The Carbon Trail (31 page)

He clambered to his feet and turned off the CCTV, then he drew the heavy door back slowly, breaking the vacuum seal. Mitchell shivered as a blast of cold air hit him and he braced himself for what he would find inside. As the fluorescent light flickered on, his eyes accustomed slowly to its glare, making out first the large shapes and then the small.

The sight that greeted Jeff Mitchell made him gasp. A man’s body lay propped in one corner of the room, surrounded by cardboard boxes, as if he was just another item being stored. His black suit was paled by frost, and congealed blood formed a dark patch on his shirt. More blood covered the sealed floor. Not droplets this time but a flood.

The man’s grey eyes were wide open but there was no doubt that he was dead. Mitchell knew immediately that he had been since the night before his bloodied shower. This was why the CCTV had been off that night. Judging by the blood trail he’d dragged the man’s body from the office to place it in here.

Mitchell stared at the dead man’s face, recognising him. It was Greg Chapman; Magee’s lost agent. Mitchell stood for minutes, staring down at Chapman sadly, as more images filled his mind. This time there was no pain, just an overwhelming relief that he finally understood.

This movie was of two men in the suite’s office, fighting to the death. A gun drawn by Greg Chapman and then a struggle. They’d staggered backwards into the small, glass room and the door had slammed closed; trapping them together, both of them fighting desperately for their lives. The gun had discharged, firing a shot into Chapman’s chest. It was an accident, a struggle. An agent killed in the line of duty. It explained the blood on Mitchell in the shower the morning after; Greg Chapman’s blood. But why hadn’t he remembered any of this earlier? In that instant Mitchell knew that there was more. Something else had happened as they’d fought. The glass room had flooded with light!

Mitchell hunkered down beside Greg Chapman and stared into his sad, dead eyes, suddenly realising that he and Chapman were sharing more than just this space. They’d been trapped together in the glass room and irradiated, just as the rabbit and dog had been. Radiation had mutated the carbon atoms in their brains, just as it had done with the two animals.

As Greg Chapman had breathed his last, Mitchell’s body had absorbed the agent’s dying mind. It explained so much. But the transfer had been incomplete. Chapman was dead so Mitchell’s consciousness had nowhere to go and the radiation level had been set for animals; too low for adult men. The result was that now both their minds existed inside Jeff Mitchell. He was a hybrid of them both.

Mitchell gazed at Greg Chapman and smiled. He understood at last.
This
was why he’d known so much about Chapman’s life. They’d been sharing space inside his head for weeks. It had fogged his own memories before the night it’d happened and the fog was taking time to clear. His brain tumour had confused things even more.

Mitchell nodded to himself. It explained everything. From his newly heightened physical responses to his changing personality and the things that he couldn’t possibly have known; even him forgetting Ilya. Thank God he’d eventually remembered enough scientific information to keep his family safe.

Mitchell scanned the floor urgently, searching for Greg Chapman’s gun. It had to be nearby. He saw the barrel protruding from behind a cardboard box and lifted it, turning it over carefully in his hand and startled by how familiar it felt. It was bigger than the ones he’d seen on Richie and Tom Evans. Then he remembered, it was the same as the gun he’d seen in Chapman’s apartment. Mitchell stared at the weapon, knowing what his next step should be.

He had to tell Magee. Chapman’s parents deserved to know what had happened to their son and bury him in peace. No jury would find him guilty of murder; it had been self-defence. Besides, he’d be dead from cancer before the trial.

Mitchell smiled at the man at his feet. He knew Greg Chapman now and he really liked the guy; he was kind. Chapman wasn’t really dead; they’d co-existed in his mind for weeks. Jeff Mitchell may have been a genius but he’d been a hard bastard too. A sleeper agent, prepared to give dangerous research to countries that would use it for God only knew what. Mitchell shook his head; that was only half-true. Jeff Mitchell may have been a bastard but maybe Vadim had been a good kid, before Ilya had got his hands on him. Thirty years of indoctrination and living a double life was bound to have taken its toll.

Either way, Greg Chapman’s decency had given him back some of the compassion and honour that he’d lost, and in return Chapman had got the child that he’d never had, and fallen in love with Karen. Mitchell’s smile widened. Chapman was brave and strong; stronger than Jeff Mitchell. Ultimately Chapman had won the fight inside his head, taken over and made him a better man. It was a pity that they would both be dead soon.

Mitchell stood for a moment longer, thinking, then he walked back into the office to make the call. He was just about to dial Magee when something stilled his hand. Mitchell lowered the phone and thought for more than an hour, until the noise in the car-park above said that people were arriving for work and his presence upstairs would soon be missed.

