by David Lender
She knelt down next to him. His eyes were glassy, then seemed to focus on her. He grabbed her forearm, squeezing it with a force that surprised her, even hurt her. He whispered something, then his grip loosened and his hand went limp.
SEVENTEEN
CINDY ARRIVED FORTY-FIVE MINUTES EARLY for Mass in the main sanctuary at Holy Trinity. It had been two weeks since her last confession, a long time for her. Father Alain walked into the confessional booth. A parishioner got up from a pew three or four rows in front of her and joined him. Cindy was next. She always said her confession in French, one of the last means she had of staying connected to her father’s French-Canadian roots. She pondered what Father Alain’s penance might be; she didn’t lie very often, and this had been a big one. Egregious. To Grover, telling him Dani was his daughter. But more to Ray, by denying she was his. She fished into her handbag and pulled out the little black English-French dictionary she always kept there. She looked up the translation for “egregious.” “Énorme,” she rehearsed the word.
Stiles sat in his office, wondering about Madsen’s last email message. He’d made the call to Xavier, given him the code name “submarine” and never understood what was going on. When he’d asked Xavier for an explanation, the man simply hung up. When he’d called back a day later, the number had been disconnected.
It was the least of his concerns. His phone rang, followed by a buzz on the intercom.
“Frank Dwyer from KellerDorne,” his assistant said. Stiles’ friend, the CFO of the second biggest drug company.
“Hi, Frank.”
“Just called to see how you’re doing. When it hits the fan, it really splatters, doesn’t it?”
“Sounds like you’ve been reading my mail.”
“I heard they made you interim CEO.”
“Yeah. Not something I wanted.”
“How’s it going?”
“War on multiple fronts. I got the NYPD, the FBI, the US Attorney’s Office and McKean’s committee issuing subpoenas. Johnson in R&D and I will be getting deposed soon.”
“I’d like to tell you it’ll all blow over, but we’re dealing with the same thing over here.”
“Sounds like things in the industry are going to change,” Stiles said.
Dani sat with Mom on the deck at the Twin Lakes house facing the lake. Gabe and Jack paddled a canoe a hundred yards offshore. Dani could see that Gabe wasn’t wearing his life vest. They were both in for a lecture when they got back. Well, maybe. She felt so blessed to be back safely so she could watch Gabe out on the lake, Gabe doing anything at all. The flight from Washington had hit turbulence, and she’d prayed—Mom would have been pleased—to get home in one piece, that all she wanted was to return home to see her Gabe again. The sun felt great, so she stripped off her windbreaker, noticing the bruises and scrapes on her left hand and arm from going over that wall, and the bruises on her right forearm where Madsen had gripped her in his deaththroes. What a horror the whole thing was.
“Well, sweetie, you’ve created quite a sensation, as usual,” Mom said. “I watched the news this morning—you should’ve seen Gabe’s face when he saw the TV was ‘fixed’—and the story is still all over it.”
“I know. Yesterday I heard they’d gotten calls from 25,000 people who said they participated in the second five years of Project Epsilon. Another 50,000 texted Face the Press to say they’d participate in the unvaccinated control group if the government wants to do an epidemiological study of vaccine side effects. And McKean’s committee is already making noises that it’s ready to make a recommendation to Congress to remove the pharmaceutical industry’s immunity from lawsuits on vaccines, and force new safety studies of vaccine ingredients. Progress.” She smiled.
Mom squeezed Dani’s hand. “Sounds like that might be Grover Madsen’s legacy.”
“You still never told me how you knew Madsen,” she said to Mom.
“An old flame,” Mom said. “My first love, actually.”
Dani felt a mixture of shock and wonder. Mom was a brassy lady, and Dani had always wondered what she’d kept from her about her past. “Did Dad know?”
“It was before his time. There’s no need to tell a man everything.”
Dani took in the sight of the sun reflecting off the lake, Gabe and Jack in the canoe. She felt a breeze on her face. “You have no idea how surprised I was to see you standing outside the police perimeter at the Capitol.”
