by Ronie Kendig
“What exactly is the curse? What’s it do?” Maangi asked. “How can finding it free them? Because why else would they want it, right?”
Slipping off his glasses, Dr. Cathey shook his head. “Unfortunately, I do not have the details. The information is terribly hard to come by. I would”—he shook his head—“I urge you to seek out Tzaddik. He will have your answers. I would also recommend talking to a metallurgist. Zoryana Skoryk is a brilliant metallurgist and the foremost collector of metalwork in the world. But I would not advise sending any of the men in this room.”
“Are you asking me to go?” Robbie asked in a near growl.
“I would not dream of it,” the professor said.
“Good, because I don’t do the field anymore,” Robbie explained.
“Forgive me,” Dr. Cathey said, “I meant that Zoryana will not welcome soldiers into her home. I should go. And I need Ms. Cortes with me, because while Zoryana has a thing against soldiers, she also has a thing for lying. She does it very well.”
“You’re not going after the sword without me,” Ram stated firmly. “Haven’s off the books. Not happening.”
“I agree with Khalon,” Rodriguez added.
“Very well,” the professor said with a sigh. “I will concede to Ram’s presence with one of my own concessions: Miss Cortes does come.” He chuckled. “Yes, perhaps you can distract Zoryana into giving us the information.”
13
— NORTHERN VIRGINIA —
Back at home, Haven curled up on the sofa beneath a blanket, Edward Russell’s leather-bound journal from 1803 on the arm of the chair and her computer whirring quietly on her lap. VVolt sailed effortlessly onto the cushion, pressing his spine against her legs with a satisfied moan. She ran her hand along his dense, burnt-toast coat and thanked him for the company.
With a smile, Chiji looked up from his chair in the corner, where he sat reading the Bible. “I think when Ndidi returns home, those two will have strong words about who sits next to you, Ngozi.”
At the endearment he’d bestowed on her after Israel, which meant “blessing,” Haven grinned and tugged her laptop closer. “Two alphas vying for my attention. Kind of nice.”
“I am sure I know who would win,” Chiji said with a wry smile. “Ndidi has waited a long time for you.”
A long time . . . The words pushed her attention back to the journal. To the lives and events recorded there. She continued transcribing, taking the handwritten dates and entering them into the genealogy software program. Incredible, seeing the many different styles of handwriting as the journal passed through the generations after Edward had started it.
She turned the page and froze, hand hovering over the rhythmic scrawl, over a name in elegant black ink. Elisabeth Linwood. “What a . . .” The word refused to leave her mouth. She knew it wasn’t a coincidence.
Haven grabbed her cell phone and dialed her mom.
“What’s wrong?” her mother gasped. “What is it?”
Blinking, Haven lifted her head, the darkness registering. The fact that at some point Chiji had gone to bed and she hadn’t noticed. “I . . . I’m okay. Sorry.”
Her mother released a weary, staggering breath. “Do you know what time it is?”
A glance at the time in the upper left corner of her laptop made Haven wince. “I—sorry. I didn’t realize.” Push on? Or stop while she was still alive for waking her mother at one in the morning? “I’ll let you get back to sleep.”
“That’s not going to happen until I know what’s worrying you.”
“Not worrying, exactly.” The names called to her again. The handwriting. “Does Dad have an ancestor named Elisabeth—with an s—Linwood in his line?”
“What?” her mother balked. “Are you—”
“I know this sounds crazy, but I’m looking through Cole’s genealogy and found where a Raphael Russell married an Elisabeth Linwood. Their son, Edward, wrote this journal that Charlotte gave me.” She toyed with a length of her hair. “Is this Elisabeth connected to our line?”
“Haven, honestly.” Exasperation was a sound her mother did well. Of course, with two daughters, she had a lot of practice. “How would I know?”
“Is there any way you could check?” Haven chewed her bottom lip. “Please?”
“Heaven help me,” her mom muttered. “You know I’d go to the ends of the earth for you. And now that I’m more awake, it seems your father’s great-aunt Agatha had a cousin named Elisabeth. The girls were more sisters than cousins. Very close.”
