There was a long silence before Hank spoke up. “Wasn’t the Nobel Prize award a couple years ago for DNA, stem cell research?”
“For the principles of introducing specific gene modifications in mice by the use of embryonic stem cells,” Gerardo read off a report. “Oddly, it’s his human experimental research with Rascher at Dachau that’s the basis of it.”
“This guy’s fucking Mengella,” Beckham said and didn’t apologize for his language. “We need to take him out.”
Hank frowned. Beckham looked like he wanted the job.
“Crazy never takes a vacation, sir.”
Dragon Six was too large to outmaneuver a Lear jet, not that Riley planned on a dogfight. Jansen came though with an aircraft regulated to generals at Central Command. Inside, it ran a close second to Air Force One. Flyboys knew their technology and it was filled. Logan would be in heaven, Riley thought, but he wouldn’t leave Sebastian’s side till Jasmine and Viva arrived. Riley sympathized with the Cajun. When it hit how long it would take to be one hundred percent again, he hoped that laid-back Louisiana patience helped. Riley had set himself back a couple times trying to rush his legs to heal.
Safia sat behind the cockpit, watching the trace of the jet. Intel said Odette had landed, drove to the center of Oslo, then did a one-eighty back to the plane. It was as if she’d lost her way, though there was definitely a method to her madness.
“Secrecy is one part,” Riley said. “But why these countries, why right now?”
“Didn’t they fuel the plane?” Sam asked.
Safia frowned. “Yes, of course.”
“Can you get me the fuel invoice?”
Safia turned back to the console, adjusted her headset and gave orders for Base to hunt. Within four minutes, Safia held her hand out to the printer, then handed the sheet to Sam. He bent over a counter lining one wall, and scribbled in the corner, calculating fuel ratio.
Then Sam straightened. “She’s got under a two thousand mile radius. Not enough to get back to the island. She has to make another stop.”
Riley walked to the cockpit, spoke to the pilots, then looked back. “We can get behind her on a return trip over Northern England. MI 6 is on alert if she lands.”
“Force her to the ground,” Sam said. “The jet’s got the maneuverability.”
Riley knew that was pushing it, but that was the fighter pilot talking. “She might ignite it over land. Interpol has her stats so she’ll be tracked when she lands again.” They didn’t have proof, just pieces. Catching her in possession of the explosive device was a close second to taking her out of the equation. If it wouldn’t cause an international incident, he’d press for elimination as soon as the jet was over water. But Odette was a cog. Riley wanted the creator of this death march.
The signal from Deep Six pinged in rapid succession, and Safia twisted on the stool toward the screen. “We can’t trace the jet. It’s flying over Russian airspace. One tiny breach and we’ll be shot down.” She looked at him. “The Russians won’t help us. We’re wasting fuel chasing her.”
“We need her flight plan,” Sam said.
“Well.” Safia shooed him. “Get busy, Wyatt.”
Sam glanced at Riley, amused about something, then Riley said, “What’s in Oslo, Norway?”
Sam rattled off all things familiar; tulips, wooden shoes, hashish market, legal prostitution. Safia rolled her eyes, smiling, then her expression fell. “Nobel Peace Center,” she said. “Beckham said his work was dismissed, ridiculed till it ruined him. His name was first stricken from the list of Nobel Prize contenders ten years ago. Oh this is rich . . . two scientists on this year’s list were his students.” The imagery and data filled the screen. “She stopped within two blocks of the Center. Beckham has local law all over it.”
On the computer, Sam brought up the path the jet had taken. “She’s got no prejudice. Refueled in north China. Bet that was pricey. Next stop, she left the aircraft, then went by car, same routine. She’s never on the ground more than an hour or two, then off again. Last check, she was two blocks from the Genome Research Institute, Germany.”
“She’s planting in institutes that ridiculed him,” Riley said. “Fuel range was?”
Sam looked at Riley. “As far as Greece I’d say.”
“Which institutes denied recognition to Thibaut?”
