Peter had recovered from his symptoms, but Anabia Nassif was still observing him. And they had drinks afterward in the opulent bar on the ship. Frank Miller had promptly gone out of sight, only to reappear with a small folder which he gave to Olivia.
"For your interest," he said cryptically.
Olivia had dropped the folder on the dresser when she came into her room. She had another bath. And a few drinks which Peter Williams had allowed, "giving the circumstances."
She had also made a long-distance call on Miller's phone. Tom had sounded ecstatic. His voice was so close as though he was beside her.
"Hey, you know, we all miss you down here. Rob Cohen had been hounding me," Tom said. "Could you maybe give him a call first thing when you get a chance? I want him off my case."
Olivia laughed; she had then sent an email to her boss, one to which Cohen had replied immediately.
"Resume tomorrow."
"I'll think about it," she had replied.
The reporter on the news was saying that late in the evening, the Argentine coast guard went to work, eleven sailors were rescued out of a crew of twenty-one. And the body of the admiral—Anton Huebner had been his name. Olivia cocked her head.
"That name again," she mumbled. "And the time of rescue? This evening?"
The helicopter that came to rescue the sailors earlier wasn't the Argentine Navy?
She ambled to pick the plastic bag containing her notes when she saw the folder Miller had given her earlier. She opened it and saw two pieces of faxed documents.
One was the picture of a man, Admiral Anton Huebner, high forehead, straight nose, and pale blue eyes. The accompanying document explained that Anton Huebner was the father of John Huebner, the arms dealer.
The Huebner of the Nazi secret lab is the father of the admiral?
"Wow."
Back on the news, the reporter said they have not found the remains of the admiral yet.
Olivia looked at the picture again. "Where are you hiding now, Anton Huebner?" she murmured.
PART 3
Prologue
The Antarctic, 11:00 pm. July 5.
—
When you do the Lord's work, you ask no questions. And tonight, there were no answers either. Only the ocean that broke against the edges of the Antarctic. Also, there were the heavens and the stars that bore witness to the presence of soldiers on the water.
The soldiers of the Order of the Templar would follow strict rules. Go down the hole, find a facility on the ice, look straight ahead, take nothing, find the room without a door at the bottom of the facility and break into it.
Fifteen minutes later, their amphibious vessels—three of them—brushed onto the shore. They mounted snowmobiles, made speeds of fifty miles per hour, and found the hole in the ice. The hole that was accidentally drilled by a different batch of visitors months ago.
With torchlights to illuminate their way, they went down into the smell and darkness. The smell was worse than the claustrophobia.
Rubber-soled shoes stepped over decaying dead bodies, eyes peeled for unplanned encounters, and assault rifles pointing everywhere.
With the aid of a blueprint, they found a groove in the floor, not far from another room where the remains of an ICBM lay insensate. The smell of dead bodies was thick here. One of the soldiers coughed.
"Here," he said.
Something else about the mission: no names. Each soldier knew his place and what his role was. With brutal precision, they set to work.
Ten kilos of C-4 explosives on both sides of the two meters in diameter grooved in the floor timed to fifty seconds. They hid in the room where the ICBM sat without its sting.
The explosion was loud. The soldiers crouched through the dust and smoke, and down they dropped into the most unusual room.
In the middle of it was a black wooden pedestal. The insignia on the sides of the wood was the same as the one on the soldiers' shoulder patches—a red cross on a yellow patch.
One soldier took a box from the top of the pedestal, another produced a black sack with a flocculent material. They carefully placed the box in the bag. Two soldiers up above helped the others up, and ten minutes later, five soldiers were rigging the whole facility with more explosives.
The soldiers were two miles out when the bombs triggered. The flames mushroomed, and the ice shook as the facility caved in.
—
Rome, The Piazza Navona, 8:09 pm, July 7.
The man standing beside the baroque fountain of The Fontana Dei Fiumi looked like one of the tourists that flooded this side of Rome every summer. A glance at him, one would suppose he waited for someone, or maybe a lady. He wore a flat cap over black crew-cut hair, a black jacket with zippers, brown corduroy pants, and white tennis shoes severely bent at the heels from excessive wear. A Nikon camera hung from his neck. He hadn't taken any photos with it.
This man, with no name, stared at the twisted statue of some god in the fountain that Bernini built centuries ago. Water gushed from a crevice in the crafted stone into the blue, foamy water.
He turned around casually when a black van entered the square through the side where the Palazzo Pamphili stood magnificently. The driver slowed down but did not stop. The door of the van slid open; someone pushed a blue duffel into the chest of the man standing by the fountain.
He slung the bag over his shoulder and walked down the cobblestones. Nearby, the church of San Luigi Rubber-soled Franseci was coming alive with piano music.
The man bought candies from a heavily decorated kiosk. Candy in his mouth, he sauntered down a narrow alley with other local folks. This side of the square, between the piazza and the pantheon, was crisscrossed by alleys, souvenir kiosks, cafes, and tourist hangouts.
A dark shadow followed the man with the blue duffel. By the time he suspected he was being followed, it was late.
