The Devil's Triangle

by Catherine Coulter

  Adam’s head appeared from beneath his blanket. “Okay, okay, don’t rip my arm out. Yeah, I want to hear about this notebook.”

  Mike said, “As we all know, the Kohaths liked to keep journals, Appleton Kohath’s was the fodder for Elizabeth St. Germaine’s biography of him. But in this notebook, there’s no journaling, no entries at all. There is only a letter from Helen to her father, written a few days after she went missing in the Gobi in 2006.

  “After she went missing, not before.

  “And that means, of course, that Jason Kohath knew she was still alive and he never told Cassandra and Ajax. I’ll read it to you.”

  My dearest father,

  I found the Ark. I am now its guardian. It is up to me to protect it forever. The power of the Ark, it is overwhelming, Father, it fills my head, my body, my soul, it imbues me with life.

  I belong to it now, only me. I’m sorry I cannot come home, but it simply wasn’t ever intended to be, the Ark made that very clear to me. My greatest pain to bear is the loss of Cassandra and Ajax and what will happen to them. But neither you nor I can change the future for them, though I know you will continue to try until the time comes when you are no longer able to.

  I must leave now, so this is my goodbye. I love you, I have always admired you, and been astounded by your genius. Please believe I am happier than I have ever been in my life. The Ark—we will be well. No one will ever find us.

  All my love,

  Helen

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-THREE

  Over the Atlantic

  Only Mike and Nicholas still had their eyes open, but just barely. Nicholas was massaging her shoulders, and telling her they could visit to his parents at Farrow-on-Gray, or maybe a trip to see her parents in Omaha.

  The button at Nicholas’s elbow beeped.

  It was Clancy. “Nicholas, I’ve received a secure email from the Metropolitan Police of London. Gareth Scott?”

  “Thank you, Clancy. Send it to my mobile. You remember my old second at Scotland Yard, right, Mike?”

  At her nod, he added, “Penderley promoted him when I left to join the FBI. Let’s see what Gareth has to say.”

  Nicholas, update on St. Germaine and Maynes cases. Coroner’s court confirms both were poisoned with high doses of digitalis—foxglove—present in the tea tins from Fortnum & Mason. Caused cardiac arrest in both victims. Believe Lilith Forrester-Clarke is responsible, but seeing as she’s dead, I doubt we’ll ever know the complete truth. If you want details, give a shout. Do try not to get killed in the meantime. Oh, yes, your ex-wife, Pamela, is in London. We had dinner.

  Nicholas texted back, Thank you. Watch yourself with Pamela, Gareth.

  He paused, then texted, Really. And he pressed send.

  Mike touched her fingers to his face, then yawned again.

  “Gareth is right, we’ll never know the whole truth, about Cassandra and Ajax and all the things they did. You know what? I don’t think I really do want to know.”

  Nicholas said, “Hopefully the Genesis Group will continue their legitimate work with honest people at the helm.”

  “Time to hang it up, Nicholas, time to sleep.”

  But he couldn’t. Finally, he pulled out the thumb drive and plugged it into his laptop.

  “From Jason Kohath’s computer?”

  “You’re awake, too, are you? Yes, this is from Jason’s computer.” He began to scroll down, then stopped. “We’re going to need a team of astrophysicists to figure all this out and translate it for us so we have a prayer of understanding it.” He sat back, pulled her close. “Imagine, Mike, to be able to create lightning, to be able to create a thunderstorm, to whip up a sandstorm, to blow in a hurricane. We know the basic ingredients are moisture to form clouds and rain, then unstable air and lift. And we know unstable air has to be relatively warm to rise rapidly. But with the Coil and the lasers—it’s all quite remarkable and I don’t understand it.”

  “Will the astrophysicists?”

  He grinned at her. “We’ll see.”

  Mike said, “What if one of the astrophysicists could replicate it, Nicholas? And become another Jason Kohath?”

  “I believe we’re going to have to let our superiors decide. They knew what to do with the micro nukes Havelock created, they’ll know what to do with this information as well.”

  “And exactly what did our superiors do with the micro nukes?”