Haven stared at the chart created by the genealogy program. Incredible. The Russells and Linwoods looked to be connected not just by marriage, but by blood! She turned the page and scanned the information. “These entries record that Elisabeth and Raphael had a half dozen children, and Raphael had ten siblings.”
Paper crinkled as she pushed back another generation and stilled. This time the drawing of a woman stared back. Beneath her picture: Adaline. She was beautiful, with a riot of curls around her face and seemingly pinned up. A necklace hung on her bosom. Her features were delicate but strong. And there was love in the sketch.
“Dear, I’m going back to bed. Maybe we could ask Aunt Agatha.”
“Sure. I’ll arrange to see her. Thanks. ’Night, Mom.”
Haven fought the greedy maw of sleep and dragged her laptop from the coffee table. She logged in, using the secure protocols Cole had given her, and opened the email server. Excitement pinged through her as she waited for it to connect. When the screen finally changed, her hopes plummeted at the blank screen.
No message.
Tears burned her eyes, blurring them with exhaustion and depression at not hearing from him. Not hearing his voice. Not seeing the intensity that defined Cole Russell.
Aching just for a glimpse that he was okay, she typed into the box: Sunshine needs rain to be appreciated.
Hmm, maybe that was too corny. But what could she say? What metaphor for how empty her life felt without him, that just a jot would do?
“Please,” she whispered, her eyelids growing heavy. She scooted down, resting her head against the arm of the sofa. Settled the laptop in the bend of her waist. Yawned. Deleted what she’d written, then typed in: A T without a crossbar is just an I.
Ugh. “You suck at metaphors,” she groused to herself, yawning again. She backspaced, erasing the line. Closed her eyes to think, to figure out something smart and clever that would let him know she missed him terribly.
Missed his kisses. She sighed and settled deeper against the cushions, allowing herself to relive the memory of their first kiss—on the plane. He’d pinned her against the wall. It had been startling, sweet. Yet urgent. As if he was afraid she’d disappear. No, he’d been afraid she’d reject him.
“Once you know me, you won’t want to be here,” he’d admitted later.
“But I do know you.” She had always seen his heart, the goodness, the hero, the strength that defied logic and trials.
Water lapped her ankles, teasingly cool yet warm, too. His arm encircled her waist, tugging her up against his chest. Her hand landed on his pectoral, right over the spot he’d been shot that terrifying Fourth of July. But she didn’t feel the marred, rough skin. She felt his thundering heart.
“I do,” Cole murmured as he claimed a kiss. “Mrs. Russell.”
Haven laughed against his mouth. “I like the sound of that.”
A gull squawked.
The squawking turned shrill—
The doorbell!
The beach didn’t have a doorbell.
Snapped awake, Haven flung herself upright, hearing the thud-clunk-thunk of her laptop as it hit the floor. She glanced at it and groaned, holding her head, which felt like it had been dunked. The poke of morning light through the curtains made her skull throb.
Ocean. Cole. That dream!
She drew in a shaky breath, but the bell rang again—and with it an internal alarm pierced her. She set her laptop on the table and started fo
r the door. No. Not the door. Her phone. Where was it?
She found it stuffed beneath the cushion and VVolt’s flank. She retrieved it and glanced at the caller ID, deflating when she saw the SAARC code.
Why would they be calling? She squinted at the time on her phone and couldn’t believe she’d crashed the whole night on the couch. But it was still early, so this couldn’t be good. But they wouldn’t call if something happened to him. They’d be on her front porch, ringing the doorbell.
She answered. “Hello?”
“Ms. Cortes, this is Dru.”
“Hi. How are you?” she said around a yawn.
“Good. Listen, we have a situation here”—his words made her heart stumble—“and Dr. Cathey is heading to the Ukraine. He has requested your help and expertise.”
Her mind struggled to make sense of what he’d said. “Oh.” Definitely not what she’d been expecting. “What for?”
“He’s meeting a metallurgist who seems quite good at carrying on a charade. He wants your help reading the situation and the expert.”
