The screen went black. The crowd maintained a sense of shocked silence, seemingly unsure of what they had seen, or what it meant.
The video resumed, playing clips from Ito’s campaign speeches.
“Every Japanese woman should do her patriotic duty to give Japan at least three children.”
“We must stop the flow of immigration and therefore the pollution of Japanese blood by foreigners.”
“Japan must once again rise as Asia’s lone superpower.”
“One day, the Americans will look to us for protection — not the other way around.“
As the video played on repeat, Ito stepped back from the row of bewildered world leaders. Then he turned and walked purposefully toward the palace. Three guards converged before him, blocking his path.
Hotel New Otani
Carver’s feet dangled beneath him. A bed of concrete awaited him 18 floors below. So did the Eel’s broken body.
His right forearm held fast to the window ledge. His left hand held onto the metallic window frame above it. The glass cut ever deeper into his flesh as gravity pulled him lower. Blood ran down his wrists and forearms.
Despite the pain, he was actually smiling. He couldn’t see the video playing at the palace, but he understood by the crowd’s reaction that something had happened at the G8. Now someone was telling the crowd to remain calm. The crowds were chanting for Ito’s ouster. Maybe Eri had come through after all. Or Speers. Or Nico. They had done it.
Now it’s your turn. Let’s do this. On three. One, two…
With one final effort, Carver heaved himself up and into the suite like some fish flopping out of a raging river onto a bank of hot stones. His reward was a bed of broken window glass. Nevertheless, he crawled as quickly as he could away from the edge.
Only as he reached the couch did he see Sho, lying face up on the carpet. And the Rhino, face down, three feet behind him. The .338 caliber round Carver had fired at point blank range had gone through one man and into the other.
He collapsed onto the couch in the suite’s generous sitting room.
He decided to close his eyes, if only for a moment. That felt good. It felt right. They had won.
Air Force One
The president’s Boeing VC-25 – the plane that had brought her to Tokyo as Air Force One – departed Japan as a decoy with a full complement of secret service personnel. The president was not onboard.
Hours later, a Gulfstream courier carrying President Hudson and her immediate staff left Tokyo’s Yokosuka Air Force Base under strict radio silence. The tiny jet was now Air Force One. On her orders, Blake Carver, whose savaged hands and wrists had been treated with a gold-based solder at a local Tokyo hospital, was whisked aboard at the last moment. He now sat in the rear of the plane as the president’s personal physician set up an IV that dripped fluids into his right arm.
Hector Rios sat in the opposite facing seat. He eyed Carver’s left ear, which had taken on a greenish hue.
“I don’t know what’s nastier. Your ear, or those kids that get the ear gauges, then take them out and have all that loose skin flapping around like noodles.”
The doctor looked up from her work. “Oh, that’s easy. Carver’s ear is definitely nastier.” She turned back to Carver. “It’s badly infected. Did you really think this would heal all by itself?”
Carver grinned. “On behalf of hopeless optimists everywhere, yes. But you know what I am sure of? I’ll never use the expression I would crawl on my hands and knees through broken glass again. Because that’s exactly what I did today, and it hurts like hell.”
The president rose from her seat and made her way to the back of the plane. “Gentlemen, I need a word alone with Agent Carver.”
Rios moved forward. The doctor also rose reluctantly. “And for God’s sake,” she told Carver, “Stop scratching it.”
The president took Hector’s seat, crossed her legs, and lowered her voice to a level that could not be heard by others over the hum of the white noise of flight.
“I just got off the phone with President Kang,” she said. “I told him about what you did up there in the hotel.”
“You’re welcome,” Carver said. “But between us, Sho Kimura was a B-grade assassin. Even without me there, who knows? Maybe he misses, and Kang just gets a haircut.”
“You’ll get the National Intelligence Medal for Valor for this.”
“With all due respect, Madam President – ”
“Please, Blake. Can we bury the hatchet and go back to a first-name basis? At least in private?”