Sam’s features pulled tight and faced the screen, tapping the keyboard like a mad man. “Nobel Peace Center Oslo, Oxford, Kuzusa DNA Research Institute, Japan. GRI, in Germany, Genome research, Sorbonne. Take your pick.”
“She hit two of those so far. Where can she get without refueling?” Safia asked.
“The Sorbonne.”
Riley turned to the cockpit, giving orders to the pilot. Safia got on the line to Deep Six to send a blanket communiqué to National Gendarmerie in Paris. It would take every officer they had, but they needed to clear the streets and the Sorbonne.
“We have a big problem,” Riley said, backing away from the computer screen.
“Is there any other kind lately?” Sam said.
“The Sorbonne is awarding chemistry doctorates or something there. A ceremony.” Riley looked at Safia. “It will be packed with people by nine A.M.”
“Three hours?” Sam left his chair and went to the cockpit. “We need to get this bird on the ground now, boys.” The discussion was short and when the pilot stepped out, Riley leaned in to see Sam slide into the pilot’s vacated seat.
“Deviating from flight patterns will get us an Interpol F-16 escort, with shoot to kill orders,” the Air Force pilot said.
“Wouldn’t be the first time.” Riley sat and strapped in, then looked across at Safia. “We’re about to break a lot of rules.”
She dropped into the chair and quickly buckled herself in. The jet’s speed increased and Safia’s eyes widened as it banked sharply toward France.
Singapore
Max stood near the hospital bed, Logan on the other side. The monitors beeped with the tempo of a strong heartbeat. Sebastian was tucked neatly under the covers, a petite nurse popping in frequently to check on him. Sebastian came away from the explosion with a broken wrist, ribs, a fractured scapula and right arm. He was lucky. His internal bleeding was minimal, the swelling contusions purple and iced down. The surgeons spent several hours removing shrapnel and glass from his body and according to Logan, Sebastian had enough pins in him now to set off sensors as bad as Riley. Logan checked his breathing and his IV, deciding his drip was sufficient to keep the pain at bay.
He looked at Max, frowning. “He’ll recover,” he said.
“I know. You do good work. But I’m curious as to how he got out before the blast. The sensors in the station house didn’t pick up the explosives. They were all in the house long enough to detect it.”
“JCS said it was classified and not out for distribution, but I don’t think it was the Icarus device that did this kind of damage.”
“Riley has the same theory. RZ implodes and this stuff didn’t. Not completely.”
“I read the data. It will outward blast if it’s not completely enclosed,” Logan said, then gestured to Sebastian. “He was at the edge of the blast radius. He was heading elsewhere before it went off.”
“Then it wasn’t meant for us, but for Safia,” Max said. At least it wouldn’t be a surprise to her. “Either her cover is completely blown or it’s from the inside.”
“It’s both.”
Max looked up, startled. “Hey old man, don’t talk.”
Logan offered Sebastian water.
“I saw a car on the perimeter cameras,” Sebastian said, breathing a little hard. “Went to look.”
Logan and Max exchanged a glance.
“Motion sensors went off. I saw the driver hop the courtyard wall, go into the garage area. Then he’s back out twenty seconds later.” Sebastian’s eyes closed and Max thought, he’s going back under. Yet when they eased back from the bed, Sebastian said, “He
went right, I went left. ’Cept I was on foot.” With his unbandaged hand, he reached for the cup, eyeing Logan back when he tried to help. He sipped, then said, “He planted, for certain, but not meant to cook more than the station house.”
“The blast radius was massive. You were four city blocks away from the center,” Max said. Nearly a half a mile.
Sebastian frowned and Max knew he was thinking of materials that could accomplish that. “It’s possible RZ10 was in the station house. Ever heard of it?”
Sebastian’s eyes flared and he struggled to keep them open. “Shoulda never been made,” he slurred, then gave up, sliding into sleep.
Max looked at Logan. “Just once, I want to be ahead of these assholes.”