“Oh. Okay.”
“Is that a yes? You’ll go?”
She glanced around, knowing Cole wouldn’t want her to go. He’d asked SAARC to leave her alone while he was in the field. “Do you know how long I’ll be gone?” Why was she even considering this?
Because I’m bored!
“A few days at most.”
That couldn’t hurt, right? “Okay, sure. I can do that.”
“Great. We’ll send your packet over.”
— MOSCOW, RUSSIA —
Ram folded his arms over his chest as he stared at Cell through the uplink. “Look, in that meeting, I saw it on your face—you had an idea.”
“Yeah, but what you saw on my face and what’s happening in my head?” Cell grunted. “I can’t get them to gel.”
“It’s okay. That’s why we’re a team.”
“A team that’s on different continents.” Cell raised his eyebrows. “Am I right?”
Ram jutted his jaw toward the camera. “Tell me what’s brewing in your head.”
Cell scratched the side of his face. “Right. I’m not a prodigy the way Makanda is, and I could work for years and maybe understand what he’s done here. Just remember—there’s no solidity. I mean, we’re talking soupy water.”
“Soupy water. Go.”
“So, being a gamer, I’ve been inside Makanda’s game. Played it. Aware of it. Impressed—majorly, ya know, because of its ability to branch and grow?” Cell pointed to another screen, where he had the game open. “Blood Genesis uses what’s called procedural generation. There are a lot of reasons why it’s used, but mostly because of its ability to randomize the game for less predictability.”
“And that’s good.”
“Absolutely. Who wants to play the same, predictable game? You can come back to it, upload a different identity, and get a completely different game. As more people play, the game grows, constantly aggregates and sorts data. Gives a new experience. Creates new creatures, just as DNA has done through generations, but maintaining the same lettering.” He snorted. “I mean, the kid’s a freakin’ genius—and how he did this at nineteen is a little frustrating, since it takes most gamers years to develop something this sophisticated.”
“A million dollars to a Congolese kid is a lifetime of provision and then some,” Ram noted. “You said ‘DNA.’ Explain that.”
“Yeah. Sure.” Cell snatched something from a square box and stuffed it in his mouth—a breadstick. Probably last night’s dinner. “The kid based his algorithm off a genetic model, so these people, creatures, whatever you are in the game—the artificial intelligence all have unique DNA-like structures for information.” He chewed the breadstick slowly, staring at the screen. He left the wad of bread sticking out of his mouth as he started typing. Clicking. Mousing around. Shaking his head. “What?” He drew back with a scowl that had him jotting notes. Soon, keys were clicking again.
Ram was sure he’d been forgotten. “Cell?”
“But how . . .” Cell flicked on another monitor.
Although the feed was a bit grainy, Ram had no trouble making out the lettering. “Cell!”
He jerked. Looked at the camera. “Oh.” Cell shot Ram a sheepish grin. “Sorry.” His arm slid to the monitor with the FBI logo on it, and he turned it off.
Hacking. Ram didn’t want to ask. “The connection?”
“I . . . I can’t get into the FBI program—that would be illegal, of course.”
“Of course.”
“But I just . . . it’d make sense—a lot of sense—to take Makanda’s program, which is based off genetic models, and have him tailor that.”
“To what end?”
Cell shrugged. “I . . . I don’t know. It’s a leap, I admit, but it wouldn’t be that hard to use his model to trace some genetic marker or bloodline or something. The more data inputted, the more the AI has to work with.” His face enlivened. “That is why I think this TAFFIP program Congressman What’s-his-name sponsored could somehow be connected.”
“But TAFFIP is American.”
“Maybe.” Cell cocked his head and stretched his jaw, squinting. “I mean, that’s some genius coding. I’m not skilled enough. I’d have to work on this more.” His shoulders bounced. “Look, I’m a comms specialist, not an investigator, but this”—he wagged his hand at the monitors—“I think there’s something there. I haven’t drawn the big black line between the dots yet, but with Labaka suddenly wanting to shut Makanda down, it makes me wonder why they don’t want witnesses.”