“With all due respect, Eva, I appreciate the gesture, but I already have one. But I do have a wish. Or three.”
“I’m a politician, not a genie.”
“Right now, a Japanese government employee named Eri Sato is hiding out in the American Embassy in Tokyo. She’s requesting –”
“Political asylum. I know all about it. Julian has already seen to that. Rest assured, Eri is safe.”
Carver grimaced as pain shot down his right arm, and then subsided. “That’s a relief. Moving on, the task force...”
“Disbanded. As for Ellis, we’re offering her a position with the U.S. Small Business Administration in Anchorage, Alaska. I hope she’ll take it.”
“Then I wish her well. And the intelligence committee?”
The president reached for a crystal decanter filled with brown liquid on the bar next to her seat. “Committees are like fleas. Just when you’ve gotten rid of one, another pops up. How about a drink instead?”
“Yes please.”
The president poured two tumblers full of bourbon. She handed Carver a tumbler, then clinked her glass against his. “To your health.”
“I always drink to world peace.”
“Anything else? Last wish.”
“Yeah. This one is pretty important. It might even require a call to your counterpart on Downing Street. I hear you two are pretty close these days.”
“That’s none of your business. But if you want me to ask the British Prime Minister for a favor, it better be good.”
“It is. Ever hear of the Lycurgus Cup?”
EPILOGUE
THREE DAYS LATER
Las Vegas
From Nico Gold’s suite high above the Vegas strip, Carver watched as his host began dismantling the wooden crate emblazoned with the stamp TRUSTEES OF THE BRITISH MUSEUM. Nico, dressed in a white tunic, took up a hammer and began eagerly removing nails from his new delivery.
Madge reclined on the couch with a glass of port and a Mona Lisa smile. Was she simply amused by Nico’s enthusiasm, or had she already figured out how Carver had rigged the game? She had but a fraction of Nico’s raw talent, but in many ways, Carver had decided that she was the adult in their strange relationship.
“Where’s your sister?” Carver asked.
“You’ll see.”
Carver was careful not to stand too close to the window as he waited for his host to unwrap his presents. Another bout of vertigo was the last thing he needed. He focused on the orange sun plunging behind the jagged purple mountains in the distance. It reminded him of Tripoli. And the Butcher of Bahrain. And how badly he wanted to finish the mission that had been stolen right out from under him.
“Wait!” Nico said. “I want this moment to be perfect.” He cued up Strauss’ bombastic Also sprach Zarathustra in anticipation of the grand unveiling. Then he lowered the suite’s power window shutters. A single floodlight illuminated an alcove where the cup would be showcased.
Carver cleared his throat. “If you don’t mind, the British Museum kindly requested that you wear latex gloves before handling the cup.”
“Request respectfully ignored.”
Nico pulled the last nail from the crate. Then he reached into it, removed multiple layers of high-tech packing foam, and finally emerged with the ancient cup in hand. He held the vessel to the light and turned slowly. As promised, the cup was indeed a chameleon. It appeared jade green when lit from th
e front, but turned blood-red when lit from behind.
“Right,” Nico said. He looked at Madge. “Time for authentication.”
Carver took umbrage. “What do you mean, authentication? After all we’ve been through, you still don’t trust me?”
“Please. In God we trust. In all others, we verify.”
Madge got to her feet, put her phone on speaker and dialed. Octavia answered in Etruscan. It sounded as if she was in a cavernous room.
“Hello darling,” Nico said. “I’m here with Madge and Agent Carver. Would you like to tell us where you are? And let’s stay in English as a courtesy to our guests.”
“I’m at the British Museum in London,” Octavia answered. “It’s half-past midnight here, the museum has been closed for several hours, and I’m with the assistant curator. Here he is!”
