Conspiracy of Silence

by Ronie Kendig

  “What?”

  “I . . .” Frowning, he sagged. “Never mind. Maybe it’s just me.”

  Kasey ran it back. Paid more attention, made notes in her field notebook. Then smiled. “No, it’s not just you. Look. Right here, he’s giving three kinesic signs. Notice that when you pointed to him, he crossed his legs, leaned back, and broke eye contact.”

  “So he knows something?”

  She smiled. “Definitely. He answered the question by saying ‘that’s about it.’ Which means the opposite.”

  Tox nodded, amusement prying a smirk from his lips. “There’s more information.”

  “Ask him again what happened before and after the arrow. I want to see his reaction.”

  “Okay.” Tox touched the back of her shoulder as he pushed up. “Can you watch as I talk to him?”

  His touch sent a thrill through her. “Yes, but I find more things when I can review it.” She braved looking into his eyes and nearly drowned. Focus, Kasey. “Easier to study, analyze. I could probably give you more on what he’s already said, once I ran it through a program or two.”

  With a hand on the table and one on the back of her chair, Cole shifted his gaze to one of his guys—Cell. “Make sure it’s recording.” After confirming Cell had taken care of that, he strode to the cage. Placed his hands on his belt and stared down Chatresh.

  The man pushed from his spot on a cot and stumbled forward. “Yes?”

  Cole stood in silence for a second. “That girl there is an expert in signs of deception. She knows when people are lying.” He tilted his head. “She says you’re not telling us everything, Chatresh.”

  The man flicked his gaze back to her, making her heart race, then tugged his earlobe.

  “I’m wondering why you would do that, since you came to us. See?” Cole rubbed his jaw again and readjusted his stance, folding his arms. “That makes me question everything you’ve told us. And that makes me think you’re not friendly.” He could probably drill holes through Chatresh with that glare. “You’re an enemy!”

  “No! They killed my brother. I want them stopped. I’m telling you this. Those butchers need to be punished.”

  “That’s true,” Kasey whispered. “But he’s leaving something out.”

  “You’re not giving us a lot,” Cole warned. “At this rate, we’ll just have to hand you over to the authorities. Or better yet, we’ll just turn you loose. Then those men who were after you—they’ll see we’re done with you. And since you’re still alive, they’re going to assume you talked. That family you said had a lot to lose? I’d be afraid for them, Chatresh.”

  Indecision flickered through the man’s eyes. Twitched his cheek. The team waited, and it seemed as if the warehouse itself held its breath for his answer. “I will tell you this, my brother had a journal.”

  “Why would I be interested in a diary?”

  “It had information.” Chatresh smiled. “About the artifact and the men following him.” He put his hands together in front of his mouth as if praying.

  Cole squared his shoulders. “Where?”

  19

  — Day 10 —

  Swaminarayan Akshardham, New Delhi

  The one-hundred-acre complex welcomed more than five million visitors each year, and Tox was sure at least half of those were onsite right now. He made his way beneath the fronds of the palm trees. The swanky trees lined the perimeter of the sandstone and pink marble temple of the Swaminarayan Akshardham.

  A shoulder slapped his. Though it’d been a day since he’d been stitched up, it still screamed in pain. But he rolled with it and even muttered an apology to the person as he kept moving. Too crowded. If it was this crazy out here, how was the main mission going? “Cell?” he subvocalized into their comms. “How’s it going?’

  “If I touch anything in here, someone’s going to see,” Cell said, sounding irritated and paranoid. “I just passed the stampede of elephants, and it’s shoulder to shoulder.”

  Usually more bodies meant less chance of getting noticed, but in a sacred place like this, people noticed when you started messing with their gods. But this was where Chatresh said he’d hidden the journal. They’d spent the last twenty-two hours getting rested and planning this insertion, making sure to come near closing time.

  “Just get to the audio animatronics,” Tox said.

  It was brilliant, really, hiding the journal in plain sight. It was also insanely crazy—how were they supposed to retrieve it with thousands of visitors at the sacred temple? Added to that, Chatresh couldn’t remember which audio animatronics exhibit. Just that a man was sitting at a table and had a book in front of him. Great help.

