Morgan didn’t quite see it. She was being too rational, too cool about this, and going AWOL to a rogue assassination mission was not the action of a cool and rational person. But he decided to let it slide.
“How did it happen?” he asked.
Randall took another deep swig of beer. “My parents were investigative journalists, and they had some dirt on his company.” Morgan caught a hint of a slur in her voice. “They were going to expose a whole slew of criminal activity perpetrated by Himmel. You know, his corporation. And then a car ran them off a cliff.”
“Damn,” said Morgan.
“Of course, I didn’t know it at the time,” she continued. “I was only six when it happened. I always thought it had been an accident, and nobody disabused me of that notion. Then, as a teenager, I read the newspaper and police reports and discovered that there were suspicious circumstances around the whole thing. Some paint transfer on the car, tire marks on the road. I knew by then that it had been a murder, but I had no idea who had done it. I went a little crazy for a while there. Did the kinds of stupid things that teenage girls do, and then some.”
“Vandalism? Shoplifting?”
“Car theft, and a couple of other things besides. But it didn’t take. In the end, I turned my pain into determination. Doubled down on my studies. Went to a fancy boarding school on scholarship—and let me tell you, the upper-class girls never let you forget where you came from. They tormented me for a year. That is, until I broke the queen bee’s nose and threatened to slit their throats in their sleep.”
“You sound like you could make that threat believable,” he grinned.
“Helps when you have a reputation for being the crazy one. After that, I just focused on doing my work, getting the marks. Got into an MI-5 trainee program, and the rest is history.”
“Except that’s not all, right?” said Morgan. “Something changed. Something made you go after Weinberg.”
“About six months ago, I found out what my parents were doing when they were killed. Investigating Weinberg’s company for illegal trafficking. Discovered it totally by accident, doing some desk work one day. I came across a report on Weinberg’s company, and there, I found a reference to some research done by my parents—apparently they’d shared some of it with British Intelligence in the course of their investigations. I put two and two together. That’s when I started researching all I could about him. His family history, what his company had done under his leadership. Suspicions of piracy on the Black Sea, of massacring union leaders in Romania, of rigging local elections in Georgia—that’s the country, not the state with the peaches. So I decided to kill him—I just needed to figure out when, where and how. You know how it went from there.” She finished the last of her beer. “God, here I am, telling you my whole life story.”
“To be fair,” he said, “I did ask.”
“And what about you?” asked Randall. Her eyelids drooped slightly. “What makes the enigmatic Mr. Morgan tick?”
“I’m not really a complicated man—”
“Said the international man of mystery.”
“Ah,” he said. “I guess there is that.”
“Yes, there is that.”
“I admit, that is complicated. But I’m not.”
Morgan’s phone beeped, and he looked down at the screen.
“What’s that? Message from the wife?”
“That’s our cue to get to work,” said Morgan. “My people have something on Weinberg. And from the looks of it, it isn’t good.” He stood up and dropped a couple of bills on the table for the beers and the water. “You still have time to back out.”
“Oh, please,” she said, walking out ahead of him. “Like I’m going to be outdone by a bloke who won’t even drink a pint.”
Chapter 35
June 8
Vienna
“It seems things are a lot worse than we imagined,” said Bloch.
Morgan and Randall had gotten themselves a room at the Hotel Sacher in Vienna—Morgan had been adamant about getting two beds—and had set up a three-way video call with Diana Bloch at Zeta Headquarters and Lincoln Shepard, still in Monte Carlo. Morgan and Lily sat side by side at the room’s hardwood desk, made hasty introductions, and they jumped right into the business at hand.
“Do you know what an EMP is?” asked Shepard.
Morgan was about to respond when Randall preempted him. “Electromagnetic pulse. An expanding wave of electromagnetic radiation.” Any sign of drunkenness had completely left her voice and posture, and Morgan wondered whether that had been a put-on as well. “If it’s strong enough, it can pretty much wipe out any electronic device for miles. They were discovered as a side effect of nuclear detonation in the forties. There have been several attempts to create an EMP-only weapon, some of them successful, but never deployed in the field.”
