by Tom Wilde
I gave myself a moment; I was about to go marching blindfolded through a minefield. I kept my eyes on the floor as I said, “Okay. But you’ve got to promise one thing first.”
There was a hesitation, then the voice from the machine said, “Go on.”
“You’ve got to promise not to tell Nicholas Riley what I’m about to tell you.”
“What’s that?”
“That I’m a fraud.”
“How so?”
I shrugged. “I’m a crook. A thief, to be exact. And I’ve been using the Argo Foundation as my cover for years now.”
Smith asked, “What do you mean by cover?”
“Just what I said. While I was traveling around the world on Argo Foundation business, I was taking some opportunities to steal some of the antiquities we located for myself. My work at the foundation gave me a legit-looking cover. I’d just hate for Nick Riley to find out. The old man’s been good to me, and if he knew I’d been risking the good name of Argo for my own use, it’d break his heart.” If he actually had one, I added silently to myself.
I bowed my head while I let my audience ponder over my mixture of truth and fiction, the same set I used on Vanya, until Mr. Jonas said, “So you’re a thief. That doesn’t explain how you’ve managed to survive all this time. I’ve seen the video of you in Troyon’s apartment. My associate there says he can vouch for the fact that you’ve had extensive combat training. There’s also the fact that your personal background becomes more questionable the closer we examine it.”
“Not to mention having a mean sucker punch,” Smith added, stroking his goatee with one hand and keeping his gun held steady on me with the other.
“Well, I picked up most of my education while being involuntarily incarcerated.”
“Incarcerated?” Mr. Jonas inquired. “Where?”
“Somewhere other than America, under a different name.”
Smith asked quickly, “If you’ve been stealing all this time, how come you’re not rich?”
“I’m a lousy gambler.”
The voice from the machine asked, “So who are you?”
Enough was enough, I thought. I’d done my best to give Nick Riley and my fellow pirates at Argo a plausible out as my parting gift to them, but now it was time to put my own plan into action. I shook my head and said, “Forget me. Why aren’t you guys sending a small army to invade Vanya’s island?”
The frustration in Jonas’s voice came through the computer loud and clear. “Because we lack the actual proof we need. There is no way the American government will sanction a military strike on foreign soil, even a privately owned island, based solely upon on the suppositions we have.”
“I told you; Caitlin’s still there.”
“We don’t know that for a fact,” Smith said tightly. “Even if she is, that bastard Vanya could drop her in the Mediterranean Sea before anyone could get close enough. We know he’s got a radar installation up and running, and from what you’ve told us, he’s got his own private army and an underground bunker as well. Just how the hell are we supposed to get through all that before he has a chance to eliminate all the evidence? Including Caitlin and the missing scientists?”
“If they are even there at all,” Mr. Jonas mused darkly.
I let the heavy mood sink in for a bit, then said, “Well, then. Looks like we have no choice.”
The voice from the computer asked, “What do you mean?”
“You have to send me back to Vanya’s island.”
Everything stopped dead for a moment. Then Smith said, “Or I could save time and trouble and just shoot you here.”
Mr. Jonas added, “Even if we did send you back, what makes you think you could survive after you arrived? According to what you’ve told us, Suzume Saito tried to kill you just last night.”
It was time to play the card I’d held back up my sleeve. “Because I’ve got the one thing Vanya’s been tearing up heaven and earth looking for; the one thing he wants above everything else.”
“What?” asked Smith.
“I know the location of the tomb of Alexander the Great.”
There was an absolute vacuum of silence in the wake of my announcement. The look on Smith’s face was priceless until he clapped his jaw shut, then said, “Say what?”
Mr. Jonas chimed in with, “You mean to tell us you’ve actually located the tomb? Where every archeologist in the world has failed? You expect us to believe this? Do you have proof?”
“Yes, I do.”
“Where?”
“Someplace safe,” I replied, hoping that my greedy friend, the night concierge, didn’t just forget to mail the envelope containing Byron’s secret letter. “Besides,” I continued, “I don’t care if you believe me or not. The important thing is that I can get Vanya to believe me.”
