by K. J. Howe
Medical instruments rested on a stainless-steel cart. An odd-looking saw perched on the farthest counter. Two gurneys sat in opposite corners. One was empty; the other held a black canvas body bag.
His pulse quickened.
The terrorist. Johann stepped forward, his breath short, raspy.
Stopped.
Could he possibly become infected by the plague that had killed Kaleb? No, Falco had been in the same room and hadn’t been affected, even days after exposure. The disease only infected people of Arab descent. Still, it was a plague. Could he transfer the plague to Fatima? His gaze was frozen on the black body bag. No, if the body were still infectious, they would have disposed of it. He had to take a photo of Omar Kaleb, proof that he wasn’t imagining all this if he decided to report it.
His right hand touched the zipper. He hesitated for a minute, inhaled deeply, and held it, bracing himself for the horror of the terrorist’s disfigured face and body. He unzipped the body bag, peeling back the black material, unveiling the corpse.
But it wasn’t Kaleb.
The dead man was Uncle Karl.
Chapter 20
Prospero’s Gulfstream had arrived in Libya, touching down on a hard-packed desert runway without incident. They’d had to land on a nearby strip because the BBJ with the target aboard hadn’t followed orders to park in the hangar and was blocking the single runway. Thea’s doing, no doubt. After inhaling a shitload of desert dust riding in an open-air Land Cruiser, Prospero and Luciano had finally reached the tarmac.
Prospero had first hired Bassam Fakroun, who led a group of Tebu mercenaries battle-hardened by the civil war, two years ago. Like many former soldiers who had fought on the side of the National Transitional Council, Bassam and his men had been through hell during the hunt for a Muammar Gaddafi, only to be cast aside by NATO once the Colonel had been found and killed. Having turned to kidnapping, smuggling, extortion, and other violent means of survival, Bassam’s team had been perfect for the job: A former colleague had been struggling to correctly calculate the earnings he owed Prospero, and sadly met with an unfortunate accident on a business journey to Tripoli. Back in Italy it was considered yet another bad-luck story about traveling in northern Africa, especially to Libya, now that Gaddafi was gone. Those crazy desert Arabs, blowing themselves up—you know how dangerous it is over there. But it hadn’t been luck at all.
Prospero shook his head at the sight: A brand-new 737 parked on the cracked asphalt of an abandoned facility falling into ruin. Before the overthrow of Gaddafi, these airstrips had been bustling, used by international oil companies to reach their remote oil fields. But that had all ended in the chaos that followed the revolution. Now these regions were ruled by the likes of Bassam and his armed men, who currently surrounded the business jet.
“This Thea Paris—she refuses to let us board.” Bassam’s Italian was very good, a reminder of Libya’s colonial ties to the European nation. In the torchlight, Prospero could see sweat coating the mercenary’s face. He radiated tension, and for good reason. He’d been given an assignment, a relatively simple one, and failed.
Luciano pushed his hand against Bassam’s chest, forcing the man backward. “You let a woman best you?”
“Let him be, Luciano. You’re only showing your ignorance. This particular woman is a worthy adversary.” He turned to Bassam. “Has the mechanic arrived?”
“All set,” Bassam said.
“Let me speak to Ms. Paris first.”
“She shaded the windows, blocked the cockpit from our view, and repressurized the plane.” Bassam wiped sweat from his forehead.
Smart. Prospero wondered who the real hostage was here, Thea and the passengers or Bassam and his men. “Nonetheless, I will talk to her. Ms. Paris and I have history,” he said.
“Yeah, but that didn’t end so well.” Luciano stared at his uncle, challenging him.
“It ended exactly the way I wanted it to.” Prospero kept his voice calm.
“Che cosa? Non è quello che ho—”
“Later.” Prospero would have to find a quiet moment to talk to Luciano about his manners. “For now, we need to get inside that plane before Liberata’s allies arrive.”
