by Paul Bishop
Several minutes after passing a nine-hole golf course nestled in a shallow valley, the landscape changed dramatically. They drove past patches of barren ground streaked gray and black. Many parts of the scarred terrain were still encrusted with ash. Goats ranged in vain hopes of finding vegetation. Several feral cats darted about as if they were scouting for food for their fellow animals.
The jeeps took a turn along a rutted path and came to a gate set in barbed wire fencing. Guards were armed with automatic assault rifles and handled them with the casual indifference of practiced users. The vehicles were allowed in and drove through freshly planted plants and palm trees before they reached open ground around an estate that echoed a nineteenth-century Chinese Imperial palace. Additionally, modern structures surrounded the main grounds.
“Hopefully we can have that drink later,” Soderberg said to Agent Z-9.
“I look forward to it,” she responded.
The man who greeted them said, “If I could ask the women to line up on the left and the men on the right.” He gestured with his hands and maintained a pleasant look on his face.
“What’s this about?” a stocky man said in a gruff voice. “I didn’t come here to play mixed doubles.”
“None of you did,” the pleasant man answered. “This is to make sure no one is here who shouldn’t be here. You will all be stripped, searched, and a wand—a more sophisticated version of the one used in airports—will be passed over you. If it beeps, indicating a sub-dermal electronic device, you will be probed to determine if our device made a mistake or was accurate.”
There were murmurs but the prior instruction to the bidders was to have their bodyguards turn over their weapons in Antigua. Koburn had shed all his disguised gadgets, including his hidden earbud. They had anticipated that this kind of search would be conducted by the cautious Prospero. What he wasn’t sure of was whether his nanobots that allowed him to alter his features would be detected.
“This should do it,” Templesmith had said less than a week before. He’d studied a read-out and turned to Koburn who lay on an examination table, his shirt off. Various electrodes were attached to his face and the wire leads trailed to a bank of machinery with switches, gauges, and dials the scientist had manipulated and he continually consulted the monitor while he adjusted the results.
Koburn unclenched his fists and sat up after he’d removed the electrodes.
“But this is an untried procedure. You’re not one hundred percent that the nanotech will provide a convincing biological signature.”
“Nothing’s ever a hundred percent, Efrem,” he’d responded.
“You have a hell of a bedside manner.”
“I try,” he said dryly and clasped him on the shoulder for reassurance.
Now, Koburn was naked with a finger up his butt. At least the finger of the glove his searcher wore had been dipped in lubricant, he noted. He straightened after this part of the search and another man approached. He held a device that wasn’t an electric wand at all. The thing was shaped like a smartphone and had a semi-circular extension on it. This machine hummed and was passed over his lower body and brought slowly upward toward his face. The man frowned regarding the readings he looked at as the beeping increased.
While Koburn fought to maintain a poker face, Ned Brenner and Ella Navarro were in scuba gear on the lee side of the island and swam underwater toward the shore. It was serene there and light filtered through the water as they glided along. All around them in a harmony of nature, green-black triggerfish with white along their dorsal fins, balloon fish, and silvery bar jack darted and circled with little interest in their intrusion into the underwater world.
Brenner broke the surface first, removed the respirator from his mouth, and made for the slope of sand. When it was shallow enough, he righted himself and stood in his flippers, the water at mid-thigh. He walked out of the ocean and began to remove his face mask and the rest of his gear. Navarro soon followed and stripped to reveal a crème-colored bikini with a large knife in its scabbard on a wide belt loose around her waist. She had something in her hand she plunked on the sand while she removed her gear.
He focused on the object she’d brought ashore, a curved conch shell shot through with blues and pinks in the amber coloring of its casing. She held it toward him. Her tanned, taut body was perfectly accented by the sheen of water that sparkled on it from the sun overhead.
“Amazing isn’t it?”
“Not bad,” he said, his attention on her.
“Yeah,” she said and gazed appreciatively at the shell.
They carried their tanks and other swim gear into the thick growth that bordered the beach. The rubber booties they’d worn under the flippers protected their feet. Navarro pressed a latch and flipped her wrist compass up to check a reading on a small circular screen. A directional signal beeped on it, and she pointed in a westerly direction as they walked. They soon reached a hinged crate in a clearing about the size of a port-a-potty. It was made of high-impact plastic and had been parachuted in ahead of them.
“Here we go,” Brenner said and opened it to reveal clothes, various devices, luggage, and a tent. They put garments on over their swimsuits and replaced the footgear with boots and socks. Their now unneeded gear, along with their oxygen tanks and flippers, were stowed in the case and he closed it, toppled it onto its side, and pushed it into the foliage. Navarro then used the ball of her foot to wipe out their footprints in the sand.
“What the hell, huh?” a voice said from behind them.
As one, a surprised Brenner and Navarro turned to see four men behind them. Two held Winchester rifles and the third had a handgun tucked in his waistband. The fourth—apparently their leader—was a smallish bow-legged man with a bald head. He wore a jaunty bowler and an unbuttoned vest over a dirty t-shirt. He too had a handgun grasped in his fist.
