Beyond Control Read online

  “Do you have proof of that?”

  “The stolen identification is the proof.”

  Plante raised an eyebrow and then looked down at another piece of paper. “These are the facts I have: Nick Hansen took a noon flight to Milan, arriving at 2:50 p.m., taking into account the one-hour time difference.” He looked at me, again, straight in the eyes. “He then rented a car and drove the sixty kilometers to the Schmidt home, killed him, and drove back in time for the 6:10 p.m. flight back. Taking the time difference into account again, he arrived back at Gatwick at 7:07 p.m.” He hadn’t blinked. “Thus, getting you back to Burford at approximately 9:30 p.m., correct?”

  “How would I know? I wasn’t there.” Why had Lorraine and I lingered and played tourist that day? “After the Tower of London, we went to see Buckingham Palace, Trafalgar Square, and walked along the Thames.”

  “Do you have proof?”

  “Lorraine was with me the whole time.”

  Plante shook his head. “Again, not a credible witness.”

  This is crazy. “Okay, how did I kill Dr. Schmidt?”

  “By injecting a lethal poison into his neck.”

  “What?” I squirmed in the chair. Just hearing about someone being killed by a needle brought back too many bad memories. “How would I get hold of something like that?”

  “I understand you’ve had experience with such chemicals that dissipate quickly, making them untraceable, like Cirachrome?”

  “Yeah, of finding people who’d been killed by injections, but not of using or even knowing how to find poison like that.” Dr. Schmidt had to have been killed by his own people.

  Chief Inspector Plante’s eyes bored harder into mine.

  “You really need to be talking to Naintosa’s security. Injecting people with untraceable poison is their trademark. Find Peter Bail. He’s the first one I’d talk to.”

  Plante blinked.

  “This is a setup.”

  “Or the truth.”

  “No; s-e-t-u-p.”

  CHAPTER 2

  April 25, 2003

  I looked up in time to see the little red light on the security camera outside the cell on the far wall switch off.

  The outside door to the room opened, and a guard I’d never seen before entered with another man in the same gray get-up I had on. He unlocked my cell door and took off the prisoner’s handcuffs. The officer smiled at me before locking the door and walking back out of the room.

  The guy standing in front of me was huge. And I wasn’t small at six feet tall, 185 pounds.

  I’d been in this cell for five days on my own. Now I had to share? There was only one bed in the corner.

  A sneer of malice was on his face. He cracked his knuckles and took a step toward me. No, this guy didn’t want to be a cellmate; he wanted to hurt me. If he connected once, I’d be down and out. He took another step to close the distance.

  My mind raced through my Krav Maga training—disable your attacker and be decisive. I reinforced to myself the fact that his size didn’t matter.

  He took another step closer.

  I backed up until I felt the bars of the cell.

  His feet moved twice more.

  My position restricted my movement, so I moved forward and left.

  He made a fist and swung his right arm at me in an arc.

  It wasn’t fast, and I was able to duck.

  As I moved past him I pushed my right elbow into his side. It was like hitting a concrete barrier.

  I saw another swing coming and tried to spin away. I wasn’t quite quick enough, and his fist glanced off my head. That was hard enough to put me on the floor.

  He was bending over me, but I managed to scramble to the side while seeing stars. Dizzy, I steadied myself against a cell bar.

  He stepped in and took a swing at my face. I shifted just in time, and his fist hit the iron bar with a thud. Pain was visible on his face.

  I reached to grab his shoulders and brought my knee up as hard as possible. I couldn’t reach his stomach, he was too tall, so my knee missed its intended target and got him square in the balls. No matter how tough a man is, full contact to the groin is going to bring him down, and that’s exactly what happened. His eyes rolled back in his sockets, and he let out a squeak. My knee lingered for a second, and I could feel that I’d nailed both saggy nuts.

  I almost felt sorry for him.

  Chief Inspector Plante entered the room. “What’s going on here? Who’s this man with Barnes?”

  An officer with keys went around Plante and opened the cell. Another one came, and they lifted the man who was clutching his privates.