“Someone was head of her class,” said Shepard.
“So what’s this about, Shepard?” asked Morgan.
“The EMP device,” said Shepard. “We found specifications to one on the contents of Weinberg’s hard drive. A Russian prototype weapon.”
“So he’s trying to get this weapon?” Morgan asked.
“He already did,” said Bloch.
“What?”
“He stole it from a train yesterday as it was being transported to Siberia for testing. We just found out when Shepard looked into the whereabouts of the thing.”
Morgan swore. “That’s bad news.”
“Aren’t you sorry you didn’t let me kill him now?” asked Randall.
“What can he do with the EMP?” asked Morgan.
“Take your pick,” said Shepard. “Shut off the lights in any major city in the world. Hit the Pentagon, NORAD, even take out the entire US electrical grid, with a well-placed strike.”
“Jesus Christ,” said Morgan. “Do we have any idea what he’s planning? Any idea what the hell this has to do with the Secretary of State?”
“None whatsoever,” said Bloch. “Although I think it’s probably safe to assume that, given the abduction of the Secretary, the target is likely to be in the United States.”
“Something’s bothering me,” said Randall. “Why is he doing this? What the hell kind of connection could these things have with each other?”
“Opportunity?” ventured Shepard. “Because they’re there? Sometimes it’s as simple as that. The chicken just wants to get to the other side.”
“I don’t buy it,” said Randall. “Not for one minute. Weinberg’s a clever bastard. There has got to be some angle here.”
“Do you know what I think?” cut in Morgan. “I think he’s bored. I think he just ran out of better things to do with his fortune. I think we have a man who thinks he can slap America in the face. Who does something because it’s just the next logical step. The next thing he can do to assert his power. I think he got tired of just being president of a multibillion-dollar corporation. He wanted more. And now he has the US Secretary of State and a dangerous weapon on his hands. He wants to bring America to its knees. And, do you know what? We won’t let him. I don’t care why he’s doing it. I’m going to stop him.”
“Hear, hear, Mr. Morgan,” said Randall. “So I suppose the question is, what are we going to do about it?”
“We don’t know where the EMP is,” said Bloch. “We don’t know where Secretary Wolfe is. But we know where Weinberg is.”
Randall perked up at this. “Oh?”
“Weinberg’s left Vienna,” said Shepard. “He’s on a plane, on a flight path to the Greek island of Santorini. He owns a villa there.”
“I say it’s time to take action,” said Morgan. “No more nibbling around the edges, no more undercover. Let’s take the fight to him. Bring him in and put the screws on him, and find both the Secretary and the EMP.”
“I have to agree with you this time, Cobra,” said Bloch. “We tried subtlety, and it failed. We can’t afford to wait this time. We need to take decisive action right away. I’m dep
loying the tactical team to Santorini to go after Weinberg. Cobra, I want you to meet up with them there. Ms. Randall?”
“Yes?”
“I understand you have some kind of vendetta against Weinberg. But you also appear to have some very valuable skills. If you can put aside your thoughts of revenge, perhaps we can use you in this mission.”
“I’ll help if I can,” said Randall.
“Good,” said Bloch. “Then you two had better get ready. You board your flight to Greece in two hours.”
Chapter 36
June 8
Santorini, Greece
Night fell on the blue Mediterranean Sea as Morgan and Randall’s taxi dropped them off at the small dock where an aging Greek in a ratty polo shirt was waiting for them with a small speedboat.
“Come on, I don’t have all night,” he said hoarsely, breath smelling of alcohol with a hint of anise.
Morgan stepped down onto the boat and held his hand out to help Lily. She scoffed and hopped gracefully off the pier. The Greek gunned the engine, and the speedboat carried them along the darkening waters to a schooner about a mile off shore.
“Welcome aboard!” said Spartan as she helped Randall up onto the boat, then Morgan. Spartan was already in a black wetsuit. Its passengers delivered, the speedboat roared off into the black Mediterranean waters. “You made it. And this is Randall?”