Mitchell moved swiftly, hiding the gun in the small office and turning the CCTV back on, then he locked up the research suite and lab and returned calmly to the fifteenth floor. He’d made a decision about his future that some people would consider selfish. That was, if they ever knew.

***

“Do you have the Mitchell’s re-location sorted yet?”

Magee nodded and slid the papers across the desk. Richie read the file and smiled. The Mitchell’s new house was large and white. Set in an acre of garden that held a slide and swing for Emmie. Richie could imagine them being happy there.

“Where is it?”

“Boston. We thought a change of coast wouldn’t be fair. Mitchell’s wife went to Yale, less than two hundred miles away, so she should feel right at home. Her new name is Kerri Morrison. We left Emily’s name alone.”

Richie nodded. Kerri. It suited her. He read the legend and smiled approvingly. They’d got Karen’s law licence changed to her new name. She would get to practice again.

“Mitchell’s name is Jerry Morrison, for as long as he’s alive. We’ve got him into a trial of a new cancer drug at Massachusetts General.”

“You’ve thought of everything. Thanks, boss.”

Magee gazed thoughtfully at the younger man. Letting Richie go with the Mitchells went against his better judgement. Richie was already too attached to Mitchell’s wife.

He should really send someone else to guard them until Mitchell died. Once he was dead the threat to his family would plummet and they could get on with their new, re-located lives in peace.

He
should
re-assign Richie, but he wasn’t going to. Magee knew all about his relationship with Rosie Pereira; both times. Richie needed Karen Mitchell’s friendship right now as much as she needed his.

Magee took two puffs of his inhaler and then straightened up, looking stern.

“OK. Here’s the way it’s going to be.”

Richie raised an eyebrow and wondered what was coming next.

“I know all about you and Agent Pereira.”

Richie went to object but Magee stilled him with a glance.

“I also know that you like Karen Mitchell more than is healthy.”

He watched Richie blush and sniffed.

“I could re-assign you, but I’m not going to, and before you say thank-you, I’m going to tell you why. Karen Mitchell has suffered enough. Now she’s going to be uprooted and have to leave her whole family behind. Her husband’s going to die soon and she’s not going to know anyone in Boston, so you’re going to provide continuity for a while, until she can cope alone.”

Magee stared hard at the younger man, his voice becoming firm. “Then I want you back, Richie. No arguments. Understand?”

Richie Cartagena smiled, understanding. Magee was giving him a chance to find love again, in the full knowledge that it meant he might never return. He stood and extended his hand. Magee shook it then concluded the meeting briskly.

“I want them out of New York by tomorrow evening. Let me know when you’re on your way.

Chapter Forty

Jeff Mitchell ran over his plan repeatedly, until he was finally certain of every step. Then he packed-up his office and drove himself home, smiling as Emmie wrapped herself around his legs at the front door.

“Daddy, daddy, come and see what Richie has. We have a new house. It’s white with a garden and everything, and he says we can build a hutch for Fluff.”

Mitchell threw his briefcase in the corner and scooped his small daughter into his arms, carrying her though the family-room onto the deck. Karen was pouring some lemonade into a glass and Mitchell caught his breath at the sight of her. She looked really happy. Happier than he’d seen her in weeks.

Mitchell set Emmie down and walked across to his wife, taking her in his arms and kissing her deeply. Karen moved towards him so that their bodies melted into one, and she kissed him back long and hard. Finally she broke away laughing, embarrassed by Richie’s averted gaze. Richie smiled and waved them on.

“Don’t mind me. It’s great to see you happy.”

Mitchell knew that the words were aimed at Karen not him, but he didn’t mind. After tomorrow it wouldn’t matter anymore. They sat out in the evening sun and Mitchell nodded at the file on Richie’s knee.

“Is that what my daughter’s getting so excited about?”

Richie nodded and handed him the folder. Mitchell flicked through the pages quickly then he looked at Karen, sensing her excitement. She would get to practice law again. She’d wanted it for a long time. Magee had thought of everything, even a new cancer treatment for him that he would never use. Mitchell placed the file face-down on the table.

“When do we leave?”

Richie hesitated, as if waiting for an objection.

“Magee wants you out of New York tomorrow evening. Can you do it?”

Mitchell thought for a moment. That only gave him the next day to carry out his plan. He swallowed hard before he spoke.

“Yes, I just need another day at the lab. I’m almost done. I have to leave things ready for Devon when he gets back.”