  “What are you doing in here, Chancy?” said one of the officers as he pulled the burly man’s hands back to apply the handcuffs. He glanced over at me with an impressed look on his face.

  “The bugger ’it me right in the gonads,” Chancy said. “Fuckin’ fairy.”

  “I was trying to get you in the stomach.”

  “Right.” Chancy shuffled his feet, still in obvious pain. “Bloody wanker.”

  Plante waited until Chancy was taken out of the room before he came to the open cell door. “Come here.”

  A third officer entered the room. He made me place my hands behind my back and handcuffed me.

  The officer led me down two hallways and into a windowless gray room. Plante hadn’t followed; he’d gone in a different direction.

  There was one metal table in the middle and four chairs. The barrister, Mr. Brown, who had assisted me when I’d been questioned in the past, was there. He was dressed in a navy-blue tailored suit, starched white shirt and a blue, patterned tie. He was always very neat in appearance.

  Once the officer had taken off the handcuffs, he shook my hand. We were left alone.

  “Is everything all right?” Mr. Brown asked. He had brown eyes that radiated intelligence. He was above this type of work and I guessed was only helping me because Jack Carter had specifically asked him to.

  “Someone tried to beat me up a few minutes ago.”

  “Seriously?” Mr. Brown looked concerned. “We’d arranged for a private cell so something like that wouldn’t happen.” He wrote something in his black leather folder. “I will look into it.”

  “He wanted to beat me into submission.”

  “And you escaped unscathed?” Mr. Brown’s British accent made the word unscathed sound impressive.

  I shrugged. I didn’t want to tell him how I’d taken Chancy out. Why hadn’t I hit him in the nose with the base of my hand and broken it instead?

  He was studying my face. “Were you hit on the cheek? It’s red and looks bruised.”

  “He did land one blow, somewhat.” I touched my cheek—it was tender and warm. “I’m fine.”

  “You should get checked by a doctor.” Barrister Brown referred to his folder. “Now for the matter at hand.”

  “You know I didn’t kill Dr. Schmidt?”

  “Yes, but someone sure wants everyone to think you did.” He wrote another line down as if making a “To-Do” list. “First step is to get you out of here. We’ll be seeing a Crown Court judge shortly to set your surety. Jack will pay it.”

  It didn’t take long to see the judge and for him to determine £100,000 as my surety. It took a few hours for Mr. Brown to complete the arrangements and for me to be processed.

  As I waited, back in the jeans and T-shirt I’d been arrested in, I had more time to think. I had changed in the last few years, as had my circumstances, and I needed to play the role I’d prepared myself for. I wasn’t a down-on-his-luck journalist anymore—that felt like a lifetime ago. I had to move past this setback and get back to our group’s mission. Billions of lives were at stake.

  My lawyer walked up the hall, followed by an officer.

  “Remember, you can only stay within the grounds of the Burford estate,” Mr. Brown said. “Please adhere to it. The judge has been very trusting to let it go this way. The officer will follow you home. The prosecutors w
anted you in shackles until the trial. I’ll let you know what happens next when I know more.”

  I stood up. “I’ll do what I’m supposed to.”

  “That way.” Barrister Brown pointed in the opposite direction to where he had come from. “Your friends have come to get you.”

  The officer escorted me to the doors leading outside.

  It was a breezy spring day with a hint of chill in the dusty air. Lorraine and Sue were standing on the sidewalk next to the Range Rover. It felt like I’d been gone months, not less than a week.

  Lorraine had half a head of height on Sue, a larger bone structure, and fourteen more years of being alive. The only similarities between them, other than their belief in the cause, were that they were both strong and at that moment had concerned looks on their faces.

  Sue met me halfway and reached for a hug, giving me a kiss on the cheek. “How are you doing?” She was my best friend since college and always there for me.

  “Not bad for a killer out on bail.”

  She brushed my brown hair back with her fingers. “You have a bump on your face. What happened?”

  “I’ll explain on the way.”

