Prenner stepped forward. “I thought you said you were unhackable?”
Stark held up a finger. “Statistically speaking, I am.”
“However?” Emily asked.
The tech didn’t answer. He just started the counter-hack, or whatever you called two geeks going at it. Normally, Bunny would have found it all amusing. The only problem was Brandt and the others’ lives were still in jeopardy.
“Should we move this to Langley?” Emily asked.
Stark just held up a hand, then waved it, whisking away her question.
“This is all going to be a moot point in a few hours, correct?” Prenner asked Emily. “Once they are in Turkey, I am assuming they will be coming straight home.”
The CIA operative looked to Bunny. She didn’t need to voice her question. Bunny had already been asking it in her own mind.
“Right?” Prenner pressed.
“Sure,” Bunny answered, but Prenner wouldn’t let it go.
“Why wouldn’t they come straight home?” Emily asked.
Bunny squirmed. She’d sworn she would never breath a word of what Rebecca and she had found on those stone tablets.
“I don’t think they’ll come home until they feel it is safe.”
“And why exactly wouldn’t it be safe?” Prenner pressed.
When Bunny didn’t answer, Emily squinted. “What do you know about the girl that we don’t?”
Bunny slapped her hands together. “Who else is hungry?”
* * *
From the German building’s rooftop, Frellan watched the van fleeing the pyramid plateau. The Egyptian army gave chase, but the desert was riddled with fissures and cracks. The escape vehicle made it into narrow streets lined by tenement buildings. It would soon be lost within the maze of alleys.
To his left, Mikhal stirred. So strange to see the man actually move. The sniper glared as he freed the rifle from his shoulder. Frellan had given strict orders to not engage in this little battle.
“Do not.”
Mikhal didn’t slow his motion. Instead, he lowered himself to the roof, setting up a shot.
“We cannot risk the girl,” Frellan urged.
Still, the sniper set up his shot.
“Do not test me,” Frellan warned. That got a cocky grin from the sniper.
Frellan could call over one of the mercenaries. It was within his prerogative to end the sniper’s rebellion with a shot to the back of the head. But as Aunush found out, the sniper had friends in the inner circle. The Master’s pet.
So he did nothing but watch as the sniper took his shot. The left rear brake light exploded as the van fishtailed, then punched the gas.
Had the sniper missed?
Pleasure dulled to realization. No. The sniper had simply marked the van, making it far easier to track. The sniper rose, swinging his rifle over his back, daring Frellan to criticize him. Also gloating, just a bit.
Mikhal had made two points. One? He could have taken out the van if he had wanted to. Two? He could have taken out the van if he had wanted to. The first was based on his skill as a sniper. The second was based on the fact Frellan hadn’t dared intervene.
He tried to allow the fury to bleed from him. Impulsive action was his sister’s weakness, yet he feared his fist would fly of its own accord. Then Monnie put her hand in his. Drawing his finger along the veins, Frellan could feel tension bleed from him as he imagined dissecting one of the blood vessels out, putting a metal band around it, then sewing the vein back in. That way, he could squeeze it, close it off, then open it again at will. The body was meant for so much more than one could imagine.
“Where to?” Ugudo asked.
Anger rose again, but there was Monnie’s hand in his.
“Think,” she said. “The burka was bloodied. Someone was there when she died.”
The watcher was correct. It had to have been Dr. Monroe.
“What would your mother have told her?”
Still, Frellan did not know. He had been estranged from her for years.
“I know of her research,” Monnie admitted.
Many knew of the watcher who wandered from her path. His mother’s defection had never been a secret. He had faced manhood under its shadow. The fact that she had gone out into the world, sampling DNA, trying to scientifically find the Messiah, was closely held knowledge.
Monnie was a watcher herself, though. She swam in the lives of the past watchers.
“Based on her research, here are five locations that are probable,” Monnie stated.
“And?” Frellan asked.
“I think one will be of specific interest to Dr. Monroe.”