“I can imagine. If you’d been answering one of your cell phones, I would’ve let you know.”
“Let’s not talk about that. It was a bad time.”
Mom rested her hand on Dani’s arm. “I know, sweetie, it was for me, too.” Mom had tears in her eyes. Dani rested her hand on top of hers. “You haven’t told me what Grover said to you.”
“He said, ‘It’s over. You’re safe. I’m sorry, little girl.’”
Excerpt from Trojan Horse
TROJAN HORSE
A THRILLER BY
DAVID LENDER
Copyright © 2011 by David T. Lender
All rights reserved. No part of this book may be used, reproduced or transmitted in any form or by any means, electronic or mechanical, including photocopying, recording, or by any information storage or retrieval system, without the written permission of the publisher, except where permitted by law, or in the case of brief quotations embodied in critical articles and reviews. For information, contact [email protected].
PROLOGUE
JULY, TWENTY YEARS AGO. RIYADH, Saudi Arabia. Omar pressed the button that activated the lighted face of his watch, cupping his hands so he wouldn’t be detected. Today is a good day to die, he recited the mercenary’s creed in his head. 0158 hours. The others would start to arrive momentarily. He pulled out the Americanmanufactured night-vision goggles and stood in the shadows across the street from the outside perimeter wall of the grounds of the Royal Palace. He felt the chill of the Saudi night. He was grateful for the warmth provided by his German Kevlar vest and British army fatigues beneath his robe, the traditional Saudi dress he wore as a disguise. Still, his Russian army boots were ridiculously obvious; the disguise wasn’t about to fool anyone.
He scanned the street from where he knew the others would be joining him. Still no one. His mouth was dry. He fingered the Uzi clipped to his belt on his left hip, the .45 automatic Colt holstered on his right hip. Then behind the Colt the .22 caliber Beretta with its silencer extending through the hole in its holster. Omar was the only one of the team of twelve who carried a Beretta. He was to be the shooter.
Two men walked toward him, shielded by the shadows against the wall. He motioned to them and they gestured back. It was time. The other nine appeared like a mirage in the desert. Each was armed with Uzis and .45 caliber automatic Colt pistols; two carried American M-203 grenade launchers. All were eclectically uniformed and hardwared to defy nationalistic identification if killed or captured. They waited silently against the wall, listening for the passage of the patrol jeep. It lumbered by, bearing two heavily armed guards.
Omar raised his hand: the “Go” signal. He felt his pulse quicken and the familiar butterflies and shortness of breath that preceded any mission, no matter how well planned. The twelvemember squad crossed the street to the white stucco perimeter wall of the palace. Four faced the wall and leaned against it, shoulder to shoulder. The others performed a series of acrobatic maneuvers and materialized into a human pyramid. The top man silently secured three rubber-coated grappling hooks with attached scaling lines to the top of the wall. Omar was over the top and down the other side in less than fifteen seconds.
While the others followed, Omar pulled off his robe. His heart pounded. He pulled five bricks of C-4 plastic explosive from his pouch and stuck them to the wall in an “X” configuration, aware that his palms were clammy. He wiped them on his robe and again focused on his work. He inserted an electrical detonator in each brick of C-4, and wired them to a central radio receiver that he inserted into the cen
ter block of the “X.” By the time he finished, the rest of the team had cleared the wall and removed their robes. They stashed their robes in zippered pouches buckled to the backs of their waists.
Omar squinted at the wall of the palace, illuminated by floodlights, fifty meters away. This area had no first floor windows. His eyes adjusted to the light, and he looked for guards he hoped wouldn’t be there. He focused on a second floor window at the junction of the east and north walls. Be there, he thought. Just be there.
Sasha didn’t awaken at 2:00 a.m. as she had intended: she hadn’t slept at all. She glanced to her right at Prince Ibrahim, illuminated in the light from the display of the digital clock. His body moved up and down with the rhythm of his breathing. Sasha had earlier treated him to some extended pleasures in an effort to assure he wouldn’t awaken at an inopportune moment. She smelled the pungent scent of the evening’s energies, felt the smooth silk of the sheets against her naked breasts: sensations that under other circumstances would cause her to revel in her sexuality. Now she felt only the flutter of apprehension in her stomach. She thought of the business to be dispensed with.
