"Actually, I was looking for Dr. Yeats. He seems to have disappeared."
There was a feigned playfulness in Midas's voice, but his eyes were hard. He was lying, she realized. Midas knew exactly where Conrad was.
"So has Mercedes," she said, and his smile vanished.
Midas said, "She had a headache. Dr. Yeats upset her."
"He has that effect on women," Serena said when her Vertu phone rang with the song "He's a Tramp" from Disney's old Lady and the Tramp cartoon. "Speak of the devil."
Midas cocked his head and narrowed his eyes with suspicion as she took the call.
Conrad's voice, breathless, filled her ear: "Have Benito pick me up in front of the Andros Palace Hotel in Corfu town in two hours. I need to hitch a ride with you on your jet."
"We're all here for three more days," she said, eyeing Midas.
"I don't think these Bilderbergers like talking to police," Conrad said. "They're all going to scram before they give any statements about what they saw."
"I'm not sure I understand."
"Take a look out at the Midas in the bay. She sure looks like a beauty out there on the water, all lit up."
Serena glanced at Midas, then out at the water. "Yes, she does."
Suddenly, the superyacht blew up into the night sky like fireworks, drawing gasps from the crowd on the terrace. An explosion like thunder rolled over the bay. Midas crushed his glass in his fist. Wine and blood dribbled through his fingers. Serena watched his face twist into a monstrous mask of rage as the glowing debris of his beloved ship rained down upon the waters.
11
A panic-stricken Andros was waiting for Conrad at the service entrance behind his hotel. "You blew up the Midas!"
"Where's the head of Baron von Berg?" Conrad demanded as they hurried through the kitchen.
"In your bag in the room's closet. I couldn't stand the sight of it. Nor of you now, my friend."
They were standing at the service elevator. Conrad, his tuxedo soaked, realized he had been dripping a trail of water behind them. Two Greeks with mops were furiously following in their footsteps. The hotel's owner, Conrad had heard, was a stickler for cleanliness.
"All you have to do is smuggle me off the island, Andros," Conrad said, and pressed the elevator button again.
"I'm working on it, but the police and coast guard are everywhere now." Andros shook his head. "You've really done it this time, Conrad. Mercedes is up in your room."
"What?" Conrad stopped cold as the light dinged and the elevator doors opened.
"She showed up just before you did." Andros nudged him inside. "You have to see her."
"But Midas sent her."
"Of course," said Andros. "Which is why you have to see her. He must hope to get something out of you."
"You mean the ice pick she'll plant in my back?"
"Maybe, but you might get something out of her. Meanwhile, give her some disinformation to take back to Midas. I'll have your ride off the island ready in twenty minutes."
"This could take longer than twenty minutes," Conrad said, knowing that Mercedes wasn't going to divulge important information to him just because he'd asked.
"Nonsense," said Andros, all business. "It took you only half as long with my cousin Katrina, and that's how you found me."
The doors closed, and Conrad rode the elevator to the top floor, where he walked down a short hallway to his room. Two security guards with earpieces were posted on either side. Conrad fished inside his pocket for his key card and realized he had lost it. That was probably how Midas and Mercedes had learned where he was staying.
"Parakalo?" Conrad asked a guard in Greek. "Please?"
The guard opened the door for him, and he walked inside. The lights were dimmed, and the smooth jazz of Nina Simone was playing over the stereo speakers.
Mercedes was standing outside on the balcony, just beyond the rippling drapes, a glass of wine in her hand. It must have been at least her third glass, because the bottle in the ice bucket was almost empty. Her head tilted when the door clicked shut behind him.
He walked up beside her. Out in the bay, the Greek coast guard had spotlights over the wreckage of the Midas. He could hear the garble of megaphones in the wind. "What do you think we're going to do here tonight, Mercedes?"
She turned to him with her crystal-blue eyes, which were dried out and bloodshot. He had never seen her cry, and it appeared he never would. "You have no idea who Midas is and who his people are, Conrad."
