Sinclair happened to meet the headmaster at the St. Albans School, Valentine Prescott, at a fundraiser for endangered marine life in Sydney just a few months earlier. Their conversation had been a pleasant one, though brief, and consisted of their shared joy of snorkeling. But based on the way Prescott hemmed and hawed over the request to land on the St. Albans athletic fields, Sinclair concluded that he hadn’t made the kind of impression that immediately endeared him to the school’s director.
When they hung up, Sinclair pointed at Alfred and smiled. “There’s not much a generous one million dollar donation won’t solve.”
“Are you ready to move, sir?” Alfred asked.
“Did you get clearance for us to utilize the airspace over the city?”
Alfred nodded. “There will be another fifty thousand dollars required for the White House official who grants such clearance. I trust that you’re prepared to meet such demands.”
“Of course,” Sinclair said. “That’s a bargain for sure, Alfred. I may not even charge you for the difference in what it costs for me to rent a helicopter.”
“Thank you, sir,” Alfred said. “That’s most kind.”
Sinclair rolled his eyes.
Nothing like a tenured butler.
* * *
A HALF HOUR LATER, Sinclair ducked as he exited the heli taxi and hustled across the St. Albans School athletics field. He waved at the boys crowded along the fence, many of them staring slack-jawed at the Australian billionaire. Hustling toward the sidewalk, Sinclair found a limousine waiting by the curb, complete with a gloved driver standing by an open door.
“Are we going to make it on time?” Sinclair asked, buttoning his jacket as he approached the vehicle.
“Without question, sir,” the man said. “However, I won’t be able to get you up to the steps due to the security protocol. You’ll have to cross the street at the corner. I trust that won’t inconvenience you too much.”
Sinclair nodded. “I understand. It’s the price of safety in this day and age.”
He eased inside and slid across the seat. Once his door was closed, the driver strode around to the front and made exactly two turns before he reached the unloading zone.
Sinclair tipped the man and crossed the street.
Once inside the church, he wove through the sea of diplomats and dignitaries, all on hand to pay their last respects to Madeline Young. Sinclair knew most of the people on hand had never even met the First Lady. Not that he was intimately acquainted with her either. He’d spoken with her on two different occasions, both times expressing her dissatisfaction with the leadership of her husband. He explained that there were other options, which piqued her interest—and eventually persuaded her to volunteer to help.
Sinclair resisted the urge to smile as he approached the front door where photographers swarmed like a hive of hornets deliberating over their next victim. He knew Madeline Young wasn’t dead, but he needed to at least give the appearance of someone who was saddened by her passing. From what he’d seen on television, even President Young seemed convinced that his wife had passed away in the attack.
After forking over his invitation to one of the secret service agents, a man waved his wand around the sleek contours of Sinclair’s body. Once the guard was finished, he gestured for Sinclair to go into the sanctuary, satisfied that he wasn’t a threat to anyone.
And at a cursory glance, the guard was right. But Sinclair was determined to parlay his invite into an event that disrupted the world’s power structure.
Once the funeral began, Sinclair sat restlessly through several homages of people who were sharing stories about the public face of Madeline Young—kind, amicable, classy. But Sinclair had heard otherwise from others working closely with her. Behind closed doors, she was a monster, sharp-tongued and not a fan of her husband’s policies. And according to one staffer, she wasn’t happy with her husband in general, not to mention that she had a reputation among the Secret Service for carrying on a potentially scandalous dalliance or two. Her penchant for such relationships inspired his plan to have the late General Fortner woo her, a suggestion that didn’t need much encouragement given how gorgeous the First Lady was. She wasn’t Sinclair’s type, but she seemed to be more than desirable to most men, and he leveraged that into Obsidian’s infiltration of the White House bedroom. But Sinclair’s plan was far from finished.
He pulled out his pocket watch again, checking the time. An hour had elapsed since the funeral started, and the eulogies began to sound all alike.
Once the service finally ended, Sinclair joined a procession with President Young and his invited friends and family to the graveside service. Without any cell phones allowed and only one pool photographer for the press, Sinclair saw the opportunity to connect with the president without prying eyes. Sinclair was prepared to issue an invitation that Young would be inclined to receive with just the right pitch. And since Sinclair had already engineered the compelling reason that would stir the president’s emotions, acceptance was a mere formality.
As Madeline Young’s casket and faked remains were lowered into the ground, Young stood by the graveside, head bowed and hands clasped in front of him. His tear-stained cheeks shook as his soft crying transitioned to wailing.
Sinclair decided to seize the moment of grief and approached Young. A Secret Service agent slid in front of Sinclair and put a hand to his chest followed by a subtle shake of his head.
“Give him a moment,” the agent said.
“Of course,” Sinclair replied, backing away.
After another minute, the man looked at Sinclair and nodded at him before gesturing toward Young.
Sinclair strode up to the president and put his arm around him. “I’m so sorry for your loss, sir.”