After a pause, Mr. Jonas said, “Even if we agree to send you back, just how do you propose to accomplish this? There’s no way to approach the island unseen.”
“No problem. I’m licensed and certified for both skydiving and scuba diving, and I’ve done a fair share of both at night. Just get me the gear and throw me out of an airplane close enough to the target, and I’ll swim the rest of the way in.”
Mr. Smith laughed softly as he shook his head. “Putting aside the fact that you’re crazy, just why in the hell would you want us to send you back to a place that you’re certain to die in?”
“Like I told you before, I’m going to get Caitlin out. Oh, and one more thing—I’m going to wreck Vanya’s little island paradise.”
“Oh?” Smith prompted.
“Yeah. He’s made me mad.”
From the computer I heard, “Mr. Smith? We need to confer privately.” Smith nodded and reached over to turn the laptop screen away from me. He then gave me a baleful warning glance as he set his pistol next to the computer and started typing on the keyboard in quick, staccato bursts, all the while darting his eyes up at me at brief intervals. I tried to keep a calm exterior, but inside I was boiling over, counting every second that ticked away that I was kept from heading toward Caitlin. I was also planning my moves against Mr. Smith in the event they decided not to send me back to Vanya’s island. My hand was scant inches away from the silenced pistol under my pillow, but I truly didn’t want to risk a lethal injury against someone who was technically on the side of the angels. The problem was, he was ready for a fight with me, and I was suffering from the compounded effects of all the physical damage I’d been accumulating.
Finally, I saw Smith glance up from the keyboard and vent a grunt. “Too bad for you, boy. Looks like you’re getting a free one-way trip to the Greek islands.”
From the machine I heard, “Let me be very clear on this, Mr. Blake; you are going in entirely on your own. The United States government will completely deny any and all connection with you. As it is, we are having a very difficult time keeping the French authorities in the dark.”
Smith added, “With everything that’s been blowing up or burning down lately, they must be going nuts over the fact they don’t know who to surrender to.”
“So you understand your position?” Mr. Jonas asked.
“Yes. Completely.”
“Very well. Now, our primary objective is to obtain evidence that Vanya is in possession of biological weapons and has kidnapped citizens of other countries against their will. If you can gather the proof we need and manage to escape from the island, head north to Corfu. We will have people monitoring the area. We will also be scanning all radio wavelengths, so if you can get ahold of a radio, just use the name ‘Vanya’ in your message, and we’ll pick it up. Now, what will you need in the way of equipment?”
“Nothing like the stuff Caitlin was carrying. Vanya got a big laugh out of your little shooting pen and the sunglasses with the concealed knife blades. Then I had to watch that psychopath Rhea kill two people with your damn spy toys.”
“We need to be able to track your movements,” Jonas stated flatly. “Mr. Smith still has t
he wedding ring with transponder.”
Smith grinned. “It’s guaranteed to work down to two hundred feet underwater, in the event Vanya just drops you into the sea.”
“Great. It doesn’t have a self-destruct device or anything, does it?”
“I wish.”
From the machine I heard, “We’ll go ahead and use your idea of a night parachute drop off shore. What will you need?”
I’d been thinking about my approach to the island already. “Just a parachute and a glow-in-the-dark altimeter. Waterproof flashlight. Diving mask and fins, with a snorkel if I can get one. And a good knife.”
I noticed Smith had left his pistol on the table as he said, “I’d lend you my knife, but some jackass wrecked it using it for a pry bar. So that’s it? You’re just gonna waltz right in with that little bit of storebought gear?”
“Sure.”
“What makes you think Vanya’s troops aren’t just going to shoot you out of the sky or blow you out of the water?”
