by K. J. Howe
Every piece of information they gathered offered potential clues to Prospero’s endgame, but the thing that she wanted to know most was what the nuclear material had to do with his plan.
Her cell buzzed. Gabrielle.
“Tell me I have nothing to worry about, that it’s all a hoax, and there is no nuclear material in those containers,” Thea said.
“Yeah, about that . . .”
“How bad is it?”
“Bear with me while I give you a brief history lesson. On March 10, 1956, four B-47s took off from MacDill Air Force Base in Florida, each carrying two containers of uranium 235 with a four-megaton yield, designed for Mk-21 warheads. Over the Mediterranean Sea, they descended to fourteen thousand feet for an in-air refueling near Morocco. Visibility was poor.”
“Oh, no.”
“One plane, serial number 52-534, disappeared. The wreckage was never found. Neither were the two nuclear cores on board—”
“Until now.” Thea finished Gabrielle’s sentence.
“Exactly. You’ve discovered a Broken Arrow.”
Thea inhaled a deep breath. Okay, the nuke was American, MIA since 1956. But how does it figure into Prospero’s plans? “Any idea where it’s been all this time?”
“None. Earl Johnson, the captain of one of the other B-47s on the flight, kept searching for the missing plane, because his best friend was the captain, but he never found a thing. And Earl passed away years ago.”
“How does a plane just disappear?”
“Sadly, it’s not that uncommon. I’m meeting with a CIA contact in a few hours whose specialty includes lost high-powered ordnance like this. I’ll let you know how that goes.”
“Meanwhile, what about the trade with Prospero Salvatore?”
“Put him off, buy more time,” Gabrielle said.
“I’ll do what I can, but you’d better move fast. I need those passengers back.”
“I hear you,” Gabrielle said, then paused. “Why would a mafioso want to lay his hands on fissile material? The whole mission seems expensive, high risk, and outside his area of expertise.”
“Exactly,” Thea agreed. “Here’s a fun fact that might be important: Salvatore is part of some vestigial post–Second World War militia called Gladio, funded at least in part by your friends at the Company.”
“More ancient history . . . I’ll poke around, see if that fits in with what my CIA contact has to say,” Gabrielle said. “Anything else?”
“That’s it for now. Let me know how the conversation with your spook goes.” They said goodbye, and Thea pressed the end button.
The hostage situation had seriously deteriorated. It was no longer just about a simple exchange of the truck for the plane passengers. How could she in good conscience trade weapons-grade nuclear material for the lives of the passengers? It would be wrong. And yet, she had to get the hostages back.
Depressed, Thea shared the details of the Broken Arrow with Rif.
“This complicates things,” Rif said. “We may have to attempt a rescue instead—if we can zero in on their location.”
“I’m hoping it doesn’t come to that,” Thea mused, thinking again about the risks to the hostages in any rescue.
“As for this stuff,” Rif said, sweeping a hand to indicate the nuclear cores, “Ocean must be the target Prospero was after.”
“Probably. She escaped with the boys, but she abandoned them, so she’s likely still in play. Anyway, Hakan is doing a full workup on her.”
“Maybe all Prospero wanted was to avoid the refugees being discovered with the nuclear cores,” Rif said, looking thoughtful. “What if his ultimate goal isn’t so sinister after all?”
“Perhaps, though he’s hardly the sort of partner I’m looking for. Also, I have no doubt he has plans for selling the nuclear material.”
“Well, at least it wasn’t a live bomb.”
“That’s what makes me think the reason for the operation was an attempt to create a backlash against the refugees.”
“You’re probably right.” Rif said. “Right now Hungary is one of the least hospitable places in Europe for refugees, especially from the Middle East. I’m surprised they were even able to cross the border with that amount of human cargo. The question is, why the hell—”
They were interrupted by Thea’s cell buzzing. Hakan. “What’s up?”
“The young man who called earlier. He’s on the line, insistent about speaking to you. Austrian, I’d guess, now that I’m hearing him for the second time.”
“Any idea what he wants?”
“Not really. He said he would only speak to you.”
“Patch him through. Rif can fill you in on my conversation with Gabrielle.”
“Sounds good. Talk to you later.”
Waiting for the call to be routed, Thea stared at the black-and-yellow symbol on the canisters. It wasn’t every day she was in the same room with enough nuclear material to start World War III.
Chapter 74
At the foot of Aslan’s driveway, Prospero climbed out of the truck with the snowplow attachment and shoved a meaty stack of Turkish lira into the driver’s hand. That should keep him quiet, at least long enough for them to vacate the area.
Luciano led the boys to the outbuilding where the other hostages were already gathered, shivering in the cold. Prospero had called ahead, instructing Bassam’s men to prepare the passengers for immediate departure. He had no idea how much Jabari had been able to tell Thea, but he couldn’t take any chances. The kidnap negotiator was not to be underestimated, so an evacuation was in order.
If Aslan’s men found Ocean, they would escort her to Bosnia, where Prospero planned to take the hostages. A business acquaintance there had a house secluded enough to hide the passengers until the exchange could be set up.