  Lorraine had walked up. “I did my best to protect you.” I always had to concentrate on what she said because of her heavy Polish accent. “I told them the truth and that there was no way you could’ve killed Dr. Schmidt.”

  “I know. Plante said you’re not a credible witness because you’re paid to protect me.”

  We got into the SUV. Lorraine drove and the police car followed.

  “Where’s Jack?” I asked Sue, who was in the back seat next to me.

  “He’s meeting with a private detective to help figure out who really killed Dr. Schmidt.” Sue always looked good, even in jeans and a sweatshirt. “He’ll meet us back at the house.”

  Traffic was heavy getting out of London. During that time, I told them what had happened to me in jail.

  “You kneed him in his crown jewels?” Sue snickered.

  “I missed his stomach.” I knew I shouldn’t have mentioned it.

  She laughed and then stopped when she saw the look on my face. “As long as you’re all right. He had it coming to him.”

  “I would’ve done the same,” Lorraine said from up front.

  After two hours, we turned right and went downhill along the main street of Burford. The village dated back to the thirteenth century; all the stone-and-brick stores were old world and quaint. The modern vehicles driving up and down the street seemed out of place, as one expected horses and carts. After a couple of blocks, we turned left. The entrance to the estate we were calling home for now was straight ahead.

  Sam was at the two-story wrought iron gate to let us in. He was a large African-American man who was an integral part of our security. He greeted us and then let us pass.

  The police escort turned and departed.

  On either side of the driveway was lush grass, and flowerbeds edged gnarled shade trees. The crushed-gravel road became circular, with a fountain spewing forth recycled water in the middle. The white stone house was a twenty-thousand-square-foot behemoth that had two stories above ground and one below. We only used five thousand square feet of it. It had originally been built in the sixteenth century as a hospital or monastery, but of course was a fully modernized family dwelling now.

  The evening had turned cloudy. The smell of rain coming mixed with the sweet scent of blooming flowers.

  Dr. Ivan Popov opened one of the large double-entry doors and came outside to greet us. The sixty-one-year-old, stocky, bearded Russian scientist had been with us from the beginning of our journey three years ago. He was in charge of all the research and worked closely with the Northern European Council for Ethical Farming, who supported us and provided him with a lab.

  The estate was lent to us by a supporter of the Council. We’d lived there for close to a year.

  “Nick, you are free.” Ivan’s accent was heavy. He was built like a bear yet had a soft heart.

  “Ivan, I thought you’d be back in Oslo, at the Council’s lab?”

  “Not with you in custody.” He pulled me into a hug, patting my back. “How preposterous, that anyone would think you killed Dr. Schmidt.”

  “They even tried beating it out of him.” Sue had come up beside us. “But Nick took care of the fucker by kicking him in the nuts.” People were always taken aback by some of the crude language that came out of the petite thirty-one-year-old, but we were used to it.

  “I’m not proud of it, but that’s the way it went down.”

  “I am sure he deserved it.” Ivan motioned us inside. “You must be tired and hungry. Rose is making dinner.”

  There were crystal chandeliers in every room that could accommodate one, some as many as six tiers, and marble floors with radiant heat. The owner had a liking for big white furniture and polished teak tables. Every five days there was a flower delivery, even in winter, so the house looked and smelled like spring year round.

  We went through the foyer that featured a dual, spiral staircase with a six-foot statue of a naked woman between them, past the living room with a large fireplace as the focal point, and into the kitchen.

  Rose was always there. She’d been Jack’s private chef in Dallas but had wanted a change of scenery. She’d become our surrogate mother. Rose was reaching for a pan from the rack that hung down from the middle of the ceiling. There were vegetables on a cutting board sitting atop the granite counter, and steam rose from a large pot on the eight-burner stainless steel gas stove.

  “They are back.” Ivan strode over to help her.

  “Oh my.” Rose abandoned her attempt at reaching the pan to let Ivan do it and came at me with arms outstretched. “How are you, son?”

  I leaned over and gave the matronly lady a hug. “I’m fine.”

  She pulled back, hands on my biceps. “You look skinnier and you need a shower.”

  Sue smiled. “You are kinda smelly.”