The man leveled his gun at Brenner and his team followed suit. “First, we gonna have our way with your woman, then we screw you too, man.” A chorus of laughs from his men followed his.
Dr. Templesmith’s alteration of the nanotech under Koburn’s skin had worked. The man using the scanner had paused the machine next to the visitor’s head while his gaze moved from his reading to the man’s disguised face. Fortunately, the beeping ceased, and he was told to get dressed. Along with the others, he now gathered in a large hall before a sweeping staircase, each side of which led to a wide landing. On that landing, their host Prospero stood at the stone railing. He was dressed in a suit and gloves and wore a loose silken hood over his head with only eyeholes cut out.
“My apologies for the theatrics,” he said and indicated his full mask quickly with his hand. “But you’re not here for me but rather, for the anti-gravity engine.”
“About that,” a man in slacks and an open-collar dress shirt said in English with a German accent. His white hair was precisely cut and added to the angularity of his face. “We only have your word that these blueprints are the real thing. What assurances do we have that they’re authentic since you expect us to pay handsomely for them?”
The hooded man spread his arms wide. “Is not my reputation enough? Surely you didn’t come here—many with your money managers in tow—on a whim.”
The German folded his arms. “Is that supposed to satisfy us?”
“Hardly,” Prospero said. “Take a look,” he added and pointed toward a large picture window.
The group moved to where he indicated and froze when an armored vehicle based on a Humvee glided into view. Molded fender skirts were now visible where the wheels and tire wells had been. The craft turned toward the window to reveal a canon-like device set atop its rear compartment. The bidders reacted with a collective gasp.
“Don’t you worry. I don’t plan to fry my guests,” their host said. “But do keep watching.”
The floating vehicle turned, and a jagged, white-hot energy bolt seared from the canon and instantly vaporized a section of the nearby hillside. The craft then mad
e another turn and floated away.
“Incredible,” a bearded man said in Arabic. “Imagine what could be done once that machine is duplicated.” There were other murmurs of appreciation.
“Rest from your travels, my honored guests.” The man hadn’t moved from the landing. “Enjoy our private stretch of beach or the other variety of amenities I’ve put at your disposal. Tomorrow, bright and early, the auction will begin. The minimum bid is seven hundred million.” He waved and stepped through an arched opening.
Koburn and his supposed daughter exchanged a look and exited the hall with the others.
Ella Navarro walked slowly toward the leader of the thugs, unbuttoning her shirt as she did so. This tactic had worked on Villalobos so it should work with these no-accounts too, she reasoned. “There’s no reason to rush, boys. I’m used to taking on more than one at a time.”
One of the men with a rifle widened his eyes and edged in front of his teammate.
She put her hand tenderly on the side of the leader’s face and made as if to kiss him. He opened his mouth and moved his tongue in anticipation. The thug was missing two of his front teeth.
“Are you, girl?” He smelled of rum and something greasy. “Come here.”
At the perfect moment, she struck with her elbow and it pounded into his nose. He lurched away with a curse and she plucked his gun from his hand and shot one of the riflemen.
The other swung his Winchester level to target her but a knife thrown by her partner buried itself in his forearm and he yelped in pain. Brenner leapt on him.
The last man with his handgun was slower to react than his friends. Navarro kicked him in the side of the head, snatched his gun, and shot him with it. Her teammate knocked out the rifleman he’d wounded with several rapid, vicious blows. The two of them turned toward the stunned leader.
“Look, I didn’t mean nothing,” he pleaded and extended a shaking hand toward them. He sat on the ground, his nose bleeding. “I only tried to get—” He stopped hastily when he realized he was digging himself in deeper.
“What do we do with him?” Brenner asked, the Winchester at his side, and his copper-colored eyes darkened.
Navarro wore a determined look on her face. “There’s only one thing to do with piss ants like this.”
The leader looked from one to the other for sympathy—something he’d never had for anyone else. Appropriately, there was none for him.
The disguised Koburn and undercover Agent Z-9 assumed the guest rooms were bugged and so discussed matters as they walked along the beach. Keeping pace with them at a discreet distance were their armed minders.
“Is your agency authorized to supply me the money in case I come up short in my bid for the anti-gravity engine and canon?” he asked.
She squinted at him against the sun beaming behind his head. “You’re not in a position to bargain, Villalobos. You screw this up, you go to jail until you die.”
“You can threaten me all you like, lady, but reality is reality. There are some heavy hitters here, and Prospero is unlikely to accept an IOU.” He knew she knew how much actual cash Villalobos could command.
“I realize that,” she said.
“You have a plan, don’t you?”
“That’s not your concern.”
“Sure it is,” he responded and walked on. Out over the ocean, two grackles pirouetted in the sky, their wings spread to let the air carry them as they circled.
“I don’t want to be left hanging.”
She looked at the grackles. “You merely play your part, Villalobos, and leave the thinking to me,” she stated firmly.
The birds didn’t have a care in the world except which fish to eat next, Koburn reflected. He wished it were so for him at that moment. They stopped circling and began to skim the water’s surface for lunch. It was eat or be eaten time.
