Charlie Thorne and the Last Equation

by Stuart Gibbs

  Whatever the case, she had made a mistake.

  Semel was under a great deal of pressure to find Pandora. His orders had come from high up the chain of command. Perhaps from the prime minister himself. Whatever country controlled Pandora would instantly become a superpower. The United States already had the leverage to intimidate its enemies; Israel didn’t, but they could certainly use it.

  Besides, if Einstein had wanted any country to have Pandora, it was Israel. The country might not have even existed if not for Einstein. After the great scientist had become an international celebrity, he had used his clout to support Zionism, making speeches and pressuring leaders all over the world to establish Israel. He had helped found the university. He had even left the clue to Pandora in the university’s own vault—only everyone there had carelessly overlooked it for decades.

  Another aide hurried over to Semel. One of his teams had spotted the SUV and was closing in.

  Semel finally allowed himself a smile. Perhaps Israel would end up with Pandora after all.

  • • •

  The Furies sped along the highway from Jerusalem in a stolen van. The driver lay unconscious in the back. Merely taking the car from him would have been risky; he would have immediately called the police, who would have put out an APB for the car.

  Alexei was going well above the speed limit. Oleg held the Mossad radio, listening to the agents closing in on Charlie Thorne. Fez, Hans, and Vladimir sat in the back, clutching their guns, ready for battle.

  Alexei floored the gas and prayed to God that he would get to Charlie Thorne before the Mossad.

  FORTY

  Thirty miles from Tel Aviv

  On a country road outside of Beit Shemesh, the Mossad agents closed in on the SUV. They stayed several car lengths behind it for half a mile, far enough so as to not raise suspicion, waiting for a team coming east on the highway to move into position. It was late enough for traffic to have thinned out; there was plenty of open road around the SUV.

  At a signal from the team leader, the eastbound team suddenly veered across the median. The SUV swerved to avoid them, skidding off the side of the road and slamming into an embankment. The Mossad boxed it with their Humvees, then leapt out with their guns raised, screaming for everyone inside to get their hands up.

  Only the driver complied. The Mossad yanked the rear doors open.

  There was no one else inside.

  • • •

  Semel grew angrier and angrier at himself as his agent explained what had happened:

  The car hadn’t been driven by anyone at the CIA. Instead, there was a teenager from Jerusalem at the wheel. He had pulled into a gas station off the highway fifteen minutes before and a cute girl had come over to ask for directions. When the Mossad had shown the teen a photo of Charlie Thorne, he had immediately recognized her.

  What the teen hadn’t known was that Charlie Thorne had duct-taped the burner phone to the rear bumper of his car. It was dialed to a technical support line in America; the call was still on hold, creating a false signal for the Mossad to home in on.

  Semel screamed in rage. The ruse had distracted his men for less than fifteen minutes, but still, that might have been enough. The highway to Bet Shemesh cut south of the route to Tel Aviv. Semel had pulled teams off that road to pursue the false target, leaving a hole in the net.

  Now more precious time had slipped by.

  “Get back to the exit points!” he ordered his men over the radio. “Cover the airport and the ports. I don’t want another plane or boat leaving this country until we have Charlie Thorne!”

  • • •

  Alexei listened to Semel yelling over the radio as he swerved into the drop-off lane at Ben Gurion Airport. He had made the right choice, trusting John Russo and coming here rather than following the Mossad. However, he now had a new challenge. John had said Charlie Thorne would be coming to the airport, but they still had to find her.

  Ben Gurion wasn’t an extremely large airport, but it was still busy at this time of night. The Furies abandoned their car outside the main terminal and split up, Alexei staying outside to observe the arriving passengers, the others going in to scan the security lines.

  Alexei hurried back and forth, searching desperately, every second feeling like a lost opportunity. Doubt was just beginning to gnaw at him—wondering whether John had made a mistake, just like the Mossad—when God smiled on him again.

