Black Scorpion

by Jon Land

  With his daughter’s help, the old man moved toward the wall papered with schematics, maps, and satellite images of the Hoia-Baciu Forest. He spotted a mountainous section, approached the satellite image, and managed to circle one mountain in particular with a pen he’d snatched from a nearby table. He began to jabber away in Romanian, his tremors making his words slur into one another.

  “He says he worked as a structural engineer for the Soviets here during the Cold War because he knew the land better than anyone,” his daughter translated for them into English, “where best to hide their nuclear missile silos. He says those silos are scattered in the area he just circled, contained beneath a man-made lake the Soviets built to disguise their presence. Apparently one of the primary command and control bunkers for the Soviet nuclear arsenal based in Eastern Europe was built inside a huge cave system located within the mountain this lake surrounds, accessible by a system of tunnels that link the silos. There is a river that flows over the top of the mountain, feeding the lake and a waterfall.”

  “You’re saying this bunker is inside the mountain?” Alexander interrupted.

  “My father is saying that, yes,” the woman confirmed.

  She stopped and listened to the old man continuing his tale, stammering through some of the words and stopping only when his breath finally deserted him.

  “He says the waterfall is a doorway. He says he was working for the Soviets when they built the entrance to the bunker directly behind that waterfall, made to look like part of the mountain itself. He says that’s where you may find Black Scorpion.”

  “If that’s the place, I’ll return,” Raven promised, her gaze fixed on the circled area along with Alexander’s, “with your children in tow.”

  “Not if we don’t get a better idea of what we’re going to be facing inside this bunker, if it’s really the place we’re looking for,” Alexander said, unclasping the satellite phone from his belt and dialing Paddy’s number.

  “Miss me already, mate?”

  “Looks like I need something else. Where are you?”

  A knock fell on the door and one of the gypsies yanked it open.

  Paddy stood there, speaking into the satellite phone he was still holding. “Right here, you bloody wanker.”

  ONE HUNDRED ONE

  CARSON CITY, NEVADA

  “Mr. Tiranno,” said Commissioner Kern of the Nevada Gaming Control Board, taking on the chore of swearing Michael in himself today, “please raise your right hand. Do you solemnly swear to tell the truth, the whole truth, and nothing but the truth, so help you God?”

  “I do,” said Michael, waiting for Kern to be seated before taking his own.

  He stole a glance toward the hearing chamber’s rear as the crowd noise dropped to a murmur and silenced altogether, spotting FBI special agent Del Slocumb seated in the very back. Slocumb nodded. Michael nodded back, having just heard the news about the chief of the Las Vegas police department being taken into custody by federal authorities. He was about to turn away when he spotted the same small man he recalled from the previous week’s hearing, with the awful comb-over wearing the same rumpled suit from the last time. He was holding a Mont Blanc pen again that looked out of place in his hand.

  “Mr. Tiranno, this hearing has been called to further determine your fitness to hold a gaming license, entitling you to the privilege of operating a casino in this state,” Kern began, the words droning from memory. “I am required to inform you that while you are under oath, you are still protected by your Fifth Amendment rights against self-incrimination.”

  “I have nothing to hide, Mr. Chairman,” Michael responded, feeling Naomi tense alongside him. “I have every intention of answering each and every question posed to me.”

  “I’m glad to hear that, Mr. Tiranno, because the bonds of Tyrant Global, King Midas World, and the Seven Sins Resort are plummeting even as we sit here.”

  “That will change soon, Mr. Chairman, not quite as we sit here, but soon enough.”

  “Refreshing news, since new information has come to this committee between hearings in the wake of your recent travels and a death at your hotel that further complicates your standing.” Kern leaned forward, pushing the microphone ahead of him and looking like a poker player who’d just drawn a full house. “Would you care to explain?”

  Michael eased the microphone before him. “I had business to attend to in London.”

  “London?”

  “I believe that’s what I said.”

  “You spent three days in London. That is your statement.”

  “It is, Mr. Chairman, and I’m prepared to present my hotel bills and restaurant receipts through my stay. I was in the city to meet with a number of investment bankers representing European money to help rectify the current financial situation you referenced that escalated in the aftermath of the recent blackout and tragic death at my casino. You’ll be happy to hear I sufficiently reassured them.”

  “Indeed, Mr. Tiranno, and this committee will give all due notice to these bills and receipts, although something more evidentiary would be of far more use in helping to prove your case.”

  “I wasn’t aware I had a case to prove. But, since you asked…”

  With that, Naomi rose and approached the dais, handing an eight by ten photograph up to Kern. “This is a picture of Mr. Tiranno and his girlfriend, Scarlett Swan, taken by paparazzi while they were exiting a restaurant in London,” she informed the committee, reassured that Michael’s strategy to have her “arrange” just such a photo opportunity after landing in London from Caltagirone had proven fortuitous indeed. So, too, on his instructions she had arranged a pair of actual meetings for him with bankers scheduled around the meal, further establishing the validity of his alibi. “Another picture, snapped by paparazzi, appeared in several London gossip rags,” she continued. “And I can also present to this committee evidentiary materials attesting to meetings held while Mr. Tiranno was in the city.”