Outside the Sorbonne, Paris
Sam put the jet down flanked by an Interpol escort. Safia still felt the stomach-rolling ride and was glad Gerardo was pushing his stars around. They didn’t have time for questions or explanations. Clear the streets, fast and no one will die, she thought as Riley stopped the car. She kissed him once, then hopped out and walked toward the building while Riley continued driving to the far side of the grounds, pausing halfway to let an Interpol agent out. Sam was with the French police.
She neared the barriers, the triangulation of the phone between towers narrowing. Paris traffic rushed by. Gendarmes blocked the roads in and rushed to clear the area. The Sorbonne was emptied a half hour ago, thank God.
She glanced at her web phone tracking the signal. Odette was near and using her own phone. Safia stopped, searching the terrain. “It’s in the same block.”
“I’m coming toward you.” Riley’s voice came through her ear mic.
Then she saw her. “Finn, target acquired.”
Odette Thibaut was under a block away, poised gracefully between the open door and the limo. Ready to jump in and run, Safia thought as she stepped into a phone cube to shield herself, then focused the monocular. Even without the red shoes, she’d remember the woman. But it was Odette’s gentle expression that puzzled her and she followed her line of vision, then rushed briskly closer when she spotted a young girl, maybe nine, weaving behind the barriers. She wore a French school uniform, a green plaid skirt and dark blue jacket with some insignia on the pocket. Safia lost sight of the target and moved to see the girl approach the doors. A gendarme stopped her, turned her away. The blond girl clutched her book bag and danced like she had to pee. The guard smiled and directed her somewhere inside. He let her pass. Safia’s focus went back to Red Shoes.
“Triangulation is blocking the signal,” Deep Six said. Safia knew it.
Odette paced and as if it would work, spanked her phone.
“We have it locked.”
“Excellent. Team one, keep clearing the buildings, two, the park. Double time.”
“Roger that,” she heard Sam say, amused to hear French with a Texas accent. French police were on the same frequency.
Streets had been blocked for a parade honoring the recipients, population was sparse, but the families and friends of the recipients were early and allowed access. French secret police, Interpol and CIA agents converged, moving efficiently to not cause a panic or alert Odette. The signals crossing were a problem and isolating hers was difficult, even for Deep Six.
In seconds, she saw police and French citizens hurrying away from the Sorbonne. “A kid went in to use the bathroom, female, 10, long hair, blue book bag.” No one responded. “Deep Six?” She glanced and realized no one was getting a signal through. Her comm-link blinked in and out.
“Raven . . . run.” Riley’s voice sounded panicked.
She stopped short and immediately started in the opposite direction. She didn’t question him, and pushed her legs to take her further from the buildings.
“. . . going to blow.”
Oh, no it’s not, she thought, running faster. “Deep Six! Jam the signal!”
“It’s coming in from another phone!”
“Take it all out, all of it.” She glanced back, searching for Odette. The limo was gone. Safia alerted French police to the vehicle, but couldn’t get a confirmation. The jamming blocked everything except the PRRs.
“Safia, run!” Riley said. “Steal a car. Get out of there!”
Her arms pumped and she pushed between people, warning them. “Bomb,” she said in two languages. People stopped, stared as she ran past. Then she shouted, “Police!” and waved. They got the message, the stampede of people following her, mothers grabbing up children and bolting.
“Raven, I’m a block west, keep going, don’t stop!”
“Finn, come back?” she said, breathless.
“Your right, go to your right!” she heard, obeyed, and the car appeared. Riley slammed to a stop long enough for her to dive in through the window before he hit the gas. “Get down! Down!”
She shifted in the seat. “Why isn’t the jam working?”
“It is, on the cell towers. They went satellite with a new phone. ‘Icarus is rising.’ That’s the code to set it off. A text message, for God’s sake.”
“Go! Go! Oh God, those people.” She looked back and didn’t see the schoolgirl come out.
Then the blast hit. The Sorbonne courtyard imploded. The explosion didn’t go up, it went out, flattening everything. The percussion shattered windows a block away, tumbled buildings, cars, and people flew like matchsticks swept off a table. Despite their speed, it kept coming, a rolling force that crushed everything in its path.
“Riley.” She grabbed his shoulder. “We aren’t going to make it.”