The Royal Palace was stone quiet at this hour. Sasha listened in the hall for the footsteps of the guard on his rounds. A moment later he passed. A renewed sense of commitment smoothed a steadying calm down her limbs. It’s time, she told herself, and she slid, inches at a time, from the sheets to the cool marble floor.
Yassar will never forgive me. She breathed deeply, then felt exhilaration at the cool detachment her purpose gave her. She stood, naked, shoulders erect and head back, observing Prince Ibrahim, the man she had served as concubine for three years. But you don’t deserve to see it coming.
Backing from the bed, Sasha inched toward the closet. The prince stirred in his sleep, inhaled and held it. Sasha froze in place. She felt her stomach pull taut and she held her own breath. The cool marble under her feet became a chilling cold, the silence an oppressive void. This mustn’t fail. The prince resumed his rhythmic breathing and she exhaled in relief.
One more cautious stride carried her to the closet. She reached into it for her black abaya, the Muslim robe she wore in the palace. She cringed at the rustle of the coarse fabric as she put it on. The prince didn’t stir. She picked up her parcel from the closet floor, crossed the room and slipped out the door.
At the corridor window, she removed the clear plastic backing from one side of a 2x5 centimeter adhesive strip. The acrid odor of the cyanoacrylate stung her nostrils. She slid the strip between the steel window frame and the steel molding around it, precisely where the pressure-sensitive microswitch for the alarm sat.
She took an electromagnet from her parcel and plugged it into an outlet, unraveling the cord as she walked back toward the window frame. She placed the magnet against the corner of the window frame behind the alarm microswitch and clicked on the electromagnet.
The force of the magnet jolted the molding against the window frame. She endured a count to thirty until the adhesive fused the microswitch closed, then switched off the magnet. She turned the window latch, took a deep breath, shut her eyes, pushed. The window opened. No alarm.
The face of the man she knew only as the squad leader popped into her view from his perch atop his team, who had formed a pyramid on the wall below. She stepped back from the window. In an instant he was inside, raising his finger for her to be silent, and then turning and attaching one of the grappling hooks to the window frame. Never mind shushing me, she thought, just make sure you know what you’re doing. Within sixty seconds the other eleven members of the squad stole inside. The rope was up and deposited on the floor and the window closed and latched.
The black-haired girl backed herself against the wall, her palms against the marble. Omar stared into her jet-black eyes, saw her fierce spirit. That was close, he thought. She nearly blew it. Late. He sensed her excitement in the heaving of her chest, but she appeared otherwise to be in complete control of herself. She raised her chin defiantly. He looked into those penetrating black eyes again. Black steel, he thought, and felt a fleeting communion with her. She motioned with her eyes in the direction of Prince Ibrahim’s chamber. He nodded.
Sasha stood with her back pressed against the wall and watched as the team leader made hand signals and head motions to his men. He ordered a group to stand guard, then led most of them down the labyrinthine passageways that rimmed the outside perimeter of the palace toward Prince Ibrahim’s chamber. She watched the team leader disappear from sight around the first turn of the corridor. For some reason Sasha was seized by the premonition that something was wrong. She pushed herself out from the wall, trotted toward the Prince’s chamber.
One of the team members, who had spread themselves in pairs in firing position, grabbed her by the wrist as she passed. A bolt of adrenaline coursed through her. She clenched her teeth and shot a glare at the man. His widened eyes showed fear. She jerked her arm away and continued. She was now aware of the exhilaration of life-threat and the calm purpose that drove her.