He quickly entered a narrow alley. He turned to see if he was alone, but there was no one behind him. He put his back to a door, gripped the bag around his shoulder, and waited.
The bag contained something he could not afford to lose. He would even give his life to protect it.
The door opened, and a firm hand wrapped around the man's neck, pulling him into the darkness beyond. The man struggled against his assailant; hot breath puffed behind him as the grip on his throat tightened. He clawed at it.
He went to sleep just as the duffel bag was taken off his neck.
—
1
Miami, Florida
There was a gathering of people blocking most of the street on Alhambra Plaza. Hence, Olivia turned back and walked down Coral Gables. The sun in her eye, she hissed and stamped her feet on the curb.
Tall buildings provided shade on the road from the hot sun on Alhambra. But those people with the placards, branded tees, party chants—she wanted none of that.
The city had caught the election fever badly. It was on the news, the papers, posters, and street graffiti; it was on people's faces too. Olivia thought she might vote Republican this time because the other guy was a tool. She wasn't sure anymore.
She jumped down the side of some neighbor's fence fifteen minutes later, and the terrier that was chained to the rusty wheel of an old Buick charged fruitlessly. The dog was still barking when Olivia went up to her flat one block away.
Olivia ate breakfast on her kitchen counter. Her cat, Smokey, did his under the table. The TV was on in the living room, and she could hear the Good Morning America show. Someone called in to say how much they'd love to see the incumbent president come back a second time.
"True to that," Olivia murmured through roast beef.
Her phone started ringing on the sofa. "Peter?"
She multitasked her food, the TV, and the phone between her ear and shoulder.
"Hey, Lady. What're you doing?"
"Living."
Peter Williams chuckled. "I want some of that. Unfortunately, I'm saddled with three years out of the lives of these kids here in t
he university—"
"It's a great life you're living, Peter," she mumbled.
"Easy for you to say. How about tonight?"
"I have to go to work now, Peter."
"Its nine o’ clock, Olivia. You're late."
"Yeah, okay, eight tonight okay with you?"
There was a pause, some ruffling from the other side. Smokey finished his milk and padded into the living room with the expression of an ill-treated lover.
Peter came back to say eight that night was okay. They hung up.
"That was Peter Williams, professor of German History, remember him Smokey? He tried to kiss me last night, right here, on this sofa?"
The cat meowed.
Rob Cohen, director of the Miami Daily, was having a good day on the telephone with ratings when Olivia walked in. He watched Olivia go to her cubicle, flop her handbag onto the bare table, booted up her computer, and then started toward his office.
Olivia walked in and shut the door behind her.
Rob Cohen's feet went up to the mahogany desk, there it began to shake.
"Come on, sit, Olivia," he chirped. "What can you do for me today?"
The office smelled of aftershave. Olivia asked him if he slept in his office. Cohen looked around uncertainly.
"Never mind." She pulled out the chair opposite Cohen and dropped her bottom onto it.
"You wanted to see me about something"—the director raised a finger—"and by God, I hope this isn't about Antarctica."
Olivia leaned forward. "Rob, you saw it, the pictures, we have proof—"
"We've been over this many times, and I told you we can't run the story, Olivia."
"Why?"
"Because there is no story," he said coolly, as he rubbed his smooth jaw.
Olivia closed her eyes. They felt like hot coals in her head, the beginning of a headache. When she opened her eyes, Cohen was still shaking his feet. His black brogues were shiny, his green socks had white dots on them.
Cohen picked a folder from a drawer and slid it across.
"That's some story I want you on." He pointed. "Matt Brolin, you know him, straight out of Michigan. The feds are on to him for tax issues, we think he'd scale it. Democrats and delay tactics, that's all the allegations are."
"Brolin is a tool."
"Yeah, but a working tool. You have to see what Matt's done with his Buy-American laws in Michigan. Roll with it, Olivia."
Olivia picked the folder off the desk. She avoided Rob's eyes as she left his office.
"And Olivia?"
"What?" She glared.
"Get some sleep."
Olivia threw the folder on the desk, contemplated the computer and the small library beside it. She plunked down before the part of her life that was the best slice. Until about six months ago. Or was it further back than that?
Further back was the past she seldom visited now.
Olivia typed into her browser the keywords: secret lab Antarctica.
An array of search subjects popped onto the screen. From known facts about the ice continent to photos, movies about it, and recent news. She scrolled down to report. Satellite images of the explosion caught by NASA from space caught her attention. She opened a different page and surfed YouTube. Not surprisingly, she found grainy footage of NASA videos.
"Who uploads these things, NASA?" she mumbled.
She sighed.
"Still hung up on that?"
Olivia turned to see Marybeth Norton standing behind her. Voluptuous, beautiful, and quirky, she was Rob Cohen's new favorite. How the tables turn, Olivia thought.
"Yeah, too sensational to let go."
"Sad Rob doesn't think so," Marybeth said with some sourness in her voice.
Olivia turned around again. Marybeth wore a tight-fitting blue blouse and a skirt so tight Olivia could see the dent of her panties on her hips. Olivia imagined Rob Cohen trapped between the girl's shapely, long legs.
"How many stories you got on you, Mary?"
