8: Sample Extraction
Kirby sat at his desk in the office he held as head of research for Cosgrove Research hitting the refresh key on the browser and waiting for the website he was using to finish reloading.
Checking the time, he saw it was 1pm exactly. He hit refresh one more time and it failed. His heart leapt — that was the signal to tell him they were now expecting him to move.
He looked up from his laptop to ensure he was not being watched from the lab. Most of the assistants were on lunch and those that were still working could be seen happily carrying on inspecting and testing samples.
“Here we go then… first step,” he murmured to himself.
Taking a data pen out of his trouser pocket, he slid it into the computer’s USB port and, once it registered, he began copying all the data files he’d been carefully organising over the last few weeks.
Data on the designs for genetically engineered plants which were sources of desirable chemicals, molecular designs and details of compounds, distillation instructions, mixing procedures and more.
All of it slowly moving over to the data pen.
Thinking ahead to what post-production data should be useful, Kirby had also included a copy of test results from samples and burns of the fuel they’d performed.
With the network down, there would be no record of what he was about to do, none of the usual servers connected to monitor what data was going where.
He continued to make it look like as if he were working at the computer while the data transfer carried on.
The technician at Hannover had told him that all he needed to do was copy the files and then wait for a message on his screen to say everything was complete.
He waited for what felt like an eternity, flicking his eyes between the lab and screen, checking the progress bar as it moved at an intolerably slow pace.
Small beads of sweat started to form on his brow and be felt the humidity rising under his shirt.
Then, suddenly, the message appeared.
‘Done’ was all it said. He clicked ‘OK’ and the file-transfer window closed.
If all had worked as planned he now had the last 5 years of bio-fuel research on the data pen and the log of any copying would be nonexistent.
Kirby pulled the data pen from the computer, slid it back into his pocket and checked the time: 1.08pm.
8 minutes, was that all?
He felt excitement at the thought of what he had just stolen, a silent power at what he now possessed. It was not only his own research, but everything of those before him. It was nearly priceless, and he just happened to know someone who’d pay a fine price for it, too. One more thing to do.
He checked his watch again. At exactly 2pm the network would come back up.
Step one at one and step two by two, he thought to himself, reflecting on the fact they’d picked an easy way for him to remember what time he had to get this done by.
Kirby sat back, took a tissue off the desk and wiped the fine sheen of sweat from his brow, wafting his shirt to help cool his body. He knew he was no hero, but the thought of what he was going to get out of doing this was enough motivation to finish the appointed tasks.
Satisfied he was now a little calmer, he looked up and across the lab. The assistants and the lead researcher had come back in from lunch earlier than expected.
Whatever, time for step two.
He stood up from his desk and headed across the lab to the men, carrying some printouts he’d prepared earlier.
“Hello, gentlemen,” he said to the two in the far corner.
These two were on centrifuges, their job simply to separate and catalogue the mixtures that were being trialled.
“I notice from the results over the last week that batch mixtures are varying quite a lot. Any thoughts on why?” he asked.
They looked at each other and both betrayed a look of slight worry and confusion.
“Not sure, doctor,” the older man said, stepping in to take the flak that was about to come.
“You’re not sure? Don’t you look at the results?” Kirby asked.
“Well, as you know, we record results, we don’t analyse them,” the man said.
“I could get a machine to do that! What about you?” Kirby asked the younger man.
“No idea either, doctor. We run the centrifuges five times a day, that’s over fifty samples. I don’t recall the values over the days or weeks, I’m afraid,” he said, giving Kirby the precise excuse he was looking for.
“Just what I’d expect! The samples should essentially be the same, that’s the point of the isolated vats and mixtures! Give me some vials,” he said to the researchers before they could add any more to the conversation. “I will go and run the samples off each vat myself!”
The younger man jumped off his chair, then jogged around the table to clumsily grab a handful of vials from a rack on the far wall.
“I need eighteen!” Kirby shouted at him across the table, causing the man to turn back around and collect some more vials. “Three samples per vat, which I trust you’ve been doing?”
The man came rapidly back around to Kirby and held the vials out for him to take. Kirby looked at the vials, then up at the man.
“In a vial case perhaps?”
The man repeated his jog around the table, vials clutched between his hands. Back at the far wall, he saw a padded case on a shelf but couldn’t reach it for holding the vials.