CHAPTER 20
══════════════════
Ankara, Turkey
May 28, 5:14 a.m. (EEST, Eastern European Standard Time)
Rebecca stepped out onto the tarmac, her entire body aching. She really, really missed the billionaire’s luxury jet. Sure, they had taken a diplomatic plane from Egypt to Turkey, but it did not have a hot tub. She really missed having a hot tub on a plane.
However, beggars couldn’t be choosers. Vanderwalt had worked his butt off to get them out of Egypt, so she didn’t express just how much her lower back hurt as they crossed the tarmac and headed toward the private terminal.
In the still-dark mist an ezan, a call to prayer, carried over the wind. It must have been the gunes, the pre-sunrise service. Had they really been fleeing Egypt all night? Could it really be a new day?
Vakasa squeezed Rebecca’s hand, almost as if answering her unasked question.
It indeed was a new day. A new country. A new sense of hope.
Not existential hope, but a more practical hope. The hope of a hot shower and fresh clothes.
However, even that was dashed as Brandt stopped short of entering the terminal. Vanderwalt held open the door, cocking his head.
“I know you won’t tell me anything you are up to, mate, but at the least let me buy you all breakfast before you head out.”
Brandt held out his hand to shake. The two men had spent most of the travel time reliving past glories. What else could they talk about, though? Vakasa? The Disciples? Not very likely.
When Vanderwalt didn’t shake it, Brandt smiled. “Walt, you know how much I appreciate you pulling our asses out like that, but I gotta do what I gotta do.”
The thin Englishman finally shook Brandt’s hand. “Apparently right now.”
“I swear, when I can, I will tell you all about it.” Brandt pumped Vanderwalt’s hand. “Even over a warm damned beer.”
That got a grin from the affable British agent. “I’m going to hold you to that. Including why you are carting along a little girl rumored to have healed a fatal bullet wound of yours.”
What the…? Rebecca turned to Brandt. He’d never said anything about Vakasa healing him. Before she could say anything, Brandt shook his head sharply.
She got it. Not in front of Vanderwalt.
The smile that had nearly flickered out on Brandt’s face returned. Only Rebecca knew it wasn’t a real smile. It was the smile Brandt used when he wanted to get out of a conversation, just like this one.
“You know how it is, Walt,” Brandt said. “Villagers aren’t quite used to bulletproof vests.”
Vanderwalt searched her fiancé’s face, then shrugged. “Just another story to add to the mythos of Brandt, then.”
“Damn straight,” Brandt answered, this time a true grin on his face. He then put his hand on Rebecca’s back, guiding her away from the main terminal door. The pressure he was using though felt like he wanted to get out of here ASAP.
She couldn’t just leave like that, though. Dropping Vakasa’s hand, Rebecca went over and hugged the MI-5 agent.
“Thanks, Walt,” Rebecca said, giving their Brit guardian angel a kiss on the cheek before heading back to Brandt. The other men may not have hugged Vanderwalt, but they all gave him a warm handshake on their way out. Especially Talli.
&n
bsp; Following Brandt, she glanced over her shoulder as Vanderwalt gave a final wave good-bye. Vakasa nearly broke her elbow returning the gesture.
* * *
Brandt seldom felt bad about doing his job. He kept secrets for a living. He’d accepted that a long time ago. Still, walking away from a man who had not only saved his team’s life, but Rebecca and Vakasa’s as well? He wanted to tell Vanderwalt everything. Hell, the guy might even be able to help them, but Brandt couldn’t risk it.
Look at how the story of the gunshot wound in the Congo had spread all the way to Thames House. He couldn’t risk any kind of leak. The less Vanderwalt knew, the less he could unintentionally compromise their mission.
Once they were out of earshot, Levont trotted up to Brandt. “Sarge, I know we want to get out of here, but come on”—the point man threw a thumb to the glass window that looked down upon the Esenboga International Airport—”their food service was rated number one in Europe. Number one.”
Even Brandt had to admit the terminal that was a testament to modern architecture did look tempting. The thing was all steel and glass, with a huge open food court that reflected Turkey’s bi-continental culture. A European delicacy café stood next to a traditional Afghan restaurant. His stomach rumbled.
