The Devil's Interval Read online

  Suddenly there was a firm hand on his left shoulder, and the feeling of metal being pressed into the small of his back.

  “You’re with that other guy,” the man said.

  Kotler again cursed himself, silently, but raised his hands and said, “What other guy?”

  The man shoved the gun harder into Kotler’s kidneys. “Hands at your side! Walk,” he said. “Do anything to get attention and I’ll kill you in the street and duck out while everyone is gawking.”

  “Look,” Kotler said, genially, “I don’t want any trouble. I’m just lost, ok? You seemed like you knew where you were going. I was hoping that if I followed you, I could somehow get a ride.”

  “I said walk,” the man said, emphasizing his words with the gun.

  “Ok,” Kotler said, nodding and walking. “Where are we going?”

  The man said nothing.

  “Look, I’m sorry, ok? I didn’t know you were … I don’t want to be involved in whatever you’re into. I’m just here to see the sights and do a little research for a book I’m writing. Maybe you’ve heard of me? Dan Kotler? I found proof of Vikings in America?”

  “Never heard of you,” the man said gruffly.

  Kotler blinked. “Seriously? You’re probably the first person I’ve met lately who doesn’t know who I am. Which kind of figures, I guess.”

  “Shut up,” the man said. “I told you, try anything and I won’t hesitate to kill you.”

  They came to an alley, and Kotler reluctantly allowed himself to be steered down it, toward whatever lay at its end. He had a feeling it wouldn’t be good.

  They came to a space with several doors, all leading into the backs of various shops and cafes. There were a couple of compactors in the alley—one stenciled with the word “Rubbish” and the other marked “Recycle.”

  “Get in,” the man said, waiving his gun toward the Rubbish compactor.

  “Whoa,” Kotler said, raising his hands and turning to face the man. “Look, if you’re going to kill me and crush me, could you at least recycle? It’s the only planet we’ve got.”

  “Cute,” the man said, then he leveled his gun at Kotler’s head. “Get in.”

  Kotler stepped toward the compactor, pulling the bolt that kept the heavy steel door closed, then swinging the door open with a loud, protesting squeal of metal on metal. As the door reached the pivot point, Kotler used its momentum, leveraging it to swing his legs up and out in a fast arc, kicking the man’s gun hand.

  The weapon fired, and the man was about to recover quickly, but Kotler leapt on top of him, pushing his gun hand down and away, slamming it on the ground until the man let go.

  The gunman struggled, and it quickly became clear that he was very strong and had some hand-to-hand training. He managed to get just a small measure of leverage, twisting and pushing Kotler with his free arm. Kotler had to grip him tight to keep from being thrown aside. As it was, the man rolled onto his stomach and clutched for his gun.

  Kotler put a knee in the man’s back, between his shoulder blades, and then pushed off hard, trying to reach the gun first.

  Now both were sprawled on the grimy stone of the alley floor, wrestling and pulling at each other, scrambling for the gun and clawing at each other to gain purchase.

  The man flipped then, and his sudden change in direction threw Kotler off balance. The man pounced, punching Kotler repeatedly, smacking his head against the ground.

  Kotler, dazed and injured, saw dark edges intrude on his vision, and knew he was about to lose consciousness. He lay still, groaning, as the man stood, then stooped to pick up his gun. The gunman dusted himself off a bit, and was breathing heavy, wiping at a streak of blood from his lip with the back of his free hand.

  “I was going to keep this quiet, but someone probably heard that shot. Which means it won’t matter if they hear another one.” The main lifted his weapon, aiming for Kotler’s head.

  “Gun down!” a familiar and very welcome voice shouted.

  The man looked up, startled, and Kotler took advantage of the distraction to roll quickly into a crouch and use a back kick, striking like a mule at the man’s knees.

  With a yelp the man stumbled, and Denzel rushed forward, gun raised.

  “Down! Get down now!” he shouted.

  The man turned, fired a couple of rounds at Denzel, and used those for cover as he sprinted to one of the backroom doors, slowed only slightly by a limp. He pulled the door open and disappeared through it.

