.”
“I warn you!”
“Surely, an intelligent woman like you,” Haradov said, waggling his eyebrows, “must realize Dr. Dawson is also in love with you? And you're most painfully aware I, your humbled servant, am also in love?”
He nodded back toward Krahang and gave her a knowing wink. “But how is it you cannot understand, this young man is not in love with you?”
“Stop it,” Piltdown warned him. “Shut up!” She swung the firearm back toward Krahang.
“Krahang was never in love with you! He's in love with this boy!”
“No!”
Piltdown knew her choices: shoot the detestable old Jew first, or the faggot traitor? But she knew as soon as she'd fire a shot, Bond and the others would fill her full of holes. With the gun in both hands, she aimed it squarely at Krahang's crotch and yelled something that needed no consecutive translation.
Sam Senn heard the shot and waited for the pain and the shock. Despite the risks of the profession he'd chosen, this was not how he expected he'd die, at least not so soon.
Instead, he heard the scream coming from his right as Haradóv crumbled, writhing in pain, leveling a series of choice curses all of which were drowned out in the subsequent gunfire as Piltdown collapsed.
“Dammit,” she shrieked through the shock, “I'm a scientist, not a fucking soldier...” Her lab coat instantly turned a bloody red.
Haradov's thigh was bleeding profusely. Cameron ran over, tore off his shirt, and ripped it into long strips for makeshift bandages.
Presumably, when she pulled the trigger, Piltdown's aim went wild and instead of hitting Sam, struck Haradov a few feet away. Sam checked Piltdown for a pulse and turned to Bond, shaking his head.
Bond said, “Leave them – we have to get out of here. There's no telling how quickly Osiris' agents will be here. They know where we are, so let's find that exit, and damned fast.”
“No, please, I beg you,” Haradov pleaded, struggling to stand while Cameron tied part of his shirt around the man's thigh. “Do not leave me to die here – see? It's only a flesh wound!” There was no doubt he would die a horrible death if al-Zebani found him, “just like Ripa – or that Vremsky woman!”
“He's right, Inspector Bond,” Sam said. “He could still provide much valuable information.”
“He's going to slow us down, Agent Senn – besides, can we trust him?”
It was difficult to argue with Haradov's fear.
“I want nothing to do with the Aficionati. Or with their damned project. I had no idea what I had gotten into when they recruited me. I will help you stop their evil plan!”
Senn argued he'd already proven that, destabilizing al-Zebani's Salierotrons.
“And that's good,” Cameron pointed out, “because, look – here come some more.”
“Damn!” Sam grabbed his tablet and quickly began entering more keystrokes after telling Cameron to get everybody else beyond the fan. “Haradóv, stay here and help me prove what you just told Inspector Bond.”
This time, another dozen F. Murray Abraham look-alike raptors stalked toward them, all in dense formation and moving faster than before.
“Mbira! – Anyone, see if you can turn this fan on! There still has to be a way out – just find something!”
Haradov gave the shirtless Cameron his lab coat (Sam didn't need the distraction).
Forty feet away, the robots loped forward and trampled over the remains of their fallen comrades without hesitation. Cameron saw the malignant glare in their eyes. He'd never be able to watch Amadeus again...
“Well, Dr. Haradóv, here goes nothing – and everything.”
With a flourish, Sam hit “Enter,” and the raptors slowed to a halt.
Not twenty feet away, Cameron watched as these fearsome mechanical monsters, ten-foot-tall versions of F. Murray Abraham's Salieri in full court dress, broke into groups of four and began to dance to inaudible music. A stately minuet circling around with gentlemanly bows and discreet curtseys destroyed not only their focus but any shred of dreadfulness.
Sam's relief was met with a barrage of applause from Bond and the other IMP agents standing back against the wall. Cameron wished he were up on the balcony recording this on his phone.
That is, until he heard an ominous buzz in the distance, a swarm of bees or maybe mosquitoes headed their way.
The dance of the Salierotronic raptors continued, a perpetual gif-file come to life, unending, as Sam motioned for everyone to get back to the search for the panel that would activate the garage bay.
The walls were cheap, old-fashioned cinder block, heavily painted over in industrial beige.
“There could be a panel behind any block,” like the one book in the library that would open the secret tunnel.
“Mbira, you're the schematics guy,” Sam called back to him, – ever find out anything about this room, where it might lead?”
“Thanks,” he laughed. “This is my first day, remember? I haven't even had a chance to break into their database yet. According to our plan, this wasn't supposed to happen for another two weeks.”