Spinning debris knocked two floors off a building with a giant shove, hurling the rubble toward them. Riley pushed her to the floor seconds before it impacted. It kicked up the rear of the Land Rover, the ground rushing toward his face. The force tossed them ass up and over—inside three tons of machine filled with gasoline.
The vehicle landed on the roof, but the crunch of steel didn’t end, debris shooting over the car. Riley reached for Safia but the after-blast kept coming, knocking the Rover so hard it pushed it several feet. Thunks of rubble stabbed the car for a full minute before it stopped. The city froze as the shock vibrated. Alarms sounded, the cry of police cars nearing.
“Safia.” She didn’t answer and Riley struggled under the crushed metal to reach her. He couldn’t. “Safia?”
Riley flipped out his knife and cut his seat belt straps, smacking his new knees, then maneuvered out the broken window, his jeans catching on the crushed metal. Above him, the tires were still spinning as he kicked out the remaining glass and the nose of the Rover threatened to tip and crush him. She dangled limply from the seat belt, and he knew no other way to get her out except to cut her free. When he did she dropped only inches and didn’t move.
Please no, he thought, noticing the blood staining her face and shirt.
He stretched his arms and caught her shirt, then her shoulders. Around him, people scattered, staggered with wounds. Riley inched in as close as he could, grasped her under the arms, and carefully eased her from the wreckage. Glass sprinkled. She wasn’t moving.
He sat on the street, holding her, using his sleeve to blot the blood. Her head lolled listlessly back over his arm and his heart fractured. He touched her throat for a pulse and sighed, relieved he found it. He clutched her, then stood and carried her from the wreckage.
“Deep Six!” he hailed through his mic. “I need shelter, now. Safia’s wounded.”
“How bad?”
“She’s unconscious and bleeding.”
With David directing him from ten thousand miles away, Riley hustled, Safia cradled in his arms as he bolted through the streets of Paris.
Nineteen
Paris
Inside the hotel room, Riley could hear the sirens and knew if he stood at the balcony, he’d see the smoke. He’d get reports later and shifted on the bed, watching Safia sleep. She’d woken once, then lapsed into unconsciousness, but the doctor Ellie had sent assured him she didn
’t have a concussion. Four stitches later, he was gone.
He let his head drop back onto the pillow and didn’t really want to examine why she was so deep under his skin. Usually, he went for the casual relationships, and he admitted he’d never had much trouble with women, and attributed it to being the youngest with four older sisters, each with an opinion she insisted on sharing with him. They taught him early that pleasing most women was simple, if he’d just listen. Safia wasn’t so easy to read. Whenever he expected a reaction, he didn’t get it. He felt almost raw around her, and it was damn hard to focus when her smile took his breath away. He experienced emotions so caveman primitive it scared him, and reminded him of his youth in Belfast—the urge to shelter, protect her as he had when IRA fighting came too close to his family. His sisters showed him strong women were resilient, often a damn sight more than men. Every buddy he’d ever shared a drink with said they couldn’t handle battle. He’d like to introduce him to the Donovan women, and Safia Troy, orphan, loner, and a woman who cared deeply about the people caught between terror and their innocent lives. Like hers, he thought, his brows lifting. He smiled, laughed to himself, and smoothed his hand over her shoulder, his thumb circling the little triangle birthmark on the back of her arm.
Carefully, he pushed her hair off her temple and watched the dark strands sift through his fingers. He was scared for her, he’d admitted, and had to get a handle on this need to protect and take her away from the dangers. She wouldn’t allow it for a second and he wanted to stay on her good side. For a long time.
She inhaled and breathed deeply, and he smiled. She shifted. “Ow,” she said dryly.
“Don’t move so fast.”
“Not a problem,” she said, being still. She finally opened her eyes and smiled slightly.
“Don’t scare me like that again.”
“Sure.”
He chuckled lowly, then bent to kiss her forehead. She sat up in increments, and touched near her hairline. She felt the stitches. “You do that?”
Fight Fire With Fire. Page 31