Meredith Barnes was an environmental activist, bestselling author, star of her own nature documentary, and a staunch opponent of anyone harming the environment. It didn’t matter if the offender was a farmer using pesticides, a car maker unconcerned about emissions, or the CEO of a major oil company, she’d put a bull’s-eye on their back and use her considerable influence to effect change. Part scientist, part celebrity, Meredith Barnes was a media darling, and had grown her platform to include a global collection of presidents, kings, and captains of industry. At home on the world stage, she was loved by millions, and her message of uniting each inhabitant of our fragile planet to do everything possible to make sure we don’t destroy our only home, resonated throughout humanity.
Known wherever she went, Meredith Barnes, a beautiful, fiery redhead, was singularly brilliant at using her intelligence and charm to influence nearly anyone she chose. If the situation called for more forceful means, she was just as adept at unleashing a legendary temper. Robert was moved by her speech, and afterwards, wrote a personal check for three million dollars. In what became legendary footage, Meredith chased him down and famously tore up his check. She stood on her tiptoes and poked him in the chest with her finger and accused Huntington Oil of a dozen practices that were harming the planet.
That night, Robert decided she was right, and he made the commitment to make Huntington Oil a model for environmental change. With Meredith’s help, he implemented directives that changed the energy business forever. Their romance was as swift as it was unexpected, and Robert had never been happier. Weeks before an epic environmental summit in Costa Rica, Robert had proposed. The deliriously happy couple decided to defer the news of their engagement until after the summit. With leaders from all over the world in attendance, there were powerful resolutions on the table to limit overfishing of the oceans, end rain forest depletion, and move towards alternative energy solutions. Enthusiasm was high, and the world press focused on the event as the summit that could save our planet.
In a fraction of a second everything changed. Gunfire, screeching tires, Robert brutally assaulted as Meredith was dragged screaming from their limo. Despite all of his wealth and influence, Meredith Barnes was found dead in a muddy field outside San José. A single gunshot to the forehead had ended her life.
Robert was beyond devastated, as the rumors began to circulate that he’d had a hand in killing Meredith, that the oil billionaire had used the beloved environmentalist to get close to her and then finally silence her forever. His enemies fanned the flames of Robert Huntington’s destruction by releasing photos of Robert on an unknown beach with a young woman at his side. The pictures were bogus, but the public cries became shrieks. The public outcry was so fierce he was unable to attend Meredith’s funeral. He was never able to say goodbye as the backlash intensified. Boycotts of Huntington Oil were implemented, and threats against all senior executives were received daily. Bombs were exploded at Huntington Oil facilities, and employees injured.
Robert was even further vilified by his silence. He’d made no public appearances or statements since Costa Rica. He was in the home he and Meredith had bought together, crippled by the pain of her death. He was drinking, taking pills, anything to try to escape his anguish. It was William who asked him if he’d thought of taking his own life. Robert admitted that he had. It was that evening the two of them set plans into motion for the death of Robert Huntington.
Several weeks later it was reported that billionaire Robert Huntington had died when his plane crashed into the Pacific Ocean. As Robert floated to earth that night in a parachute, the world began to celebrate the demise of one of the most reviled men on earth. As media speculation ran rampant as to the exact cause of Robert Huntington’s death, he began the secretive journey to Europe, where his appearance would be changed forever, and Robert Huntington would start fresh as Donovan Nash. It remained a secret, which if discovered, would instantly destroy everything he’d built, including Eco-Watch, Donovan’s memorial to Meredith. Unofficially, he was one of the ten richest people in the world, but only seven people knew the truth and that’s how Donovan wanted it to stay.
“Lauren’s situation is real enough. I’ll tell Michael a version of the truth, that Kristof used to be a friend,” Donovan replied. “Though, if we end up involving Kristof, we’ll have to do it very carefully.”
“Okay, so who is Kristof Szanto?” Montero asked. “What’s the connection?”