As they all continued to “frisk” the wall, one cinder block after another, Bond asked Sam, “I know nothing about this operation, yet I'm in charge of the Osiris Investigation. Who coordinated your operation?”
“I report directly to Chief Inspector Rackett in Chicago who then informs the guy in charge of New York's American Division.”
“Theophilus Rackett? 'The Serpent'?”
“Yeah, you know him?”
Bond worked with him once back in London some years ago. “He was well known for his undercover work, then. I've wondered what's happened to him.”
Haradov, leaning on Cameron's shoulder, wondered if the panel wasn't before the fan, perhaps on the other side so a passenger could get out of the truck and operate it. Sam went to check.
Senn now stood on one side of the room, with Haradov and Cameron on the other, very close to the fan.
Cameron started to press some nearby blocks when Haradov fell against the wall. Then they heard something metallic snap into place.
Suddenly, the huge fan kicked on with a great, sucking roar.
“Found it!”
The giant fan sucked the air down into the basement's cacophonous filters, yanking Cameron toward it in its sudden relentless draw.
Haradov grabbed Cameron by his lab coat and managed to pull him back from the brink. Then he realized, “oh my God, the damn pheromone – it's in the pocket!” Fortunately, Cameron, too, was safe.
Surprised he could still hack into al-Zebani's files, Sam inserted a new dance pattern he'd been saving for a special occasion. He loved the Rockettes, their precision, but it wouldn't work for mini-drones as small as al-Zebani's Mobots. “This, however, is perfect!”
They broke into a three-line formation of four each and slowly strutted forward.
The Salierotrons, stern-faced, head-tossing F. Murray Abrahams all, marched inexorably forward, high-kicking first with their right, then with their left legs.
All Sam's computer gaming dance-moves designed for CGI graphics finally realized their potential.
It was all they could do, so close to the edge, not to be knocked into the fan by kicking Salierotrons. Line by line, the robots toppled to their doom, metallic body-parts flying everywhere.
Unfortunately, Sam, thrown against the wall, dropped his tablet which skittered precariously across the floor, then slithered down into the fan.
Bond shouted out, barely enough to be heard over the industrial-strength fan, the drone swarm was making a bee-line for them.
The fan might disorient them, most likely suck them down, too, but, small enough, they might escape the blades and reach the outside air vents. Without his tablet, he could no longer control them.
The drones, nearing the fan's strong pull, stopped and hovered as if they sensed danger ahead and tentatively considered their options.
This was something new, Sam realized: had they begun to think for themselves?
“Well, well,” a familiar voice shouted down from above, his hands hung over the railing to give them a 'slow clap.' “It's the little Asian dancer turned engineer turned traitor and would-be IMP hero!” Al-Zebani did not sound pleased to discover them still alive and all twenty-two of his Salierotrons destroyed. “But now, you die.”
“Push me closer,” a whiny, desiccated voice invisible behind the railing creaked out.
Bond's attention piqued. “Osiris! He has Osiris here!”
“No, you must get me to a safe place. I cannot stay here...”
Bond had a perfect shot at al-Zebani, probably Osiris, too, if he'd get closer to the rail. Except the fan would deflect the bullet. Plus she wanted Osiris alive, after all these elusive decades.
“Agent Selket would've known where to take me, someplace where I'd be safe! Take me away from here! – You hear me?”
“If your nursemaid wasn't sick, your scrawny ass wouldn't be in this mess.”
Sam shouted back up. “Oh, she's sick, is she? Too bad. Don't worry: it should wear off in a few hours.”
“You!” the old man squawked, “you did that? Why, for that, I shall kill you twice!” Osiris peered over the bannister.
Al-Zebani pointed at the roaring fan behind them and the mini-drones before them. “As you can plainly see, sir, he's between Iraq and a hard place (you know, I have never understood that expression).”
“If you don't take me away from here, al-Zebani, I will have you killed three times! I give the orders, here!”
Bond was convinced Osiris's anger must have him close to an apoplectic stroke.
Given their options, here, that would solve everybody's problem. But she needed to bring him in alive. That was the plan.
Sam noticed a gradual fluctuation in the drones' attention, first a few in front, then more toward the back, refocusing – recalibrating.
He recalled Haradóv's reddish pheromone, the “Stupid Sweat,” he'd accidentally spilled on Osiris.