  “That won’t be necessary at this time,” Kern said, taking his glasses off and putting them back on, as if to stall for time.

  MUMBAI, INDIA

  Prakash Singh, captain of the elite commando team attached to the Indian Police Service in Mumbai, waited until he was certain all his men were in position before giving the signal. To avoid suspicion, they’d been gathering for upward of an hour in the innocuous disguises of street vendors, beggars, and street cleaners charged with making this the most beautiful city in the world.

  All were now in place before the majestic Greek Revival building secured behind a high security fence. Locals had long assumed its palatial confines set against the Arabian Sea held a prestigious school for girls. The security, even the helipad perched on the roof, was understandable since the city had been on edge ever since a small band of men had terrorized it just a few years before. Singh’s rapid response team of commandos had been formed in the wake of that, ready to deploy at a moment’s notice with training received at the hands of the American Special Forces under their belt, one of whom he thought he recognized while his men were gearing up back at the operation’s staging ground.

  Singh had never given the girl’s school a single thought until today, had asked that his orders be repeated to make sure he’d heard right.

  A coordinated international attack, the rules of engagement that of war instead of a typical police action, a target as dangerous as any terrorist or Pakistani offensive.

  Black Scorpion.

  Even now, Singh could barely believe it himself. His father, a former director general of police, had dismissed the organization’s existence as a myth, an old wives’ tale concocted to excuse police failures at bringing down ordinary criminal gangs cloaked in a fantasy of evil. Singh himself had always suspected otherwise, even though he couldn’t prove it, and now his suspicions had been justified.

  He checked his watch, a gift from his father, and began the mental countdown in his head. He had twelve men with him because any more would’ve b
een certain to arouse suspicion from whoever was watching from inside the building. Once Singh’s forces secured the perimeter, Indian Army troops were prepared to storm the compound with armored vehicles from the front and helicopter gunships from the sea at the rear. All it would take was his signal at the proper time.

  Singh waited for his father’s watch to reach the moment of his attack, watching the second hand draw out the final minute.

  “Go!” he ordered his men finally.

  And a half hour later, the American Special Forces operator Singh thought he’d recognized earlier in the day lifted a phone from his forward observation post. “Mumbai is down,” was all he said.

  * * *

  “I remind you you’re under oath, Mr. Tiranno,” Kern resumed. “Tell me, sir, have you been to Italy in the past week?”

  “No.”

  “What about Sicily?”

  “No, again.”

  “It is your contention, then, that you flew to London and remained there for the entire time you were away from Las Vegas.”

  “It is,” Michael told him, “as I’ve already indicated. And if you require additional photographs…”

  “I’m sure you could provide them.” Kern looked put off for a moment, before quickly regaining his composure. “Mr. Tiranno, you disrespect this committee the same way you disrespect this city and this country,” he resumed, voice growing louder and almost shrill through the microphone. “I believe you are a dangerous man who spits in the face of laws and any authority that seeks to challenge him. I believe you’re a bully of the worst kind, one who doesn’t mind or care who he leaves crushed in his wake, a man who’s left a trail of blood that rivals any left by the infamous gangsters who formed the original scourge of this city.

  “Because that’s what I believe you are, Mr. Tiranno: A scourge, even though I may not be able to prove it. A symbol of excess and non-accountability who should name a bulldozer after his company instead of a car, a phone, or a jet. Would you like me to continue?”

  “Please do,” Michael told him calmly.

  THAILAND

  The Thai Army had closed all the main roads leading into Khao Sok National Park before the attack began. Waves of troops getting as close to the dense jungle as the trucks could bring them before climbing off and proceeding on foot. Their target was a sprawling camp pinpointed by satellite reconnaissance after intelligence furnished by the American government marked the camp’s general location amid overgrowth of giant parasitic flowers. Those flowers had earned their name and reputation from sapping the life out of the vines to which they were attached in order to thrive.

  Whoever was occupying the camp had done much the same thing to the jungle itself, dirtying it with landmines, trip wires, and other crude security systems. That alone was enough for Colonel Nyu, the attack’s leader and an ardent believer in his country’s beauty, to despise his targets. He would lead the attack from the front, vicious and relentless enough to distract the camp’s soldiers from a second wave that would descend on the enemy from its rear flank where a waterfall spilled water into a luscious green lagoon. It had taken that phalanx of his troops more time to get into position than expected, making Nyu fear he might not be able to stage his attack at the apportioned time. But then the snipers he’d staged along the tree line reported in, telling him just what he needed to hear.

  “I have twelve targets in my sector.”

  “Eight in mine.”

  “Ten in the northeast.”

  “Sixteen on the southwest flank.”

  Nyu pictured the sights as the snipers rotated their scopes, zeroing their soon-to-be targets once the attack commenced. Just then his second-in-command lowered a walkie-talkie from his lips and nodded, indication that his troops staging by the waterfall were now in place.

  “We move on my signal,” Nyu said into his walkie-talkie. “Spare no one and burn all the drugs.”

  Just within earshot, an American in civilian clothes moved to a shady space and raised a satellite phone to his ear in a callused hand. “Thailand is underway.”

