“When will you have the first one complete?”
“Three hours, maybe. You’ve given me everything I need to be productive.”
Thibaut’s smile was slow, a greater knowledge behind it, and a little guilt over what he was doing surfaced. A heartbeat later, Jason brushed it aside. This is how you make the real money. He stepped into the lab and went back to earning his keep, quickly.
Seventeen
Under a cloudless sky, Odette waited on the porch as Jason crossed the lawn. The sun fading, the lamp posts illuminated his path, flickered with his swinging arms. He appeared more teenager than an accomplished scientist. “Don’t be nervous,” she said and he blinked as he mounted the wide steps.
“It’s that obvious?”
“We’re unveiling a tremendous device, Jason. We’re all nervous.”
She escorted him inside Haeger’s home and smiled at his reaction to Haeger’s wealth and power in the beautiful furnishings, the priceless art covering the walls. A Matisse hung over the mantel of a rarely used fireplace. Beneath her heeled shoes was a richly dyed carpet, a gift from a Saudi prince she’d never met. Haeger wouldn’t allow it, the disrespect too archaic for his tastes. But that didn’t mean he couldn’t take their money. Odette gestured to the far corner, then cleared her throat softly.
In a high backed leather chair, Haeger spun about, smiling. “Ahh, Jason a moment of truth, ey?”
“Yes sir.” Jason shifted from foot to foot.
“Be still, Vaghn. You act like a schoolgirl.”
Jason turned, scowled. “What is he doing here?”
Barasa stepped from the dark near Haeger’s desk, a short crystal glass cupped in his palm. “Viewing the prize everyone wants so badly.”
“It’s a matter of prudence, Jason. Mister Barasa has fulfilled his end of the bargain and I imagine wants to leave, neh?”
Barasa only nodded, remaining back and while she didn’t want to be near the arms dealer, Thibaut insisted he be informed or he would pry into dangerous areas. Haeger crossed to the living room, briefly gripping her hand. Fulfilling his ambition was so close.
“I need the laptop,” Jason said.
Odette went to a delicate Queen Anne table and flipped the computer over, replacing the wi-fi card and the battery, then powering it up. Jason frowned. “A caution. Nothing more. We can be traced with it.”
“Only the number. The encryption will firewall any trace. I created it from your program,” he said to Haeger.
“You continue to confirm my faith in you, Jason,” Haeger said. “How very ingenious.”
“Clever clever,” Barasa said, folding ungraciously into an oxblood club chair.
“An added precaution,” Jason said with an anxious shrug. “Dragon One might have copied it, but their only opportunity was between the boat pickup and the chopper on the bridge so I doubt it.”
Odette looked pointedly at Barasa, blame for the failure his alone.
“It’s of no consequence to us.” Thibaut waved that off. “The American agents could have sent it elsewhere before they were killed, but deciphering it needs a master.”
“Like you,” Jason said with a cheeky grin.
Jason typed in the sequence and over his shoulder, Odette observed each keystroke. The screen blossomed with color, the shape confining to a letter. Interesting. Haeger stepped forward and added a familiar tune to the detonation, and when they’d completed the task, she went to a desktop, then accessed Jason’s Swiss account.
“You have another portion of your money,” she said and Jason frowned.
“A little incentive,” Haeger said. “We are so close.”
“I won’t fail you,” Jason said, looking almost offended. “I haven’t.”
“Yes, I know. You’ve done everything I’ve asked, Jason. Thank you.” Haeger held out his hand, and Jason rushed to shake it, beaming. He was so eager to please, just as Haeger had predicted and used it to his advantage. “Consider remaining with us, will you?”
Jason’s features tightened and he glanced between the two. “Really?”
“I can almost guarantee you’ll have challenges no one can match.”
He was cryptic for a reason, she thought. None could be trusted with the final outcome, and while Odette understood every aspect, the specific targets were unknown to her. So he thought. Haeger loved his secrecy and she was happy to keep it for him.