"None, I'm head of International, remember?" said Marybeth, with an assured air.
Olivia picked up the file Cohen gave her and gave it to Marybeth.
"Here, check this out, let me know what you think is wrong with it."
The girl took the folder and walked away with a curious look on her face.
Olivia dismissed Marybeth from her mind and went back to the NASA video of Antarctica. She squinted her eyes at the subtle movements of ice and frost, cracking and caving in a localized manner that made her frown. How come no one was seeing what she was looking at?
There was nothing about the cave-in that resembled what she supposed an earthquake would look like.
She picked up her jotter and started making notes.
Then she opened a new page and entered the words tremors and earthquakes. With her heart beating fast, she waited. The search results rolled down, and Olivia quickly skipped to the video searches. As she expected, there had been very few quakes on the Antarctic continent, the highest one being magnitude eight.
She did more searches and shut her computer down.
She picked up her handbag and jacket.
"Where are you going, Olivia?"
Marybeth was back with the folder. Olivia walked past her to the door. Rob Cohen was on the phone in his office, throwing his head back, guffawing, and having a perfect time.
"I need to speak with a seismologist."
"A what?"
Marybeth Norton waved the folder in Olivia's face. "This happens to be—"
"Tell Rob you are standing in for me now," Olivia said and hit the street.
Marybeth's shoulders slumped.
"You have to let it go, Olivia, please."
"I wish I could."
Olivia sipped her wine and rubbed her eyes.
They were in a diner across her street named Molly's Seat. It was a small establishment with small tables and chairs, a trickle of customers at night, and a jukebox that played oldies and reggaeton. The owner was a big guy Olivia was used to; his name was Barth. He had small genial eyes, was witty, and white-haired. He looked like a fat, younger Richard Gere; a Coco Tea song was on. Olivia tapped her feet under the table. Every time the door opened, it made a jingling sound that made her think of the children's park down at Brentwood avenue.
Peter Williams asked her if she wasn’t sleeping still. She nodded and stared at the professor. His hand was placed by the bottle of chardonnay. His fingers tapped the table, touched the table, and did some more tapping again. He seemed restless too. The pressure at work, maybe. That seemed to be going around recently.
He wore his usual colors, a dark cotton shirt that was opened at the neck, tweed-material trousers, and brown leather shoes. His hair was combed to the left in the 1930s fashion that Olivia had noticed on the university campus lately.
"And look at all I found again. You can see someone is trying to cover this up. And Rob, he acts like his brain fell off as he jumped that bitch."
"Which bitch?"
Olivia ruffled her hair; she closed her eyes. Yes, the headache meant every word. It was coming down the hill and banging along the avenues in her neck.
"Never mind."
Peter exhaled.
"I'm sorry, Peter. But you know, I'm hardly superstitious. But those dreams I have; they'd not let me drop this—"
"They're just dreams, Olivia," he said, checking his watch.
"They are not mere dreams, Peter. They happened. We all saw it. And now, they want to make me unsee it."
Peter was staring at her, something in his eyes was both loving and wary. As though he could not bear to leave her alone, yet staying meant being infected. By what? Peter smiled finally.
"Perhaps it is for your good that this is happening. I'm not trying to remember the soldier smashing his head on the glass, or Friedman riding that U-boat into the destroyer—"
"And they still can't find Huebner's body," Olivia interrupted. "How about that for a conspiracy? I checked the Argentine government�
��s portal. The Navy doesn't have his records anymore. But the internet never forgets. I still have the page about his disgrace saved on my computer."
Olivia peered over her glasses at him. Peter sat with his hand slung over the back of his chair in a partial slouch.
"I'm seeing a seismologist tomorrow," said Olivia.
"What, why?"
Olivia laid out her thoughts. Peter said he was impressed. "And what's Cohen say about it?"
"I'll just show him what I found again."
"And then?"
Olivia shrugged and drank. A bored expression was creeping slowly into Peter's brown eyes. He checked his watch and swallowed the rest of his wine.
Sitting on her couch later that night, Olivia watched TV, trying to hold off sleep, and the horrific dreams that inevitably crept on her from behind the curtains.
She was trying to hold on. She had just thrown the bottle of wine she got on her way home in the trash. She did humane things like taking a shower and feeding Smokey the cat. She had also brooded over a text from Peter that night.
It said, "I shouldn't have gotten that wine, I'm making it worse. I hope you fight fair when your dreams come, lol. Turn in early, Rob Cohen's still your boss. I have an opening in my office if you fancy…"
Peter was a likable guy underneath the seemingly insecure, boyish manner. He had tried to kiss her again, and she, Olivia, had turned her left cheek to him. At least she hadn't pushed him away, like the first night they ate together. Big-bodied Barth had cast thrifty eyes at them. Olivia had smiled at Barth, who grinned and went back to cleaning his glasses.
She waited for sleep that she didn't want.
That was when her cell phone vibrated beside her.
"Hello, Olivia," came sheriff Tom Garcia's voice.
"Tom?"
Olivia glanced at the wall clock; it was late, 11:08 pm. Tom's distraught voice wavered. She heard harried banter in the background.
Hunt for the Holy Grail Page 21