To maintain their cover, Koburn gave Agent Z-9 a kiss on the forehead a while later when she left him at the compound. He returned to his room, the windows open to allow the warm breeze through. Soon, a green-and-red hued parrot landed on the sill, squawked, and picked at tiny bugs on itself with its beak. Koburn put his back to any hidden nanny cams that might be trained on him and removed the message inside the pretend jungle bird’s leg.
Vigilance had anticipated Prospero preventing communication by conventional means and concluded that they’d have to rely on the old methods to get word to each other. Well, at least what appeared to be the old ways as the parrot was a robot created by Dr. Templesmith and imitated the real version effectively. Turning from the sill, Koburn went to the wet bar to make a vodka martini, a favorite of the drug lord he impersonated. The android bird flapped its wings and squawked once before it flew away and homed in on where Brenner and Navarro had set up camp.
“Hello, Mr. Villalobos,” a dark-haired woman said in Spanish a few minutes later. She’d knocked lightly on the door but didn’t wait for an answer and simply entered. “Your host wanted me to make sure you were comfortable.” The tawny-skinned pretty woman was dressed in a patterned robe and high heels.
“How kind of Prospero,” he answered, also in flawless Spanish.
“Yes, he thinks of everything.” She slipped the robe off and let it fall to the floor. She had large, well-proportioned breasts and wore only a black thong. “Why don’t you have a seat in that chair over there and let me show you the specialty of the house? It’s sure to relax you.”
He eased into a plush club chair and the young woman knelt before him. This looked to be an extra for playing the role he would apparently enjoy rather than the usual getting shot at or pursued. She unzipped him expertly, took his stiffening member in her crimson-nailed hand, and lowered her head to relax him extremely well—twice.
When the able woman left his room, she told Koburn that he could have dinner served in his room later or sample the buffet. The latter had been laid out in an ornate hall that resembled something out of the Tang Dynasty. He had chosen the hall as a chance to study the other guests a little more.
Given the cost of the prototype, it made sense for those who could form an alliance to discuss pooling their resources. He passed three of the bidders engaged in such negotiations at a table. Agent Z-9 was already in the hall, eating and conversing with Soderberg. The fake father and daughter exchanged nods.
After choosing roast beef and sides from a wide selection of meats and vegetables and high-fiber starches, Koburn sat at a table with his plate and a glass of red wine. He was soon joined by a bland-looking man dressed in khakis and a boxy Hawaiian shirt.
“Hey,” the stranger said.
“How are you?” Koburn forked a small grilled red potato and a piece of dill into his mouth.
“Great.” His dinner companion smirked. “I had my ashes hauled by this knockout redhead,” he added and leaned in a little closer to him. “She was amazing, you know what I’m saying?” He grinned and snickered like a high school senior who got to bed the cool college girl.
“I understand quite well,” he responded while he wondered who this man was and more importantly, who he represented.
The other man looked around the room, then back at him. “I guess for a man like you, that’s an everyday thing. The women throwing themselves at you I mean.”
Shifting into his persona, he said, “And you know about me how, mister...
“Oh, I didn’t mean anything, Señor Villalobos. My employers briefed me about the kind of—the people, I mean, who were coming to this.” He put his hand out. “I’m Vince. Vince Paymer.”
They shook hands. Koburn was curious as to who he worked for, but he knew it wasn’t a question Villalobos would ask. People were threats, obstacles, or marks to men like the cartel chief.
That night, Koburn sat in a robe, smoked a thin cigar, and read a book while seated in the club chair, his feet up on a matching hassock. He’d cataloged what he could from Prospero’s voice. He knew he was white and tried to sound older but was no more than thirty-five, most likely. Ed
ucated, yes, and something else. There was an edge in the timbre of his voice, even when he tried to sound casual. It was deep in there, but Koburn was certain of his educated guess. Their host was out to prove his worth—a mother complex, perhaps? He was no Freudian expert, but he’d report what he’d concluded to Ella.
While the master of disguise relaxed, a figure quietly left their room in another part of the compound and used a thin, knotted steel cord and collapsible grappling hook he’d smuggled in a hidden lining in his luggage to ascend a wall in the inner court of one of the attached structures.
The prowler—who, since childhood, had been a mountain climber along with his siblings—and his partners had planned his present actions some weeks ahead of the auction. He had retrieved an important electronic device in a hollow log on the beach earlier that day. The custom-made instrument was of a clever design. In the proximity of a closed-circuit camera, the gadget caused the digital signal in the device to pause without indicating a disruption. The length of the pause was only seven seconds, but it gave him time to move past any given camera without being noticed.
Now, his feet against the wall in sneakers and suspended by the knotted line attached to his specially designed grapple hook disguised as a belt buckle, the interloper was outside a barred second-story window. Using a lock pick from a kit also secured in that log, the man worked the bar, which was on hinges, open. It had taken a bribe of a million to one of Prospero’s personnel, but the alarm had been scheduled to be turned off at this time.