“Help, maybe!” Kirby said to the older researcher, who’d been sitting silently the last few minutes watching the exchange between the other two men.
The older researcher sprang into action, jumping off his chair and going around the table to grab the case. He opened it, laid it down and the young man dropped the vials into the interior padding. They both fitted the vials into pre-cut slots, snapped the case closed and the younger researcher handed the case to Kirby.
“Good!” Kirby said, turning and walking off to the east corridor and towards the vats.
The two men watched him go.
“My god, is he autistic or something? He sits there rocking on his chair, mumbling to himself, then has these outbursts,” the young assistant said.
The older man laughed and turned back to his work.
“They don’t call him Rain Man for nothing,” he replied.
The vats of experimental bio-fuel mixes were located about three hundred feet away from the lab. Requiring a walk through the facility, then outside to the storage area.
Kirby walked the length of the east wing and checked his watch: 1.22pm. Any second now the pass-card-operated door lock should go green to show it was unlocked; right now it was glowing red.
“Come on!” he murmured to himself, aware he barely had time to get the next step done by 2.00pm.
With the benefit of a hacked CCTV system that watched over the facility, the engineer who was orchestrating the switching off and on of the various systems watched Kirby walking down the east wing. He saw him a few steps away from the door to the outside, typed a command on his computer and unlocked the door.
Kirby saw the electronic door access light go green. He breathed a sigh of relief and pushed the door open. He’d been told he’d be watched and helped, but where and how he hadn’t been told in detail.
Hannover all over, half information and even less trust, he thought as he stepped out of the building and into the afternoon air. It felt cool as he breathed it in and, as always, it had the pungent aroma of what to Kirby smelt like cooking oil that had gone rancid.
Glancing around for anyone who might notice him going to the vats, he saw no one and felt another wave of relief. Though like those inside he didn’t have to worry about being challenged, he preferred to carry out his task without an audience.
He looked across the roadway in front of him and to the six tall, black-painted vats. The huge cylinder-shaped tanks reminded him of oversized oil drums, appropriate for what they contained, he’d thought to himself on occasion. Stepping away from the door he made his way along the paved pathway to the road and towards the vats.
They were perhaps five metres across and thirty metres high. Thick pipes ran from the top of each vat, all heading off in the same direction, towards the distillation plant someway behind. All the vats were contained within a high wall, with a chain-mesh gate in the middle of the wall, facing towards Kirby as he approached.
How Hannover were going to ‘disappear’ all of this was beyond him.
He saw the pass-card reader on the gate was red and stared at it, willing it to turn green. As if hearing his wish, the light turned from red to green, unlocking the gate as he was just a couple of feet away. Hairs pricked up on the back of his neck thinking of himself being so closely watched by some unknown observer.
The gate creaked open a little as the lock was switched off. Kirby swung it open and passed through, taking a final look around to see if anyone had seen him. Convinced that no one had, he pulled the gate shut and, hearing the lock re-engage, moved to the side and hid against the surrounding brick wall. It felt good to be out of the watchful eye of CCTV.
In front of him were the containers of bio-fuel, each containing a different experimental mixture.
The pipes and cables above cast a spider’s web of shadows onto the ground, ground that was blackened and gelatinous from the many small spills of oil that had occurred over the years. That was how the facility managed to smell like it did: the oil and chemicals were as much a part of the surrounding ground as the ground itself.
He looked at the base of the closest container and saw the sample tap from where he could fill the vials he was carrying. Stepping quietly over to it and keeping aware if anyone might be around him, he then reminded himself it was perfectly normal for the lab staff to be here. Kirby felt himself relax at the thought.
He placed the case down and clicked it open. Removing a vial, he unscrewed the top and presented it to the thin spout of the metal tap. Slowly opening the valve, the greenish black liquid poured out and filled the vial.
Once filled, he closed the valve, fastened the vial and wrote on the label ‘Vat 1: e2-f8-a5’, the vat number and code for the mixture that could be matched to the research papers he’d stolen.
Kirby made his way around the vats, filling all of the sample vials, three for each vat, and labelling and replacing them into the case.
“Where are you, you idiot?” the engineer asked to the screen he was monitoring.
Kirby had gone off camera when he had entered the compound nearly half an hour ago.
“You should be out by now!”
The engineer reached for a two-way radio on his desk.
“Groundsman, any movement?”