Chapter 21
Johann stared at Uncle Karl’s body, willing him back to life. This man had given him so much time and attention, becoming almost a second father. A warm, kind, encouraging one. And now he was gone. Johann could feel his soul cracking in two.
Shivers rippled down his body, the cold air sneaking into his pajama top. A sound startled him. Was someone coming into the lab? He zipped the body bag back up and slipped through the door, his bare feet quiet on the stone floor.
Making his way past the lab, he saw that a soft light glowed on the stainless-steel counters. He stopped and listened. On edge, he wondered if he had imagined the sound. He pressed his nose against the glass and scanned the chamber, noticing a small refrigerator tucked inside a cubbyhole. He suspected the plague was stored in there; he’d read online about the procedures needed to keep bacteria viable.
He shuddered. If Father released the plague in Salzburg, Fatima and her family along with thousands of others would die. Horribly. And what had they ever done to deserve such a fate? He understood wanting to stop terrorists, but bacteria couldn’t tell if people were good or evil. Disease killed indiscriminately.
He felt a sudden need to get the hell out of there.
Footsteps. Scuffling. His ears buzzed. Was Father coming? He glanced around. No place to hide.
Johann came face-to-face with the man who made his skin crawl: Leopold, who had created the nightmare plague.
The scientist peered at him from behind his glasses. “What are you doing down here?”
Johann straightened to his full height. “I could ask you the same. This is my house.”
The scientist stepped closer, the stench of bleach wafting off his hands. “Gernot knows I work best at night. I don’t imagine you have permission to be here.”
“I’m a Freiheitswächter now. I want to help.”
“This is no game, young man. We’re at war.”
“Then you need soldiers.”
Leopold studied him closely. “I told your father that you were too young to join, but he insisted.”
“Omar Kaleb murdered hundreds of innocent people. The terrorist deserved to die.” Johann didn’t have to fake his feelings about the attack on Salzburg, though capital punishment was something he considered wrong, and last night’s spectacle had showcased perhaps its most horrific form.
Leopold looked skeptical, so Johann plowed on. “We need to exterminate these people. Teach me what I need to know to be of assistance.”
“Your father would never allow me to risk your life in the lab.”
Johann had to turn this conversation around. “Yersinia pestis. I looked up the name of the bacteria.”
Leopold raised his eyebrows.
“It has an untreated mortality rate of almost one hundred percent and attacks its victims through the lungs,” Johann said.
“Correct.”
“Ninety-eight percent of modern cases occur in Africa.”
Leopold folded his arms across his barrel-like chest. “You are certainly a quick study.”
“This is my cause as much as it is yours.”
Leopold hesitated, then nodded, his mind made up. “The truth is, I could use a lab assistant with brains. But if your father finds out, we will tell him that you were doing clerical work, nothing more.”
“Agreed. Thank you, Leopold. When do we begin?”
Chapter 22
Thea couldn’t believe who was on the other end of the radio.
“Liberata, we meet again.” The rumbling baritone, heavily accented, coming over the plane’s radio brought the past rushing back, reminding her of the case that had earned her that nickname. She’d never forget him; voices imprinted themselves on her memory, and Prospero Salvatore was one of the most intriguing criminals she had ever met
—ruthless but a born philosopher.
She pressed the record button on her cell as she spoke into the radio. “Don Prospero Salvatore.” Laverdeen gave her a curious look. Rivers was awake now, mouth still duct-taped, his angry stare focused on her.
“Ah, so you remember.” He was clearly flattered.
“What an unusual way to reconnect. Given we’re old friends, let’s dispense with the formalities and get down to business. Why are we here, Prospero?”
“You need more food?” he asked.
“We have all the supplies we need.” Nice try.
“Why not join me for an espresso in the hangar? As I remember, you enjoy quality coffee,” Salvatore said.
He hadn’t changed one bit. “Tell your men to stand down and let us take off; then we can meet for grappa in Sicily.”