“A quick bite?” Talli asked, seeming far more excited than he did going into the field.
“Thanks, but no thanks,” Lopez said before Brandt had to. “This is Turkey, guys.”
When Levont and Talli didn’t seem to understand, Davidson chuckled. “I think they might still be a little pissed about Istanbul.”
That was an understatement.
“If it helps,” Rebecca interjected, “in about five hours, we are going to be in Basque country, a foodie’s heaven.”
Levont rubbed his belly. “Why, yes, that does.”
Brandt turned away from the elegant airport. “Lopez, you need to secure us a craft.” The guy was nearly halfway down the long hallway when Brandt shouted, “Something nondescript.”
The corporal gave a head bob before he disappeared around a turn. Lopez would bring back what he brought back.
Brandt sighed, draping an arm over Rebecca’s shoulder. She leaned her head into the crook of his arm. It almost hurt to have to talk shop.
“You sure about Spain?”
Rebecca lifted her head, giving a shrug. “More sure than I was about the tunnels under the pyramids and less sure than I was that St. Basil’s held a clue to the Ten Commandments.”
“So,” Brandt responded, “not sure at all.”
She cuddled against him again. “Pretty much.”
“I am telling you, man,” Levont barked a laugh, “you’ve got to start charging—I mean, charging serious money—to be on your team.”
* * *
The air was fragrant with the smell of oranges, leather, olives, and sweat. The atmosphere was heavy with it, so much so that it almost became another personality to add to the eclectic mix of nationalities in this press of human flesh. Gypsy women bustled forward, trying to force flowers into his hand, or to read that same hand, the easier to then extract a “favor” of some spare change.
“Master Frellan,” a voice called out amongst the bustle of the Madrid marketplace.
Frellan turned on his heel, making sure to keep his hoodie all the way forward. Who would call his name so freely? His mercenaries were out arranging transportation to the Basque region of the country. Monnie and Mikhal were the only ones by his side.
A black-robed priest hurried amongst the early-morning crowd at the Plaza Major, Spain’s largest open-air marketplace, weaving his way amongst the stalls and shoppers. He had the pasty-fleshed and squint-eyed look of a man who spent far too long reading books inside. While out here in the bright Spanish sun, it gave him an appearance of constant unpleasant surprise.
The chubby man finally caught up. An overexuberant smile upon his face.
“Do I know you?” Frellan asked. Seldom did he spend much time in the company of Roman Catholic priests.
“Yes, yes,” the man said, trying to catch his breath. “Well, no, not really. I am Father Benidicto.”
Frellan more sensed than saw Mikhal pull a knife from its sheath. Little did the priest before them know he was moments from death.
“We have a mutual friend,” the priest finally clarified. “Aunush.”
“In here,” Frellan hissed, urging the priest away from the linen-lined stalls and into a small sustantivo that operated at the edge of the marketplace. The scent of bitter coffee mixed with sweet milk pressed upon them. “How do you know that name?”
Benidicto’s pleasant smile was replaced by a sharp glare toward Mikhal. “You can put the knife away. Lest you wish to openly kill a priest in possibly the most devout Roman Catholic city short of Rome.”
Frellan glanced around to the patrons. Nearly three-quarters of the women—even the younger business woman getting ready for their day at the capital, or at an international conglomerate such as Telephonica, or even the Olympic planning committee—wore a cross around their necks.
The home court advantage did indeed go to the priest.
“We are no longer at cross purposes,” he explained.
An eyebrow shot up. The Disciples and Roman Catholic Church not at odds? That was like saying Massad and Hamas were suddenly allies.
Frellan switched to Latin. Even in this internationally diverse city, these espresso drinkers should not have been fluent in the ancient language. Although, he was certain the priest was. If he knew Frellan’s sister’s name, then he must.
“We wish to bring the true Messiah to the world,” Frellan said slowly and carefully.
The priest got into the long line leading up to the barista. Several people moved out of the way, allowing Benidicto to jump ahead of them. If only the masses respected the Disciples in such a way. Soon, though. Soon, Frellan reassured himself.