  He frowned. “I don’t know.”

  “There you go. Maybe some criminal or a spy got hold of the micro nukes and sold them to an enemy.”

  He studied the thumb drive lying on his palm, then slipped it back on its key ring and put it in his pocket.

  Mike smiled at him through another yawn. “We have one more task to perform before we can nap.”

  He raised a dark brow. “You’re calling it a task? Again? Aren’t you too tired? And on the boat, Mike, didn’t we already perform—”

  “Yes, yes, be quiet. Let’s call Zachery. I’d rather have him screaming at us at thirty-five thousand feet than in our faces.”

  Zachery didn’t yell at them, he was frankly too relieved. He’d gotten a call, he told them, from Kitsune—the Fox—and she’d told him everything, answered his questions, at least those she could. “She said you were both heroes and the world owes you a big debt. And then she blew me a kiss over the phone and said she doubted she’d ever be speaking to me again and have a good life and enjoy my doubtless stimulating future with you guys.”

  Kitsune had called their boss? Called them heroes?

  “Sir, did Kitsune also bother to tell you she saved my life—twice?”

  “Remember, the Venice ambush,” Mike called out. “She showed up there, too.”

  There was a pause, then Zachery said, “No, she didn’t tell me about saving your life, Nicholas. Is that why you let her go?”

  “She didn’t need either Mike or me to let her go, sir, she and her husband were gone, destination unknown, when Mike and I flew back to Cuba. Grant Thornton’s security firm, Blue Mountain, showed up in Cuba and flew them out.”

  Zachery sighed. “I hate to say this about a major international crook, but I like her, can’t help it. When she called you guys heroes, I heard a man laugh in the background. Her husband?”

  “Yes, a very brave man,” Mike said, “who appears to understand her very well.”

  Zachery sighed. “Why can’t things be black or white? Forget I said that, that’d be boring. Savich called me before Kitsune did, told me how you guys must have managed to stop the storm because the mammoth hurricane off Washington, D.C., simply up and disappeared. He said the meteorologists are flummoxed, no explanation, nothing, and that was nice to see. It will remain a mystery, needless to say.

  “Now, come home, rest a couple of days, then you have to go back to Italy, check in with the local police as well as the Carabinieri in Castel Rigone. Evidently you left bodies in tunnels and more bodies in wrecked cars off the highway.

  “Oh, one other thing. A local cop, Deputy Inspector Nando, said to tell you Major Russo of the Carabinieri was arrested. I don’t know for what exactly, but this Nando said you’d understand.”

  That was very fine news indeed. It was good to occasionally see some justice in the world.

  Nicholas said, “Sir, rather than fly home, Adam, Louisa, Mike, and I would like to chat up the police in Castel Rigone immediately, then drive over to Venice for a couple of days.”

  Zachery laughed, told them not to fall into the Grand Canal, punched off.

  “Venice, Nicholas? Really?”

  “Agent Caine, I promised you a night out in Venice. Adam and Louisa are all for it. I’ve already made a reservation.”

  “Where?”

  “You’ll see.”

  CHAPTER EIGHTY-FOUR

  Harry’s Bar, Calle Vallaresso

  Venice, Italy

  Saturday Night

  Harry’s Bar was a hole-in-the-wall that had proudly sat right on the Grand Canal since 1931. It
was arguably the most famous establishment in all of Venice, best known for its Bellinis—prosecco with white peach puree. Mike couldn’t wait.

  Nicholas was wearing a gorgeous gray cashmere jacket, slacks, and a crisp white shirt with a black tie, sinfully soft black Italian loafers on his feet, all purchased that afternoon from Armani in the Marzaria near the Rialto Bridge, close to Harry’s Bar and to their hotel. He’d had to admit his go-bag had let him down. To make matters worse, there was no Barney’s in Venice, so what was he to do?

  After he’d been outfitted, he and the salesman had talked Mike into a new little black dress. She’d put her foot down when the salesman had presented her with four-inch stilettos to go with the dress. She held firm, nope, it was her biker boots. Didn’t Nicholas agree?