  ONE HUNDRED TWO

  CARSON CITY, NEVADA

  “We may not have firm proof of criminality on your part, Mr. Tiranno,” Kern resumed, “but the old saying that where there’s smoke, there’s fire has never been more true than in this case. Unless we are to pass all these allegations and suspicions off to coincidence, it stands to reason that you are a dangerous man who has no place operating a casino in the city of Las Vegas or the state of Nevada, or anywhere else for that matter.”

  Michael pretended to be flipping through pages.

  “Do you have a response, Mr. Tiranno?”

  “I’m sorry, Mr. Chairman, I was searching through your rule book for the section on innuendo and rumor. Apparently, this edition left out the fact that either can be grounds for the revocation of a gaming license.”

  Kern rapped his gavel on the desk before him, when the crowd responded to Michael’s statement with a smattering of applause.

  “Mr. Chairman,” Michael said, seizing the moment, “may I make a brief statement?”

  “So long as it’s relevant to these proceedings.”

  “It addresses one of your primary concerns, specifically the Forbidden City.”

  “More excuses and explanations, Mr. Tiranno?”

  “No, quite the opposite,” Michael replied, speaking as much to the crowd squeezed into the hearing chamber behind him as Kern, “I’m happy to report that the Forbidden City will officially open in three months time.”

  Now it was Kern who leaned forward, looking more dismayed than surprised. “And what happened to the tour we were promised?”

  “I’m prepared to schedule it at your convenience, as early as tomorrow, and have brought in some of the Forbidden City’s primary props to provide you as full an experience as possible.”

  “Props, Mr. Tiranno?”

  “I’m afraid I can’t elaborate further,” Michael said, smiling. “That would ruin the surprise.”

  “So as long as you don’t expect these props to turn this committee’s attention away from the recent death that forced you to close your so-called Daring Sea suites. This legendary vision of yours is killing people, isn’t it? And let’s not that forget that it further weakened your financial position and is certain to cause even more untold losses, only adding to your exposure in the marketplace and making your company a prime target for takeover. Especially given your increasingly weak liquid position.”

  “That’s about to change. We’re expecting a cash infusion in the coming days.”

  “Please be specific.”

  “All I can say at this time is that a substantial investment fund is about to put all its strength behind my company.”

  Kern’s spine straightened, his bluster returning. “This committee will not accept such vague assurances.”

  Naomi stole a glance toward Michael and watched him nod ever so slightly. “In that case,” she said, sliding the microphone before her, “I have a few questions for you, if you don’t mind, Mr. Chairman.”

  BEIJING, CHINA

  The gunfight began ferociously but quickly grew sporadic before fading altogether as the Chinese Ministry of Public Security forces overwhelmed the building’s meager defenses. Of course, security around this abandoned factory, located in a decrepit slum Chinese and Beijing officials referred to as an “inner-city village,” was understandably light given that the proper officials had been paid off.

  That had not stopped the waves of trucks and troops from descending on the area and bulldozing their way into the factory where tons and tons of weapons were held for planned shipment all over the world. The factory functioned as a kind of clearinghouse, a fulfillment center from which orders were packaged to extremist, paramilitary and criminal organizations on every continent.

  Colonel Yan Ling, his blue police uniform encased in body armor, entered to find the last of the surviving guards being rounded up and the bodies of those guards kil
led in the gunfight hastily covered with sheets his men had brought along for just that task. Around him, stacked on shelves that stretched the entire three-story height to the ceiling, was an assortment of military grade ordnance far beyond even that of the MPS supply depots. Light and heavy weapons alike, in addition to a lifetime’s supply of ammunition for all of them, explosive devices, hand grenades, state-of-the-art shoulder-held rocket launchers, even some smaller artillery pieces.

  Ling stood stiffly, having seen enough to end his inspection here, unable to calculate the potential cost to human life held within this abandoned factory.

  “Captain,” he called to his second-in-command, “you have your orders.”

  “Destroy the building and leave nothing behind.”

  Ling nodded and turned to the “official” from the American embassy who’d accompanied him inside in the raid’s aftermath. “I imagine the results please you?”

  “Very much,” the man said.

  He lifted a phone from his pocket and stepped aside, dialing a number that would be answered without benefit of a ring.

  “China is down,” he reported.

  * * *

  “That is highly irregular, Ms. Burns,” Kern said, tapping the frame of his reading glasses against the table.

  “Humor me, sir, if you don’t mind. But I’d recommend we move to a closed session.”

  “Why?” Kern smirked. “Mr. Tiranno may have plenty to hide, but I don’t.”

  “Then you won’t mind explaining this picture,” Naomi told him, as a photograph suddenly claimed the screen dangling behind the commission members, picturing Kern greeting a man on an airport tarmac before a private jet.

  “Not at all. The man’s name is Aldridge Sterling. I was meeting him as a courtesy when Mr. Sterling came to explore expanding his considerable interests into gaming here in Nevada.”

  “Came here?”

  “Yes.”

  “But this picture was taken at a Long Island airport where Mr. Sterling flew you in on his private jet to enjoy a weekend at his mansion in the Hamptons last summer.”