“A long time ago he was one of my closest friends,” Donovan said with a wince. “Our fathers were both in the oil business as well as good friends. Kristof is a few years older than I am, but I’ve known him almost all of my life. His family is Hungarian, but Kristof grew up like I did, jumping from home to home. We spent a lot of time together as kids, and again when I went to school in Europe. We had a falling out of sorts, and he ended up being one of the people I left behind, one of my bigger regrets.”
“What makes him a potential ally in finding out what happened to Lauren?” Montero probed.
“After his father died, he was positioned to take over the family empire but discovered he had no taste for the corporate world or the oil business. He sold the company, and promptly lost his fortune with unfortunate and ill-advised investments. Kristof went broke, and then discovered a business he did have an affinity for— organized crime. In Eastern Europe he’s known as Archangel.”
“Oh, for God’s sake!” Montero’s eyes grew large. “Archangel, for real? Everyone in law enforcement knows about him. He’s a ghost. Untouchable, he’s part legend, part myth, and rumored to be one of the most powerful and ruthless men in Europe, and one of the wealthiest. That would certainly make him an asset.”
“There’ve been whispers over the years that he’s dead,” William said. “But never any proof.”
“Let’s say for the sake of argument he is alive,” Montero said. “What makes you think he’ll be receptive?”
“I don’t,” Donovan replied. “I have all kinds of reservations about trying to find him. Even looking for him is enough to get us into serious trouble. He’s not going to have a clue who I am, and if I do tell him, he might still be angry enough to kill me.”
“Let’s see if he’s alive first,” Montero said. “If he’s dead, it’s a moot point, and we need to move on. I’ll start a discreet search for him.”
Donovan snapped his head around as the phone on his desk rang—the phone that rarely rang, because it was a secure line installed and maintained by the DIA. Lauren needed such a connection when she was working from home. Donovan picked it up on the second ring.
“I was hoping you’d be there,” Calvin said.
“Not for long,” Donovan said.
“I might have something. Earlier today, satellite reconnaissance spotted an unusual group of boats on the Danube River, south of Bratislava. In one image, there appeared to be a male body on the deck of a small boat. The body appeared to be wearing a pilot’s uniform.”
“One of the Learjet pilots?” As Donovan said the words, his stomach tightened, his emotions threatening to rush to the surface unchecked.
“We think so,” Calvin continued. “We also spotted something else a short distance away. The area is mostly wetlands, but there are a few small clearings. In one of those clearings, is what looks like a crude crop circle, we can make out a faint pattern trampled in the grass. It’s a letter, and depending on your perspective, it’s either a small b, or a capital P.”
“Pegasus,” Donovan felt the air rush from his chest. “If anyone would know how to get the attention of a satellite analyst, it’s Lauren.”
“My thinking exactly.”
“Give me the coordinates,” Donovan said as he put pen to paper.
“47.53.03 N, 17.27.27 E. The place is twenty nautical miles southeast of the Bratislava airport. That section of the Danube serves as the border between Slovakia and Hungary. I’m tasking more surveillance assets to get better coverage of the area. How soon are you leaving?”
“We’re wheels up at three o’clock in a chartered G-V, flying nonstop from Dulles to Vienna.”
“I’ll be able to track your progress. Let me give you a new number. Call me when you land.”
Donovan wrote down the number. It had a 703 area code, he assumed it went to an untraceable disposable phone. “Got it. Thanks, Calvin,” Donovan ripped the paper from the notepad, folded it in half, and slid it into his pocket.
“I’ll protect you as much as I can from here. Go find her.”
Donovan hung up and repeated to William and Montero what Calvin had told him.
“It makes sense,” Montero said. “Lauren wouldn’t want it to be obvious to anyone on the ground looking for her, but something that might be noticed at the DIA.”
“It’s thin,” Donovan said, “but it’s all we have at the moment. I do want to say something while it’s just the three of us. This is my wife we’re talking about. I’m not going to sugarcoat this: there are no rules, no boundaries, and no limits on what I’m willing to do, or spend, to get her back alive. Montero, we’re not cops with regulations, we’re essentially vigilantes. William, you have access to my money, spend it all if you need to, but for this one, we’re not leaving anything on the table.”