  He agreed, laughing. If the biker boots were good enough for the president of the United States, they were good enough for Venice.

  The moment they stepped through the door of Harry’s Bar, the hostess was at his side, greeting him like she would a movie star, and Mike couldn’t blame her for that. She even waved away the maître d’ and led them herself to a prized table, right in the center of the room. She whisked away the RESERVED sign. She kept sneaking looks at Nicholas, probably trying to figure out who he was.

  Mike realized she was surrounded by beautiful people and some not so beautiful, but all were dressed to the hilt, diamonds flashing. Mike counted three celebrities she recognized, walking nonchalantly across the small room to head upstairs. One of the men paused, looked directly at her, and smiled, gave her a small salute.

  “Isn’t that Mark Ruffalo?”

  “Yes, I think it is. And Stanley Tucci was behind him. They just did a movie together.”

  She fiddled with the napkin. “I should have bought those mile-high killer stilettos, not been stubborn and worn my biker boots.”

  “Nah, those boots nearly brought Ruffalo over here to slaver on you.”

  Mike hated to wave that lovely image away. “I wonder what he would do if my mom—the Gorgeous Rebecca—was sitting here. He’d probably crawl over and pant like a puppy at her feet.”

  Nicholas thought Ruffalo had looked at Mike as if he wanted to sling her over his shoulder and take her to bed, but he kept his mouth shut. Her hair wasn’t in a ponytail this evening, no it was shining and loose around her shoulders, one side hooked back with a gold clip. He took her hand and kissed her fingers. His eyes never left hers. “Actually, now that I think about it, that hour we spent in the boat waiting for Rafael to come back to fetch us—the clothes you were wearing then were stunning as well.”

  She spurted out a laugh just as a waiter delivered their Bellinis.

  They toasted each other and sipped. It tasted like ambrosia and Mike wanted to drink it straight down and order another one, fast. She suspected that after a couple of these, she could fly over the Grand Canal, swoop down and kiss Louisa and Adam in their gondola.

  “I called Nigel, confessed to him I had to shop at Armani, but all he wanted to talk about was how you and I saved Washington, D.C. He said the news was blaring out how an apocalyptic storm slated to hit the city had people panicked, trying to drive inland, resulting in horrific traffic. And then it was simply gone, disappeared. And no one could explain it. I asked him why he thought you and I were responsible, and he laughed at me.”

  “And you’ll tell him all about our adventures when we get home, won’t you?”

  “I don’t plan to, but Nigel has his ways of learning anything he wants to know. Then I’ll have to bribe him not to tell my parents or my grandfather.”

  “Well, I’m going to tell my folks, not all of it, but the parts that make us look good and not like idiots. My dad will be impressed, and my mother will wonder what shape my nails are in.”

  Nicholas ordered them another round of Bellinis.

  “I wish Adam and Louisa were here. Do you think they’d give Adam a Bellini since he isn’t twenty-one?”

  “It’s Italy, Mike. Besides, when I asked him and Louisa to join us, they both shook their heads. Turns out Louisa had made him a deal: he’d go running with her and she’d pay extra for a long gondola in the moonlight, and sing him arias. I think Louisa even talked him into leaving his cell phone in the room.”

  • • •

  It was nearly midnight when they left Harry’s Bar and walked hand in hand back to their hotel beside the Grand Canal, a half-moon lighting their way, sparkling off the water. The night was warm, the air soft. They were both on the tipsy side, and it felt wonderful. There were very few people out this late and it was quiet, except for the gentle splashing of the water against the pylons. They’d forgotten their burned hands, their bruises, even forgotten the horror on that island in the Devil’s Triangle, Louisa’s new name for it.

  Nicholas pulled her to a stop.

  She cocked her head up at him as he reached into his pants pocket and pulled the thumb drive with Jason Kohath’s formula off his key ring. “You made me think about this some more. Who knows if Jason’s ideas, his formulas, his instructions, wouldn’t end up in the wrong hands? The world is rife with greedy, immoral people. It could easily happen.” He drew a deep breath. “So what do you think?”

  Mike never looked away from his face. “Throw it as far as you can into the canal.”