He’ll never forgive me, again crashed through her consciousness. It sucked the strength from her, but she kept on. She reached the next turn, the last before Ibrahim’s chamber and saw the team leader ten feet from the door. At that moment three Saudi guards bustled around the next turn in the corridor. She felt hot blood rush to her face and a charge of anger erupt from her chest. She saw two of the squad members three meters beyond the team leader rear their heads back like horses at the sight of fire, then crouch over their weapons.
Shots hissed from the two squad members’ silenced Uzis. The three Saudi guards were hurled backward in a spray of blood amid the crack of bullets ricocheting off the marble walls. Their bodies hit the floor with thuds. Two more Saudi guards materialized at the same turn, M-16s aimed from the waist. Bursts from their guns flashed stars of flame from their barrels and flattened the two squad members. The squad leader froze, the hesitation of death, five feet from the prince’s door. An instant later twin bursts from the Saudi guards’ weapons slammed him backward into the wall.
Sasha forced herself to bury her panic within her. Next she was aware of the rush of her own breathing and the momentary sense she should conceal herself behind a tortured wail. Instead, she stretched out an arm and raised a hand toward the guards. They lowered the muzzles of their automatics and nodded to her in recognition. She pressed her back against the marble wall, her feet inches from the pool of blood that oozed from the team leader’s body.
“More!” she called in Arabic and motioned with two fingers back down the corridor toward the window she had opened. The men nodded again, crouched over their weapons and trotted toward the turn in the corridor. She squinted at the two guards as they passed, seeing the panic in their faces, and resisting her own urge to flee. She slid down the wall, noting the Beretta and silencer protruding from the team leader’s holster.
This mustn’t fail, she told herself again. She yanked the Beretta from the team leader’s belt and gave the silencer a jerk counterclockwise to make certain it was anchored in place. Then she held the gun at arm’s length with both hands and fired one round into the back of the first guard. She saw the startled look of terror in the eyes of the second as he turned. She aimed the gun at his chest and pulled off two more rounds.
Three gone, five rounds left. She ran up to the two fallen men with the gun outstretched. The second one down didn’t move, the first did. She put another round in the back of his head. She spun and darted toward Prince Ibrahim’s chamber, gulping air in huge breaths as she thrust herself through the door. The glow from the digital clock outlined the shape of the prince, who sat upright in bed, staring directly at her. She raised the gun at his chest. “Pig!” she said in Arabic.
“Sasha, I don’t understand,” the prince stammered.
“Then you don’t deserve to,” she said, and pulled the trigger. He lurched backward onto the pillows. A circle of red expanded on his white nightshirt directly over his heart. S
asha stepped forward, lowered the Beretta, and fired another round into the prince’s skull just behind his right ear. Then she dropped the gun.
Her brain told her what to do next—run for the window at the end of the corridor, throw down the rope and escape—but her body wasn’t nearly as composed as the voice in her head. Her breath came in gasps, her stomach churning at the smell of the blood puddled on the floor as she passed the bodies toward the first turn in the corridor. She shot a glance over her shoulder. Still no other guards. Thank God. She heard a crackle of static from a portable radio on the squad leader’s belt and heard the words, “We are blown! We have casualties and are aborting! Prepare transport! Minutes one!” Seconds later she heard shots and screams from someplace. An alarm sounded and the corridor lights flashed on. As she reached a turn in the corridor, one of the squad members must have triggered the C-4, because a yellowwhite glare flashed as bright as the sun. A shock wave whooshed down the corridor and threw her over backward to the floor.
Sasha jumped to her feet and ran down the corridor. She saw six squad members near the window, leaping out and down the rope each in turn. By the time she reached the window they were all down the rope. She leapt over the top without looking down. As she slid down the rope she listened for the sound of the three BMW 535s she knew the squad would have waiting for their escape. They were her only hope. But she couldn’t hear them. She could only hear the pounding of her heart in her ears and the ringing from the sharp blasts of the guns and that malevolent C-4 blast. She knew she was beginning to think again and not just act on instinct and adrenaline and the passion of what she believed in, and she realized she might survive, and that even with the disastrous intervention of the Saudi guards, and her split-second improvisation that the plan hadn’t gone so horribly awry.