The live image of the half-lit museum streamed on Madge’s phone. A balding man who looked positively petrified waved tentatively. Then the camera shifted focus to an empty glass enclosure. “The assistant curator has kindly turned the motion detectors off, and that empty enclosure in front of me is where the Lycurgus Cup should be. I’ll get closer so you can read the sign they put up.”
Nico mirrored the screen onto a large monitor on the far wall of the room. Carver watched as the image got close enough to the empty enclosure that the printed sign was legible. It read THIS ARTIFACT IS TEMPORARILY ON LOAN.
“Nicely done,” Nico said. “And the vault?”
“Already checked. The space where the cup is held when not normally in rotation is empty!”
“Astonishing!” Nico cried. He lifted the suite’s shutters and turned his gaze down the Vegas strip. “Eat it, Caesar's Palace! This Roman artifact is bloody well authentic!”
Madge clapped and hopped up and down. “Toast, toast, toast!”
“Yes, quickly, let me get the wine!”
He tore open the second shipping crate in search of the bottle of Château Lafite Bordeaux he had been promised.
“Careful,” Carver warned, but Nico was not especially careful. He clawed through layers of protective material before locating the 15-inch long blast-proof container at the crate’s core.
“It’s locked!” Nico shrieked.
“Easy there, Titus. I’ll have to give you the combination.”
Nico keyed in the 24-character alphanumeric combination as quickly as Carver could relay it to him. Seconds later, he held the bottle of hand-blown dark green glass, sealed with black wax. There was no label, but hand-etched into the glass was the year 1787, the word “Lafitte,” and the letters “Th.J.”
“An authentic Thomas Jefferson bottle!” Nico said. He looked up at Carver. “You did it!”
“Yes, but as you know, the authenticity of all the Jefferson bottles is controversial. They were discovered behind a bricked up wall in Paris, and the consensus from some researchers is that – ”
“Don’t spoil the romantic mood with your cynicism! So long as this is one of the alleged Jefferson bottles, we are good!”
“It is,” Carver confirmed. And it was indeed one of the Jefferson bottles. It did not, however, contain the alleged Jefferson wine.
While President Hudson was able to arrange a temporary loan of the Lycurgus Cup to Nico in the name of global security, she was not willing to allocate the $300,000 Carver estimated he needed to purchase an unopened bottle of Jefferson wine from a private collector. He went to Speers, who pledged $62,000 in off-the-books cash that had been confiscated from an Armenian arms smuggler. As much as he appreciated the moral support, how was Carver going to purchase a $300,000 bottle of wine at 80% off? His solution came in the form of a wine connoisseur in California who had purchased a bottle at auction some years ago – not as an investment, but actually to drink. He had kept the empty Jefferson bottle as a keepsake after finishing it. But due to an imminent bankruptcy filing, when Carver called, he was willing to part with it for $60,000 in cash.
Now Nico held the bottle up to the light for inspection. Carver prayed his host had not taken further authentication measures. If he had sent Octavia to London, would he then carbon-date the age of the wax that had resealed the wine cork just yesterday? Or obtain a gamma ray detector to test for the presence of radioactive isotope cesium 137 – an unnaturally occurring isotope that was the telltale sign of wines produced after 1945?
His host’s nose wrinkled in scrutiny. He held the bottle closer to the light, peering not just at it, but also through it.
“Toast, toast, toast!” Madge insisted.
At last, Nico used his thumb to break the wax seal, and then retrieved an ordinary corkscrew from the bar.
“Careful with the cork,” Carver said with manufactured trepidation. “It could be brittle.” But of course, he knew that the cork was not brittle, for it had been custom-made and hand- painted just yesterday. And in the low-light atmosphere Nico had created with which to admire the ancient cup, he did not even notice.
Nico stuck his nose into the neck. “Moldy!” he said with enthusiasm. “Obviously old!” He sniffed much more aggressively. “Ah, I can smell burnt sugar and old undergrowth!”
He was mistaken. It was not moldy. There was no aroma of the autumn of 1787. It was simply a 30-year-old Paso Robles blend that Carver had purchased for less than the price of a plane ticket.
