Carpathian: An Event Group Thriller (Event Group Thrillers)

by David L. Golemon

  “I have regretted my decision on partnering with this man from the first day. It’s like he never had money before and now he’s crazed about how to spend it. It’s like the trouble with the villagers up in the pass: he sends a backward Russian up there in a pretend hunt, and only he comes back down, but the attacks have ceased. I just don’t understand it.”

  “Where is that Neanderthal anyway?” Gina asked as she was led to the cable car that had just arrived.

  “Look here,” Vajic said as he gestured out of the large plate glass window in the rear of the car. He was pointing far below to the swimming pool, which stretched five hundred feet in the back of the resort. Sitting by the pool was the Russian. He sat in a chaise longue and didn’t move.

  “What’s he doing?” Gina asked.

  “He’s been sitting there since the maintenance people showed up at four this morning. He hasn’t moved. He refuses food and water. He just sits and stares waiting for Zallas to arrive.”

  “What’s wrong with him, and where are the Romanian hunters that accompanied him?”

  “They’re missing. Or at least we haven’t seen a trace of them since they left here last night. He just mumbles about the pass,” he said as he glanced upward along the cables and the mountain beyond. “That’s it. He won’t move until he reports directly to Zallas.”

  Gina watched the still and silent man far below. Then she turned to Janos.

  “I have the most horrible feeling that we are in the middle of something here that we have no control over.”

  Janos Vajic stepped to the front of the cable car and saw the black Mercedes approach from the south. He took a deep breath and then faced his general manager.

  “Well, the man who is in control has just arrived.”

  As Gina followed Vajic’s gaze she saw over fifty vehicles as they wound their way toward the richest resort in the Eastern world.

  The criminal invasion of the Carpathians had begun.

  EVENT GROUP COMPLEX, NELLIS AIR FORCE BASE, NEVADA

  Jack heard the knock on the door and Carl Everett, looking haggard and half asleep, stuck his head inside.

  “I’ve noticed that the red Event lights are lit up like the Fourth of July around here. Fill me in on what we’ve missed?”

  “You bet. Have a seat, Carl. We need to talk.”

  Everett opened the office door and stepped in. He rubbed his eyes and took a seat in front of the desk.

  “I thought I lost you for a minute over there. Is Ryan all right?”

  “He slammed into his bunk doing mach one. He’ll not be with us for a while, double jet lag and all.”

  “What about you?”

  Everett didn’t answer for a moment as he took in the colonel.

  “I’m pissed at a woman and a double-dealing little Mossad colonel who tried to kill us. But that’s not what’s on my mind at the moment. Can we go off subject for a second, Colonel?”

  Jack leaned back in his chair and waited for the shoe to fall. He had noticed Carl had addressed him by his Army rank behind closed doors, something the Navy SEAL ordinarily never did. Collins nodded his head that he should continue.

  “I think it only proper that I inform my commanding officer that I have applied for transfer to the new naval surface warfare center being set up at Cape Canaveral.”

  Jack’s brows arched as he listened to his second in command, a man he had known in some tough times and a true friend. He knew why this was happening.

  “The new euphemism for space warfare center? The surface part of the name has little to do with it. You’re not a shipboard officer, Carl. You’re something far more special than that.”

  “Some would say, Colonel. But then again you cut me out of the loop in the search for your sister’s killer. That’s personal to me because I knew and liked Lynn. I think it best that I get on with this new program and see if I can help out some.”

  “I wasn’t worried about you and Ryan while you were in Rome. Even when I knew your lives were in jeopardy. I can live with that. I can allow you to go into harm’s way as long as it’s in the line of duty and under the auspices of this department, the one in which you are assigned.” Jack stood from his chair and paced to the door and locked it and then turned and walked to his desk and sat. “I will not lose friends on a personal quest of vengeance when they find enough death around them every damn day right here in this madhouse of history. But that is to be expected and accepted. You dying performing a criminal act on my behalf is not, nor will it ever be, acceptable, Carl.”

  Everett didn’t look away from Jack’s glaring eyes.

  “That’s your mistake, Jack. If you can’t see the basic problem here you are far blinder than you realize. You are making mistakes not only in judgment on how to best go about finding your sister’s murderer, you’re cutting off the sounding boards and genius that make things work here at the Event Group, and that’s the people who believe they are more than just a goddamn team to you.”

  Collins was trying to get everything settled in his mind from Everett’s verbal assault. For the first time in his adult life he didn’t know how to proceed.

  “This communication you have going with the Frenchman has to stop, Jack.” Everett stood and faced his friend. “Farbeaux may be assisting you because you think he is better equipped to do what you plan on doing, finding the scumbag and killing him. But don’t you see that Henri Farbeaux doesn’t do anything without it benefiting Henri Farbeaux. He will kill you if he gets the chance—make no mistake about that.”

  “There is a method to my madness, Carl. He may do what you say he will—maybe just to get Sarah, who knows, but there is one element in this equation you’re missing—that son of a bitch is expendable, you and my friends are not. No more people are being lost on my account. In the line of duty is one thing, dying for something personal is another.”