Barasa moved in closer, his after-shave too strong. “I’ll retire for the night,” he said, then glanced down at the device. “Good job, Vaghn. You’ve become useful again.”
Odette lifted her gaze. He bid Haeger, then Jason good night, smiling beautifully and showing white teeth. Then he glanced her way, held her gaze for a moment before he let it slide down her to her shoes. It was insolent, vulgar, and it pricked her spine. She didn’t let it show. Let him believe he’s safe.
She looked down at the simple device, smiling. Haeger’s glory. The Icarus.
And she’d have the honor of setting it all in motion.
Kolkata, India
The four-hour flight didn’t mean squat to the temperature and Max felt every degree as he swiped at the sweat in his eyes, then discretely glanced at his TDS Recon. He kept his heading, yet doubled back once to see if he had a tail. So far, no watchers, he thought, and following the GPS, he turned a corner, the street wider, but the foot traffic was a maze of dark heads and colorful clothing. He longed for Singapore, and at least a breeze. He pulled the bandana from his neck and tied it around his forehead. Rambo dorky, he knew, but it wasn’t as if he didn’t stand out anyway. He’d never considered himself fair-skinned till he landed an hour ago. The beacon triangulated and he tucked himself out of the stream of people moving past and waited for the satellite to narrow on his positions. There weren’t enough towers to make it any faster. He bought a bottle of water from a vendor and leaned back against the stucco wall in the shade. It wasn’t much of a relief. A couple yards away, a shopkeeper pushed up a striped awning, then threw back the sliding windows to show off bins of neatly stacked fruit and vegetables. The lanky owner splashed water onto the walk, sweeping away the night’s debris, the tidy shopfront a sharp contrast to the filth littering the streets.
He checked the TDS Recon, then looked up the street. He drank, trying to wrap his brain around the knowledge the server was inside a church. A Catholic church. St. Thomas of something he couldn’t translate was across the street and down a block. Taller than any building around it, the stained glass and tall spires felt out of place, though he knew there were more Catholics in India than in Rome. He pushed away from the wall, pocketing the Recon as he crossed the street and stopped on the avenue between the church and another row of shops. He tried following the lines gathered on top of rough-cut telephone poles. The tangle of wires led off in every direction, some linking to buildings, some directly into windows like a clothesline. Birds flocked and nested in the tops.
“Welcome to Dell tech support,” he muttered and searched for the electrical box. He needed to find the power source, then he’d find the server. It wasn’t blowing hot on thermal and that meant it probably had its own cooling system. Following the broadest lines, he realized they branched off to a modest house behind the church. The rectory, he realized and knocked. The door opened and a round apple-cheeked woman smiled, telling him the priest was at the local hospital tending the sick. Once he showed his ID and asked if he could search, she was more than kind. Inside, he tried to follow the antique wiring and while they had a computer, the operating system was too old to handle the server, not without the hundred gig it likely needed. The housekeeper followed him from room to room, wringing her apron. Finding nothing, he thanked her and went to the door. She quickly wrapped a hunk of herbed bread in a cloth, then pushed it into his hands.
Cool. Never one to turn down food, he thanked her, and bit into it as he went back to the church. He found a junction box that couldn’t handle three more bulbs, let alone a blade serv
er. His gaze slid around. Typical church, it had a center aisle, with a portico flanking the pews. Beneath the portico was lined with heavy wood doors, arched and carved. Inside one, he found stacks of hymnals, buckets, and mops, the next sparsely filled with altar linens. He walked along the outer wall under the portico. An old woman sat in a pew, her head down and covered in a blue scarf. Max stopped to the left of the altar, but didn’t need to search it. It was barren of vestments and the elements of mass. He glanced at his watch. Service would start in a couple hours. The only item large enough to house a server was the holy water font, and that would be too difficult to get to without notice. Max lifted the broad steel bowl and looked beneath anyway.