But as Nico drank, he was convinced. And watching the celebration live from London, Octavia was convinced. The fact that they believed was all that mattered.
Carver extended his hand and shook Nico’s. “I think my work here is done.”
“You’re leaving?” Nico said. “For Jupiter’s sake, no! The party’s just getting started! We are going to invite some friends over, read Stoic philosophy, drink entire casks of wine and turn the second bathroom into a vomitorium!”
“Sounds like fun. But someone’s expecting me.”
“Ah. Eri. Right. Then Godspeed, old friend.”
Madge showed him out. In the foyer, she kissed his cheek. “Thank you.”
“Me? Nico earned this.”
“I’m not talking about the cup. Or whatever wine is really in that bottle. Thank you for giving Nico something to do. He needs this. So don’t be a stranger, okay?”
Down in the hotel lobby, Carver found Eri at the bar where he had left her. Upon arriving in Vegas, she had dyed her hair platinum as a security precaution, but it was the chunky non-prescription eyeglasses that really altered her appearance. It was a nerdy look to be sure, but Carver found that he liked it.
She rose and took his arm. Carver gave his ticket to the valet. They would be driving down to the Two Elk Ranch tonight, where his parents were no doubt scrambling to get the house ready for guests. They were no doubt more excited to see Eri than him.
He resolved to enjoy tonight, because tomorrow would be hard. He would finally confess that he wasn’t a federal procurement consultant. Given the threat the Eel had made on his father’s life, Speers had agreed that it was time to tell his immediate family what he really did for a living. Exactly how to do that was another matter. He had fantasized about this moment for years, and yet he still hadn’t figured out how to tell them. Mom, Dad, I have something to tell you. I’m a spy. But hey, don’t worry. I’m still the same person you think I am. Whatever he said would likely be met with laughter at first. Then it would morph into anger. He just hoped they would agree to keep it from his sister and her family for a bit longer. She had a big mouth.
He and Eri planned to stay in Arizona for as long as it took to secure the ranch to his satisfaction. Despite the fact that Ito was in jail, the Eel was dead and dozens more had been arrested on treason charges, the Kuromaku hadn’t survived for two thousand years without solid plans for succession and mission continuity. That was why Carver had a security team scheduled to come out and set up a virtual perimeter. Cameras in trees, motion detectors programmed to detect human gait, and more. They would build a panic room in the basement with a failsafe communications system, and the enti
re ranch house would be outfitted with emergency blast-proof shutters. Carver also had a line on some anti-drone technology that was going to scare the bejeezus out of the turkey vultures.
Just as the valet brought the car, his phone rang. It was Speers. “The Butcher of Bahrain is in London.”
Carver’s breath left him. “How…”
“This, my friend, is why you debrief relentlessly. One of those little details Kyra mentioned in passing led to one thing, which led to another, and so forth. Good Christ, this is big.”
Carver tipped the valet and held the passenger door open for Eri. He walked around to the other side of the car, but didn’t get in. Speers was still on the line. “Look, Blake, I called you first as a courtesy. But after all you’ve been through, feel free to say no.”
He didn’t dare look at Eri. But she was watching him now. He could feel it. They had a chance for a new life together. What they had wasn’t good yet, but it could be. He wanted it to be. On the other hand, he had to go to London. And he would have to leave right away. This time was different, he told himself. Eri would understand. This time, she would wait for him.
★
Characters
THE FEDS
Blake Carver, intelligence operative.
Chad Fordham, FBI Director.
Haley Ellis, intelligence analyst.
Eva Hudson, President of the United States.
Dexter Jackson, Secretary of Defense
Kyra Javan, spy
Nico Gold, reformed hacker.
Arunus Roth, intelligence analyst.
Julian Speers, Director of National Intelligence.
THE JAPANESE
The Emperor, imperial ruler
Rogue Empire Page 33