  Everett set his jaw muscles and for the first time that Navy SEAL stare was directed at Jack.

  “Transfer request stands. I’m needed elsewhere with everything coming down all over the world.”

  Jack Collins took a deep breath and then sat into his chair. He looked at Everett and then down at his desk blotter. He nodded his head in agreement.

  Carl Everett came to attention and saluted. Jack looked up and frowned.

  “The Navy doesn’t salute indoors, Captain—dismissed.”

  Everett allowed his gesture of respect to slip by the wayside. He turned abruptly and then unlocked the door and stepped out of the office.

  As Europa sounded a tone over the speaker system embedded in the walls, Jack was staring at nothing. All thought of the past day’s events had slipped into a neutral position. He had just lost one of the best friends he had in the world because of the stubborn streak Sarah had warned him about a million and one times.

  “Attention all personnel, as of 1245 hours this date an operational order has been issued by the director of Department 5656 declaring an Event in the Carpathian region of Romania. All departmental supervisors are to report to the main conference room immediately. All personnel are restricted to base and Gates 1 and 2 are now closed. Alert 2 status has been upgraded—full security measures are hereby in effect.”

  Jack didn’t hear a word of the supercomputer as she gave the Event alert. His mind was on his friends—the ones he was losing because of his fears and the fear of others above him in rank.

  Outside the office the Event teams were forming. The assault on the Carpathians was now an official case file.

  The Event Group was now in its element.

  PATINAS PASS, CARPATHIAN MOUNTAINS, ROMANIA

  The moon was bright and the villagers of Patinas were out in the cool of the evening. The village itself would be considered large for most in the region. The census taken in 1980 by the former communist government listed the occupants of that particular protected area as 752. The center square of the village of stone and wood houses was alight with the fire that was built every evening for the familie
s of man to congregate and share stories on the events of their day. It had been a tradition for over two thousand years. The families gathered and laughed and sang and played their string instruments to the delight of the children. Most of the musical instruments were new and shiny and the electric lighting now coursing through the small village even newer than the instruments that began showing up the past two years as gifts from the man who would soon be their king.

  As the Romanian Catholic church bell rang just once announcing the hour of nine, all those around the fire and sitting on the grass listening to the music started to say their good nights and good-byes to family and friends. As they all laughed their way to their houses or out of town for their farms and flocks, there was only one who remained behind. The old woman sat in her customary chair after waving off several of her nephews and nieces as they tried to persuade her not to sit out in the damp night.

  When the villagers had all left the old Gypsy looked around her at what they had built over the years. She slowly stood and leaned on the wooden cane with the Eye of Ra inlaid in the handle. She slowly turned and looked at the mountain behind her that encircled the beautiful but small valley and pass that was Patinas. Her two different colored eyes fell upon the temple that only she could see. She shook her head. The steam escaping from several open vents along the mountain road leading to the pass high above was a constant reminder that somewhere far beneath the surface of the earth mother nature was cooking up quite a cauldron of fury that someday would be released into the valleys far below—a wrath of prehistoric power that could eventually level the 250-million-year-old mountain range. The hot water vapor from the hot springs that coursed through this particular mountain actually produced enough heat to change the weather conditions during the winter months as the vapors brought a false warmth to the village and the pass above them.

  “We should have brought the entire mountain down upon you before it was ever completed.” She jabbed her cane at the darkness above and the mountain it hid in the night. “You are a curse that we should never have dared to lay claim to.” Suddenly her strength was gone and she turned and sat back into her chair.

  “It would take more than that rickety old cane to bring down the temple, Grandmamma.”

  The old woman closed her eyes and placed her forehead on the cane.

  “There was death last night on the road to the pass. You disobeyed me, man-child.”

  “No, one still lives. The message I wanted to deliver was delivered and the men that were with the filthy Slav paid the postage on that message. There will be no man allowed above that ridiculous castle. Never again will men come this way without invitation.”

  The old Gypsy raised the cane an inch off the ground and then brought it down again as she turned to look at her grandson. The man was dressed in a bright red shirt with his ever-present head scarf, this one royal blue in color. His black beard and leather pants gleamed in the light of the rising moon. As he watched, the old woman forcibly calmed herself.

  “You have been missed at the fire lately. You seem unaware that your family misses you. And for one who has delivered such magnificent gifts to the people it would seem you would be more interested in the activities here than down there,” she said as she jabbed her cane down the mountainside.

  The young man snorted and then shook his head. “To sit around and sing old Gypsy songs that are just as much a lie as the ones we tell of the ancient times? No, I have no more interest in lies. It’s far past the time to be mere caretakers to riches and the knowledge of the old ones. It’s time we take what we have earned. And giving out a few small gifts as you call them is what a future king of the Gypsies does for his people.”

  The old woman couldn’t argue the point.

  “How many of our young men have you taken from the villages below?” she asked, fearing the answer.

  “Enough to protect what is ours.”

  “You have been in the temple recently.”

