CHAPTER SIXTEEN
The Smith Research Centre is situated on the edge of a deserted, poorly lit industrial park that, without a retail welcome, feels cold and unwelcoming. Anonymous buildings, from small offices to medium sized factories and warehouses, all sharing the same plain, functional genes, stand muted behind wire security fences. Several lone cars, each parked on the roadside, loiter like strangers at night. The only hint of activity is the sound of heavy machinery churning in the near distance with a repetitive, grating rhythm. It is a sound that smothers, that defies a single location to emanate from all around.
At first glance, the Research Centre looks dormant for the night. It is a four-storey box, which even at night, looks bland and easily ignored: a rectangular container skinned with flat metal walls and three seamless bands of identical, blackened windows. The only feature that raises a note of interest is the brick built, windowless ground floor that seems to seal the building from the undesirable wash of the world outside. The entrance is a set of sliding doors that have been blocked for the night by an internal metal shutter. The only other entrance points are a closed external metal shutter, which is signed as the entrance to a car park, and next to it, a single, solid slab of a door that stands dead to the outside world, devoid of a handle or keyhole. An eight foot high, barbed wire crowned, perimeter fence is the first layer of defense. Fixed to its closed and locked gate are two undersized ten by ten signs. One barely announces the building to be the research centre; the other warns trespassers of security guards and guard dogs. Beyond the fence, two CCTV cameras are fixed high against each side of the building. Each camera looks down towards the centre giving a complete view of the building. Below each camera is a floodlight, which together emit enough light to make the cameras effective. I see no movement in any camera so, for now at least, I assume they are static. If so, then it seems their field of vision will be blind to the fence.
The security seems adequate and fairly discreet. Maybe there is little inside to protect, or maybe there is much to protect but little need to do so. Guard dogs and security guards, are they inside? If so, then maybe I have a way in.
Using my multi-tool, I cut a hole in the fence big enough for me to comfortably breach. Once through, I pull out Philip’s gun and attach the silencer. Three shots later, and the side of the building I face falls to darkness. A quick sprint forward takes me to the door beside the car park shutter. Pressing my ear against the door, I listen and wait.
Time idles by until the faint sound of a dog’s bark reaches me from beyond the door. I twist away and ready the gun, not for the guard, only the dog. The guard is no enemy of mine. Security guards are what? Men in cheap uniforms paid a click or two above the minimum wage to baby-sit inanimate objects and space. How many will take a bullet to save what means nothing to them?
Another bark, louder and more aggressive - it has the scent of battle. The door shudders against a force but remains stubbornly shut until a second force throws it open. Dim, second-hand light jumps out closely followed by an Alsatian dog, whose lust for violence is contained only by the will of its handler, a security guard. A spilt second appraisal of the guard – male, thirties, typically uniformed, athletic but a division below my weight - confirms to me my plan, a bullet to kill the dog and a punch to stun the guard. The dog duly complies, but as I raise the gun to threaten the guard his foot flies in and knocks the gun from my hand. I am instantly on the defensive fending off the professional moves of a trained martial artist. Good job I learnt the dirty way, nothing clean or controlled for me. No method to discipline or contain my rage. Physical pain served only to fuel the animal within, and the blows I now take, do nothing to tame the beast.
With my opponent down and the gun retrieved I gag his mouth and bind his hands with gaffer tape. His body is limp, his mind vacated, but still, he will live, feel and think again. From his pocket, I take a security pass. He was carrying a handheld radio, which I collect from the ground. This must mean he has backup. Who else waits inside? A voice speaks over the radio - male and English:
‘Carl, speak to me!’
Mindful of CCTV inside the building, I approach the door, which remains wide open, with caution. The radio voice returns with urgency:
‘Carl!...Carl! Hans, go check, Carl!’
‘Give me a minute,’ another voice, male and German.
‘For fuck’s sake! Do it now!’
‘One minute!’
‘Now!’
‘I’m takin’ a shit!’
‘For fuck’s sake!’
Reaching the door, I peer inside and see the ground floor of an underground car park. A CCTV camera covers the entire space. Opposite me, I see a door. A sign fixed to it tells me it leads to an elevator and stairwell. The radio voice loses patience,
‘Hans, I’m going. You come back here, now!’
Here? The control room? I take the risk that the CCTV will be, briefly, unmanned. I run towards the door. Once through, I take the stairs. Now to find Oakley’s office and look for the safe. Knowing time is against me, I sprint up towards the top floor, where I hope vanity will insist the boss reside.
The stairwell is cold, clean and efficient, a place where only the desperate would linger. Nothing distracts from its purpose. Heavy, solid doors deny a glimpse of what floors two and three contain. The only signs are floor numbers. No other information is shared. Reaching floor four, I slowly peel back the door to reveal a long, well-lighted corridor. I slip inside and hurry along.
The corridor shares the stairwell’s hostility and houses ten doors, five on either side. Each door is labelled 4a, 4b and so on. No windows, in the doors or walls, offer a view of what exists on the other side. Passing door 4e curiosity takes the better of me, and I boot the door open. Inside I find a large room with bare white walls, floor and ceiling. In the air, a chill and hum hang. Arranged in the centre of the floor is a twelve by twelve grid of large computers units. Each one is identical - matt black in colour, rectangular in shape and three feet tall. They stand like monoliths, inanimate but strangely powerful, as if knowing - learning. A CCTV camera records every beat of stillness.