In truth, the worst part was I was running a colossal bluff. I had no way of knowing if Lord Byron’s letter had anything to do with the tomb of Alexander the Great. All I could do was hope that whatever was hidden in the Corsican watchtower was a secret I could use to convince Vanya to keep me alive long enough to find out, and thereby give me a chance to rescue Caitlin. But rather than admit any of this, I said to Smith, “I have it on good authority that the Sword of God is on my side.”
Smith just stared at me for a long moment, and then said, “You don’t need to say stuff like that to make me think you’re crazy.”
The voice from the computer said, “I’ll begin the preparations. Good luck, Mr. Blake.”
Smith shut the lid on the laptop and said, “Well, let’s get going. I’d hate to be late for your funeral.”
I casually pulled the silenced pistol out from under my pillow and held it up. “Here. You might as well carry this.”
Smith had his own gun out and pointed straight at my head before I finished speaking. “Jesus! Give a man some warning before you pull some shit like that!”
He came over and reached out with his left hand like he was about to grab an angry snake, then snatched the pistol from my hand. Shaking his head, he slipped his small pistol into his jacket, then twisted apart the silencer from the other gun and pocketed the pieces. “Any more stupid surprises?” he asked testily.
I just shook my head and gathered my small collection of personal gear from the nightstand. I was allowed to use the bathroom unaccompanied, and while I readied for the day I took note of my unshaven, beat-up and burnt-out features in a mirror. My wrists were scraped up from the iron manacles, but they’d stopped bleeding. I also checked out my injured chest. The two previous bruises had spread, and now I had an angry red welt on my upper chest from being shot the night before. It looked like my bruises were mating and giving birth to painful babies. I emerged to find Smith waiting impatiently by the door. When we made it to the lobby, I was stopped short by tantalizing scents. “I’m starved,” I said. “How much time do we have?”
“It’s going to take about five hours’ driving to catch a plane. After that, you fly.”
“Five hours? It took Rhea and me just over an hour to drive here from Geneva.”
“We’re not going to Geneva. We’re going to Germany.”
“Germany? Why?”
“’Cause that’s where the airplanes are.”
Smith was being obstinate, but the fact remained that I had to wait all day anyway until the sun set over the Ionian Sea before I could chance sneaking back to Vanya’s island. “Fine. But I want breakfast. I hate getting killed on an empty stomach.”
“Don’t worry about that, I’ve got you covered.”
The first-floor restaurant of the nearby Hotel Le Soleil was another beautiful example of Old World design, clad in dark wood paneling from the floor to halfway up the chandeliered ceiling. Smith and I were greeted by a friendly, smiling blond woman of healthy proportions, and she escorted us to a table set between one of the tall windows that offered a view of the mountainside and an ornate piano that had to be a century old at least. Maybe it was because I was starving, but the croissants were the best I’d ever tasted, melting on the tongue. Smith ate his share with efficiency, making only one comment, about avoiding the cheese. “I hate the stuff,” he explained shortly.
“Then what the hell are you doing in France? Is this some kind of punishment detail for you?”
“Could be worse,” he said after a sip of coffee. “They could have sent me to England. Now let’s get moving.”
We left the hotel and walked into a cold, bright Alpine morning with the sunlight reflecting off the surrounding snow-covered mountains. The town of Pontarlier had been asleep when I’d arrived the night before, but was now alive with people and cars going about their business. I followed Smith down the street until he stopped in front of a diminutive two-door automobile that looked small even in the company of its European pint-sized brothers. I watched as Smith opened up the driver’s-side door of the fire-engine-red Renault Clio. “That’s our ride?” I asked incredulously.
“Shut up and get in,” Smith barked back, slamming the car door. I opened my side and eased myself in as Smith struggled to get my pistol and silencer out of his pants pockets and stashed back on the rear floorboards under a tan coat. The car was as claustrophobic as a coffin with one too many occupants. “Does this thing have stuff like ejector seats or hidden machine guns?”
“Shut up,” Smith repeated.
As he fired up the tinny-sounding engine, I laughed, ruefully remembering the hot BMW sports car I recently drove. “Man, if you aren’t the most unglamorous secret agent in the world.”