Cameron got a glimpse of a wildly reddish afro just behind al-Zebani and Osiris. He'd wondered where Calliope-Jane had gotten to.
“Osiris, old man, step right up! You, too, creator of animatronic toys to the Heartland's carnivals,” Sam shouted, goading al-Zebani on. “I'm sure you want to watch your Mobots' latest field test, don't you?”
* * ** *** ***** ******** ***** *** ** * *
It would probably take as long for Streicher and his associate to fly from New York to the Heartland as it would for his boss to make it from the IMP's new office building in Brooklyn to midtown Manhattan during afternoon rush. Finding a direct flight from JFK to Kansas City had been challenging enough. But Ritard, being the boss, should get to make the more significant collar, SHMRG's CEO, Lucifer Darke, caught in his lair, and put a quick end to their case against the “Killer z'Art” Software.
Of the two cases they were working on, that was by far the more urgent, even if it would only bring about a long-drawn-out trial where Darke would undoubtedly get off on some technicality. Their sudden arrival would've been more sudden if IMP Director Powell-Jones hadn't commandeered the only functioning helicopter for another golf outing.
Regardless, reports N. Ron Steele had surfaced in Independence, MO, seemed pretty farfetched, but what sounded suspiciously like an old-fashioned SHMRG scam was worth checking out, and that's all Streicher was supposed to do. His fantasy had been to break in with guns drawn, yelling “Freeze, IMP” and arrest Steele on the spot – if possible. But “basic reconnaissance,” in this case, meant “find out if in fact the Allegro Conservatory was a fly-by-night school or legit.” Unless Steele actually was on the premises, yes; then they could arrest him.
The IMP had several international warrants out to arrest Steele on sight, involving numerous cases of “suspected involvement” in music-related murders. He had gone underground years ago after being wounded in a Bavarian shoot-out. Since then, rumors circulated about this or that hiding place, but he always managed to be one step ahead of them. It was unlikely Steele would be on the premises of this so-called conservatory, right in the middle of the United States. But after years of escapes, Ritard cautioned, it's quite possible he's getting sloppy.
There was just one little wrinkle in the ointment, as Ritard put it: “nobody knows what the guy looks like, anymore.” Everyone laughed when Streicher suggested using “aging software” on the last photo they had, then posting it on a milk carton.
Ritard dismissed the idea. “Streicher, do people even use milk cartons any more?”
While Director Avery Powell-Jones was out of the building, playing golf with his former Wall Street buddies, Ritard was able to have Agent Ghabatti, working from home “sick” that morning, check certain things on-line, then report back to Agent Boumdier positioned at the Thai place next door, circumventing technical issues his office continued to have.
From all the various Allegro Conservatory complaints, Ghabatti unearthed lots of chatter regarding Steele's likely involvement behind this fast-track music school; and evidently SHMRG's board was gathering for a “Come-to-Jesus” meeting with Darke today.
Once he'd managed to find enough intel to confirm his suspicions about both, Ritard sent Streicher and Ghabatti off to Kansas – “actually, Missouri, sir,” Streicher hesitantly corrected him, “Kansas City is in Missouri”; “Americans, they are so stupid,” Ritard responded – while he and a more impressive show of force would descend upon Darke's SHMRG headquarters.
Another element of surprise would involve Director Powell-Jones whenever he returned to his office (probably tomorrow) and discover Ritard took advantage of his superior's absence, assumed “acting control” and signed off on the necessary requisitions for two plane tickets to Kansas City and enough gas for the jeep to make it to midtown and back.
And that was how IMP Agents Wilhelm Streicher and Tootsie Ghabatti found themselves only a few hours later driving into a posh Independence neighborhood to find quite a scene outside the old Ripley-Greenleaf Mansion.
Ghabatti developed their “back story” on the plane, not much of a story but something to cover their unexplained appearance at the school. They would be a married couple with a musical daughter and they're looking at a music school for when she graduates from high school, a would-be singer with a passion for opera. Streicher wondered if they could pass for parents old enough to have a child in high school, then did the math. “Okay,” he agreed, “and our names? Are we musicians in a nearby orchestra?”
He decided he would be Derrick Sturmendrang, a violinist; she would be Nicola Calorido, a bassoonist (a choice that surprised Streicher). They'd be from – New Castle, IN? And they played in the Indianapolis Symphony. Ghabatti contacted Boumdier who'd get them inserted digitally into the orchestra's on-line personnel list, so if SHMRG checked, there they were.