Young looked up and turned toward Sinclair, their eyes locking. “Did you know my wife?”
Sinclair shook his head. “Unfortunately, our paths never crossed. And based off all I heard today, since she’s gone makes that fact an even sadder one.”
“She was a big fan of all your space exploration,” Young said, his dour countenance lightening as he recalled his wife’s enthusiasm for space travel. “I don’t know how many times she implored me to direct NASA to restart the shuttle program and take more trips into space. I think deep down she thought she might be able to sneak on a future mission as a pilot.”
The two men began walking toward the line of waiting vehicles.
“I was certainly aware of her passion for space exploration,” Sinclair said.
“Well, I appreciate you coming to pay your last respects to a woman you never even met. I know it likely wasn’t easy for you to get here so quickly, but I was pleased to hear from my staff that you were interested in attending today.”
“It’s the least I can do.”
“Is there something more you’d like to do?”
Sinclair nodded. “As a matter of fact, there is. I know that you’re still grieving over your wife’s death, but you shouldn’t be. The only reason we’re standing here is because of another violent act from someone determined to inflict pain on you personally as well as instill more fear into the American people.”
“And there’s little we can do about it, especially when the world is teeming with terrorists intent on raining down death and destruction on our country. We do what we can, but it’s difficult to fight a foe with nothing to lose.”
“Until now,” Sinclair said. “My team has engineered a new weapon that might help you turn the table on terrorists and make them fear you like never before. Interested?”
Young stopped, his eyebrows shooting upward as he cocked his head to one side. “Very much so.”
“Excellent,” Sinclair said. “Next week, I’ll be conducting a private demonstration that I would love for you to see for yourself. I’ll send your office all the details.”
Young offered his hand to Sinclair, which he took. “I’ll look forward to it.”
“We’ll put an end to this
era of fear in our world,” Sinclair said. “Good day, Mr. President.”
Sinclair resisted the urge to smile as he strode toward his limousine. However, when he reached the door, J.D. Blunt was waiting for him, leaning against the side of the vehicle and chewing on a cigar.
“Mr. Sinclair, what a surprise,” Blunt said. “I had no idea you were even acquainted with the First Lady.”
Sinclair stroked his chin. “Surprised? I hardly believe that since you helped secure this invitation for me.”
“I don’t trust people who struggle with sarcasm.”
“That’s the difference between you and me,” Sinclair said. “I don’t trust anyone.”
“Whatever your end game is, I advise you to leave President Young out of it. He’s not to be messed with.”
“And how are you going to stop him whenever he decides that partnering with me is in the best interest of his country? A coup? A revolt? I advise you to stay in your lane. Now, if you’ll excuse me, I have business elsewhere that I need to attend to.”
Blunt didn’t budge. “No, you have some business with me that needs your attention right now.” He held out his cell phone. “Call that number and give the order for my niece to be released.”
Sinclair furrowed his brow. “Why would I do that?”
“I upheld my end of the bargain.”
“I don’t bargain, Mr. Blunt. I command. And when we’re done, you’ll get your precious niece back.”
“So help me, when I—”
“I’d stop right there if I were you,” Sinclair said. “I’ve found that nothing makes a man look weaker than issuing empty threats. And I doubt you want to appear any weaker than you already do.”
Blunt glanced around to make sure no one was looking at them. Satisfied that their conversation was private, he pulled back his jacket revealing his gun and glanced at it.
“Another empty threat,” Sinclair said. “You’re weak, and you’ll never get this close to me ever again.”
He pushed his way past Blunt and stepped inside the limo. “When President Young accepts my invitation, I’ll release your niece if I’m in a generous mood when I receive the news. If not, I might hold on to her for a few days just for fun. Good day, Mr. Blunt.”
Sinclair pulled the door shut and exhaled. He picked up his phone and dialed a number.
“I need someone to watch Mr. Blunt,” Sinclair said. “He’s going to be more trouble than I first thought.”
CHAPTER 5
Berlin, Germany
HAWK PULLED HIS HOOD over his head and tugged on the drawstrings. He took Alex’s hands as they strolled along casually. The Spree River flowed gently through the center of the city, creating an interesting juxtaposition between the serene water and the bustling metropolis. Even at 1:30 a.m., Berlin was abuzz with activity.
As they veered down Köpenicker Street toward Tresor nightclub, Hawk could already feel the pulsating base rhythms vibrating in his chest. He took a deep breath and caught a whiff of cigarette smoke mixed with marijuana. They strode toward the entrance, passing several couples engaged in unashamed makeout sessions.
“How can someone who watches Bollywood movies enjoy visiting this kind of dance club?” Hawk asked.
Alex smiled and winked at him. “Work assignments.”
“All of a sudden, that raises all kinds of questions.”
She yanked on his arm and dragged him toward the door. “Come on,” she said. “I promise not to make you dance. Just let me do all the talking here. And put on your sunglasses, okay?”