Bosnia had other advantages too, including greedy officials accustomed to working closely with the parade of smugglers, traffickers, and other organized-crime syndicates operating there. The remote property owned by his colleague was right outside Mostar, not far from Stari Most, the “old bridge.” Named after the medieval keepers—mostari—who had guarded the bridge over the Neretva River, the Stari Most was a relic from the sixteenth century, when the land had been under Ottoman rule.
His associate Vedad Divjak owned a mining company and had made millions selling steel to automobile and soda manufacturers worldwide. Vedad also had the mayor of Mostar in his pocket, so there wouldn’t be any inconvenient questions about a group of foreigners flying into town under high security.
“Are we going home now?” Karlsson asked.
“Soon. Into the van.” Normally, Prospero would tell the nutcase whatever he wanted to get him moving, but his patience was wearing thin. The insanity of the Freedom Guardians and the importance of this operation, which had already grown very complicated, had left him short-tempered.
Laverdeen greeted the boys with a warm hug. “Sorry, guys. I’d really hoped you would get away.”
Ayan piped up. “We called Thea. She’ll come get us now, kick their asses.”
Jabari pushed his brother’s shoulder. “Quiet.”
“How about Ocean? Did they find her?” Laverdeen asked.
“Poof! She disappeared.” Ayan flung the fingers of both hands wide.
“At least someone made it out of here,” Jabari said.
Prospero again found himself admiring the boys’ spirit, despite all the trouble they had caused. Why did these two war orphans turn out to be so resourceful and kind, while his nephew, raised in the arms of his family, was in a state of arrested development?
Rivers approached Prospero, looking desperate. “Are my girls okay?”
“Your kids are back with their mother. They’ll be fine if you do what you’re told.”
“Let me speak to them.”
“Later. We need to leave now.”
Rivers opened his mouth to answer, but Prospero silenced him. “Just do what you’re told, and everyone will be fine.”
The captain stepped into the van and slammed a fist into the wall. Now that he’d spent time with the hostages, Prospero was grateful he didn’t kidnap for a living. Way too much trouble to deal with other people’s foibles. There were many easier ways to make money.
Laverdeen paused to speak to him. “Why not let some of the passengers go, as a goodwill gesture?”
“Who the fuck do you think you are?”
“You don’t need all of us, and—”
“Keep this up, and you’ll be joining Dillman,” Prospero said.
Laverdeen hesitated for a moment. “I don’t think so. You’re not like the hothead.”
“You know nothing about me, but I’ll tell you this much: I never let anything get in the way of what I want. Now get in.” Prospero gestured toward the van.
Laverdeen stared at him for a few long seconds, then complied.
Ayan and Jabari were the last to climb into the van. He’d had the cook give them hot soup in paper cups to warm them up. They had been well on their way to becoming hypothermic.
“Time to go.”
Ayan stood with his hands on his hips. “The Wavertons are waiting for us in London. Why can’t we just go there? It’s not fair.”
“That’s life—a series of injustices. I would have thought you two, of all people, would know that by now.” Prospero had a sudden thought about the family adopting the boys and wondered what it would be like, having them around all the time. Entertaining, at the very least. “Get in.”
He thought of his former best friend, Karl, the sacrifices he’d made for the Gladios, infiltrating the Freedom Guardians. Karl was the reason he knew about the Austrian’s insane plans. And now he was gone, probably dead. So many losses.
Luciano cranked the engine on the large cube van. They’d head for the airport in Trabzon, then fly to Bosnia on Prospero’s plane. Memories from the last time he’d seen Vedad sprang to mind as he thought of their destination.
Prospero’s supplier in the Ukraine had lost several arms shipments due to the civil war tearing up the country, and the weapons shortage was compromising his business. So he’d reached out to Vedad. Although Vedad kept his business dealings legitimate, he knew many entrepreneurs who were a lot less . . . particular.
A few calls and a few greased palms later, Vedad invited Prospero to Bosnia for some rakija, the local fruit brandy—and a little business at his countryside home. Vedad had warned him that his contact, Mirsad, was pretty rough around the edges but also said that the man’s extensive network of arms dealers in Africa, China, and Russia made up for any lack of manners.
A former mercenary turned gunrunner, Mirsad had a fetish for conflict zones. From Vedad’s stories, it sounded as if the arms dealer might have a screw or two loose, in fact, but what did it matter if he could deliver what Prospero needed? He’d brought Luciano with him, wanting to show his nephew the subtler side of the business, where money changed hands between partners instead of blows between rivals.
They sat in the villa’s great room, an expansive space with an entire wall of windows looking out over lush gardens. A well-stocked mahogany bar, the dark wood paneling, and several taxidermy trophies from Vedad’s hunting trips contrasted with the bright outdoors.
Mirsad was late, of course, so Vedad entertained. The Bosnian, who had thick white hair and an untamable cowlick, poured the brandy with a heavy hand. As they chatted, Vedad kept leaning over with the bottle, saying, “Let me top you up.”
“Where’s your man?” Prospero asked finally, getting impatient. They were supposed to be having dinner together, but now Mirsad was going to miss that as well.
