David Golemon - Ripper

“Yes, Dr. Golding.”

As the main monitor went blank, Charles Ellenshaw turned and smiled at Niles as he took his seat.

“Dr. Ellenshaw lent me some of his obscure history knowledge and helped confirm what we found. Europa, please bring up the letter found in the archives of Scotland Yard.”

“Yes, Dr. Golding.”

As they watched, the photocopied letter was placed on the screen. Niles read the words and as he did Pete started to smile.

“Is this the same man that operated out of the warehouse we disassociated with the professor we were searching for?”

“Yes it is.” Pete spoke into the microphone. “Europa, the name Mary Kelly; please confirm for the director Professor Ellenshaw’s statement.”

“Mary Kelly, the last known victim of the mass murderer known to London at the time as Jack the Ripper.”

Niles had to sit down. “Who is this man who filed the report?”

“Frederick George Abberline, chief inspector for the London Metropolitan Police. The man in charge of the Jack the Ripper case,” Charlie said, knowing the story from memory.

“And the person he sent this letter to?” Niles asked.

“Europa, verify and report on the initials of the recipient of this letter dated November 8, 1888.”

“The initials are used for private communication when names are not permissible in official communiqués. The letters H.R.M.A.V. appear in many secret documents from the law enforcement and intelligence communities in various reports.”

“The name?” Pete insisted.

“Her Royal Majesty Alexandrina Victoria,” Europa answered.

“Ha!” Pete said loudly, making Niles jump and Charlie laugh.

Niles sat stunned.

“Queen Victoria herself!” Pete said even louder. “She knew our Professor Lawrence Jackson, or Jack if you wish, Ambrose.”

“The warehouse?” Niles finally managed to ask.

“That was harder, but once we knew he was our man, not too hard to confirm. Oh, he was an importer of tea alright, and where in the hell does the best tea come from in the known British Empire at the time?”

“India,” Niles answered sitting up in his chair.

“And what have we learned about dear professor Ambrose?”

“He was a botanist,” Niles said, and then his face froze as the reality hit him. “Poppies?”

“Correct, poppies from India and China. Both species smuggled into London hidden in barrels of tea shipments,” Pete said as he leaned against the desk.

“And what’s the strangest part of all this?” Charlie Ellenshaw asked.

“The queen knew about Ambrose and what he was doing. That means her people knew what Ambrose was doing and didn’t stop him.”

“Now look at this,” Pete said, “Europa, display paymaster record 191037462 dated July 1884 on the monitor, please.” He faced Niles. “This is another surprise Europa dug up at Charlie’s suggestion. It was an outlay for payment from the Ministry of Defense bearing this Ambrose’s name.”

On the screen Europa placed an old ledger document that had also been photocopied.

Payment delivered and signed for service rendered to Her Royal Majesty — Lawrence J. Ambrose, one million pounds sterling for investigation into military science on aggression.

“My God,” Niles said. “They created a formula that transforms men into superhuman soldiers, or possibly a weaponized agent that would send enemy troops into a self-destructive and murderous state against their own.”

“Or a dose fed to a soldier at just the right time would become what the old Viking tales called ‘Berserkers,’” Ellenshaw said as he slowly turned and looked at Niles and Pete. Both men just stared at Charlie, wondering how he came up with this information on ancient legends around the world. When they shook off Charlie’s observation it was the director who broke the silence in the room.

“Unbelievable,” Niles said for both men. Compton then rubbed the bridge of his nose, raising his glasses as he did. “There’s still a lot of speculation involved here, gentlemen.”

“Yes, but as I am reading it right now, and until we get something that takes us in another direction,” Charlie said wiping his glasses on his white lab coat, “I would have to say that Ambrose tested his formula out on the foggy streets of Whitechapel, possibly utilizing smaller doses than what was witnessed in Mexico. In essence he used himself as a guinea pig, and the whole damn nightmare was paid for by the queen’s own military.”

Niles stood and looked at the two scientists.

“And together they created Jack the Ripper.”

At that moment a red light started flashing over the doorway leading to the hallway and an alternating tone sounded throughout the giant complex.

“A Code One contamination alert on level seventeen has been detected. All departmental personnel are required to gather in secure locations for possible complex-wide evacuation.”

Niles’s face turned white, as did those of Charlie and Pete, at Europa’s announcement. Niles Compton was the first to realize what it meant.

“Oh, God, level seventeen is the biological clean room.”

The black Chevy Tahoe was parked across from the pawn shop while the Black Strike Team waited to get into position. The plan was to hit the security gate hard and fast with overwhelming force to bring about the capitulation of the forces inside the building. The goal: to remove any threat from the security personnel stationed at the gate.

“I hope the men and women you utilize for security aren’t the brave or stupid kind,” Smith said to Sarah in the backseat as he pulled his cell phone from his jacket. “This could get real messy.”

Sarah remained silent, not liking the feeling of being close to the large man. Her mind was on Jack and Alice, and that was all she could focus on. She turned away from Smith and looked out of the darkly tinted window toward the well-illuminated Gold City Pawn Shop. She could see at least two of the Event Group security staff inside. One was speaking with a young man who looked to be haggling over a guitar that was displayed on the north wall of the building. As Smith made his call he saw what McIntire was looking at. Then his eyes moved to Sarah’s hands, which were folded in her lap. Without saying a word Smith reached over, removed her sunglasses, and tossed them on the floor.

“That idea that’s running through your mind about breaking free of the car and running to warn your people, that, my dear lady, will result in a lot of needless deaths. We are going to destroy that formula no matter what it takes to do it.”

Sarah looked away from the shop and stared into the man’s eyes. Without replying to his threat, she turned back to look out of the window.

“Yes, we’re in place. Are there any last-minute instructions or developments?”

Sarah listened to the one-sided conversation but felt Smith move his free hand over to her shoulder and once there, the large hand squeezed, letting her know he was in control.

“You seem to be covering your tracks well. I just hope this Simpson person doesn’t lead to my Black Teams. Are you sure she is eliminated and won’t cause a problem inside Langley?”

With the name Simpson and the word Langley spoken in the same sentence, Sarah froze. She knew Jack’s sister was named Simpson, and she was in charge of the North American Desk in Virginia. She swallowed, hoping she was wrong in her guess as to what Smith was talking about.

“Well, it seems you do have a set of balls on you. I just want you to know that if this is discovered it could blow your whole operation right out of the water, and that would lead government sources not only to your door, but mine as well, and if that happens, nothing will stop me from killing you, supposed good guy or not.”