Karen sat down on Mitchell’s knee and turned his face firmly towards her.

“Only one more day, Jeff. You promise?”

Mitchell smiled and kissed her gently on the nose.

“One more day, honey, then everything will be different.”

Karen Mitchell had no idea just how much.

***

Richie finished his phone-call and beckoned Mitchell inside the house. They stood in the family-room watching as Karen and Emmie reclined outside, catching the last rays of the sun. Mitchell looked curiously at the other man, knowing that he had something important to say. He was unprepared for just how quickly the agency achieved its goals.

“We’ve found your mother and sister.”

Mitchell gasped as if he’d been punched in the gut. His childhood memories were about to come to life. He stood silently as the photographs Ilya had given him ran through his head. Richie waited for a moment then handed Mitchell something; the agency had managed to find a school picture of him at ten, just before he was brought to the States. His name was Vadim Alenin.

Mitchell sat down heavily on the room’s well-worn couch and stared at the white-blonde boy as if he was a stranger. Slowly his memories started to return. Walking to school in the winter snow and summers spent fishing and swimming in the lake. He’d had a happy childhood; stolen by Ilya Tabakov.

Finally Mitchell spoke, in a hoarse voice.

“Where did you find them?”

“In a small suburb of St Petersburg. They’re both well. Both widowed unfortunately, but your sister has a little girl, just a year older than Emmie.”

Richie paused and stared at Mitchell, giving him a second to recover before he went on.

“We’ve explained everything and they’ve agreed to come to Boston. They’re waiting to talk to you now, if you’re ready?”

Mitchell felt the tears on his cheek and he let them fall, unashamed in front of the other man; Richie knew almost everything about him now. Richie watched as Mitchell wept and he felt like weeping too; so much had happened to them both in the past few weeks. He shook himself for being so selfish; there was no comparison. He had a future to look forward to, even without Rosie Pereira, but Jeff Mitchell’s time was very short. He could only imagine how that felt.

Finally Mitchell nodded that he was ready and Richie made the call, handing him the phone. He watched as Mitchell said “Mother”, the word that made him someone’s child no matter what his age, then Richie turned and walked back to the garden, leaving Vadim Alenin to talk to his family in peace.

***

8 a.m.

The next day dawned bright and cool and Mitchell was in his Manhattan office by eight, leaving Karen and Richie to sort out the domestic debris in preparation for the move. His last view of them had been on their knees, buried in boxes and tape, with Emmie running between them tangled in string. Karen had looked up and smiled as he’d said goodbye and Mitchell knew that it was the last time she would ever look at him that way. He just prayed that it wouldn’t be the last time he’d get to see her.

Mitchell sorted out his office at Scrabo in the same way the others were sorting out the house, putting his pictures and keep-sakes in boxes, marked for shipping to their Lloyd Harbor address. The agency would forward them to Boston. Mitchell stared at Greg Chapman’s cell-phone for a moment, turning it over in his hand. He knew who all the numbers belonged to now. He scrolled through them one by one, putting faces to each of the names. All Greg Chapman’s memories were clear now, and strangely so were his own. Once he’d understood what had happened, he’d concentrated hard, sifting through the years and allocating this memory to Chapman and that one to himself. Mitchell knew that Greg Chapman was living inside him and that he’d made him a better man. He wasn’t afraid of the next step.

***

1 p.m.

Mitchell made the call to Richie at one o’clock, shaping his voice to mimic panic and shock. “You have to come to Scrabo. I’ve found something important.”

Richie’s agent’s curiosity didn’t disappoint him. He was coming now. Mitchell left instructions with reception to send Richie down to the basement lab, then he took the elevator to the lower-fifth floor to wait. Fifty minutes later security rang through that a Richie Cartagena was on his way. Mitchell stood by the main lab door, composing his face in a mask of distress and as soon as the elevator opened he spoke.

“Richie. I’ve found him.”

Richie stared at him, uncomprehending.

“Who?”

“Greg Chapman. I recognised him from the photo at his apartment. He’s…he’s dead.”

Mitchell watched as Richie’s hand flew to his gun, freeing it from its holster; he’d expected the move. He led the way through the outer lab and they reached the research suite quickly. Mitchell pointed Richie towards the refrigeration room and ran quickly into the office across the hall. He retrieved Greg Chapman’s gun from its hiding place and entered the glass room, wedging the door open with an easily broken phial.