Hawk nodded and complied with her requests. He remained silent while studying the club’s clientele.
They waited in line for ten minutes before reaching the door of the three-story industrial building that used to be a heating plant, according to Alex. The bouncer at the door had a shaved head except for a strip of spiked hair, proudly displaying the intricate symbol tattooed across his brow.
“Who are you here to see?” the man asked in German.
“My favorite DJ, False Witness,” Alex responded in crisp German.
The man eyed Hawk. “And what about him?”
“He’s with me and a little too stoned to talk.”
The bouncer held out his hand. “Twenty Euros each.”
Alex forked over the cash and rushed inside before the man changed his mind.
“What was that all about?” Hawk asked.
“These clubs are notorious for discriminating at the door, oftentimes for no good reason. And if you’re American or British, your chances of getting inside aren’t great, even on a night when the bouncers are feeling generous.”
“Did you ever get turned away?”
“Bouncers are like cops,” she said. “Just bat your eyes and make a sad puppy dog face. Works every time I get in pinch.”
Hawk rolled his eyes. “Can you use your superpower to find Helenos-9 so we can get out of here?”
“What? I thought we might stay and dance some.”
Hawk shook his head. “This isn’t my scene.”
She drew back. “Why not? I’ve already seen at least three people sporting cowboy boots.”
“You’re not nearly as funny as you think you are.”
Alex chuckled. “Follow me.”
She led Hawk up to the bar where she called for the bartender.
“Peter,” she said.
He turned around, and his eyes widened as soon as he recognized her. “Alex? Is that you?”
She nodded. “In the flesh.”
“You’re an angelic apparition,” he said. “I never thought I’d see you again.”
“Well, here I am.”
“Yes, you are,” Peter said as he cut his eyes over at Hawk. “And who’s this?”
“This is my boyfriend, Carlos.”
“Oh, Carlos, what a lucky man you are,” Peter said. “Alex is fabulous.”
Hawk nodded. “I’m starting to believe that’s the case.”
Peter turned toward Alex. “What are you doing back here?”
“I need a little help.”
“With what?”
Alex glanced around the room before looking back at Peter. “Have you seen Ian tonight?”
“Oh, he’s in the back corner up there,” he said, pointing at the third floor. “But better catch him before he has too many more drinks in him.”
“Of course,” she said, wasting no more time talking and hustling away from the bar. “Good to see you, Peter.”
“Wait, I wanted to—”
His voice vanished in a sea of conversations muted by the pulsating rhythms of techno mix.
Hawk leaned forward and spoke loudly in Alex’s ear. “Carlos? Really? I thought you’d come up with something a little more appropriate than that.”
She smiled and shook her head. “Be glad I didn’t go with something less imposing like Melvin.”
“I don’t really care,” Hawk said. “But seriously, what was that all about at the bar with Peter?”
“It’s nothing. He’s a nosy character, so I wanted to get out of there before he started grilling you. He’s rather protective of me in a big brother kind of way.”
They hustled up the steps and strode over to Ian, the infamous Helenos-9 when he was online. He wore a white polo with his collar popped up and a pair of sunglasses. When he stood to greet Alex, Hawk was struck by just how short the hacker was. However, he seemed to not even notice Hawk.
But the strangest thing about Ian was the plump, white rat perched on his shoulder.
“Business or pleasure?” Ian asked Alex after giving her a hug.
“Business,” she said.
“Is it urgent?”
She nodded.
“Come with me.”
Hawk and Alex followed him around the corner to a small room with a pair of couches. The glass forming the outside walls were opaque enough to keep out any peeping Toms.
Ian gestured for them to both sit down and locked the door before taking a seat across fr
om them. He held the back of his hand near his right shoulder and allowed his rat to walk off it. Hawk watched with wide-eyed amazement as Ian scooped up the rat and cuddled with it.
“What do you need help with?” Ian asked, dispensing with any formalities.
She placed the flash drive on the coffee table and slid the device to him. “It requires a RSA 4096 bit encryption key. Think you can crack it?”
Ian picked it up and studied the device. “How soon do you need it?”
“Tomorrow.”
He drew back and shook his head. “No way. Do you know how difficult these things are to get into?”
“I do. Otherwise, I wouldn’t be here. My skills have vastly improved since we last worked together.”
“I’ll see what I can do.”
“Good,” Alex said. “And I’ll need to come with you.”
Ian handed the device back to her. “That’s a deal breaker for me. I’m not about to let you see where I live and work.”
“Fine, but you better not let the device out of your sight.”
“Agreed,” Ian said. “Are you prepared to pay my fee?”
She nodded. “Is it still two hundred thousand Euros?”
“Two fifty now.”
“Two fifty?”
“Inflation.”
“I’ll give you three hundred if you can get this back to me within twenty-four hours,” Alex said.
Brady Hawk 19 - Divide and Conquer Page 3