CHAPTER SEVEN
LAUREN BALANCED HERSELF on the branch poised on the balls of her feet, ready to push off into space. She’d remained motionless in the tree, waiting, holding her breath until the man below moved past. Water from her soaked clothes began pooling at her feet, threatening to overflow at any second. A rivulet broke loose and raced down the channels of the bark before dropping off into space. She followed the freefall until the drop collided with the man’s shoulder.
He snapped his head sideways, then immediately looked upward while raising his gun. Leading with her heels, Lauren jumped, her feet crashed into the man’s right shoulder, ruining his aim. Lauren felt a distinct pop as his collarbone snapped under her weight. He let out a strained cry as he was driven down into the dirt. His head snapped backward as he hit, and then he was still.
Lauren rolled on impact, adrenaline coursing through her body. She picked up the rifle, then fished in the man’s pockets and found five rounds of ammunition, plus a wad of bills. There was nothing else, no wallet, no radio. She stuffed what there was into her pocket. The man wasn’t all that big, a good four inches shorter than she was, and she eyed his boots. She placed her foot next to his, close enough she thought, and quickly relieved him of his footwear. She slid them on and laced them as tightly as she could. They were a little large; still, they were better than nothing.
Lauren stood, and flexed her legs to make sure she was okay, and then gripped the gun so it rested unobtrusively along the side of her leg. Her friend Veronica Montero had told her that the best way to get shot was to wave a gun around. Montero also told her the best way to win a gunfight was not to get into one. Now that she was armed, she felt less vulnerable and began to retrace her path to the clearing. She went straight to where the Alouette had landed, it was still running, but at idle speed, the main rotor and tail rotor blades spinning in the sunshine, the cockpit door open, the pilot sitting inside, waiting.
Lauren briefly entertained hijacking the helicopter but ruled out the play. The noise would most certainly bring the others running. Then another thought came to her. Lauren worked her way into position behind the helicopter where the pilot couldn’t see her coming. With both hands, she gripped the rifle near the trigger, like choking up on a bat. She tested its weight, and then her grip. Satisfied, she began moving quickly toward her target.
Lauren stopped just behind the open door and used her booted foot to kick the thin aluminum skin of the helicopter. The pilot spun his head to find the source of the noise. Lauren was already swinging. She delivered an uppercut and the wooden forearm of the rifle connected with the man’s jaw line. His eyes rolled up into his head, and he sagged against his seat belt.
She stepped over him and took a quick glance into the cockpit. She found what she’d hoped to find—a pistol, a chart, binoculars, and a bottle of water. She snatched all of them and hurried to the rear of the helicopter.
Lauren stopped at the tail rotor housing, the blades a blur as they turned. She planted her feet, and with her hand on the butt of the rifle, she shoved it toward the blades, the most vulnerable part of the helicopter. She turned away and ducked as the wooden stock of the gun exploded. Something metal snapped, and she dropped to the ground and covered her head. The noise of metal tearing itself apart echoed throughout the clearing. Lauren risked a peek and saw the blades were bent, slamming into the metal housing as they still tried to spin. The entire frame of the helicopter shuddered under the onslaught. She couldn’t imagine the helicopter would fly anytime soon.
She spotted the rifle; it was twisted and bent beyond repair. She collected her stolen items and ran, trying to be as quiet as she could while not compromising speed. For a solid twenty minutes, she moved as quickly as she could in the rough direction of the lights she’d seen the night before.
Lauren finally stopped, out of breath, as well as hot and thirsty. Her clothes were soaked with sweat. The strap from the binoculars she’d stolen had rubbed her neck raw, and she eagerly pulled them off. She sank to the ground and then produced the bottle of water and held it up, finding it two-thirds full. She took a small sip of the warm water and then another until only two inches of the precious fluid remained in the bottle. She ignored the rumbling in her stomach and opened the chart. As she did, two folded sheets of printer paper tumbled to the ground. She picked them up and as she unfolded them, she recognized the first image was Daniel, it matched the photo in the replacement passport the CIA had given her to get him out of Europe. The second sheet was her passport photo. The only way they could have possession of these was if they’d found the plane and the documents. Lauren slumped, she’d expected more time before the Learjet was found.