Frustrated, he took a seat in a pew while the Recon triangulated. The sensor picked up within ten feet, but in close quarters that was a lot of ground to cover. He let his gaze wander over the cathedral. Paintings of the Stations of the Cross lined the walls beneath the portico, niches carved into the stone and holding candle stubs. Ahead the crucifix loomed, and his gaze slid to the vestibule, the antechambers. He spotted the confessional and the tiny green light over the narrow door.
“My mother would love this,” he said under his breath and crossed to the wood cubes. The side-by-side doors were identical, the Indian craftsmen leaving their mark in the intricately carved latticework doors of scented sandalwood. The light over the left side said the priest waited to hear a multitude of sins. He opened the door and stepped in, his upbringing pushing him to cross himself and kneel to say the proper words.
“Bless me, Father, for I have sinned.”
The priest chuckled when he told him the last time he was in this position.
“Do you pray and repent?”
“No Padre, sorry. I just try to be one of the good guys,” he said, then stooped to lift the cushion and the wood plank beneath. More cushions. “Father, can you lift your seat? The cushion, I mean.”
The partition slid open. “Who are you?”
“Diplomatic Security. I’m looking for a box about eighteen inches wide and a little taller.”
“A . . . bomb?”
“No, but it would be a good idea to clear the church, just in case.”
The priest in rough brown robes left the confessional, and Max stepped around the door to the clergy’s side. He pulled off the cushion, tossing it out, then tried to pry up the wood. It wouldn’t budge and he flipped out his knife and slid the blade under the rim, then pried it up. It was glued. Wood cracked.
“My son, son,” the priest protested.
“Sorry Father, it’s important.” Beneath the wood was silver insulation. He pulled it back and Velcro ripped. The blade server was a slim black box. Max opened the commlink to David Lorimer at Deep Six.
“Is it hot?” Max really didn’t want to disarm explosives today.
“No indication, but that’s it.”
“I thought it would be bigger. Now how to destroy it?”
It had its own cooling system and now that it was exposed, Max could hear it operating. He backed out of the confessional and suddenly felt a sharp poke in his back. Instantly, he recognized a gun barrel—which said a lot about his life—and he raised his hands, turning slowly.
“Oh now that’s just sacrilegious.”
The priest aimed the weapon as he pulled off the rough cassock, then tossed it aside. Big trouble, Max thought. He’s got a silencer and probably help close by.
The man searched him. “Put your hands down.” He dug the weapon into Max’s side and his chin nicked the air. “That way.”
They crossed in front of the confessionals and the well of souls lit with candles. Max’s steps slowed when he spotted a pair of legs draped in priest’s robes on the floor inside the antechamber. Aw, man. He was damn tired of the innocent dying because of a freaking genius hell-bent on mass destruction. He faced his captor.
“Ya know, this isn’t working for me.”
The man raised his weapon. “I will shoot.”
Before he could fire, Max grabbed the barrel, shoved it down, and threw his elbow into the man’s face. Cartilage gave, and the man reflexively pulled the trigger, the round chipping the marble floor. Max hit again, tearing the weapon from him, then flipping it to grip the stock. But his opponent was skilled, a spin kick knocking the gun from his hand. It skated across the slick polished floor as his opponent executed a side kick. Max saw it coming and grabbed the man’s boot mid-air. He couldn’t balance, couldn’t move.
“Not so slick now, are you?” Max said, and violently twisted the boot, the force driving the man to the ground. Max heard the guy’s knees crack as he hit the marble, but his attacker rolled, then struggled to his feet, obviously in pain. The old woman roused from her prayers, rushing toward the door. The fake priest grabbed her arm and used her as a shield.
“Oh you big chicken shit,” Max said and threw himself at him, breaking his hold on the old woman and taking him to the floor. “Run lady!” Max immediately locked his legs around his chest, and his arm around the guy’s throat, bending his neck and squeezing. His opponent fought, fists hammering till Max thought his skin would split, but he kept pressure, pushing harder when he glimpsed the dead priest again. He heard the soft crack, then applied pressure. The hard snap rang in the hollow church, and the man went slack. Max pushed off, and the dead man rolled over, smacking his head on the marble steps and splitting it like melon.