  He wasn’t sure why he had turned away from the terminal; he simply had. And in that moment he saw an SUV speed past him, driven by Dante Garcia. Charlie Thorne was in the back.

  Alexei watched it pass the main terminal, heading toward the smaller private terminal nearby, then called his men and hailed a cab.

  • • •

  Charlie, Dante, and Milana were the only passengers in the small private terminal. There were no other private planes leaving at that time. Halfway through the terminal was a security screening area, and beyond that were three gates for boarding. The boarding areas were much fancier than those in the regular passenger terminals Charlie had seen, with leather couches and plasma-screen TVs.

  There were only two security agents on duty, and despite the menacing guns they carried, they seemed happy to see people, excited to have something to do. They didn’t seem concerned that Charlie, Dante, and Milana had no luggage; that wasn’t unusual for chartered flights. The CIA agents had reluctantly left the guns they had taken from the Mossad back in the car, not wanting to cause alarm.

  The far end of the terminal was a wall of glass. Charlie could see the jet she had ordered on the tarmac, fueling up for the long flight they had ahead.

  Charlie struggled to remain calm as the security agents scrutinized their passports, doing her best not to show any nerves, to act like this was routine for her, like she flew private jets all the time. The agents asked them all a few questions, then nodded happily at their answers.

  “Have a nice flight,” one told them.

  And then a red phone at the security station started ringing. Both security agents looked at it curiously, as though they had forgotten the phone even existed. It appeared neither had ever heard it ring before.

  Charlie looked to Dante, worried. Dante mouthed, Run.

  Then Dante looked at Milana and nodded.

  One of the security agents answered the phone.

  Charlie bolted for the end of the terminal.

  The security agents turned toward her, taking their eyes off Dante and Milana, who immediately leapt into action. The CIA agents caught the poor security agents by surprise, rendering them unconscious within seconds.

  The phone clattered to the floor. Dante could hear someone on the other end, speaking in Hebrew, saying the Mossad wanted the terminal shut down.

  Charlie glanced back their way as she ran. Behind Dante and Milana, at the other end of the terminal, she saw the doors slide open.

  The Furies raced through them, guns in their hands.

  FORTY-ONE

  Dante!” Charlie yelled. “The Furies!”

  Dante and Milana dove behind the X-ray scanners as the Furies opened fire. Charlie leapt over a couch in the waiting area and took cover behind it.

  Both CIA agents grabbed the guns from the unconscious security agents and returned fire, forcing the Furies to take cover themselves.

  They were now in a standoff, neither the CIA nor the Furies able to move without placing themselves in the line of fire.

  Crouched behind the couch, quivering with fear, Charlie looked back out the window at the jet she had ordered. She was much closer to the gate than the CIA, far enough from the Furies that she could probably make it out the door without getting shot. If she could get to the jet, she could escape. She was the one who had paid for it, after all. She could track down Pandora for herself—and then disappear, if she wanted to.

  But she couldn’t abandon Dante and Milana. If she left them behind, even if they did survive against the Furies, they would still be at the mercy
of the Mossad.

  A large industrial fire extinguisher was strapped to a support column close by. Charlie scurried from the cover of the couch to the column, yanked the extinguisher free, and rolled it back the way she had come. It moved slowly along the floor until it bumped up against the large floor-to-ceiling windows close to the security area.

  Charlie whistled for Dante’s attention.

  Dante looked back at her, seeming annoyed that his little sister was interrupting him in the middle of a gunfight.

  Charlie pointed at the extinguisher. Dante immediately understood what she wanted him to do.

  He took his gun and fired at the extinguisher. The first two bullets ricocheted harmlessly off the metal canister, but the third pierced it. The contents inside were under intense pressure, and when the casing was ruptured, it exploded in a cloud of white foam. The floor-to-ceiling window shattered, creating an instant escape route.

  Under the cover of the cloud, Dante and Milana ran for the hole in the window.

  The Furies came after them, firing wildly, unable to see their targets but hoping to get lucky.