  “I’m in position on the northeastern tower,” Maangi reported. “Getting some weird looks hanging out up here.” In other words: drawing attention. “I’ve got Six and One headed up the main path,” he reported, referring to Tox and Wallace. “Five and Two taking a stroll through the south gardens.” Five and Two were Ram and Thor. Cell was Three, and Maangi was Four.

  “Copy,” Tox muttered as he banked right. Looked over his shoulder. The FBI agent had done okay so far. Didn’t stick out. Tox glanced around, keeping a finger on his surroundings. A quick movement to his far right set off alarms in his head. After another dozen steps, he paused. “Just act like I’m showing you something,” he muttered to Wallace as he pointed to the gardens. Behind the dark tint of his sunglasses, he searched for the black blur he’d noticed. Sure enough, a man quickly pivoted. Bent down.

  “Keep moving,” Tox said to Wallace. “Heads up, Wraith. We’ve got company.”

  “You mean like five thousand?” Cell muttered.

  “Four, you got my twenty?” Tox continued toward the animatronics for backup.

  “Roger that.”

  “To my four o’clock, black shirt and pants. Five-foot-eleven. Dark hair.” Tox had deliberately slowed, forcing the man to stay in place so Maangi could snap some pictures, while pretending to be an amateur photographer. Wallace leaned closer, nodding as if they were talking to each other. The guy might survive this mission after all.

  “Got him. European, definitely not local,” Maangi said, the sound of the shutter clicking through the feed. “Definitely eyes on you. Methods are stiff, patterned. Armed. Handgun beneath left arm. Leg holster.”

  Probably one at the small of his back.

  “One on me, too,” Ram said. “African male.”

  “Copy.” Tox’s mind pinged through possibilities. Variables. “You know what to do. Take your time. Just buying time right now.” The beta plan was to split up into units, make it harder to follow them or guess their objective. Get the journal and make it back to the warehouse. “We’re in no hurry. Three, find it—but if you have a tail, leave it.”

  “The journal or the tail?”

  “Both.”

  “Roger.”

  With hand signals, he sent Wallace left, while Tox took the turn toward the right corridor that would lead to the exhibits. As he hustled up the steps, he slid a surreptitious gaze back and down. A distinctly Caucasian male rounded the corner. He looked straight at Tox, then mounted the stairs.

  Two tails?

  He was now out of Maangi’s line of sight, but since Maangi wasn’t operating as a sniper, it did little good anyway. They’d gotten photographs of the tails. They’d work those to find out who was following them.

  Forget following. How had they found Wraith in the first place? Were they monitoring the warehouse? That would mean they’d been on them since the hotel safe house. And that the warehouse could be in trouble.

  “SAARC,” Tox subvocalized.

  “Go ahead” came Robbie Almstedt’s ultra-calm voice.

  “We have tails. Your location might be compromised.”

  “Understood. We’ll stay eyes out,” she reassured.

  It was a load off his mind.

  “I think I see it” came Cell’s quiet but excited voice. “It’s sitting right in front of this wax thing.” Did Cel
l just curse? “Man, this is sick.”

  About time something went right. “Can you retrieve it?” Tox asked, walking around a column and admiring the reliefs of the deities and stories—but really waiting for his tails. Not because he was worried about them taking him out. He had to keep them away from Cell. Away from the objective. Confuse and distract them.

  “I . . . don’t think so. There are guards and people. Too many eyes. And son of a—they’re wax.” A hissed curse. “Have I mentioned how much I hate—and I mean that four-letter word hate—wax figures? Their lips move exactly in sync with the narration. It’s crazy. Jacked. Get me out of here.”

  “Baby,” Maangi taunted through the comms.

  “Dude, when this stuff melts, there are skulls—”

  “Three,” Tox bit out, insisting he get focused. He rotated and slipped to another column, eyed it for a second, then continued down the outer perimeter, his gaze momentarily surfing the open courtyard to the real splendor of this site—the mandir. Incredible. He wished he had time to appreciate the enormity and beauty.

