The Prometheus Deception

by Robert Ludlum

  Cars and trucks with electronic circuitry would not start, smart guns were struck dumb, and Manning’s entire digital mansion had become inert.

  And there was more.

  The tiny fires in thousands of circuits throughout the house had caught on. Fires were burning in hundreds of places around Manning’s house, smoke accumulating, wafting everywhere. Bryson remembered that the KGB had used this weapon to start a fire inside the U.S. Embassy in Moscow in the 1980s.

  Bryson could hear screams from the reception hall. Could she be there? he wondered.

  He flung open the doors to the banquet facility, found himself on a balcony overlooking the great hall. Fire had begun to rage below, flames licking the walls. Smoke was everywhere; panicked guests were running to the exits, tugging at doors that would not open, shouting, screaming. For some reason, whether it was a malfunction in the electronic equipment or some sort of security precaution, all the doors to the hall seemed to have locked automatically.

  Was Waller down there? Was Manning?

  Was Elena?

  “Elena!” he shouted into the din.

  No response.

  She was not down there, or she had not heard him.

  “Elena!” he shouted again, hoarsely.

  Nothing.

  He felt the cold steel of the blade at the exact same moment as the hot breath in his ear, the whispered Arabic words. The seven-inch combat knife pressed against the soft skin and delicate cartilage of his throat, the high-carbon-steel blade sharper than a brand-new razor. It slid slowly, the silky pain at once cold and hot, the sensation delayed for a second; but when it came his entire body screamed in agony.

  And the whisper: “The rope of lies is always too short, Bryson.”

  Abu.

  “I should have finished the job in Tunisia, traitor,” the Arab terrorist hissed. “Now I will not waste the opportunity I am given.”

  Bryson went rigid, flooded with fear, with adrenaline. “If you’ll listen…” Bryson replied, almost under his breath, the remark intended to distract for a second or two. At the same time he gripped the .45 at his side, placed his finger on the trigger, and then in one swift arc lifted the weapon and fired backward at his enemy.

  There was only a muted click. The gun was empty.

  Abu batted the gun away with a flick of his left hand; it went flying off to one side, clattering to the floor, useless.

  Bryson had lost valuable seconds in reaction time. The blade sliced across the skin of his neck just as Bryson jammed the fingers of his right hand upward and under the handle. He grabbed the knife handle, twisting it violently to loosen Abu’s grip; at the same time, he slammed the heel of his left foot into the back of Abu’s right knee to knock him off balance. Abu grunted, and Bryson suddenly sank to the ground, lowering his center of gravity while still twisting the knife blade and Abu’s wrist with it.

  The knife clanged against the floor.

  Bryson reached for it, but Abu, quicker, scooped it up. Clutching the knife in his fist like a dagger, Abu plunged it downward, sinking it into the soft meat of Bryson’s left shoulder.

  Bryson gasped; the pain was shattering, forcing him to his knees. He swung his right arm toward Abu’s head; Abu sidestepped the punch easily, moving around him effortlessly, almost dancing. He didn’t seem to break a sweat. He shifted his weight from foot to foot, his knees slightly bent, his stance soft and comfortable, the blood-slicked knife blade glittering in his right hand. Bryson staggered to his feet, kicked his right foot toward the inside of Abu’s knee. But Abu sidestepped the kick, backing off just enough to cause Bryson to lose his balance, then catching the kicking leg and yanking it hard, forcing Bryson down again.

  Abu seemed to know Bryson’s moves before they happened. Bryson shot his arms forward to grab Abu’s legs, but Abu simply slammed an elbow into Bryson’s neck, trapping Bryson’s head between his knees, and slammed him into the ground. Bryson’s teeth cracked against his lips; he could taste blood, and he thought he might have lost a couple of teeth. Weakened by the knife wound in his shoulder, Bryson’s reactions were slowed, delayed. He groaned, thrust out his right arm, and grabbed his enemy’s ankle; then, locking it in his crooked elbow, he turned it until Abu bellowed in pain.

  Suddenly Abu’s arm shot out, the knife aimed directly at Bryson’s heart. Bryson dodged, but not quite in time: the knife plunged into his side, between his ribs; the pain was searing, white-hot.

  Bryson looked down, saw what had happened, and grabbed the knife handle. He yanked at it; it tugged horribly at his viscera, but it came out. Bryson hurled it over the balcony, groaning in pain: it was much better to be rid of a weapon that Abu was so skilled with. The knife dropped down into the inferno, clanking a second later against the floor far below.

  Now they were both disarmed. But Bryson, down on the floor and badly weakened, was at a disadvantage. Moreover, Abu was immensely strong, all muscle, a coiled python. His movements were relaxed, fluid, flowing one into another. Bryson rolled back away from Abu; Abu kicked him, hard, in the abdomen. Bryson felt the wind come out of him; he almost passed out, but he struggled to his feet, swinging wildly.