“Who else?” she said. “And you must be the famous Spartan.”
“Built like a twig, aren’t you?” said Spartan, shadowboxing the air in front of Lily. “You sure you can tangle with the big boys?”
Spartan didn’t have Lily’s greyhound physique. She was more solidly built, with a squarer face and a stronger jaw. Her wetsuit clung to her body, revealing its outlines. They were far from delicate, but they were powerful. While she was attractive in her way, she could not match Lily’s eye-turning beauty, the curves revealed by her sheer floral dress.
“Maybe you’d like to try me, blondie,” said Lily.
“Let’s save the violence for Weinberg, all right?” said Morgan.
They walked down the wooden steps into the cabin, which was lit by a dim, flickering light that swayed to the movement of the boat.
“Glad you could join us, Cobra,” said Bishop, who was in his wetsuit as well. Next to him was Diesel, reclining on the wooden seat of the schooner, his naked torso exposed to the cool night breeze. “I take it that this lovely lady is Ms. Randall.”
“Enchanté,” she said.
“I hear you gave Cobra a little bit of trouble back there,” said Bishop.
“I heard you kicked his ass,” said Spartan, shooing Diesel away to take a seat next to him.
“That’s not quite how it happened,” said Morgan.
“He’s just bitter that he got beat up by a girl,” said Randall.
“She had a gun on me,” Morgan grumbled.
“All right, big guy,” said Bishop. “We have your wet suits here. Ms. Randall—”
“Lily will do fine,” she said. “Ms. Randall makes me sound like a frumpy secretary or a librarian or something.”
“I don’t think anyone would mistake you for either of those things,” said Bishop. He handed her the neoprene suit. “We got your size from the MI-5 employee database.”
“How indiscreet of you,” she said.
“I’ll leave you to change,” said Bishop, moving toward the wooden stairs.
As he, Diesel, and Spartan walked up and out of the cabin, Morgan shuffled through the canvas bags to find his own wetsuit and was about to leave when he noticed out of the corner of his eye that Lily had already pulled her dress down, her black bra exposed.
“Jesus!” he said.
“Oh, you prude,” she teased, and continued to undress. Morgan turned around and unbuttoned his shirt, glad he never shared any of the details of his work with his wife. As he pulled down his pants, he caught a glimpse of Lily’s reflection on one of the portholes, and made a point to avert his eyes from that as well. Careful not to bend the injured fingers on his left hand, he pulled on the neoprene suit, which clung tightly to his skin. He moved around so that the elastic material would settle comfortable on his skin—and to kill time until he was sure he wouldn’t see Lily Randall’s bare chest.
“It’s okay, you can turn around now,” she said. He did, to find her sporting a gently mocking grin, the black suit clinging to her form, revealing her flat stomach and the curve of her waist.
“It’s a bit of a tight fit,” she said. “Don’t you think?”
Morgan rolled his eyes and banged his good hand a couple of times against the wooden side of the cabin, calling out to the others that they were dressed.
They all converged on the open-air deck of the schooner. The captain cut the lights and started the engine, and they rumbled in the darkness under the stars and the nearly full moon. Morgan reclined, laying his head on his pack, resting his back on the hard wood, which felt as cozy as a bed. The others got comfortable too, and they shared war stories in the dark until they were in sight of Weinberg’s villa. The captain cut the engine, and all they could hear was the creaking of the boat as it gently rocked from side to side.
It was built high on a steep and otherwise empty and barren hill, dimly lit by the light of the moon. It was typical of what they called Cycladic architecture, bearing whitewashed, round-edged walls, climbing the slope in boxy, steplike segments. A high wall circled the entire property, although they could see the house itself because of the angle. The dimensions of the villa were as expected for a man like Weinberg—at least eight bedrooms, spacious verandas, a large backyard hidden by the angle, and a helicopter on a landing pad—a two-seater, but Morgan couldn’t tell what kind from that distance.