  Denzel had briefly taken cover behind the recycling compactor, and now raced out into the open. “Kotler, you good?” he asked, concern plain on his face.

  “I’m good,” Kotler mumbled.

  “Locals are nearby,” Denzel said. “Stay put.”

  This time, Kotler had every intention of doing as he was told.

  Denzel disappeared through the same door the gunman had used, and Kotler dragged himself forward to prop himself up against the side of the rubbish compactor, taking stock of his bruises and other injuries. He gingerly touched the back of his head, wincing as he pulled away fingers damp with blood.

  From the distance, he heard the warbling of London sirens, and he slumped back, waiting for them to arrive.

  Chapter 7

  St. Mary’s Hospital

  A doctor had cleaned and bandaged Kotler’s wounds, paying particular attention to the head wound. It was a minor abrasion but could have been very serious, she’d told him somewhat sternly, as if he ought to be more careful when wrestling gunmen to the ground.

  There would be some tenderness and headaches. The cure would be rest and ibuprofen, and they started him with a small supply.

  He had thanked her, downed two pills with a glass of water, and then stood, despite her protests. He steadied himself a bit, and told her he was fine. She mumbled something about ‘Americans’ and an ’obsession with Die Hard,’ and left him to his misery.

  He understood where she was coming from. His head ached. His body ached. He probably needed at least a day’s bed rest. But he needed to get to Scotland Yard. There was bound to be more information about the gunman by now, and Kotler also wanted to be a part of questioning Simon Patel.

  There was a light knock on the door, and Denzel popped his head in. “They told me you’ll live,” he said, his tone indicating that might not be the outcome Denzel had hoped for.

  “If it makes you feel any better,” Kotler said, quietly, “I’ll live, but I’ll suffer. I have a massive headache.”

  Denzel considered this, and nodded. “That does make me feel a little better. Maybe next time you’ll listen when I tell you to stay where you are.”

  Kotler smiled, and winced, but said, “Maybe.”

  “You’ve been discharged, on your request,” Denzel said. “Though the doctor didn’t seem all that thrilled about it. You good to go?”

  “Good to go,” Kotler nodded. “Where’s Patel?”

  “He’s in an interrogation room. I have him cooling until we get there, though the locals have been asking for a go at him.”

  “He hasn’t broken any laws,” Kotler said. “He was clearly under duress.”

  “They want to know a lot of what we want to know,” Denzel said. “And I’m not ready to rule out Patel as a suspect, just yet.”

  Kotler considered this. His own instincts told him that Patel was just another victim in this story, but he admitted that he might be a little biased. Patel seemed like a kindred spirit. And since Kotler would never murder someone for money, he was having a hard time imaging a fellow historian and scientist doing it.

  But then, Kotler had money. That was the key difference. Kotler could afford fine things, and could live in the kind of place Ashton Mink lived in. Maybe Kotler’s view on this subject was a little skewed. Not every man of science was noble—Kotler knew that much, at least.

  Still, as they drove to New Scotland Yard, Kotler mentally went through everything he knew about Patel and his work, looking for any hint that greed might have
motivated him to murder one of his greatest benefactors. Patel could have stolen the information at any time, or never handed it over at all, and sold it to the highest bidder. Why would he wait until it was deleted from the AMSL servers, and then kill Ashton to retrieve it?

  Ashton’s death was sure to be high profile, anyone would have seen that. It would call immediate attention to all of this, and cause a full clampdown on everything running at AMSL.

  Was that the point? And if so, what would Patel gain from any of that?

  It seemed far more likely that the gunman they had chased from the Westminster Research Library was the killer, and that he had coerced Patel into helping him. The conversation they’d overheard in that underground lab seemed to confirm this, but Kotler knew it wasn’t enough. Denzel would want to the full story, and the only way to get that was to treat Patel like a suspect.

  Kotler thought about all of this as they exited the hospital and drove Denzel’s rental car through the crowded London streets. He was still a bit groggy from the head wound, but his mind was constantly turning over all the facts they had, looking for anything odd, making connections.