"Oh, you mean the Alignment," he said, taking the glass from her hand and finishing the wine, aware of her stare. "I know. They're a sinister centuries-old group who count themselves as the heirs to the knowledge and power of Atlantis. They use the stars to wage their endless campaign to manipulate governments, armies, financial markets, and the course of human events. Their goal is a one-world government in effect if not name. In other words, ultimate power. Based on what they've already accomplished with the worldwide depression and de facto one-world central bank, I'd say they're halfway there."
She didn't appreciate his glibness. Her eyes turned into slits. "Then you know we're both dead."
"Speak for yourself, Mercedes. But I think you're better off telling Midas that your charms of old worked, that we slept together and you know I'm taking a plane out of here in the morning to Paris, where your well-heeled family can help me. Better yet, you're on that plane with me. Only we're landing in Dubai, where my well-heeled friends can help you."
She said nothing for a minute, her eyes drifting to the wine bottle and seeing it was nearly empty. "I am not a whore, Conrad."
"I didn't say you were."
"You were the one willing to prostitute yourself for the sake of your useless digs around the world," she went on. "You were willing to make love to me just to get my father to fund your stupid TV show. And you ditched me in Peru with those animals."
"I have no excuse, Mercedes. I'm sorry. And I know there's nothing I can do to make it up to you."
She put her hand on his chest and gently pressed him back toward the bedroom. "Oh, but there is, Professor," she said, regressing to her producer's "role" as his beautiful graduate assistant when he was still dividing his teaching duties between the University of California at Los Angeles and the University of Arizona.
"Two wrongs don't make a right," he told her as she began to unbutton his shirt.
"Like you and Serena? You two don't add up. You never did and never will."
"What about you and Midas?"
"He's rich and powerful. Powerful in a way you'll never understand."
"Because he's a player for the Alignment?"
"Maybe." She kissed him on the cheek.
"What did he do to make their ranks? Or did they make him?"
"I don't know," she said, moving to his ear. "Hard to tell with most of them."
"What does Midas do for the Alignment?"
"Mining and money," she said, clearly displeased to be discussing business. "His mining operations help governments, and his futures trading firm in London evens things out in the financial markets. As per Alignment protocols, his top traders use astrological charts to hedge their bets. That's why Midas Minerals amp; Mining is also called M3."
"And I thought M3 was my old BMW sports car."
"M3 is a constellation," she said.
Conrad perked up. "A constellation?"
"Canes Venatici. It's thought to represent the two dog stars of-"
"The herdsman in the sky, Bootes," Conrad said, unable to forget from his last run-in with the Alignment that the White House in Washington, D.C., was by design aligned to the alpha star of Bootes, Arcturus. Bootes was mythologically connected to the constellation Ursa Major-the Great Bear-from which Russia took its own identity. "I hate all this Alignment bullshit." He hated it because it reminded him of how ignorant he was of just how deep the celestial machinations and symbols of the Alignment went, and how far back-eons and eons. It was like encountering an alien race. And Mercedes had know
ingly thrown in her lot with them.
It was all very suspicious, and he was already past the twenty minutes Andros had given him.
Conrad gently folded his hands around hers. "Where is Midas taking the Flammenschwert?" he asked.
Her face was blank. "Flammenschwert?"
"It was the name of a hammerhead torpedo the Nazis developed using some advanced technology. It means 'Sword of Fire.'"
"I know what Flammenschwert means," she told him curtly. "My German always was better than yours. But I know nothing of any Flammenschwert."
"Oh, you think Midas took his yacht out to deeper waters this morning simply for pleasure cruising?"
"Yes," she said, clearly irritated.
"So you never wondered why he outfitted his superyacht with a submersible and a chopper pad?"
"I always assumed it was for effect." She sniffed.
He looked into her eyes-wide open now-and felt she was telling him the truth. It made sense to him that she'd projected onto Midas some of the foibles of her past and the men who were part of it, including him.
"Know anything about the four-digit code Midas is looking for?" he asked.