“Maybe they don’t want to pay him.”
Cell grunted.
But even Ram was starting to see an opaque connection. “Well, keep me posted. Might stay quiet about this.”
Snorting, Cell bobbed his head. “No kidding. They aren’t the most receptive to creative ideas.”
“Get the information and they’ll listen. But, Cell?”
“Yeah?”
“Come to me with it first.”
When immersed in a covert operation, the operator had to fully assume the false identity. No, they had to do more than assume it. They had to believe it. Live it. Breathe it. Tox had become Kaz. The similarity of names was enough for him to feel as if he maintained some of his true identity.
And yet, he still had to do things Tox would do, like rummage through digital files looking for breadcrumbs to pass along. As he was doing now. Alone in Nur’s personal library, he sat at a computer, his legs stretched out and ankles crossed as he leaned back in the chair. One hand on the mouse that played solitaire. His other hand slipped in a USB that would allow Ram and the Mossad to rifle through the files. Because this computer was in the company’s personal library, they were hoping it would give them access to what they hadn’t been able to get into through the Mattin Worldwide internal network.
“Kazimir! Have you located the spy?”
Tox tensed at the question and probing of Nur Abidaoud. “Not since that altercation.”
Nur sauntered in and lifted a decanter from the crystal tray. “Your nose doesn’t look like it’s healing well.”
With a flick of his thumb, Tox extracted the drive and returned it to his phone, molding it to his case, which would prevent it from emitting a signal or drawing attention. Unlike his still-bruised nose. “Hairline fractures take longer.”
Nur eyed him as he recapped the decanter. He stood the same height as Tox, and broad shoulders warned he could handle his own, even if he easily had twenty years on Kazimir. Eighteen on Tox. But the reconstructive surgery and artistic rendering of scars purported to be from the accident that had killed the real Kazimir Rybakov had the desired effect. Nobody wanted to look too close, stare too hard. It’d be impolite.
Thereby providing the perfect opportunity for Mossad to replace the man who’d died that rainy night. In his place, Tox had lain on a hospital bed while his surgical scars and body healed.
Nur sipped his drink, squinting
over the crystal snifter. “Should I be worried this man bested you?” He tossed back the drink, then motioned for Tox to follow him into the office.
Tox had rehearsed this lie. Walked through the scenarios. Played them out to their full extent. “I made a mistake.” Let the boss know you’d messed up. “Got a little cocky because I’d gotten into his place without him knowing.”
At his desk, Nur lifted a cigar, sliced off the tip, then lit it. He took several long puffs before thick smoke snaked into the air. “That’s how he got the upper hand?”
“Upper cut,” Tox replied, using humor to deflect, but he saw the way Nur scowled, so he shed the smile. “Won’t happen again.”
“You get arrogant, you get sloppy.” Nur poked the cigar at him. “Do not make that mistake again—it could be my life next time. If you do and I live, you won’t.”
Tox hesitated. Shifted back and lowered his head. Contrition worked well with the power hungry. “Yes, sir.”
“Igor,” Nur barked. “What of the girl? What progress has she made with the next piece?”
“None that I know of, sir.”
Nur grunted as he paced behind his desk, puffing on his cigar. “I think she needs to talk to her father again.” He pointed at the two guards hovering near the doors. “Get her and take her to him.” Then to Igor. “Ready Mr. Khalon for visitors.”
Tox hated the sound of that. It gutted him for Tzivia to see her father in that prison. Gutted him to see anyone living in those conditions. But he had a job to do. He’d been recruited because his build and height similarity to the dead Rybakov could get him into Mattin Worldwide headquarters. The bonus of becoming Nur’s personal guard should’ve given him the perfect opportunity to complete his mission—put names to faces and cut off the head of the giant. Return to the States. To Haven.
But the discovery and capture of Tzivia butchered those plans. Yet it had also put Tox in the most precarious situation, a brutal one—watching her. Protecting Nur from her—which was really him protecting Tzivia from herself. Keeping her alive. But both missions seemed destined for failure. He’d yet to see or identify official visitors that could be tied to the AFO.