  “What about that chamber?” Kotler asked, as they pulled into a parking garage. “Where we found Patel?”

  “There are officers watching both entrances, and a team of forensic guys are going through the place.”

  “I’d like to go over any of their findings,” Kotler said. “I’d also like a chance to get back down there and explore the place myself.”

  “I think I can arrange both of those things,” Denzel said. “The locals are being very cooperative. The last time I dealt with Scotland Yard, I had to jump through a lot of hoops just to bring my weapon into the country.”

  “What changed?” Kotler asked.

  Denzel shrugged. “I’m not sure. Maybe my new position.”

  Inside, they were shown to a viewing room, where they could see Patel sitting at a metal table, looking about as miserable as anyone could look. There was a paper cup near Patel’s left hand, filed with water, and he shakily raised this to take a sip.

  “He’s not cuffed?” Kotler asked.

  Denzel shrugged. "You said yourself, he hasn't committed any crimes. None we can prove yet, anyway."

  This was a concession, Kotler knew. It was Denzel's way of giving Patel the benefit of the doubt. He'd been in that same chamber, after all, right alongside Kotler. He'd heard the exchange between Patel and the other man.

  "Let's talk to him," Denzel said.

  They entered and took seats across from Patel, who was watching them warily. His face showed his fear, but it also showed a resigned weariness. He’d come to some conclusion about his life and his career, Kotler decided.

  "Dr. Simon Patel," Denzel said, opening a folder that contained Patel's background and history, including photos of Patel taken from his employment records and social media profiles. "What brings you to London?"

  "You're American?" Patel asked, surprised.

  Denzel reached into his coat pocket and produced his badge. "Agent Roland Denzel, FBI. This is Dr. Dan Kotler. He's consulting with the Bureau.”

  Patel looked from one to the other, nodding to Kotler. “He did mention you were with the FBI. I remember that now. What are you doing in London?"

  "We're investigating the murder of Ashton Mink," Denzel said, staring at Patel.

  Kotler watched Patel's face, and saw the micro expressions. He took a quick, gasping breath, and his gaze drifted down and to the right. He was surprised—shocked. When he looked back up, Kotler saw markers of grief.

  "Ashton is dead?" he asked, shaking his head. "I … didn't know."

  "You left work early two nights ago," Denzel said. "Earlier than usual, at least. What made you decide to leave when you did?"

  Patel shook his head again. He was staring down at the folder that Denzel had open between them. There was a photo pulled from the AMSL security video, showing Patel on the sidewalk just outside of the building, and this seemed to have Patel’s attention.

  "Dr. Patel?" Denzel asked.

  Patel looked up. "I'm sorry. I ... What did you ask me?"

  "Why did you leave work earlier than usual two nights ago?"

  Patel considered, taking a breath and letting it out slowly. "We had wrapped up everything I was working on," he said. "There was a project … I really can't go into details about it. But it was shut down, and with it went much of what I was working on. I left because there was no point in staying."

  Denzel made a note of this.

  Kotler was still watching Patel, reading him. "Dr. Patel, we know about Devil's Interval."

  Patel shot Kotler a glance, confirming some of Kotler's suspicions.

  “We were sworn to secrecy on that,” Patel said. “I signed an NDA, and we buried or destroyed all the data.”

  “Not quite all of it, though,” Denzel said. “Your friend from the chamber brought you some of that lost data?”

  Patel’s expression was sour. “He is no friend of mine.”

  “Who is he?” Kotler asked.

  Patel shook his head. “I don’t know. He was in my apartment when I got home. He had a gun.” Patel shook from the memory. “He forced me to grab my things, and to book a flight to London. Somehow, he …” Patel stopped, his head down, chin nearly resting on his chest. He was breathing in heavy sighs.

  “What?” Denzel asked. “Somehow he what?”

  Patel looked back up at them. “He knew about Newton’s chamber. I don’t know how. The only other person who knew about it was my research partner, Lawny Bristol.”

  “Dr. Lawny Bristol?” Denzel asked, referencing the file. “She died about six months ago, correct?”