  The man laughed. His grandmother always knew his fascination for the temple and what that place of magic held for him. Even as a small child he would wander into the mountain and sit for hours, sometimes days, just to speak with the guardians of the temple, his friends, the Golia, and marvel at the temple and plaza that surrounded it. She knew his love of the massive building blocks the ancient artisans built for a people that would never see it. He always thought about the sacrifice of his people for the good of men and women that had shunned the Jeddah since a time before the Exodus.

  “Do not bother to hide your activities with another lie. Sister arrives on the morrow and she will discover what it is you’ve been up to, Marko.”

  The man turned and the smile was gone.

  “Yes, for the first time in many years we will see the sister, child, and the truth will be found out. I do not know what deal with what devil you may have made but sister will know what to do. I pray to God you have not been lying to me, Marko—or the Golia.” She smiled as she took in her grandson. “They are not quite as forgiving as this old woman.”

  “You send her away for years to learn the ways of the Jewish state and to keep an ear to the ground about the temple and what’s hidden there. But I am left here to never see the real world. Never will I venture into the cities and live the real life that my sister was chosen for.”

  “Marko, she was better equipped, more even-tempered to do the duties I have laid out for her. It’s not that I do not—”

  Marko held up a hand, stopping his grandmother’s lie from continuing. He did manage to force a smile.

  “It will be good to see sister again.” He turned and started walking away while looking up at the camouflaged temple. “It has been a very long time and I have indeed missed her.”

  As she watched Marko walk away with his fists clenched into tight balls of anger, a small lamb that had come into the village from the flock outside the main gates bleated as he approached. Her grandchild kicked the small animal and it squealed and fell to the ground.

  The old woman slowly got to her feet and went to the lamb and placed her aged hand upon it and stopped its hurtful bleating. The old woman stopped petting the frightened animal when the lamb’s eyes grew wide and the lamb regained its feet and bounced away toward the open gate. The old woman knew the beast was poised right behind her. She slowly and carefully turned.

  The black-furred Golia was sitting on its hind haunches and was looking straight at her with its long ears up in a nonaggressive stance. As she examined the giant wolf she saw the yellow eyes take her in also with just as much curiosity.

  “You have grown so, Stanus.” She slowly took a step forward and raised her hand to the animal’s jawline and used her short, broken fingernails to scratch the new leader of the Golia.

  Stanus tilted its huge head to the left as the old woman scratched lightly. The eyes never left her age-lined face. As she scratched the alpha male as she had done on a million other occasions her hand slowly started to rise toward the left side of the animal’s face just below the ear. Stanus saw the movement and lightly growled and then raised its right paw to its face. She watched as the fingers slowly curled open and extended outward and was so large that the slim fingers and razor-sharp claws wrapped completely around her small wrist and hand. As the beast lowered the offending hand from its muzzle it came up on all fours and backed away a step and then sat once more on its haunches. The yellow, intense eyes never left the old woman’s face.

  “Your trust is as empty as your den in the pass. Do you even know what Marko is up to, or are you just going along because you finally get to vent that stored rage you have deep inside—not unlike my grandson?”

  The wolf tilted its large head to the right this time as it listened to the woman speak. She could see that the respect the animal had toward her was still present. She suspected that Stanus was conflicted. She was even receiving small bursts of knowledge streaming from the new leader of the Golia but she couldn’t understand the animal’s consternation. She sm
iled at Stanus as she looked up into those yellow eyes that stood a whole head higher than her entire height.

  “How are the babies?”

  The wolf whined deep in its chest.

  “You haven’t been to the pass, have you? You’ve been with Marko.”

  The low growl sounded once more.

  “Whatever he is doing is against the will of his queen, and also against the family of Golia. I need you, Stanus, in the days ahead. We have to—”

  The Golia suddenly jumped from its place. The giant leapt over the old woman and then jumped again and cleared the stone wall that lined the small village and vanished silently into the night.

  The Gypsy queen turned and listened as the mountain came alive with the sound of many Golia who were not inside their dens or in the temple. There were more and more howls coming from the dark in recent months as more and more Golia defected to Stanus and Marko. It was not the fact that Marko wanted better for his people—as she was responsible for her grandson’s rebelliousness because truth be told she herself had been fighting with tradition and ancient superstition for most of her years to allow the people to be free of the curse placed upon them three and a half thousand years before. She and Marko just clashed as to the best way to free their people.

  The ground shook and the night became a silent and bleak artwork of desolate landscape that screamed against the sign of the times. The howling awoke the night world of the Carpathians and brought every villager for miles around to their windows to close the shutters of their humble homes and farms.

  PALILULA, SERBIA, THE DANUBE RIVER CROSSING

  The woman known to Israeli intelligence and the Event Group as Major Mica Sorotzkin was sitting and watching her reflection in the train’s filthy window. She saw the bloodshot eyes accompanied by the dark circles underneath and then she closed them against the worn and tired reflection. The raven-haired woman turned away from the nighttime countryside of Palilula, Serbia, as the train passed over an ancient trestle across the Danube. She closed her eyes and felt much safer as she entered Romania for the first time in nine years.