The slits returned. "How do you know about it? Did she tell you?"
By "she," Conrad figured Mercedes meant Serena. "No," he told her, letting her read his own eyes. "You think it's for the Flammenschwert?"
"No," she said, and Conrad could see the light go out of her eyes as she sat on the bed. "It's for a safe deposit box."
"And Midas owns it?"
"No," she said. "You asked me if Midas has purchased anything lately. He owns the bank in Bern that holds the box. Gilbert et Clie."
Conrad wasn't sure he understood. "So he bought the bank to get to the box? That's one way to raid a tomb. What's in the box?"
"Nobody knows. It belonged to some Bavarian prince. Ludwig von Berg."
"Baron von Berg the Nazi?" He had to force himself to keep his eyes fixed on hers, to not let them drift to the closet where Andros had stashed the bag with the skull.
"Yes, yes," Mercedes said. "It's an older type of box with a chemical lining. It has a four-digit alphabet code. One wrong letter in the combination, and the contents of the box are destroyed. There's only one chance to open the box. And Midas needs whatever is inside within the next seven days."
"Seven days?" Conrad asked, realizing the world was going to be introduced to the Flammenschwert in short order.
"Seven days," she repeated. "Good Friday, two days before Easter."
"Is that significant to the Alignment?" Conrad asked. "Is there a connection?"
"I don't know," she said. "It's significant to me because Easter is the only Sunday of the year that I've ever gone to church."
"You're a real saint," he said. "But what's Midas doing spending three of his precious seven days with the Bilderbergers?"
"The Achillion was Baron von Berg's headquarters during the war," Mercedes said. "Midas had hoped to find some clues the baron might have left behind."
"He didn't leave any," Conrad said. "He kept everything in his head."
"I know. So I can't help you. And you can't help me."
Conrad, holding her hand, got down on one knee. "I told you, Mercedes. Come with me to Dubai and we'll figure it out."
She shook her head. "You know more than anybody else that there's no escaping the Alignment."
"Then come with me to Dubai," he told her. "Andros has the jet waiting. We'll be there in under three hours."
"And then what, Conrad?" She challenged him with her eyes. "We live happily ever after? Or you ditch me again?"
"I'm not going to ditch you, Mercedes."
"But you're going to leave me."
"I'm not going to stay with you, if that's what you mean."
"Then what's the point?"
"I want to help you," he said.
She looked at him with disdain, seemingly surprised by his naivete. "I don't care how much money your crazy Arab friends have, Conrad. Nobody runs away from Midas. He'll find you. And your friends will give you up in a heartbeat for less than the price of this." She held up her hand to show the glittering diamond bracelet dangling from her wrist. From the looks of it, Conrad calculated that it had cost Midas at least $1 million. A trinket for him, a handcuff for her.
"I'll give you thirty minutes before I call Midas," she said with finality. "Enough time to make it to the airport and take off."
"And you?" Conrad asked as he stood up and walked to the closet.
"I'll tell him you were asking about the Flammenschwert and that I offered to put you up at my apartment in Paris. Old Pierre will let you in."
Conrad pulled out his bag and slung it over his shoulder. "What happens when I don't show?"
She shrugged. "We'll all know you lied. Like you always do."
12
Vadim was parked across from the service entrance of the Andros Palace in the dark, making his calls while he waited for Mercedes to emerge. He set his 9mm Rook on the passenger seat next to his copy of The Four-Hour Workweek.
Despite his boasting to Yeats, his Vadimin vitamin supplements were not selling as well as he had hoped. So while Yeats was undoubtedly making love to Sir Midas's French blyad, Vadim was on his cell phone making calls on behalf of the collection agency Midas owned in Bangalore to shake down money from customers behind on their credit card payments. He took perverse pleasure in squeezing money from the debt-ridden pockets of Americans and their knowledge that foreigners were doing it.
A figure stepped outside the hotel-Yeats, from the looks of him at a distance-and climbed into a black BMW 7 series sedan. Vadim started his car and caught a glimpse of his own face in the mirror. He saw the patch over his eye and cursed. The BMW drove off.