“But we’re both here now.” He was actually managing to sound hurt.
“I’m going to have to decline your thoughtful invitation,” Thea said.
“Ah, but now you’re just being stubborn.”
“A wise man once said, ‘This is my way—where is yours?’ My goal is to get this plane safely to its destination. What about you, Prospero?”
A hearty laugh. “Nietzsche! I’ve missed our little conversations, Thea.”
“Just tell me what you’re after. I’m sure we can work something out.” Silence greeted her. She waited patiently. It wasn’t long before his voice returned, but the tone was different now, harder.
“I saw the news a few months back. My condolences on the loss of your brother.”
The words caused a pain that was still sharp, visceral, as if he had impaled her with an ice pick. She missed Nikos every day, even with her memories of him muddied by the monster he had become before his death. “Let’s stick to the subject at hand.”
“But that’s exactly what this conversation is about—famiglia. You want to get back to yours; I want to get back to mine. I’m sure the other passengers feel the same way.”
“But what do you want?”
“A private talk with you.”
“We both know it’s not me you’re after. I was a last-minute passenger on the plane, and this kind of operation took time and planning.”
“Don’t undervalue yourself. Come out so we can have a proper chat.”
“I can ask the pilots to leave the cockpit so we’ll have privacy.” He didn’t need to know that one of them was bound and gagged.
“Sadly, this is not the kind of discussion you have over a radio.”
“That’s the best I can offer.” No way was she opening those doors. Prospero Salvatore’s men would rush the plane, and any bargaining advantage she had would vaporize.
“Don’t you want those boys to meet their new family?”
Dammit, he knew about Ayan and Jabari. “Don’t you want your man back?”
“That bastardo? You can keep him. He’s safer with you than he would be out here.” She had no doubt he was serious. Prospero could be very charming, but he hadn’t survived as capo for twenty years because of his compassion for soldati who couldn’t get the job done.
“Thea, Thea, Thea. You must realize that if you don’t agree to join me soon for a caffè, I’m coming in.”
“You can’t do that. The plane is pressurized.”
“I’m giving you more latitude than I would anyone else because I am so fond of you, but even my patience will run out very soon. Come out now—for everyone’s sake.”
“We’re comfortable here.”
Radio silence.
She had to stretch out the negotiations as long as she could in the hope that help would arrive, and soon. A chill ran down her back. She wouldn’t put it past Prospero to kill them all if what he had gone to all this trouble for was, as she was beginning to suspect, a something and not a someone on the plane.
Chapter 23
Johann skirted the edge of the yellow building, making a beeline for the shed behind the school. He was twenty minutes late to meet Fatima because he’d overslept; after a couple of hours in the lab with Leopold he’d tossed and turned the rest of the night, finally falling into a fitful sleep in the early morning, only to have a nightmare about men in lab coats chasing him down an endless corridor.
Uncle Karl was dead—strangled, by the looks of it. He still couldn’t believe it. Johann touched his Adam’s apple, remembering the thick red welt around Karl’s neck. His own father might have killed him—but why? Karl had been a good man, Johann’s biggest supporter, and a dear friend to his father. Had they disagreed about using the bacteria?
Johann couldn’t make sense of this mad world Vater now inhabited. It was anathema to everything his mother had stood for; Mutti had taught him that everyone was equal and special. She’d be horrified by the Freiheitswächter. He understood how Father could detest terrorists, but how could he justify indiscriminately murdering innocent people? Wouldn’t people with any Arab blood at all be at risk? That could include many Jews and other Europeans as well.
He hurried down the path leading to the shed, then turned the corner. Fatima sat cross-legged on the ground, reading her math textbook. She looked small and vulnerable, but when she looked up at him, her large brown eyes held hope—hope he was about to crush.
She scrambled to her feet. “Thank goodness. I thought you weren’t coming.”
“Sorry, rough night.”
“Are you okay?” She touched his forearm.