She began to study the chart, searching each grid along the water without luck, searching for something she could tie to her current position. The wetlands along the Danube were a labyrinth of channels and waterways. She’d seen no landmarks, nothing she could tie into the chart.
Lauren listened as she caught a faint sound that seemed to blow in with the wind. It was indistinct, but she thought she could make out a constant drone. She guessed it was coming from a large engine, perhaps a piece of farm equipment, definitely bigger than a car or truck. She folded the chart and photos, got to her feet, and carefully worked her way parallel to a worn pathway, stopping every now and then to listen, but all she heard was the distant sound of the large engine, which seemed to be fading. She stopped and spotted a hint of a trail that led toward a cluster of trees situated away from the path. She decided to follow it.
She eased into the thick grove of trees and found a fallen log well hidden by the canopy of leaves above. She gingerly sat on the ground and used the log as a backrest. She closed her eyes, and while catching her breath, she took an inventory of her battered but still intact body parts. As she sat, her thoughts drifted to Daniel. The sight of his face slipping beneath the water as he sank would stay with her always. She thought of what he’d said—that the Phoenix was a stealth aircraft with possibly a nuclear payload.
Lauren allowed herself to be transported back nearly twenty years, to when she and Daniel were together at MIT. He’d shown her some preliminary designs he’d made for a super quiet, efficient, light jet. She remembered it clearly, he’d been so excited, and all she could think was that it was so unusual looking. The craft was no more than thirty feet long with a wingspan of about thirty feet. It had an unconventional V tail, instead of the more common vertical and horizontal stabilizers. Overall, the jet was nothing but smooth rounded edges, so much so, it looked like a spaceship. Instead of sweptback wings, Daniel had used a forward-swept wing design. He’d explained the jet engine was buried in the fuselage to reduce drag. It was a combination of parts that seemed to come from
other planes. She’d laughingly named it the platypus.
Unamused with Lauren’s suggestion, Daniel immediately tried to find a suitable name for his creation. Over dinner, he settled on the Phoenix, from one his favorite movies, the original 1965 black-and-white version of Flight of the Phoenix starring Jimmy Stewart. Hollywood actually built a flyable prototype from the wreckage of a crashed Fairchild Flying Boxcar. A mishmash of components were eventually made into a smaller flyable plane the stranded crew used to fly to safety. Daniel’s odd design became the Phoenix.
She remembered all the drawings and scale models. How all the components were blended, there were hardly any sharp edges. Then there were the engines buried deep in the fuselage to reduce drag, plus the V-tail design, all which would be beneficial for a stealth platform. Despite the fact that it all happened so long ago, she remembered those days clearly. The Phoenix marked the beginning of the end for her and Daniel’s relationship.
Daniel had been distraught when she’d broken things off. She’d never intended to be with Daniel for so long, but the rigors of the MIT doctoral program made him a habit she hadn’t had time to break. They’d never really fought, were sexually compatible, if not incendiary, and overall made a comfortable relationship—it was just lacking some undefinable element. Finally, before she was leaving Boston for a summer internship in Florida to join the Air Force Hurricane Hunter squadron, she broke up with him.
Lauren pondered her and Daniel’s time in Boston. As with most relationships of any significance, there was always a certain amount of second guessing, and Daniel was no exception. She’d gone to Florida, and after some tears and late-night phone calls with Daniel, he’d grown desperate and when he issued an ultimatum, their relationship collapsed completely. Not long afterwards she’d taken up with an Air Force pilot. Ultimately he was all flash, no substance, but Lauren liked hanging out and especially flying with the pilots. She was exposed to enough of the pilot swagger and charm to develop an attraction to the type, and the memories of reserved, awkward Daniel had quickly faded.
Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers) Page 5