  He did. The thumb drive didn’t make a sound, simply slid beneath the surface of the dark water. They both hoped it would sit in the bottom silt until someday the city itself finally collapsed on top of it.

  They stood quietly. Then, “Listen, Mike.”

  Mike cocked her head. “What?”

  Nicholas said, “I think I heard Louisa singing the aria from Madame Butterfly.”

  EPILOGUE

  Somewhere Near Greece

  May 2, 2040

  The catch was good today. The hold of Christos’s boat was full of red mullet. His young son Alexio was resting on the pile of nets in the prow of the boat. Unlike his brother, Alexio wasn’t afraid of the Guardian.

  Before Christos steered the boat another mile into the bay below the promontory of their little island, he slowed his boat to look to the sheer granite cliffs, as he always did. His day never ended without seeing her, without saying his short prayer: Please keep my family safe and keep safe what you watch over, my lady.

  There had been many changes in the world since Christos was a boy, but the Guardian had never changed. She was always there, every night, silhouetted against the sunset, her hand to her forehead, shading her eyes as she looked out to sea. He wondered what she did, this woman, this amazing being, who was woven into the very fabric of his life. Like young Alexio, Christos had fished with his own father, and they’d seen her daily. Though the Guardian was far away, he could tell that in all these years she had never changed—her long white gown blowing gently against her legs, her golden hair braided in thick plaits atop her head, her skin smooth and white. He remembered her from his youngest years, remembered his father saying:

  I remember when she first appeared, Christos, and it was magic. I felt her goodness and I knew she was here to watch over us. I knew she was holy. She is holy. I knew she would never leave us.

  It was Christos, at five years old, who had waved madly at her from his father’s boat, now his boat, and he remembered so clearly how she had looked down at him, how she had nodded, recognizing the small boy, and he’d felt such warmth and deep sense of wonder and happiness. And he’d whispered, Guardian.

  Over the years, he’d listened to many stories about her, who she was, what she was, and what she was guarding, for all knew there was something that kept her there, year after year, decade after decade, but he’d never said anything. And no one spoke of her, no one tried to climb those cliffs to reach her.

  Christos bowed to her as he always did, and knew that she saw him, recognized him, blessed him. As a child, he’d felt warmth and wonder. Now he felt a deep sense of reverence, and awe. He looked to the prow of the boat to see Alexio waving at her. And she n
odded at his small son.

  Catherine Coulter is the author of the New York Times—bestselling FBI Thrillers The Cove, The Maze, The Target, The Edge, Riptide, Hemlock Bay, Eleventh Hour, Blindside, Blowout, Point Blank, Double Take, TailSpin, KnockOut, Whiplash, Split Second, Backfire, Bombshell, Power Play, Nemesis, and Insidious. She lives in Sausalito, California.

  New York Times bestselling author J.T. Ellison writes dark psychological thrillers starring Nashville Homicide Lt. Taylor Jackson and medical examiner Dr. Samantha Owens. Cohost of the premier literary television show A Word on Words, Ellison lives in Nashville with her husband and twin kittens. Visit JTEllison.com for more insight into her wicked imagination, or follow her on Twitter @thrillerchick or Facebook.com/JTEllison14.

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  authors.simonandschuster.com/Catherine-Coulter

  authors.simonandschuster.com/J-T-Ellison

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  THE FBI THRILLERS

  Insidious (2016)

  Nemesis (2015)

  Second Shot (2014): Eleventh Hour and Blindside

  Power Play (2014)

  Bombshell (2013)

  Backfire (2012)

  Split Second (2011)

  Twice Dead (2011): Riptide and Hemlock Bay

  Whiplash (2010)

  KnockOut (2009)

  TailSpin (2008)

  Double Jeopardy (2008): The Target and The Edge

  Double Take (2007)

  The Beginning (2005): The Cove and The Maze

  Point Blank (2005)

  Blindside (2003)

  Eleventh Hour (2002)

  Hemlock Bay (2001)

  Riptide (2000)

  The Edge (1999)

  The Target (1998)

  The Maze (1997)

  The Cove (1996)