  Tox spotted the Exhibits door. “Three yards from the exhibit hall.”

  “Let me try something.”

  Tox cringed at the words that sounded too much like, “Watch this, y’all!” and kept moving toward the doors that hid Cell and the wax animated figures.

  “This is muffed with these wax people moving,” Cell muttered. “Might as well be zombies.”

  “Three—”

  “Almost—”

  A shout rent the quiet din.

  Tox hesitated, watching the doors. Rumbles, murmurs, and yelling seeped between the jambs and threshold.

  “Okay, that didn’t work,” Cell said. “I’m coming out.”

  Tox flexed his fists, advancing. “What happened?”

  “I think”—Cell’s voice faded—“we should probably—”

  Tox veered left. Expecting the doors to fly open at any second, he followed the half-wall of the upper balcony level that overlooked the gardens.

  “Guys.” Warning sailed through Maangi’s voice.

  Tox saw them at the same instant.

  Twenty to twenty-five camo- and red beret-clad soldiers scurrying up the wide paths between the arched walkway that enclosed the perimeter of the mandir. Coming toward the upper exhibit.

  Mission: failed.

  “Stay calm and clear out,” Tox subvocalized. “RTB.”

  Behind him, the doors burst open. He looked just in time to see Cell sprint out. Two guards shouting in Hindi raced after him, knocking aside women and children to pursue.

  This had gone six feet under in a split second.

  Screams and shouts added to the chaos. Some people fled the scene. In their panic and fear to get away from the danger, others plowed right into the soldiers. Blocked their path.

  Surrounded by chaos, Tox pivoted and headed into the exhibit for a last-ditch effort to retrieve the journal. Cool air bathed him in sweet relief from the Indian heat as he entered the darker environment. Soft lights glowed along the walls and on the exhibits, their temperatures no doubt closely monitored to protect the wax figures that had freaked out Cell. Tox hurried on, eyeing each exhibit. Moving swiftly. Purposefully.

  Until he rounded a corner.

  Seven guards stood talking with three suits. A few patrons hung around, idly chatting and mumbling. Rubberneckers in every culture. He couldn’t make out what the guards talked about, but their tone and grave expressions told him whatever had happened had upset them. Tox got closer, glad it was no act to seem surprised or curious at the goings-on.

  Peering over heads and shoulders, he saw the display. Five turbaned animatronic figures sat cross-legged on a dais. Each held an instrument, except the fifth, positioned in front of a table.

  A table with a journal on it. Tox’s heart thumped a little harder.

  “Amazing, isn’t it?” came a voice tinged with a British accent.

  Tox didn’t make eye contact, but he felt the presence of the man who’d come after him on the stairs. And the guy was confronting him? Nerves thrumming, Tox eyed the guards. Still involved in discussion with the suits, who pointed toward the exhibit, their faces as absurdly animated as the figures on the dais.

  “That someone would actually try to steal from a place that teaches everlasting happiness based on spiritual truth . . .” The Brit clucked his tongue. “A pity, that.”

  Tox gave a nod to no one in particular and took a step back.

  “I would not do that,” the Brit warned. “Not just yet.”

  Tox skated a sidelong glance at the guy, who was peering over his shoulder at something behind them.

  “Who’s with you, Six?” Ram asked through the comms.

  Like he could answer.

  Tox braved a look and found soldiers flooding the room. Crap. Trapped. Should’ve left when he had the chance. Not only would he not get the journal, he might not escape without handcuffs and a black eye or two. And how had the man beside him known to warn him? “Who are you?”

  The Brit bent forward and pointed to the first animated figure. “That’s Brahmanand Swami plucking a devotional on his stringed instrument for Lord Swaminarayan. The other saints, Premanand Swami and Muktanand Swami”—his long finger, marked with a jagged scar, moved from one figure to another—“also prepare their instruments to accompany Brahmanand Swami.”

  I really don’t care. Go or stay. Those were Tox’s options, each equally dangerous. If he stayed, he risked being questioned or captured. If he went, the same.

  “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.”

  Was that supposed to mean something? Scanning the walls and corners for hidden doors heightened Tox’s fears—no visible exits, save the main one.