He longed to hug her, to tell her everything would be fine, but he couldn’t lie. “It’s you I’m worried about. Someone is following you?”
“The same guy who was outside my house was at my bus stop this morning. I’m scared.”
Only one possible explanation. His father making sure Johann didn’t go near Fatima. He wanted to believe Vater would never hurt her, that he just wanted to keep them apart, but Uncle Karl’s body was proof that he could no longer be so sure.
He took a deep breath. “Fatima, we can’t spend time together anymore.”
She drew back, as if stung, comprehension dawning. “Your father doesn’t like me.”
“He doesn’t like . . . anyone.”
“Because I’m Muslim?” Seeing the pained look on his face, she said, “Don’t be afraid of hurting my feelings. My family has met people with limited views before.”
Not like this. “If the man following you doesn’t see us together for a couple of days, I’m sure that Father will call off the dogs. I’m sorry.”
Fatima looked up at him. “Do you care about me?”
“Of course.”
“Then tell your father you can see who you want.”
He pictured Uncle Karl’s unseeing eyes. “I’m sorry, but I can’t.”
“You stood up to David.” Her voice trembled.
“It’s better this way.” He felt sick inside.
“Better for whom?” The bitterness in her voice stung. “I thought you were special, different.”
The first bell rang. “We’d better go. After school, I’ll wait fifteen minutes, so you can leave first.”
“Maybe I’ll tell my stalker what I think of him.”
“Please don’t. It’s not safe.” The words were out of his mouth before he could stop them.
“Not safe? What aren’t you telling me?”
“Just ignore him and pretend everything is fine.”
The second bell rang. Students were filing into the building.
“We’d better go,” Johann said.
“We’re not done.” Her eyes sparked with indignation.
He felt numb inside, uncertain what to do. His mind was overloaded by the horrors he’d experienced. There was no road back to normal.
Chapter 24
Thea tossed the plastic covering of a chicken wrap into the galley rubbish. Keeping her blood sugar in a healthy range was a priority. She needed to stay sharp, especially given Prospero Salvatore’s involvement in her current situation. Usually the Sicilian kingpin exercised his persuasive powers closer
to home. What was he doing in Libya?
Mike Dillman exited the rear lavatory and joined her in the galley. “How long can we hold them off?”
“Let’s hope someone heard the distress call. My company will be looking for us, and so will the airline.”
“I’m guessing they want someone on the plane.”
“Could it be you?” she asked, given the joke he’d made earlier.
“It could be. I’m stinking rich, and my business takes me abroad a lot, so I have a hefty K&R insurance policy.” He smiled. “But I doubt it.”
Thea nodded. This hijacking wasn’t about money. She’d asked the passengers when they’d purchased their plane tickets, as anyone with a last-minute booking was unlikely to be the target. Prospero had tiger kidnapped Rivers’s kids, and that meant he’d done his homework, had an inside track on who’d be flying today. “You said you own a mining company?”
“Yes, ma’am. Unlike most Texans, I’m not an oilman. Or a pickle maker, as my name might lead you to believe.” Dillman laughed. “I have several patents, business offshoots—that kind of thing.”
“Anything worth going to all this trouble for?”
“Hard to say. One man’s trash is another man’s treasure.”
Ayan ran into the galley and tugged at Thea’s shirt. “The bad man woke up.”
Prospero’s soldier—maybe he’d have information.
“Thanks, Ayan. Why don’t you see if Ocean wants to play poker?”
“Texas stud.” Ayan craned his neck to look up at the strapping Texan. “You want to play, Mr. Mustache?”
“Sure, son, why not? I have time and money to burn.”
Ayan grinned. The Texan had better watch his wallet; the boys had more than a little hustle in them, and they had played a lot of poker in the orphanage.
Thea left them to their cards and headed toward the rear of the jet. The thug’s eyes followed her as she approached. For a macho mobster, being taken down by a woman had probably done more damage to his ego than her forehead had done to his shattered nose.