  Charlie, concealed by the cloud as well, ran through the exit nearest her, the one she would have taken anyhow to get to the jet. As she emerged onto the tarmac, the noise of the busy runway was overwhelming. The scream of jet engines from the passenger terminal and the stench of jet fuel filled the air.

  A man was still pumping fuel into the private jet from a tanker. Like everyone else on the tarmac, he had plugs jammed into his ears so he wouldn’t go deaf from all the noise.

  Charlie waved wildly for the pilots’ attention. She also shouted, even though there was almost no way they could hear her, because it couldn’t hurt to at least try. “We need to go! Now!”

  Behind Charlie, Dante and Milana had made it through the hole in the glass and were sprinting across the tarmac.

  Inside the cockpit, the pilots spotted Charlie. Their orders were to do whatever she asked. So despite the fact that fuel was still pumping in from the tanker truck, they fired up the engines and began to turn toward the runway.

  The hose dropped from the tanker, spraying fuel across the tarmac.

  The tanker’s operator started toward the truck to shut the gas off, but retreated when he saw the Furies emerge from the terminal, shooting at the CIA.

  Dante and Milana fired back as they ran.

  The jet was designed for speed in the air, not the ground. As it slowly rotated away from the terminal, airplane fuel pooled beneath it. Charlie skidded in it as she scrambled for the door.

  The pilots opened the jet door automatically. A set of stairs descended with a railing attached. Charlie snagged the rail, hauled herself up, and dove inside.

  But she still wasn’t safe. The Furies didn’t have to shoot her to kill her; they just had to shoot the fuel tanker.

  The tanker was only twenty feet away, easily holding enough fuel to reduce the jet to scrap metal.

  Plus, it was an easy target.

  Dante and Milana realized this too. Both spun and dropped to the tarmac. In the darkness, they were hard to see, whereas the Furies were out in the open with the well-lit terminal behind them, making them far better targets. The CIA agents emptied their guns.

  One after the other the Furies screamed in pain and dropped. Alexei was the last to go. He was hit three times before he finally collapsed.

  The CIA agents leapt to their feet and ran after the jet again.

  The jet was now moving faster. Charlie leaned back out the door.

  Behind Dante and Milana, more people began streaming out of the hole in the terminal. Mossad agents most likely. They started shooting too.

  Milana reached the jet first. Charlie stuck out her hand and Milana grabbed on. Charlie hauled her to the steps and through the door. Milana collapsed on the floor inside, exhausted.

  However, Dante was still a few feet away and the jet was picking up speed. Bullets pinged off the tarmac around him.

  “Get inside!” the pilots yelled to Charlie. “We need to close the door so we can take off!”

  Charlie didn’t move from the stairs. She wrapped one arm around the railing and leaned toward Dante, extending the other arm. “Come on!” she yelled.

  Dante used the last of his strength to lunge the final few steps, diving for the plane.

  On the tarmac, Fez was badly wounded but still alive. He rolled over with his gun and made a last-ditch attempt to stop the plane. He aimed at the fuel tanker and emptied his clip.

  Bullets sparked off the metal.

  Charlie caught Dante’s arm. His weight nearly yanked Charlie off the jet, but she held on tight.

  The tanker exploded. A ball of fire raced toward the plane. The pool of fuel on the ground ignited.

  The concussion of the blast threw Dante forward, onto Charlie, and both tumbled into the cabin of the jet.

  The jet raced toward the runway, pulling clear of the fireball as the flames licked its tail and the tarmac burst into flame behind it.

  Fez fell back to the ground, his body searing with pain, and screamed in frustration.

  The Mossad agents swept toward the fallen Furies.

  Lying on the tarmac, Alexei was dialing his phone, calling John Russo.

  To his surprise, the call went right to voice mail. Even though John had said he would remain available.

  Through the flickering heat of the blaze on the tarmac, Alexei saw the private jet speed down the runway and lift into the air.