  “You should see this place in the evening,” the Brit said, his back to Tox. “They close it up at eight. But the lights are on and it glows!”

  Was there a reason this man was rambling in the middle of a crisis? Tox needed an exit strategy. Right now, his priority was evading the watchful eyes of twenty-something Indian soldiers.

  “Aut viam inveniam aut faciam.” The Brit said the words in a way that made Tox realize they were a repeat of the earlier gibberish.

  “Six.” Ram sounded panicked. “Six—that’s Latin.”

  Still didn’t help.

  “‘Either find a way or make one’,” Ram said. “That’s the translation. Do what he said. Get out of there.”

  The Brit tucked his chin, again cleverly concealing his face. But then he turned. Locked onto Tox—his gaze so fierce, so forbidding, it seemed fire spiraled through Tox’s chest and into his toes, pushing him back a step. It was instantaneous. Horrifying. Thrilling.

  Tox sucked in a hard breath. “How . . . ?” No, it couldn’t be. The man from the flames . . . How was this possible?

  “Don’t think to steal it now. They will notice and capture you.” The Brit whirled, then stopped and looked over his shoulder. “Israel has the Crown. Find it.” And with that, he dove headlong into the unit of soldiers with buoyant laughter and camaraderie, his linguistic skills exploding in Hindi fluency. He pointed toward a corner, laughed, shook his head, then said something else. It was enough to send the soldiers darting through the door.

  “Six! Move!” Ram shouted.

  His mind jumbled with memories of a raging inferno from three years ago, tangling with the current images of Cell fleeing, the soldiers hustling in rigid formation toward the stairs, and the Brit.

  “Get out!”

  But the journal. They needed it. How did the Brit know what they were after?

  As the visitors were shuttled to safety, Tox ducked and rolled his shoulders, bringing himself to the side of the tumbling crowd. Locked onto the prize, he moved swiftly.

  A guard stepped into his path, shouted as he two-handed Tox around and shoved him in the other direction. Tox could take him. Bring this guy to his knees, to the grave if necessary. But there were too many innocents and witnesses. Thrown into the s
ea of bodies, Tox let it take him like a tide to the other side. But another shove told him the guard wasn’t letting him out of his sight.

  When he spilled out of the Exhibits wing, sandstone spit at him. Smacked his cheek. Tox flinched, instantly recognizing that a bullet had struck the column. He ducked, his instinct searching for the shooter. He crouched.

  A guard yelped and pitched forward. Blood spurted from his neck. Like a broken dam, the sea of bodies flooded down the steps. Screaming hysteria washed over the people. Women tripped. Children were trampled. Screams rent the once-quiet mandir.

  Tox broke into a run, half-bent and using the wall of the upper balcony to shield him as he rushed for safety. He zigzagged across an open area. Bullets ripped through the sandstone, cracked the marble. They had waited for him to come into the open.

  Why? What were they after? Him or the journal?

  He diverted from the throng and found a side door. He punched through it, the wood thudding back against the wall as he threw himself down the steps. Raced around the next landing and leapt to the lower level. He eased open the door to verify he had a clear shot. Mentally, he traced the layout of the temple. The quickest route. Thought through the angle of the bullets.

  The shooter had to be on the opposite wall that traced the expansive perimeter. Which meant the door would provide extra protection. He peered down the covered walkway that led out to the gardens. An eight- to ten-foot gap with nothing to hide behind stretched wide and shouted, “Shoot me!” He had to make it to the gardens. If he could, with the tree cover he had a chance. It’d be intermittent, but each step he moved away from the mandir and main structures, the less likely the shooter could nail him.

  Always better the odds.

  Eyes on the goal, Tox puffed out three quick breaths as he drew his weapon. He rammed his shoulder against the door. His first step felt as if it’d been suctioned in mud like a nightmare, his legs working against him. His calves burned as he pumped his arm for the second step. His pulse thudded in his head. Three . . .

  Sandstone exploded at eye level. His cheek stung.

  . . . four . . . five steps, then he sailed into the air. Dove for the last section of covered walkway.