Chris Mooney - The Killing House

‘That’s not necessary,’ she said. ‘I can wait for one to open up.’

‘Or you could simply take this one.’ The man graciously held out the chair for her. ‘Please.’

‘Well, if you insist. Thank you.’

‘My pleasure.’

The bartender came over. Celine ordered her drink and then turned slightly in her seat to the man who had just offered up his chair. She thought he was going to come on to her. She hoped he would. He was classically handsome, with chiselled features and a pair of deep green eyes — and his British accent was lovely.

Instead, he pushed the bridge of his black-framed glasses up his nose and went back to reading. His hair, thick and black, fell over the back collar of his shirt and nearly covered his ears. Normally she preferred a man with a more conservative haircut, but he carried the style well. He radiated confidence.

Celine wasn’t the only woman who had noticed the tall, muscular Englishman. She saw several gazes around the bar stealing glances at him.

She was wondering how old he was when the bartender returned with her mojito.

The man was still reading the newspaper.

She had finished half her drink when she turned to him and said, ‘What do you think?’

‘Pardon?’

She leaned closer and tapped the Globe ’s headline banner: ‘Hospital Grounds Searched for Remains of Former Patients’. The accompanying colour picture showed police and forensic archaeologists searching a dense and heavily wooded area in Harvard, Massachusetts — the site of a former hospital called the Graves Rehabilitation Center. The Gothic brick building, tall and intimidating, had caught fire sometime in the mid-eighties and subsequently closed.

‘Do you think it’s true?’ she asked. ‘That the FBI was involved in this clandestine research project that used patients for medical testing and buried their bodies?’

‘The federal agent, Borgia, admitted he was a patient in the Behavioral Modification Project, along with his two partners, Marie Clouzot and Brandon Arkoff. The Baltimore police found evidence connecting them to the abductions.’

‘The first two hospitals they searched, Texas and the other one.’

‘Philadelphia,’ he said. ‘The Spaulding Psychiatric Center.’

‘They didn’t find any buried remains on the hospital grounds. And now they’re searching this Graves place. They’ve been at it for nearly a week and haven’t found anything remotely sinister.’

‘No,’ he said. ‘Not yet.’

He looked sad when he said it.

‘I take it you’ve seen the video.’

The man nodded.

‘Unfortunately,’ he added.

Celine knew what he meant. The video had gone viral two months ago. Like everyone else she had watched it. Once. She couldn’t stomach a second viewing. Seeing all those starving and near-dead people locked in dog cages and trapped inside that abandoned printing press in Baltimore, the shootings… it had given her nightmares.

‘Those poor children and their parents,’ Celine said, shuddering at the thought. ‘Still, there’s no concrete piece of evidence linking the victims to the FBI and that BMP thing. Even if it’s true, the FBI will squirm their way out of it. They always do.’

‘You think so?’

‘Absolutely. I’m in public relations. The Bureau is a PR machine. No one can beat them when it comes to spinning a story.’

The man smiled. He had nice teeth.

‘I think you may be right.’

‘Unfortunately,’ she added with a smile of her own.

‘Yes,’ he said. ‘Unfortunately.’

‘I don’t place much trust in the government either. But unless solid evidence comes forward concerning this research project, I think the story will die out.’ Celine drank some of her mojito. ‘What about Malcolm Fletcher? Do you think he’s innocent?’

‘The video seems to suggest he is.’

‘True,’ she conceded. ‘He did rescue that boy, what’s his name.’

‘James Weeks.’

‘That’s it. But you know the saying, where there’s smoke, there’s fire.’

The man laughed quietly and picked up his glass. He was drinking bourbon. He polished it off and glanced at his watch.

‘Can I buy you another drink?’

‘No,’ he replied. ‘But I’ll buy you one.’

‘Thank you.’ She offered a hand. ‘Celine Strauss.’

‘Francis Harvey. A pleasure to meet you.’

‘Likewise.’ She stood and touched his forearm as she leaned in and said, ‘Would you excuse me for a moment? I’ll be right back.’

Celine went to the ladies’ room to freshen up. When she returned, she found a fresh mojito waiting for her, but Francis Harvey was gone.

Malcolm Fletcher drove his new vehicle, a used but sound Volvo, out of Boston. He was heading to the western part of the state, the Berkshires, where he had rented a secluded home under the name Francis Harvey.

He had grown up during a time when payphones dominated nearly every city corner, restaurant and hospital. Cellular phones had slowly killed off the market, and, while payphones still existed, he had to use the Internet to find one.

The payphone he used to speak with Karim was located several miles from his rental home, at a gas station, which was conveniently closed for renovations. Fletcher parked his car and walked through the cool evening, the surrounding woods throbbing with crickets.

It was now mid-April and Karim was still inside Manhattan’s Sloan-Kettering Hospital, undergoing rehabilitation. Three evenings a week, at quarter past nine, his bodyguard would wheel him into a different hospital room to use a different phone. The FBI was still monitoring Karim’s home and business phone lines but had failed to secure a wiretap for the hospital switchboard.

His lawyers were still in negotiations with federal prosecutors, who were working feverishly to prevent him or one of his people from leaking the surveillance video of Hostage Rescue Team Operator Daniel Jackman’s attempted murder of Ali Karim. Karim was using the video as a bargaining chip to force the FBI to go public with the names of the patients and doctors involved in the Behavioral Modification Project.

Fletcher used his smartphone to check his email. M had sent him an encrypted message telling him the number of the room where Karim would be this evening. Fletcher fed the quarters into the payphone.

‘Always.’

‘I don’t have any news for you, I’m afraid. The drinking glass from the closet had fingerprints on it — ’

‘And since the FBI owns and operates the fingerprint database, they won’t release Marie Clouzot’s real identity.’

‘Exactly,’ Karim said. ‘The Bureau is maintaining its stance that the Behavioral Modification Project, along with its doctors and nurses, never existed. As for the parents of James Weeks, they’re under federal protection. My lawyers can’t get access to them. I don’t know which one was involved with the project, but haven’t given up hope. My people are still working on it. We’re using the video as leverage to get either the mother or the father to come forward and admit their role in this and — ’

‘You need to stop this.’

Karim laughed and started to cough.

‘I live for this.’

‘The FBI will never stop searching for me, even if you clear my name. You know that.’

‘What do you suggest I do?’ Karim asked. ‘Roll over?’

‘ “There are truths which are not for all men, nor for all times.” ’

‘Voltaire would think differently if he had to deal with the US government.’

‘Use the remaining videos to protect yourself — and M. As long as you have those videos, the FBI will leave you alone. You’ll be safe.’

Karim was silent for a moment.