  Abu’s face was blank, unreadable. When Bryson threw a punch at Abu’s head, Abu’s hands shot out, lightning-fast, and grabbed his wrists, twisting hard. Bryson tried to force Abu to relieve the hold by thrusting his knees into Abu’s abdomen, but Abu jammed him with his own knees first, sending Bryson crashing to the floor, while at the same time twisting his wrists.

  Bryson attempted to get up, but Abu threw his weight on top of him, flattening him against the floor; then, jumping into the air, he stomped up and down on Bryson’s chest, putting all of his considerable weight into it. Bryson moaned; he could feel, actually hear, several ribs crack.

  Abu went at him again, flipping him over so that his face cracked to the floor again. Now Abu wrapped one arm around his throat, pushing down on the back of his neck with his elbow in a rear choke-hold. At the same time Abu went down on his right knee and folded his left leg so that he was in a one-legged kneeling position, extremely stable. He began pulling Bryson back toward his left leg. Bryson tried to rise, but each time he did, Abu pushed him back with his elbow. He had no leverage! He was losing consciousness, his strength was fading. The airflow to his brain was cut off; he began to see black-and-purple spots.

  Part of him wanted to succumb to unconsciousness, a comfortable defeat, but he knew that any defeat would mean death. He screamed, summoned his last reserves of strength, flung his hands into Abu’s face, and jabbed his fingers into his enemy’s eye sockets.

  Abu involuntarily released some of the pressure on Bryson’s throat—not much, but just enough to allow Bryson to swing his fists around in an arc, one of them connecting hard with the brachial plexus nerve bundle in Abu’s right underarm area. Bryson felt Abu’s right arm go slack, momentarily paralyzed. He took advantage of the brief pause to grab a handful of Abu’s groin, yanking hard. The choke-hold was broken.

  Bryson tilted his right shoulder down and body-slammed Abu up against the balustrade overlooking the inferno. Bryson was now moving almost by instinct; his oxygen-starved brain felt distant from his hands, which seemed to move of their own volition. But fueled by rage and revenge, Bryson managed to force Abu’s head and shoulders over the edge of the balcony. The two men were entwined, pushing and pulling at each other on the ledge, their muscles trembling. Abu’s right arm was dead, the paralysis lasting longer even than Bryson had hoped. Bryson pushed, shoved as hard as he could, forcing Abu’s shoulders out over the balcony, while Abu scissored both legs around Bryson’s, locking the two men together. Bryson was feeble but determined; Abu had lost the use of one arm. They seemed evenly matched. Bryson straight-armed Abu’s neck downward, but Abu came back up; Bryson straight-armed him again, this time keeping him down with all of his strength, the muscles in his right arm straining, trembling. Abu’s eyes were fierce. He began hammering his good fist into Bryson’s abdomen. For a few
seconds Bryson held him down, clutching Abu’s throat and squeezing with all his strength, trying to cut off the air, trying to compress the nerves and induce paralysis, but he was fading; he could no longer summon the strength; the pain from the stab wound radiated, depleting his power further. His hands trembled. Bryson summoned one last, superhuman surge of energy, his entire body an instrument of anger and revenge, but it was not enough; he didn’t have the strength.

  Abu roared, his crimson face contorted in pain and rage, spittle flying from his purpled lips, and he began to rise—

  The explosion seemed to come out of nowhere, the bullet lodging itself in his enemy’s right upper arm. Abu’s legs loosened their viselike grip on Bryson’s as he lost his balance and plummeted over the balcony.

  Bryson stared as his enemy fell, wriggling in space, landing with a crash on top of the massive bronze equestrian sculpture, impaling himself on the sharpened point of the sword. As the bronze blade came out of his abdomen, Abu’s scream was shrill, almost inhuman, and then it came to an abrupt, gargling stop.

  Dazed, sickened, Bryson turned and saw the source of the gunshot. Elena was holding the pistol he had given her; staring at it as if it were some alien object, she lowered it slowly. Her eyes were wide.

  Bryson staggered to his feet, made it a few steps, and collapsed into her arms. “You escaped,” he panted.

  “The room they locked me in was no longer locked.”

  “The gun…”

  “The smart guns don’t work, but their bullets are still good, aren’t they?”

  “We need to get out of here,” he said, out of breath. “Must get out of here.”

  “I know,” she said. She shifted her arms, putting one arm around his shoulders tenderly, supporting him as they walked out of the balcony and through the smoke-filled corridor toward the exit.

  EPILOGUE

  The New York Times, page 1.

  SCORES OF WORLD LEADERS KILLED IN FREAK HOUSE FIRE IN WASHINGTON STATE

  BLAME LAID TO FAULTY WIRING IN ‘DIGITAL SAN SIMEON’

  SEATTLE, Wash.—A glittering conference on the New Global Economy at the high-tech lakeside mansion belonging to Systematix founder and CEO Gregson Manning ended in tragedy today as dozens of prominent officials from around the world were trapped in a blaze that burned the $100-million estate to the ground.

