Silent Night - By Tom Barber Page 0,48

hadn’t.

He watched the trio talk. Then they simultaneously turned and looked over at him. The large man walked over to the lab, his machine pistol in his right hand. He reached into his pocket with his left and pulled out the vial containing the virus. The doors slid open and he walked towards Glover.

‘We’re ready to begin.’

Not far away, the neo-Nazi who had sucker-punched the cop was hauled into the Hoboken Police Department, his hands cuffed behind him and an officer gripping him on either side. One of them was the cop he’d sucker-punched. The guy’s nose had just about stopped bleeding, but it was going to swell up nicely by the morning. They dragged him over to the booking desk, both of them using more force than was necessary and slammed him against the counter. The cop behind the desk looked up as if he’d seen this a thousand times before. He probably had.

‘Name,’ he asked with a bored, monotone voice.

‘Listen,’ the skinhead said. ‘I need my phone call right now.’

‘Name?’

‘Will Peterson.’

The cop started writing.

‘Listen to me guys, I need to make this phone call. It’s urgent.’

‘Shut the hell up,’ the guy he had punched said, dabbing at his face. ‘You broke my nose, you asshole.’

‘Date of birth and home address?’

‘Phone call.’

‘Date of birth and home address?’

‘Phone call.’

‘Screw you,’ the cop with the busted nose said.

Peterson cursed. ‘Listen to me. I know my rights. Just give me my call. Then you can lock me up for the rest of the month.’

‘Jesus Christ, just give him his damn phone call,’ the cop behind the counter said, rubbing his temples.

The two cops looked at each other then dragged the skinhead across the reception area to a payphone by the wall. When they got there one of them pulled Peterson around and undid the cuffs, freeing his hands momentarily.

‘One call. You’ve got thirty seconds.’

‘Enjoy it,’ the guy with the busted nose said. ‘You’re gonna be in jail ‘til next Christmas.’

Peterson pulled two quarters from his pocket quickly, tucking them into the slot. He pushed a number, fast. It was one he always dialled from memory, and one he dialled often.

C’mon. Pick up.

He was in luck. It rang twice then was answered.

‘John, it’s me,’ Peterson said. ‘Listen. I need your help and I need it right now.’

TWENTY FOUR

As the clock ticked on into the afternoon, Archer carried two cups from the drinks machine over to Shepherd’s desk. To the right, Gunnar was just being released. He’d been taken out of the interrogation cell and was being led towards the exit. Archer felt the man’s gaze upon him and was relieved to watch the giant go.

Kruger was sitting beside Shepherd’s desk, alone, his head in his hands. Josh was across the detective area, sitting with Maddy Flood at his own desk and talking with her quietly. Archer placed a coffee in front of Kruger then took a seat, drinking from his tea. Kruger looked up, glancing around the building, and Archer took the opportunity to examine him. The medic had patched him up, cleaning off the dried blood and applying some butterfly stitches, but he’d taken a serious beating. It looked like he’d gone twelve rounds for the world title.

‘How’s the face?’

‘Sore as hell.’ Kruger reached forward and picked up his cup of coffee. ‘Thanks.’

‘Has anyone told you about Dr Tibbs?’

Kruger glanced down and nodded.

‘I heard.’

There was a pause.

‘So what’s your story?’ Archer asked, changing the subject. ‘You said Dr Flood recruited you from South Africa?’

Kruger nodded. ‘We met at a conference in Cape Town twelve months ago, almost to the day. I’m a virologist.’

He saw the blank look on Archer’s face.

‘I study viruses and how they work.’

‘OK.’

‘Anyway, Peter told me over dinner about his recent research. He was very excited. He told me that he’d designed a whole new way of encapsulating radioactive isotopes in the protein shells of a virus. He called it radio viral therapy. His vision was that it could morph into a ground-breaking treatment for lung cancer, if it had the right cultivation of course. And that was where I came in. He wanted me to come and work with him on the next phase of his project.’

‘Which was?’

‘Peter had the blueprints as it were. Given my background in viral genetics, he needed me to put everything together and basically grow the virus at his lab on 66 Street. He offered me a position, working alongside him. I packed my bags and arrived in New York three days later.’

‘That’s