  “The girl is still alive,” Alexei gasped. “And she’s on a plane.”

  Then the Mossad was upon him.

  • • •

  On the jet, Charlie, Dante, and Milana were so exhausted they could barely buckle themselves into their seats. Charlie looked out the window as Israel dropped away beneath them, a curve of bright lights along the inky blackness of the Mediterranean Sea.

  The copilot emerged from the cockpit, looking shaken from the takeoff. “Is everyone okay back here?” he asked.

  “We’ve been better,” Charlie replied. “Thanks for your help back there.”

  The copilot nodded. “I know the standard contract says that you’re entitled to discretion, but I have to ask: Who on earth are you guys?”

  “Bible salesmen,” Charlie said. “Unfortunately, there were some misprints in the new versions we were selling. They said you should respect the Lord your Dog. That was a sect of rabid fundamentalists you just saved us from.”

  The copilot shook his head and smiled. “All right. I’ll let you be.” He ducked back into the cockpit and closed the door behind him.

  Dante turned to Charlie and said, “Where are we going, kid?”

  Charlie replied, “Get me a pencil and paper and I’ll explain it.”

  • • •

  At Mossad headquarters, Semel answered the call from Ben Gurion.

  “Commander. This is Agent Avakian. The CIA and the girl escaped.”

  Semel furiously kicked over a trash can. “How did that happen?!”

  Avakian quickly explained. He also told Semel about the five other men who had been shooting at the CIA. Three had died from gunshot wounds, while the two who survived were being interrogated. They had coughed up plenty of interesting information, but seemed to truly have no idea where the CIA jet was heading.

  “Where did the pilots file a flight plan for?” Semel asked.

  “Copenhagen.”

  Semel sighed. “So Copenhagen is the one place in the world we know they’re not going. Did anyone get the plane’s ID number?”

  “NC177806.”

  There was a good chance that was fake too, but Semel didn’t have many other leads. “Did the tower keep track of the plane once it took off?”

  “They know it headed toward Europe, but most flights from here take off in that direction. And the ground crew had nearly filled the tanks while it was here, so it has enough fuel to go all the way to America.”

  Or anywhere else on the planet, thought Semel.
He asked, “Can you get the exact coordinates of its angle of departure?”

  “I’ll try.”

  It took Agent Avakian a few minutes. The jet had, in fact, locked coordinates for a northeastern route and maintained them until they had left the range of Ben Gurion’s radar, fifty miles out. The jet wouldn’t have to keep the exact coordinates it had started off for, of course, but Semel guessed it wouldn’t alter them too much. And if it didn’t, there was a way he might be able to find it.

  It was a long shot, but he would have to bet on it.

  PART THREE

  THE BEGINNING OF THE UNIVERSE

  You never fail until you stop trying.

  —ALBERT EINSTEIN

  FORTY-TWO

  Somewhere above the Mediterranean Sea

  The hired jet was much nicer than the one Charlie, Dante, and Milana had come to Israel on. There was a fully stocked kitchenette and bar—not to mention a bedroom, a small screening room, and a bathroom with a working shower. No one had eaten the entire time they were in Israel and they were all starving, so Dante and Milana made sandwiches while Charlie, seated on the couch, sketched Einstein’s clue from memory again:

  When Dante and Milana brought the sandwiches over, Charlie presented her work and said, “It’s elementary.”

  “Meaning it’s easy?” Milana asked, incredulous. “Because it’s not.”

  “No, it’s elementary,” Charlie corrected. “That’s Einstein’s clue to solving the problem. Sherlock Holmes’s most famous quote. This cipher is literally elementary: The numbers are all atomic numbers for the elements. It’s not math: It’s science. Einstein’s greatest love.”

  There was a small library on the jet—a few shelves of books to divert passengers on long flights. Charlie found a dictionary and opened it to “element,” where, as she had expected, there was a periodic table. She handed it to Milana, who instantly recognized the lopsided grid she had spent hours studying in chemistry class: