The Medina Device
Page 4
He spent the afternoon at Massasoit Gun Club keeping his aim sharp. Afterwards, his cellphone rang while he was walking back to his truck.
“Mr. Lyle, have I caught you at a good time?”
“Is there ever a good time? Who’s this?” he asked, unable to identify the voice. White male, mid-sixties with a British accent, he noted.
“My name is Mr. Hall and I’d like to speak with you about a job opportunity,” the man politely stated.
“I already have a job, Mr. Hall. What exactly do you need help with, maybe I can recommend someone?”
“That won’t be necessary. I understand you and your team have a particular skill set that may be of value to our organization.”
Cam hesitated, then looked over his shoulder at the surrounding parking lot. “My team? I don’t understand, I’m a defense consultant—I work with a lot of teams. Which one are you referring to?”
There was a dramatic pause.
“The Huntsmen’s Club, Mr. Lyle.”
Cam’s face fell with shock, blood quickly rushed to his gut. His first instinct was to hang up, but whoever was on the other end of the line already had his contact information and probably even his home address.
“How did you get this number?” he whispered as he jumped into the driver’s seat of his pickup.
“That’s irrelevant.”
“I have no idea what you’re talking about, you got the wrong number, buddy.”
“The offer I have will set you, Michael and William up for the rest of your lives. Abigail and Lindsay will be able to attend any university they want, and you can live out your days sipping cocktails in the French Riviera. I highly recommend you hear what I have to say.”
Cam’s emotions quickly shifted from fear to anger.
“Listen to me very carefully, you son of a bitch,” he warned, trying his hardest not to shout. His eyes frantically continued to scan the parking lot for anyone suspicious. “I don’t know how you got the names of my family, or how you got my number, but I will tear you apart—”
“Cameron,” the voice calmly interrupted. “All I ask is that you consider my proposal. You can text this number back with a time and location of your choice and I will be there. Alone. You have my word. Please don’t make this difficult.”
The line went dead. Cam got out of his truck and paced in a circle with his hands above his head. The club had a protocol in place for this type of scenario—shut down everything; wipe all computer devices and cellphones; empty the bank accounts… and abscond to some far-flung location. All he had to do was send the signal and all three men would be in the air within ninety minutes, each heading to a different destination under fake passports. He pulled out his cellphone and brought up a text to Michael and Trip. He then typed in the code phrase:
The weather in Florida is unseasonably warm.
His thumb danced over the send button. Once the signal was sent, there was no turning back. No follow-up calls. No questions or explanations. It would immediately set into motion a series of life-changing events with no way to stop it. Years would go by before they ever spoke again. Cam took a deep breath and tried to regain his focus. The realization suddenly hit him that whoever had just called probably had the surveillance resources to follow him and his brother, as well as Trip, to their escape destinations.
Cam’s mind raced in circles. He deleted the code phrase from his phone and replaced it with a request for Trip to setup an encrypted video conference for later that afternoon. His cellphone had clearly been compromised.
The black Chevy truck quickly exited the parking lot onto a side street and drove toward Providence. He had an hour to get to his laptop.
. . .
Meanwhile, Trip sat at his desk in Silicon Valley. In his office, on the fourth floor of Spartan Cyber Security, a tattered American flag from a World War II battleship hung on the wall above a small leather sofa, flanked by a collection of his brother’s military medals and a photo of his parents. On his desk, watching him with love, was a photo of his fiancé, Elena. Trip had asked the beaming brunette to marry him just two short months ago. There were tears of joy in her eyes when he got down on one knee and produced the ring.
He leaned back in his chair and stared at Cam’s text message. Something was off. It was too soon for the club to start discussing the upcoming hunt, and it was standard protocol to wait a couple weeks before scheduling meetings. No, now was a time of contemplation and decompression after a week at the cabin. Something had gone wrong.
Trip stood up to close his office door, then shut the blinds and made his way back to the old leather chair behind his desk. He set up a secure video channel for the guys to meet on, then sent the link to encrypted email addresses that Cam and Michael only used when all other forms of communication were off the table.
What’s going on, Cam? Trip wondered as his fingers worked the keyboard with dizzying speed.
An hour later, the three sat in front of their laptops, live streaming a video conference feed.
Cam wasn’t in the mood for small talk. He got straight to the point.
“Sorry to raise the alarm, guys. We’ve got an issue. Our cover’s blown.”
“Fuck!” blurted Trip.
From his shop in Washington, D.C., Michael put his hands over his face. “Please tell me this is a goddamn prank, Cam.”
“I wish it was. Got a call today from some British spook. He knows our names, he even referenced the club.”
“British? That seems strange. Who do you think it is?” asked Trip.
“Who knows!”
“What’s he want?” Michael pressed with agitation.
“He wants us to pull off a job, I think.”
“What? We’re not hired guns, Cam. We made a pact,” his brother reminded him.