Smith didn’t reply as he drove us out of Pontarlier, and I took my last look at the town as I settled in for a long ride. But then he turned the car south, and as soon as we cleared the elderly, gray stone buildings, I caught a sight that stopped my breath: Starkly outlined against the vibrant blue sky, the Château de Joux loomed above.
Smith saw it too and said as he craned his neck, “So that’s the place you busted out of?”
I merely nodded, wondering just what had transpired throughout the night in that foreboding mass of cold stone after my escape. Smith gave out a low, long whistle, then sped up as we cruised through La Cluse et Mijoux until the castle was lost from view. I closed my eyes and relaxed my body as I was rocked and swayed by the twisty mountain road. I tried to keep my mind away from thinking about Caitlin and let my thoughts wander into speculations about Corsica and the watchtower on the Islands of Blood.
In my half-aware state, I must have been humming aloud a fragment of an old, dimly remembered song. Out of the blue, Smith named the tune. “‘All Along The Watchtower,’” he said. “That is one righteous song.”
“Yeah. One of Bob Dylan’s better ones.”
“Dylan?” Smith snorted derisively. “It was Jimi who made that song.”
“No argument here.”
“What made you think of that?”
I didn’t answer at once. “Seemed fitting for the occasion.”
“Hmm. I know you’re a thief; you calling me a joker?”
“Yeah. You’re a laugh a minute.”
Smith drove through the mountain pass in silence for a while, and then said, “Blake? Your taste in music notwithstanding, I still hate you, man. But I hope to God you know what the hell you’re doing.”
I could only nod in agreement.
CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE
Smith and I didn’t speak much as the hours unwound and the kilometers piled up, and I couldn’t help noticing that he was looking worn out, his dark skin betrayed by a grayish cast. The weather also reflected his look as clouds started to converge overhead once we cleared the Jura Mountains. I figured he must have been on the go since his agency traced my call from Mijoux the night before. At one point I pulled out a cigarette, and Smith threatened to kill me if I lit up. I offered a compr
omise, saying if I could smoke it halfway I’d let him give me a savage beating. He didn’t bother to respond, and I put my tobacco away. I got my chance to indulge when we had to pull over for petrol. My throat was still raw from breathing the burning remains of ancient paper from the fire in the library of the Château de Joux the night before, and as I crushed out my cigarette I caught a glimpse of Smith surreptitiously downing a pill when he thought I wasn’t looking. I silently sympathized with him.
Throughout the drive, I saw Smith receive text messages on his phone. He never bothered to tell me what information he was getting. I was more concerned over the contraband in our car. We had at least two pistols between us that I was aware of. But other than a couple of toll stations, we had no interference along the way. After nearly four hours of driving through France, we came to the border with Germany at Metz toward Saarbrucken. The crossing was a nonevent as we cruised through the post indicated by the blue European Union flag. I tried to relax as we drove through the green northern European landscape, marshalling my strength and hoping Smith wouldn’t fall asleep at the wheel despite his use of chemical stimulation.
Further down the tree-lined road, I spotted a sign as we shot past that read USAF MILITARY OPERATIONS AREA. Shortly after, I saw tall flagpoles planted along the streets, flying the United States Stars and Stripes. The road led to a gated security point where another set of flags flew—the USA’s along with NATO’s banner, anchored by a dark maroon pedestal that announced WELCOME TO RAMSTEIN AIR BASE. Smith wasn’t kidding when he said Germany was where the airplanes were. The armed guards at the gate, dressed in camouflage fatigues and black berets that were completely offset by the blue-and-yellow-striped safety vests they wore, waved us over to a small blockhouse. A serious-looking young guard approached our little auto, and Smith handed him an ID. The guard spent a few moments glancing from the ID to Smith, then saluted, handed back the wallet, and spoke into his shoulder radio microphone as he waved Smith to continue. We were suddenly bracketed fore and aft by military Humvees, complete with top-mounted machine guns. “I see we were expected,” I said. “Where’re we going?”