Early spring had been kind to this part of town, Streicher thought as they drove around looking for the right address. Large homes, what the cabdriver called “anti-bellum,” surrounded by open lawns, lush landscaping, tree-lined streets and grand shade trees filled out the image of a time of cotillions and summertime juleps on the porch.
But it wasn't children playing in the yard catching their attention when the cabbie announced their arrival at the Greenleaf Mansion. “Home of the Állegro Conservatory. Looks like some kind of a lawn party.”
It wasn't the grandest house on the block nor even in the best shape. Wide and generously proportioned with a wrap-around porch of rounded corners, its upstairs windows were on a less modest scale. There were four, maybe five gables, two across the front (and whatever's around back), with several dormers and imposing brick chimneys.
The clapboard siding had been painted a dim recollection of light brown that once made a pretense of not being white. The darker trim of porch posts and railings, plus numerous straight-forward window frames, devoid of shutters, was also in need of attention; shrubs and plantings across the front and along winding pathways did, too.
A substantial house as homes went, still whether it could hold a whole music school struck Streicher as a reasonable doubt. And a fairly substantial crowd milling about wasn't doing the lawn any good.
“What's the occasion,” Streicher asked as they nonchalantly strolled up to some young people on the outside edge of the crowd. He estimated there may have been over twenty of them, probably students, most of them standing around, staring at their phones.
“Odd,” Ghabatti noted, “I don't see any 'older adults,' like faculty or administration.”
“It's a little late for a lunch break – faculty meeting, do you think?”
One of the students nearby overheard them and looked up. “More like the world's longest fire-drill. Man, damn thing's taking forever...”
“I don't mind missing theory, it's so boring, anyway, but I've got practicing to do,” another student glanced over and said.
“We were in a rehearsal when some administrator barged in and told us to evacuate the building.” This was a tall, relatively rotund man in his mid-20s who turned out to be Mark Winsom.
Another student mentioned all the doors were locked, even the back doors. “No one could see any lights on inside, either.” Two more mentioned there were no cars left in the faculty parking area.
Streicher and Ghabatti walked around to the back, peering in windows, seeing nothing, and knocked on the back door. No response.
He broke one of the window panes and unlocked the bolt.
“Anybody home?”
There weren't even any crickets. The place was dead silent. They began wandering through the first floor. A few students followed.
Most of the furnishings – tables, overstuffed chairs, couches, knick-knacks and pictures – were largely undisturbed but, outside Dean Ringman's office, a student pointed out the file cabinets were missing and Ms. Holliston's desk pushed aside. Cables and wires stuck out of the floor and the one wall where, apparently, computers and phones had once been attached.
Streicher and Ghabatti wandered through other rooms and found each one of them totally devoid of any paperwork or “technological infrastructure.” Even the classroom video cameras for the on-line instruction component had been removed.
Joe Hummel, who'd introduced himself as a pianist – “I was playing for the Mozart rehearsal when we were interrupted” – had tried to access the school's website on his phone but kept getting error messages. He showed the screen to Ghabatti (who hadn't bothered introducing herself as Nicola Calorido): “Not Found,” it said, “cannot locate server.”
“Hey!” Wearing tight jeans, a girl with long blond hair and bouncing breasts ran down the hallway. “Somebody stole my violin!”
“You left a million-dollar violin in what could've been a burning building?” Joe was incredulous. Everybody knew she owned an expensive instrument, but leaving it unguarded in a practice room sounded even more foolhardy.
“What can I say? Daddy's rich and I deserve only the best. Thing still sounded like crap, all squeaky and out-of-tune. But hey, he'll buy me a new one, so maybe it'll sound better.”
She wanted the police called to search everybody until her “fiddle” turned up.
“Yeah, Tiffany, I don't think anyone here has your fiddle.” Joe showed her the error message on his phone. “Tough break.”
“So what, the website's down,” she protested, trying not to pout. “And that's a really cheap phone, dude, seriously – like, whatever...?”
A dozen other students tried accessing the website and a dozen students got the same error message, holding their phones up.
Streicher stepped forward and held up his IMP badge. “I suggest everyone of you call your folks and check your bank accounts. What we have here is a scam. Sorry – you've all been scammed.”
“So, its trumped-up success was a mirage intended only to fleece unsuspecting dreams.” Mark scanned his eyes around the mansion's interior. “Well, to quote the late, great philosopher, Doña Aldonza from Brazil, 'Finem lauda'!”
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©2022 by Dick Strawser for Thoughts on a Train
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