“I know, I know. All he said was…we’d be set for life. He called my girls by name, for Christ’s sake.”
“So, what do we do?” asked Trip.
“He just wants us to hear him out.”
“If it’s the Feds, they’re trying to draw us into the open and get us all in the same place. It sounds like a trap,” Michael guessed.
“It’s not the feds,” corrected Trip. “If they have our names, we’re obviously not that hard to track down. Hell, my name’s written on my office door and Cam’s one of the most renowned military strategists in the country.”
“And what am I, chopped liver?” asked Michael.
“Save the ego, little bro. We need to figure out our next move. Guys like this don’t just go away.”
“So, what’s the channel? How do we set this up?” Trip wondered.
“You guys are not seriously considering this shit!” Michael was clearly spooked.
“We don’t have a choice,” Cam shot back. “The only thing we can do is keep the tactical advantage and be ready for a fight. Our mystery man wants me to text him a time and place. I suggest all three of us be there. I’m not going into this alone.”
Trip thought about that last statement. “But what if he thinks you are.”
“I like where your head’s at,” agreed Cam.
“I don’t like any of this at all,” argued Michael.
Trip pulled up a satellite map on a second monitor and narrowed his eyes on the screen, then zoomed in with a few more clicks.
“Set it up, Cam,” he demanded. “We’ll head down to Michael’s neck of the woods. The wine cellar of Fiola Mare in the Washington Harbor district. Two days. Tell him you’re coming alone.”
“Done.”
. . .
Fiola Mare loomed ov
er the Potomac River from the southern end of Georgetown. The upscale restaurant served as a hotspot for Washington’s political elite. Known for its five-star seafood and endless wine list, Fiola Mare offered a panoramic view of the beltway. The White House illuminated as a backdrop to the north, the Roosevelt Bridge to the south.
It had been two days since he received the mysterious call from Mr. Hall. Cam paced the sprawling wine cellar awaiting his guest, half hoping the guy wouldn’t show. It was just after eight o’clock in the evening and Mr. Hall was supposed to be here at any moment. A tiny earpiece rested in Cam’s left ear, awaiting the update from Michael that their guest had arrived.
Cam took a deep breath and sat at a small wooden table in the middle of the cement floor. Three random lightbulbs encased in steel frames cast an eerie ambience over the room. The walls of the cellar were hidden by dusty wine racks containing some of the most expensive bottles on the East Coast—a remarkable collection beneath one of D.C.’s most prestigious restaurants.
The muzzle of a silencer rested comfortably inside one of the many triangular wine rack openings. At the other end of the M4 rifle stood Trip, hidden just behind the dark, wood-stained rack. From his hide, he had a clear view of the entire cellar. Trip gently massaged his finger on the trigger and awaited his target. At the first sign of trouble, he would put a two-round burst into the man’s chest. From there, they would prepare the body for its final resting place at the bottom of the Potomac. Trip chose this restaurant for a multitude of tactical reasons, its close proximity to the river being one of them.
He and Cam had been lying in wait for over an hour and the moment of contact had finally arrived. Michael, positioned upstairs in a sous chef uniform, would remain on the kitchen’s salad line only feet from the cellar door, ready to pounce at a moment’s notice.
The peculiar sous chef kept his head down as Mr. Hall was escorted past him to the cellar door by a maître d’. Dressed in a crisp, black tuxedo, the mystery man entered the stairway and began his descent to the cellar.
The ominous sound of footsteps echoed down to Cam. The man was older, in his late seventies, Cam presumed. He stood roughly six feet tall with a full head of silver hair and cleanly shaven face. Once at the bottom, he and Cam locked eyes. A small grin appeared on the stranger’s face as he examined his surroundings.
Cam didn’t flinch. The soldier in him stood cold, gazing at the man who had the audacity to seek him out.
“Well-chosen location, Mr. Lyle,” the visitor stated. It was the same soft British accent from that unexpected phone call.
Cameron didn’t respond. Instead, he folded his arms across his broad chest as a show of authority. This mystery man, he told himself, had just made the biggest mistake of his life.
Mr. Hall took a few careful steps toward his host and calmly placed his hands in his pockets.
“Where shall we begin?” he politely asked.
“That’s up to you,” replied Cam, “but I promise this is going to end just as quickly as it began. We’re not interested.”
“Funny that you chose to meet me alone, Cameron. May I call you Cameron?”
“Don’t call me shit.”
“Spoken like a true American. I like that,” the man confessed.
“I came alone because you don’t scare me. And I’m not dragging my friends into whatever bullshit you’re trying to sell us. Like I said, we’re not interested. And now that I’ve got a good look at you, I think we’re done here.”
“Sit. The fuck. Down, Cameron,” the man said in a surprisingly stern cadence.
Cam didn’t budge, only narrowing his eyes at the dead man standing in front of him. With tensions already rising, he prepared himself for one of Trip’s bullets to tear through the man’s heart at any second. He smiled at the thought.