I pull myself a way and continue ahead. At the end of the corridor, a right turn leads to another door, one signed Oakley Miles Robertson. It is locked, so I kick it open. Inside cold, scientific efficiency is replaced with plush, corporate extravagance. It is a space more akin to high-end finance then the daily toil of scientific research. Employing the most obvious choice first, I pull a large digital photo frame, showing an image of the 'The Scream', from a wall. No safe is hidden beneath it. I move to his desk, a fortress of dark, shining wood, and open all the draws. The largest opens on a vertical hinge and reveals a safe hidden within. An electronic keypad takes the code, and the door clicks open. I reach inside and remove a single, lone item, a sealed, stiff-backed, A4 vanilla envelope. On the front is a hand written Malta address, addressed to a person called Rosemary Cassavetes. Over the radio, the voice of Han:
‘I’m back. Steve, where are you?’
I rip open the envelope and pull out the contents, a printed report of fifty or so pages. The front page reads:
"Desalination Through The Use Of The Miles-Robertson Filter. An organic nanotech filter for removing salt content from seawater. Summary of key benefits: cheap, low energy way of producing substantial amounts of clean drinking water from seawater. Inventor of The Miles-Robertson filter Oakley Miles Robertson. Report author, Oakley Miles Robertson."
Is this is? Is this what he wants me to find? Why? Is this all it is?
Over the radio, Steve,
‘We have a problem. Radio compromised.’
Confused, and somehow angered with a strange feeling of betrayal, I stuff the report into my rucksack then focus on my escape. It is me against them, me against the building.
Back in the corridor, running along, gun primed and tightly held. I must be outnumbered, two to one at least. Is my advantage held in my hand, or will they now level the field? I know I
can’t pause; I know I can’t hide. Time can only move the odds against me. I enter the stairwell. The stairs or the lift? I press the button and make my call. The doors start to open. I ready the gun, but the curtains reveal an empty stage. A look inside sparks an idea. I jump towards the roof and punch open a service door. A shaft is exposed; a space to hide. I send the lift to the car park then haul myself up and out, into darkness I rise. As the lift begins to sink, I anchor my focus to the square of light beneath me. Dim lines of light check me past the doors on floors three and two. The lift stops sharply. My view of the door is blocked, but I hear and feel it open. I stand in darkness, looking at the light below, a finger poised to sanction another. The stage, however, remains empty. As the doors begin to close, I jump down and out.
Ahead into the stairwell and all is clear. Now a race to the door which leads to the car park. Five metres away and I finish second. The door flies open, and in lunges a security guard. Seeing my advantage, he instantly yields. His body tenses and rebounds to a stop, stunned by a brief taste of mortality.
‘Fuck you!’ he screams. He’s English; he’s Steve.
My inaction frees him; he begins to move delicately around me. Keeping the gun aimed at his head, I begin to move towards the door. He watches me with an angry, disappointed stare. Not enough sport at the best of times, and tonight he’s missed the fight. Reaching the door, I take it with a fresh burst of speed.
Now back in the car park, running towards the door that was dead to the outside world. It is closed, fully and completely shut. Reaching it, I push it, shoulder it then kick it. Ever violent, but all I need is a key. I glance behind; Steve watches me. He grins, excitement shifts disappointment. Desperate, I fire five rounds into the steel skinned door and lock. The bullets are absorbed; the door remains defiant. Steve, ever eager, is flipping his stare between the stairwell and me. On the wall, I see a small, grey metal box with a closed, possibly locked door. Stepping towards it, I fire a round into its lock. The door flies open. Inside I see a control panel. A quick inspection reveals a button labeled Open, which I press and hold. The metal shutter rumbles into life. A look towards the stairwell reveals Steve ducking behind the door. The shutter begins to rise. Looking back towards the stairwell, the door opens and in probes the barrel of a shotgun. A bullet from my gun snaps it back. I lash out with two more bullets and disable the CCTV camera glaring down at me. The shutter climbs a foot high. I step away, releasing the button, but the shutter continues to rise. Diving to the ground, I smash a bullet into the control panel. The shutter stops, instantly. Hitting the ground, I roll outside.
Back on my feet, a sprint to the fence. Once through and clear, I simply run, fast and free. Reaching a lone parked car I make my move. I try the door handle, and the door just opens. I climb inside and try my luck, I pull the sun visor down where, wonder-of-wonders, I find the key. Pulling away, the rear view mirror shows a deserted scene. Am I too far ahead to see clearly, or have they paused, making plans for another time?
Driving, to where, I question my actions. How does this paper advantage me? How can I use it to prove my innocence? What good is it to me? I can do with it, what? Publish it? Let Oakley take the credit? Was this is final act of arrogance?
What else can it tell me? Why was the envelope addressed? He was posting it, why? Back-up? Just in case, of what? Was there more, more discoveries and innovations? Make a hard copy and post them somewhere safe, just in case?
The Miles-Robertson filter, of course, named after him. Miles Robertson, Colonel Miles Robertson. The story at the end of the novel, Bunker14382 - the numbers, the code to open the safe. The web page, on her laptop the night I broke in, it showed a science paper, his science paper. Password protected. He gave her access to read his work, ‘educate yourself’, and then she wrote the story, Bunker14382. I need Wi-Fi.
I race back to Valletta; I must get back to the hotel. A risk, I know, but one I must take.