A few seconds of static followed. “Checking…” came the reply, followed by a click and the hiss of more static.
The Groundsman was in fact one of the facility’s security staff, the person who’d helped Hannover understand how to access the security systems they were now hacked into. He left the security cabin at the rear gate of the facility, where the tankers and supply trucks came through to feed the research or take away fuels ready for use by the various oil companies. The cabin was no more than sixty metres away from the storage area he knew Kirby should have left about five minutes ago.
He walked down the tarmac roadway, past parked trucks and crates stacked with oil drums. Nearing the storage area, he saw no sign of Kirby.
“Gates closed,” he said into the radio.
“I can see that, where’s Father Christmas?” the engineer asked back.
Enjoying the visceral nature of the job, a great change from the administration of the lab, Kirby approached to the final vat and realised he’d not been watching the time.
“Good lord!” he said aloud, checking his watch: 1.55pm. “I’m late!” He filled the last of the vials as fast as he could, labelling and placing them back into the case.
His task was to be finished by 2.00pm, with him at the gate for when it opened.
He slammed the case shut, stood quickly and jogged around the vat and back to the gate. He reached it and saw the pass-card reader was showing red.
“Crap,” he exclaimed, pulling on the gate.
In a panic, Kirby instinctively went to use his pass-card and open the gate. The Groundsman took his last few steps to the gate and appeared suddenly in front of it.
“Wait!” he said, seeing what Kirby was about to do, making him jump with surprise.
The guard raised the radio and turned to the camera on the building Kirby had exited earlier.
“Knock knock,” he said.
The gate clicked open and, after taking a moment to register he could come out, Kirby swung it wide and left the storage area.
“Afternoon, doctor,” the Groundsman said casually. Before a shocked Kirby could reply, he turned and walked off back to the cabin.
In a moment of insight, he realised he was not only being watched and assisted from afar; there were others with Hannover connections inside the facility.
Why don’t they just tell us who’s who sometimes! he thought as he watched the man walk off.
The engineer was exasperated. Come on, snap out of it and get back to the lab, you idiot, the engineer thought to himself, watching Kirby on the camera.
He saw Kirby close his mouth and turn, headed back to the doorway he’d come out of earlier.
As he approached, the pass-key turned green as before. He stepped in, closed the door and headed to the lab.
When he arrived, the staff made little eye contact, which was just fine for him.
He went straight to his office, placed the case on the floor by his desk and sat down to regain his composure. Hannover had obviously prepared the ground a little more then he’d realised. He’d imagined he was alone, and yet clearly there were others who knew about him, but he knew nothing about them.
A secret organisation indeed, he thought to himself, recalling the image of the spider’s web pattern around the vats. Very fitting, he added.
Kirby spent the rest of the afternoon working in his office, occasionally checking that the data pen was still in his pocket and trying not to look suspiciously at the case full of vials by his desk.
Around 6.00pm the lab was finally empty, all the staff heading home without a word.
Kirby jumped up and went to where the young researcher had got the vials for him earlier in the day. He took another eighteen from the vial rack and placed them into a washing machine underneath the table next to a collection of dirty vials, dishes and other lab equipment needing a clean down.
Slamming the door shut, he selected a wash programme and turned the machine on. It started the washing cycle.
“There’s your vials back,” he said to the empty room, but thinking of the researcher who’d empty it in the morning.
Kirby went back to his desk, snapped open the sample case and checked the vials once last time. This was it then, he wasn’t just copying data and taking samples, he was really going to steal them.
Leaning down under his desk he retrieved his backpack, one he always used to bring his laptop and other items to work. He removed the vials from the sample case and placed them into the backpack packet and zipped it closed. With the vials secure he checked his pocket one last time.
He whipped off his lab-coat, threw the backpack over his shoulder, grabbed the empty vial case and deposited it near the sink. He made his way out of the lab, the heist complete and valuables secured on his person.
Breaking into a smile as he passed security, Kirby got into his car and drove from the facility, feeling like a bank robber who’d escaped with the loot.
He arrived home just as a light rain began to fall.
Thank you for reading! If you’re enjoying the story, be sure to give a clap or 50 and leave a comment. Connect with me on Twitter @markjdiez for updates on this and other novels and writing. New chapters are published every Monday and Thursday, bookmark this page!
Next Chapter (October 8th)
9 : The Meeting