Mitchell grasped the revolver in his right hand and gazed at the picture of Karen and Emmie in his left. He loved them and Richie loved them too; whatever happened next they would be in safe hands. As he listened for the sound of Richie exiting the refrigerator, Mitchell thought of his little family and said au revoir, praying that he would see them again, even if it was through different eyes. If his plan was successful then both his and Greg Chapman’s consciousness would live on in Richie Cartagena’s body. He would get to stay with Karen and Emmie and meet his mother and sister when they came from Russia, and he’d keep in touch with John and Nancy Chapman. If it failed then the note that he’d slipped into Richie’s pocket that morning would explain everything, including Greg Chapman’s death.

Mitchell pressed the gun barrel hard against his abdomen and waited, bracing himself for the pain. At the sound of the refrigerator door opening he pulled the trigger hard, hearing the shot and feeling its impact at the same time. It skewered through him, severing the major artery in its path. Mitchell gasped in shock and slumped back, watching as a pool of bright blood oozed through his shirt, signalling that in under a minute he would be dead.

Richie heard the shot and came running, to see Jeff Mitchell lying on the dark office floor. He rushed forward to help, crushing the phial in his way and letting the heavy glass door swing closed. A blinding light filled the room instantly and radiation flooded through the two men, then it faded and there was nothing but peace.

***

4.10 p.m.

Richie Cartagena came-to slowly and gazed around him, confused. He ached as if someone had kicked every inch of him and his vision was so blurred that he could hardly see. The last thing he remembered was a shot being fired, and then pain, pain in his stomach like he’d never felt before. Richie felt his body frantically for injuries, searching for a bullet hole to match his agony, but there was nothing. He hadn’t been shot!

He glimpsed a red stain on his sleeve and remembered. Chapman. Greg Chapman was dead. No, it wasn’t Chapman’s blood. Too fresh. Greg was long gone. Richie felt for the wall and pressed his back against it, trying to focus on where he was. He was in a small, glass room in Scrabo’s lab and it was eerily quiet; the only thing audible was New York’s soundtrack in the street above. He remembered the gunshot again and reached urgently for his Glock, but the safety was still on. If he hadn’t made the shot then who had? Richie clicked off the catch, ready to shoot whatever moved and then a memory of Jeff Mitchell bleeding hit him like a train. He turned swiftly towards the corner, squinting until a man’s body came into view. Richie stared at it for a moment and then holstered his gun. He wouldn’t need it; Mitchell was dead.

Jeff Mitchell lay in the corner, his head hanging awkwardly to one side. Fresh blood leaked from a hole in his abdomen, much too large to have been made by any Glock. Richie scoured the floor for the weapon and finally found it. A Smith and Wesson 500. The only person he knew with one of those had been Greg. They’d often kidded him about its size. But Greg Chapman couldn’t have shot Mitchell; he’d been refrigerated for weeks.

Richie shrugged, too confused to work it out. Forensics would tell the story, but his money was on Mitchell shooting himself. He already knew why; cancer. Jeff Mitchell couldn’t bear a fight that he was bound to lose. But why was
he
feeling pain in his abdomen when it was Jeff Mitchell that had been shot?

Just then a searing pain ripped through Richie’s head, knocking him back against the wall. He slid to the floor, gripping his head in agony as an image of him shooting himself in the stomach filled his mind. He could feel the weight of the Smith and Wesson in his hand as he pushed it down hard over his aorta. Knowing exactly where to shoot and fully aware that once he did he’d have less than a minute left to do what needed to be done.

Richie felt his body cool and his blood seep away as he fought hard not to die. He was waiting for something. He was waiting for a black-haired man to enter the room. The man’s face was blurred but it grew clearer as Richie watched, until he could finally see who it was. It was him! But that didn’t make any sense.

A sudden light blinded him and Richie Cartagena felt himself die. Except that he couldn’t be dead, he was still here! Richie threw up from the shock and then his vision started to fade away. He just had time to dial 911 before blacking out.

***

The sound of breaking glass woke Richie again and he opened his eyes to the sight of a uniformed woman checking his pulse. His head throbbed mercilessly as memories that didn’t belong to him rushed unbidden through his mind. His wedding to Karen; his Russian childhood; his mother Nancy sunning herself on the porch in St Augustine. They were Greg Chapman’s and Jeff Mitchell’s memories! Richie scrambled frantically to find a memory of his own and settled on his childhood in Queens.

A moment later the medic sedated him and Richie Cartagena was stretchered from the room. As they carried him past Jeff Mitchell’s cold body he saw Mitchell’s face close-up. He was smiling, as if he was pleased with what he’d done. In a moment of awful clarity, Richie knew exactly why.

THE END