“Very well,” the visitor said. “However, we are not done here. Quite the contrary, we are only beginning.”
“Okay,” Cam replied with a roll of his eyes. “Make it quick so I can tell you again that we’re not interested. Where would you like to start?”
“I think honesty would be a good place. My name is not Mr. Hall, as I’m sure you’ve gathered.”
“No kidding.”
“And while I have no legal name, you may call me Rook.”
“Okay, Rook, why did you contact me?”
“Well, first, I’ll need an act of good faith from you. A small show of honesty, if you will.”
“Sure, I’ll play along,” Cam said.
“I’d like to speak with all three of you—in a purely professional respect, of course.”
“I told you I’m alone.” Cam made sure not to show any physical tells of his lie—no twitches or wandering eyes. No increased pulse.
“Come now, Cameron. Let’s start off on the right foot, shall we? Michael is upstairs preparing salads. Why don’t you ask him to join us? And William,” he called out. “You may come out as well. You’ll want to hear what I have to say.”
Cam shuddered in disbelief. Who the hell is this guy?
After a moment of consideration, Cam pressed into his hidden earpiece. “Foxtrot Two, come on down. You’ve been invited to the party.”
“Roger that,” Michael responded.
Trip emerged from behind the wine rack with his M4 shouldered and trained on Rook. He slithered from the shadows in his black cargo pants and black hoodie, pacing slowly from his hide into the open. His target seemed strangely unintimidated.
As Michael crept down the stairs with a pistol trained at Rook’s back, Cam signaled for both of his teammates to lower their weapons.
The three huntsmen strategically surrounded Rook, closing in on him with tactical awareness. Rook remained at ease, with a sliver caution.
“Very impressive, gentlemen. Precisely why you were chosen,” he softly granted them.
“Chosen for what?” asked Michael.
“As I told your brother, my name is Rook. I am a representative of the Knights of Medina. For more than eight hundred years, we have protected everyone from the Templars to the kings of Europe’s greatest dynasties, to the brightest minds in the world and the most despised heretics in human history. We protect people, secrets and sometimes even objects.”
“Great,” scoffed Trip. “Another religious order with delusions of grandeur.”
“Indeed,” Rook replied with a tiny grin. “However, there is an artifact that was recently discovered by one of our Knights. And we’d like you to recover it.”
“That doesn’t make sense,” said Cam. “If it was discovered by one of your people, why don’t you just ask him for it?” He was pointing out the obvious.
“This particular Knight’s sole mission in life was to locate this treasure on behalf of our organization. Unfortunately, he’s been compromised and has decided to sell it to the highest bidder. As I’m sure you can imagine, we cannot allow that to happen.”
With a calculated glance around the room, Rook slowly reached into his pocket and removed what appeared to be a piece of torn newspaper. He gently unfolded it and placed it on the table in front of Cam. Trip and Michael circled in and all three read the headline splashed across the top; Research Continues Outside Puma Punku. Below it was a black and white photo of several researchers standing in a deep hole on the side of a mountain in Bolivia. The caption read, Dr. Diaz and his team inch closer to unearthing new information about the Incan Empire.
A look of confusion eventually spread down their faces as Rook lingered at the table.
“I don’t get it,” Michael chided. “You could have picked anyone to steal back whatever this is. You must have mistaken us for Indiana Jones, pal. Why us?”
Trip shook his head. “You chose us because you hope we’re stupid enough to say yes. And you’ll just kill us when this is over. That’s what I’m certain of.”
“You’ve seen too many Hollywood movies, William. I assure you; you will not be harmed. In fact, I plan on rewarding each of you handsomely.”
“And if we don’t?” Cam asked sharply.
“I’ll make this easy,” Rook continued. “I have a dossier in my office ready to be mailed to the FBI field office in Las Vegas, Nevada. Apparently, they are investigating an armed robbery at the Wynn casino. Let’s just say that the dossier will blow their investigation wide open.”
“Shoot him, Trip,” Michael calmly instructed.
Without hesitation, Trip shouldered his M4 and stared down the barrel at Rook.
“If I don’t make a call within the hour,” the old Knight threatened, “that dossier immediately lands in a London mailbox destined for the FBI’s Special Agent in Charge, Las Vegas Robbery Division.”
“Blackmail,” Cam quietly observed.
“Yes, make no mistake about it. This is blackmail,” promised Rook. “However, my organization is willing to pay you fifteen million dollars in untraceable US currency. Half up front, the rest will be given to you upon the safe delivery of the target. Naturally, we’ll supply unlimited resources to support your mission.”
“And what’s the target?” asked Michael.
“It is an ancient ossuary containing several artifacts. The contents of which are none of your concern and complete secrecy is for your own safety. If you don’t know what’s in the ossuary, you are not a threat to me or my brethren. Thus, we have no need to dispose of you.”
“And if we open it?” Michael was gambling now.
“Don’t,” Rook coldly answered.