He glanced away, then up at the crucifix. “Sorry.” He pointed to the dead man. “Bad guy.” He relieved the body of weapons, taking back his own, then searched him. No labels, no ID. More mercenaries.
He retuned to the blade server to search for the leads to the power source. Buried under it, he supposed, then gripped the server and yanked it from the confessional seat. Sparks snapped, but the cables refused to give it up.
“Not on my watch,” he snarled and tore it free, then marched out the door, dragging it behind by the torn wires. He crossed the street and waited a few moments for traffic to congest, then like skipping rocks, he hurled it into the street. Cars crushed it, and Max waited till parts fractured under tires, then called David.
“It’s done, destroyed.”
“Any problems?”
He glanced back at the church. “Nothing I couldn’t handle, but pass onto the big Kahoona. Agent Troy was right. Terrorists have knowledge of the Icarus. They were waiting and willing to kill to protect it.”
Like everything else in this mission, he thought, ending the call. He was so ready to get them on their own territory, and take them down to hell where they belonged.
Barasa sipped iced pineapple juice, the remains of the morning meal shared with Thibaut cleared by servants in silence. Till Thibaut gave the order, his life was at his whim. He snickered a laugh to himself and set the goblet down before he dropped it. The drink was laced with something. Why, he wasn’t certain. Thibaut had already effectively disarmed him and his jet. And where was Rahjan? He’d sent him to search for his flight crew. He hadn’t seen them since they were escorted to a lounge in the hangar. An unnecessary tactic. He wasn’t leaving without his weapon. But there was one more piece he needed.
“The perfect delivery system? You’ve yet to produce it.”
Thibaut insisted he had it, yet as per the agreement, he had given no explanation. Barasa licked his dry lips, his words slurred, but he straightened, hoping it cleared his head.
“Have you noticed the others on my island?” he said with a wave.
Barasa frowned, glancing around. “The kids?”
Haeger nodded.
Cale blinked, rubbing his face when a girl about eight years old walked up to Thibaut. Haeger smiled at the child, brushed the back of his bony hand across her cheek. The girl turned her face into it and kissed his palm, mewing yet never speaking. Thibaut dragged on the thin cigar, then took the child’s hand. He whispered something to the girl Barasa couldn’t hear and the child nodded. Thibaut ground the glowing cigar into her palm. Barasa wi
nced, yet the child didn’t flinch, and only tipped her head curiously. After a moment, she drew back, shaking her hand. He puffed the smoke again, then opened his arms. The girl launched at him, clutching, smearing blood and burned skin on his clothes. God, how was she not screaming in pain? Not hating him for wounding her?
Odette walked near and pulled the child back, directing her to another with shushed words in a language he suspected the Professor developed. As far as he could tell, no one could communicate with the children except Thibaut and Odette. Part of a larger plan, he thought and when Odette returned, he lifted his gaze to hers. How could one so beautiful be so vicious?
“Interesting,” he said, trying not to show his revulsion.
It sobered him quickly. Children. He’d bred children to deliver weapons of mass destruction. A little army from what he’d seen. Thibaut had clearly established his own community on the island, yet none of the children he’d seen were over twelve or thirteen. Where did they go when they were older? His gaze flicked to the two guards at the far edge of the lawn, but knew they were hired. Too many faces had a familiar past.
Yet the children were all different nationalities. Some Indian, Malaysian, Thai, Norwegian perhaps, then he remembered Thibaut had orphanages in those countries. Barasa frowned for a second. Thibaut had taken them from the streets, feral children with the instinct to survive. A registered orphan risked being missed and he was all about secrecy. Cale thought suicide bombers were twisted. He gave them weapons, but didn’t allow their causes to touch his life. Suddenly, he met the older man’s gaze. “Your goal?”
Fight Fire With Fire. Page 28