“I did not say we would always be aligned,” he explained in Ancient Greek. “But today, today we both seek the same thing.”
Monnie interjected. “And that would be?” she asked in Aramaic.
“Come with me,” the priest said with a knowing smile, “and I shall show you.”
Frellan glanced about. “And your escort?”
Benidicto shrugged. “There is only I.”
Alone? Who was this priest? To walk freely amongst the Disciples? Once outside of the city, they could easily gut him and leave his carcass on the side of the road with no one the wiser.
However, the priest seemed decidedly unconcerned with his fate. “Latte anyone?”
* * *
Apparently, things weren’t going well. Stark’s fingers flew over not just one keyboard, but three. For hours. For hours, he had fought off the attack, deflecting the hack, but it looked like the defenses just wouldn’t be enough. Prenner had wanted to pull out hours ago, and Emily was telling Langley they would be there in fifteen minutes all night long.
The only reason they had stayed was that Stark was learning as much has he could about the hacker. His style. His moves. And hopefully, his identity.
However, Stark finally threw his hands up in the air. “That’s it.”
He reached over and pulled the plugs on the CPUs. Drives winded down as Stark turned off the screens.
“All right,” Emily said, getting her phone out again. “The car is waiting around the block. I can have it here in just a minute.”
“What do you mean?” Stark asked.
Emily looked to Prenner, then to Bunny. “We need to establish a new HQ.”
“Duh,” Stark said, standing up and stretching, probably the first time he had in six hours. Without another word, he led them out of the basement and into the kitchen, where they found his mother, who shook her head.
“Burning the candle at both ends. Not good for the skin.”
Stark went over and gave her a kiss on the cheek. “Mom, how about some breakfast?”
“Animal pancakes or biscuits and gravy?
”
Stark looked to the group. “Well?” When no one answered, he turned back to his mother. “How about both? Plus some hash browns. My brain needs a carb kick-starter.”
“Only because we have guests.”
Stark gave her another kiss on the cheek and led them upstairs.
“I am not going to remind you of the incredibly tight timetable we are on,” Prenner said as they climbed up to the second floor.
“Yeah, thanks for trusting me so much. You didn’t have to remind me of that.”
Stark grabbed a chair, stood on it, and pulled down the staircase to the attic. Obviously intrigued, no one asked where they were going. Once in the attic, Stark turned on a light to reveal a techno-geek’s wet dream. If the basement had been a command center, this was the mother of all command centers.
Computer after computer booted up.
“I don’t understand,” Bunny said, trying to count the number of screens lining the walls.
“It’s my doomsday room. I set this system up, routed it through Thailand, and have never used it since. This baby is virgin. No IP addresses. No browsing history. No cookies.”
You know what? If Davidson weren’t just so damned sweet, Bunny might have learned to love the geeks.
* * *
Even Davidson could hear the squawk of the air traffic controller through Lopez’s earphones. Although, to be perfectly honest, Davidson was pretty dang sure the corporal was enjoying the berating. How often did Lopez get to use his colorful Spanish language on someone who actually understood him?
“What’s happening?” Rebecca asked from the seat behind. Brandt still hadn’t popped an eye open, although Davidson knew the sergeant was wide-awake.
“It sounds like air traffic control is trying to wave us off because our plane is too big,” Lopez reported.
Rebecca looked back over her shoulder from the first-class section to the hundred-plus empty seats behind them. At the time, ditching their small prop plane and stealing a Boeing 747 that was scheduled for maintenance in Athens, Greece, seemed like a great idea. It hadn’t occurred to anyone that the closet airport to the northern region of Spain would be a small regional airport.
Although, the more he thought on it, the more Davidson began to wonder if Lopez in fact did know this information. Because, come on, they weren’t being shot at. There was no bizarre weather disturbance, and Brandt had forced the corporal to fly at “regular” speed. Lopez had bellyached the whole way about the embarrassingly long flight time.
The Betrayed Series: Ultimate Omnibus Collection Page 114