“Probably cutting someone’s balls off in a back alley.” Vedad laughed. Say what you would, the man was a happy drunk.
Prospero preferred not to imbibe while conducting deals, but with the Bosnians, it was part of the ritual. He was used to it, of course, but Luciano was edgy, smoking like a fiend. His nephew didn’t like small talk; it presented too many opportunities for his stutter to manifest.
By the time Mirsad showed up, it was close to midnight. Luciano had stopped drinking, much to Vedad’s disappointment, and Prospero had surreptitiously tossed his last two glasses into a nearby potted plant when his host, now thoroughly drunk, wasn’t looking.
The mercenary didn’t make a good first impression, with his brusque demeanor and calculating eyes. His shaved, sweaty head glowed, a shiny, stubbly orb perched atop a fireplug of a body. A large indentation on the right side of his skull drew Prospero’s attention. A little hair could have masked the concave pit, but maybe that was the point. He sensed that Mirsad liked people to know he was hardheaded in every sense of the word.
Prospero endured the convoluted story of how Vedad and Mirsad had first met in Africa, when Vedad was negotiating with a South African company for iron ore mining rights for his steel company. The gunrunner had supplied the South Africans with mercenaries and weapons with which to protect their interests. Discovering they were both Bosnian, however, Vedad and Mirsad had banded together and double-crossed the South Africans, leaving them with neither the firearms nor the minerals. The tale put Prospero on his guard.
Vedad slumped on the couch and, cradling his drink, started the conversation. “My friend, the Italian here, he needs weapons.”
“How many?” Mirsad grunted.
“It’ll be a large deal. Crates of handguns.”
“Handguns are for pussies.”
Luciano twitched. Prospero shook his head once to stop his nephew from doing anything stupid. “Not all of us live in war-torn cesspools.” His men couldn’t exactly go around toting M60s during their weekly collections from the businesses for which they provided protection.
“You want men, maybe, who know how to use weapons made for men?”
“Just the guns, thanks.” Prospero could only imagine the thugs Mirsad would provide.
They’d negotiated through the night, Vedad passing out drunk on the couch long before Prospero and Mirsad hammered out the final details. Prospero secured a better price by far than he would have gotten from the Ukrainians, but he would not become a regular customer. Something about the Bosnian felt off. In Prospero’s world, men lived by a code. In Mirsad’s, brutality ruled. And while Prospero had a thick enough skull, he preferred deploying the brain inside it rather than using his head as a blunt instrument.
Chapter 75
Johann had been patched through to Thea Paris, but the connection dropped before he could speak to her. Cell service on the train was frequently spotty in the countryside. Feeling alternately panicked and frustrated, he decided to try again when they reached an urban area.
He and Fatima had switched trains in Budapest, where he booked them on a two-bed sleeper on the EuroNight Ister to Bucharest. It was a long trip to Istanbul, and the journey would have to be taken in stages. It didn’t help that they felt a distinct sense of urgency, considering the bioweapon sitting between them.
They curled up on the bottom of the compartment’s two firm bunks, restless, neither one able to nod off. Fatima’s presence made him feel determined, capable of anything, but he worried about her because of the bacteria. He couldn’t imagine what he’d do if anything happened to his girlfriend. That’s how he thought of her now, as his girlfriend. He’d broken away from his father’s dominance, and now he felt empowered, able to make his own decisions.
He glanced at his watch. Hours ago, Vater would have realized that Johann had disappeared along with the sealed containers. He might be making his own decisions now, but he had sacrificed his father’s goodwill—and that could prove quite dangerous for them.
“You’re thinking of your father, aren’t you?” Fatima had rolled over to stroke his forehead.
“He’ll be looking for me.” Her touch helped settle his nerves.
“We have a head start, and it was a brilliant idea to buy several different train tickets.”
“That will only delay him. He’ll get his hands on the
CCTV footage from the Hauptbahnhof and know soon enough which train I took.”
“But we switched lines in Budapest.”
“If there’s one thing Vater has taught me, it’s that money and connections can buy you pretty much anything. When I narrowly missed making the National Ski Team, Father hired a private detective to learn everything he could about the coach. A week later, my father leaked information to the press about the coach’s penchant for much younger women. Girls, really. Anyway, the coach was replaced with someone more . . . willing to have me on the team.”
“You were on the National Ski Team?”
“I faked a knee injury and didn’t join. It didn’t seem right to accept a spot I didn’t earn. But the experience taught me that my father always gets what he wants.”
“Should we split up? I could take the containers to my cousin while you create a false trail.”
She was so committed, so self-sacrificing, leaving her family in the dead of night to go on this dangerous journey. The thought of them separating hadn’t entered his mind until now. Should they? No, they were stronger together. “Traveling as a couple provides better cover. Hopefully Vater thinks I’m doing this alone.”
“Is that what we are—a couple?”
“Definitely.” He leaned in close and kissed her lips, exploring her face with his hands, like a blind man memorizing every surface, soaking up the memory so that he would never forget the feeling.
They talked for hours, held each other close, and finally fell asleep in each other’s arms on the small bunk.
Chapter 76