  “I was in frickin’ jail, not the spa.”

  The kitchen door opened, and a tall, lean Jack Carter entered. Right behind him and always nearby was the imposing and muscular Lee Donald. They both had military-style buzz cuts, Lee’s blond and Jack’s gray.

  CHAPTER 3

  Jack Carter’s family had been in the oil business for almost one hundred years and in the cattle business for even longer, based in Dallas, Texas. He had liquidated his assets four years ago. That hadn’t sat well with his younger brother, Malcolm, because that meant a loss of power and influence.

  Lee Donald was Jack’s “personal assistant.” Wherever Jack went, Lee went. Lee used to be a sergeant in the United States Marines. He was an imposing figure at about six three, 210 pounds, with barely a wrinkle on his forty-eight-year-old skin.

  “How are you, Nick?” Jack said in his southern drawl as he walked up to me. He was holding a number of newspapers tucked under his arm.

  Lee nodded at me. He didn’t use words unless they were necessary.

  “I’m fine.”

  “Good to hear,” Jack said. “We’re gonna figure this thing out and make sure they don’t pin the murder charge on you. What a load of horse crap.”

  “Sue said you hired a private detective?” I said.

  “Yeah, we’re doing our own investigation.” At seventy-one Jack showed no signs of slowing down. “We have to find the person who was impersonating you at the airport and figure out who hired him. I doubt he was the actual killer, just an accomplice. Also, how did your hotel receipt get to be beside Schmidt’s body and e-mails from your computer to his?”

  Sue leaned against the kitchen island. “Do we have any idea or theories as to who is behind the killing?”

  “Chief Inspector Plante said he was killed by injection of poison, like Cirachrome,” I said. “That sounds like Naintosa security. But who in his own company would give the order to kill the boss, much less someone who would actually execute it?”

  Jack nodded. “They h
ad to be close to Schmidt—someone who could get around his personal goons. Apparently there wasn’t a security breach.”

  “So what do we do next?” I asked. “I’m under house arrest.”

  “We wait to see what the private eye digs up.” Jack placed the newspapers on the counter. There looked to be at least ten of them.

  “Do those have the stories about you and Nick?” Sue asked.

  “Stories about Jack and me?” I was going to the fridge for a beer.

  “Lovemark’s gone whole hog to try discredit you, whether they find you guilty or not,” Jack said. “At the same time, he’s decided our association is the perfect opportunity to take a swing at me too. They want the public and authorities to think we’re batshit crazy and not credible. You know, guilty in the court of public opinion.”

  “Yeah, I’m aware of the tactic.” My instant reaction was anger, but why should it get to me? It was expected that Lovemark would use his resources to take advantage of the opportunity.

  “Unfortunately, the tactic works.” Sue reached for a paper.

  We all read the articles and passed around the newspapers while eating the beef stew Rose had prepared.

  Each article had either the airport picture of the imposter or one of Jack and me talking somewhere—I guessed in London a few months ago. The stories sold me as being a radical and stalker of Dr. Schmidt. Of course, they didn’t mention the 2020 Report—the population control plan we’d uncovered—because they obviously didn’t want to promote interest in it. The articles said things like: “Barnes had been terrorizing Dr. Schmidt for three years,” “… Nick Barnes’s goal in life was to discredit all the positive work Naintosa has accomplished in the field of genetic food engineering …” “Dr. Schmidt was a pioneer in solving the world’s food and medical problems, while Barnes’s goal was to demonise the work of Naintosa and Pharmalin.”

  Ivan sighed. “Unbelievable.”

  “What bullshit,” Sue said.

  One article had a picture of a group of people standing close together, some holding up signs. The couple I could read were, “YOU HELPED FEED THE WORLD” and “YOU DISCOVERED A CURE FOR CANCER.” Apparently, there had been people gathered outside of Dr. Schmidt’s funeral, praising him for his work. Dr. Schmidt had preferred to stay out of the media’s spotlight during his life, so he hadn’t been well known to the public. That article, especially, sang his praises, making him look like a saint.