Vadim pulled out and had started to follow it around front when Mercedes emerged from the hotel's main entrance and walked toward him. He stopped and let her climb in the back.
"You were supposed to kill him," Vadim said as he drove off after the BMW.
"So were you," she said sharply. "He's going to the airstrip."
Vadim looked up in the mirror. "And from there?"
"Athens, Dubai, God knows where," she said. "I invited him to my place in Paris."
Very clever, Vadim thought. She had guessed that Vadim's orders were to kill her as soon as she killed Yeats. This way she had hoped to keep herself alive a while longer. But if Yeats got off the island alive, Vadim's orders were to kill Mercedes instantly and make it appear that Yeats had done it. The time of death would be vital for the Greek coroner's report.
The car with Yeats stopped ahead. Two police cars were blocking its path. Vadim slowed down and watched as the police made the passenger step out of the limousine for inspection. Only it wasn't Yeats. It was a slightly younger man-Chris Andros III, the Greek billionaire.
"What is the meaning of this?" Andros asked.
"Signomi, Kyrios Andros. We thought you were somebody else."
"Obviously, you're mistaken. What do you want?"
"Where are you going?"
"My jet. I have business in Athens, as you know."
"Our apologies," the police officer said.
Vadim didn't bother to watch Andros get back in his sedan; he had already reversed course and was driving back on a small dirt road. In the mirror, he could see Mercedes getting nervous.
"Where are you taking me?" she said.
Vadim pulled to a stop and looked over his shoulder at her. She was scared. She should be. "Did you lift Dr. Yeats's fingerprints like Sir Midas requested?"
"Yes, off a bottle of wine," she said, and handed him a white card with Dr. Yeats's fingerprints trapped on clear tape. "What is Conrad supposed to have done now?"
"Killed you with this gun," said Vadim as he leveled his Rook over the seat and shot her twice in the chest.
13
At the Corfu airport, the twin turbofan Honeywell engines of Serena's private Learjet 45 hummed while she ran through the preflight che
cklist with the pilot and copilot. Both had more hours in the air than she did, and both were former Swiss special forces airmen she trusted with her life, let alone a short fifty-minute hop to Rome. But she hadn't heard from Conrad yet, and this took her mind off him for the moment.
"Check the thrust reverters again," she said when she was finished. "I thought I heard something."
She went back into the passenger cabin, sat down in a recliner seat, and glanced outside her window at all the private Gulfstreams lined up to go. The scene was the same in Davos, Sun Valley, San Francisco, and everywhere else she had ever seen the billionaire set meet. Her own Learjet was a hand-me-down from an American patron who had moved on to an even more expensive pair of wings. All the planes on the tarmac this morning resembled a line of luxury cars exiting a parking lot after a sporting event. Only this event-the sixtieth Bilderberg meeting-had barely begun.
Now it was over.
Conrad was right: Every European and American master of the universe was scrambling to escape the island before the police and paparazzi could question him or her. The weekend conference was in shambles, along with Sir Roman Midas's great superyacht, which no doubt was going to fire the imaginations of Bilderberg conspiracy theorists for years.
The truth, of course, was much simpler: Conrad Yeats.
Wherever he was.
The Vertu phone she was clutching in her hand vibrated. It was Marshall Packard, calling from his private jet on the other side of the runway. "You're losing your grip, girl," he barked. "Where the hell is Yeats?"
"I don't know," she said, alarmed. "What's going on?"
"Turn on the goddamn TV."
Serena clicked a small remote to turn on the cabin's TV. The local Greek channel came up first, but she didn't have to be fluent in Greek to understand the picture of Mercedes Le Roche-dead at thirty-two. She had been found at a local beach, shot in the chest.
"Oh, no," Serena said under her breath. "Conrad."
As if on cue, Conrad's picture showed up. He was the prime suspect in her death. His fingerprints had been found all over the murder weapon-a 9mm Rook.
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