“Damn,” said Diesel. “Must be nice, being a millionaire.”
“That’s billionaire,” said Spartan. “With a b.”
“Yeah, well, either way.”
Morgan took a pair of night-vision binoculars from the field pack that they had brought for him and examined the house. His vantage point prevented him from assessing whether Weinberg was in there, although the armed guards patrolling the property told him that was more than likely.
“How many do you count?” Morgan asked Bishop.
“Six.”
“I count seven,” said Morgan.
“Two by the pool, two at the side of the house, two circling the perimeter,” said Diesel, joining the party. “That’s six.”
“There’s one on the roof,” said Morgan. “On the far end, near the window that has the light on.”
“I see him,” said Bishop. “All right. Diesel takes sniper duty. We take it in teams of two. Scale the walls on either side. On the right there’s a small gap in the bushes against the house itself. On the left there’s a covered, out-of-sight sconce. Diesel keeps us informed about the location of the guards as much as he can. One team secures the first floor while another moves on to the second. We converge on Weinberg’s room and take him away while Diesel provides cover.”
“What are the teams?” asked Morgan.
“Since you and Lily are already acquainted, you can team up,” said Bishop. “Mistrust is a tactical disadvantage.”
“Mistrust?” said Lily, with mock outrage. “Of little old me?”
“Might have something to do with you stealing the thumb drive off Cobra and leaving him to get caught,” said Spartan.
“Teaming up with Lily will be fine,” said Morgan. “Are we ready?”
“Let’s go,” said Bishop.
They assisted each other in putting on their scuba gear and waterproof rucksacks and dropped off the back of the boat. Morgan was last to jump in, the cool water enveloping him. He looked at the compass strapped to his wrist, and swam in the dark water due south. He continued for about ten minutes until he could just make out the outlines of the land rising in front of him. He found the ridge that he was aiming for, and came out of the water on the other side of it, shielded from view of the hou
se. He spotted Bishop, Lily, and Diesel already there, crouching and unstrapping their gear. A few seconds after he got out of the water, Spartan’s head emerged, snorkel first. They stashed their gear behind a rock, put on boots and bulletproof vests. They strapped on their sidearm holsters—Morgan with his Walther PPK—shouldered their backpacks and slung their HK MP5s across their chests—all but Diesel, who had his M39 sniper rifle instead. They then tested their communicators.
“Zeta, we are in position,” said Bishop.
“Mission is go,” said Shepard. “I repeat, mission is go.”
“All right, move out,” said Bishop.
They lowered their night-vision goggles and ran in a line with the ridge on their left, shielded from view. When they were level with the lower wall of the villa, they turned to make their approach—except Diesel, who broke off from the group and continued climbing to find a suitable sniper nest.
They ran under the cover of darkness over the uneven rocky terrain, Bishop taking the lead, Morgan bringing up the rear behind Lily. Upon reaching the whitewashed outer wall, they stood up against it so that they couldn’t be seen by anyone above. Morgan signed to Lily to follow him along the ocean-facing wall, while Bishop and Spartan ran up the slope.
They ran about three hundred yards, negotiating the tricky footing of the rock at the foot of the four-yard wall. They rounded the corner and Morgan signed for them to halt. “In position.”
“Ready here, too,” said Bishop.
“Hold in position,” said Diesel. “Wait for it.... Okay, move out.”
The wall was too high to climb unaided, but they had brought along a tactical ladder for that purpose. This was a device with a square hook at one end attached to Kevlar rungs. He reached back to retrieve it from his pack. He then swung up the hook and tossed it over the wall, then pulled the ladder down. The hook found purchase at the top of the wall, and he pulled the ladder taut.
“Cover me,” he told Lily, and began the climb. It took him seconds to reach the top and jump over the wall, landing on the deck as lightly as he could. Here, he was in the spot chosen for insertion—covered by an awning, a dark corner which turned into a spacious deck and Olympic-sized swimming pool illuminated by floodlights.
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