  Patel nodded. “Yes. An accident. She fell into an open service grating. It was raining, and the barrier must have been knocked down or obscured. It was terrible.” Patel shook his head and looked down, chin on his chest, breathing in deep, steady breathes, as if calming himself.

  Kotler could see that Patel felt real emotion over Bristol’s death. More than he likely should have. “Were you and Dr. Bristol in a relationship?” he asked.

  Patel looked up, sharply. “How … no one knew that. I’ve never told anyone.”

  “So, your research partner was the only other person who knew about the Newton chamber,” Denzel said. “Did either of you keep any records of it? Notebooks? Logs?”

  “I am ashamed to say, I hid all record of it,” Patel said, hanging his head again. “There were so many things to explore. I should have alerted someone about it the moment I found it, but I knew that this was a rare opportunity.”

  “You could study research that no one else even knew existed,” Kotler said. “And introduce new ‘discoveries’ based on what you found.”

  Patel looked up, shame plain on his features, and nodded.

  “And how did Dr. Bristol become involved?” Denzel asked.

  “I … we were in love,” Patel said. “And we were partners. I brought her here, to London, and showed her the chamber. I had already cataloged everything by then. I’d spent months in there. I wanted her to see it. I wanted …”

  He stopped in mid-sentence, as if he wasn’t sure how to go on.

  “You wanted to legitimize it,” Kotler said. “You wanted to know that at least one other person knew it was there, so that it wouldn’t feel like you were hiding it.”

  Patel wiped at his eyes. “Yes,” he said, never meeting Kotler’s gaze.

  Kotler felt a stab of disappointment at Patel. Finding the chamber, uncovering such a unique and rare part of history, and then burying it out of a sense of personal ambition—the idea was abhorrent. Any kinship Kotler felt with Patel dissolved in that moment.

  But Kotler took a deep breath, centering himself, making sure that the pendulum didn’t swing too far in the opposite direction. What Patel had done was unethical, but it wasn’t proof that the man was a murderer.

  “So, you had no record of the chamber at all. How did this
man find out about it?”

  Patel was shaking his head, but said, “Lawny must have kept some record of it, I suppose. She may have noted it in her logs at AMSL. Part of our research notes, perhaps. Or background. We log background information—context for our discoveries, to provide proof of prior research during the patent process. She may have kept a note about the chamber, hiding it from me.”

  “Why would she do that?” Denzel asked.

  Patel looked up at him, and there was a trace of a smile on his lips. “She would have done it to protect me,” Patel said. “She was always doing things like that. Looking out for my best interests, when my decisions weren’t entirely right.”

  Denzel made some notes, and then glanced at Kotler.

  Kotler was watching Patel, and asked, “What happens to employee logs, if an employee leaves? Or dies, in the case of Dr. Bristol?”

  Patel thought for a moment. “All files in their personal folders are locked and archived. If anything is part of ongoing research, it’s flagged for immediate team review. I was the first to see Lawny’s logs, regarding Devil’s Interval. I never saw any mention of the chamber.”

  “Could she have noted it somewhere else?” Kotler asked. “Maybe a separate set of logs? Something only she would know about?”

  Patel took a deep breath and let it out. “Yes, she might have done that. As a measure of protection.”

  “Who has access to those logs, if they aren’t part of ongoing research?” Kotler asked.

  Patel considered. “Only high clearance personnel. Our CEO, Ross Miller. Our COO, Garret Chandler. Nick Peters, the head of security. And anyone the three of them may have authorized.”

  Kotler glanced at Denzel, who was jotting notes and reminders.

  Kotler looked back to Patel. “What about the book? The gunman grabbed some sort of leather-bound book from the table as he left. It had loose pages in it.”

  Patel nodded. “It was a journal, though I don’t know who it originally belonged to. It was clearly quite old. It contained continuing notes on Newton’s research, and on the research of several others. It was …” he looked at them both, then sighed. “It was where I first encountered the data I used to build Devil’s Interval. Much of it was a study into the effects of sound, particularly music, on the human brain. Including notes on experiments conducted on hearing impaired and deaf patients.”