  A Seattle Fire Department spokesman, speaking to reporters early this morning, speculated that the fire may have begun within the delicate electronic circuitry hidden in the walls of this entirely computerized home, the residence of the computer pioneer and host of the conference. According to the spokesman, malfunctioning computer chips may have caused exit doors in the banquet hall where a gala dinner was taking place to seal automatically.

  The body count is believed to number over one hundred. Among them is reportedly the Speaker of the House of Representatives …

  MANNING TAKEN IN FOR QUESTIONING

  Washington (AP)—Systematix chairman Gregson Manning, whose Seattle mansion burned to the ground overnight, trapping over one hundred government officials from around the world, was taken into custody at noon today at the Justice Department. Sources in the Attorney General’s office insist that Mr. Manning’s arraignment, on unspecified charges of national security violations, was unrelated to this morning’s tragedy. Mr. Manning is said to have been under suspicion for several weeks.

  Although a sealed courtroom is highly unusual, it is not unheard of. In cases involving matters of government secrecy, the Attorney General has the legal right to convene a special national security court, not open to the public.…

  The Wall Street Journal, page 1.

  PRESIDENT’S NATIONAL SECURITY ADVISER, RICHARD LANCHESTER, A SUICIDE AT 61

  Richard Lanchester, the widely respected White House adviser and director of the National Security Council, took his own life yesterday afternoon, according to White House sources.

  Said to be inconsolable over the loss of several close friends who perished in the recent fire that destroyed the residence of Systematix chief Gregson Manning and 102 prominent officials attending a conference there, and suffering as well from clinical depression and a failing marriage, Mr. Lanchester …

  One Year Later

  Getting the morning paper was a ritual, her ritual. Not because she liked to read the news; she didn’t. That was Nicholas’s habit, his need to stay in touch with the developments in the world they had left behind. It was a habit she disapproved of, precisely because they had left the world behind, at least the world of violence and weapons and lies.

  But getting the paper from town was the way she liked to start the day. She would arise early and go for a swim—their bungalow was just up the bluff from one of the most beautiful, bluest, and most isolated beaches they had ever seen—and then she would ride her horse into the tiny collection of ramshackle huts that passed for a village here. Along with the groceries flown in from a nearby, larger island, the proprietor of the general store always received a small stack of newspapers from the U.S.; she always set aside one for the lovely woman with the lilting foreign accent who came riding in each morning.

  Then Elena would gallop back along the deserted beach, the mile and a half to their bungalow. By that time, Nicholas was usually sitting on the stone patio he had laid himself, drinking coffee and reading. After breakfast they would go for another swim. So passed their days. It was paradise.

  Even when the blood test administered by the island’s sole doctor confirmed what she’d been feeling for several days, that she was pregnant, Elena continued to ride, though more carefully. They were overjoyed, planning for the arrival of a son or a daughter, discussing for hours how their lives would change and yet not change, their love deepening by the day.

  Money was not a concern. The government had provided them a generous lump-sum settlement which, invested carefully, yielded more than enough to live on. Rarely did they discuss what had brought them here, why it was so important for them to escape, why they had to live here under new identities. It was understood between them: that was the past, a terribly painful episode, and the less said about it, the better.

  The mini-DVD she had recorded from Manning’s surveillance system that night had provided them with all the protection they needed. Not because it afforded them the opportunity to blackmail, strictly speaking—but because the explosive secrets it contained were secrets everyone preferred to remain buried. It could only be destabilizing for the world to know how close it had come to a bloodless coup, a nonviolent takeover by a group of individuals who believed that governments were obsolete—yet were on the verge of creating a supranational security administration that would have made Stalin’s U.S.S.R. or Hitler’s Bundesrepublik seem lax.

  Most of those individuals had perished in the fire at Manning’s San Simeon, burned alive in a terrible end. Yet there were others who had aided and abetted those men and women; and so arrests were made. Quietly and discreetly, the reasons understood without being made explicit, deals were struck. Gregson Manning was believed to be in a special federal facility in North Carolina, serving time for unspecified violations of section 1435 of the National Security Act, said to involve economic espionage; he was rumored to be isolated from all contacts or means of communication. Powerful voices in the Senate called for a recall vote on the treaty, renouncing votes made in haste. Some blamed Richard Lanchester for manipulating the process. Without American backing, the treaty agreement fell apart. The truth never had to come out.

  So sixteen copies of the DVD were made; one was couriered to the White House, using a code that Bryson knew marked it for the president’s eyes only; a second went to the Attorney General of the United States. Others went to London, Moscow, Beijing, Berlin, Paris, and other world capitals. Heads of state had to know what had almost transpired, or else the virus would endure.

  Of the three copies that remained, one was deposited with a lawyer Bryson knew to be trustworthy above and beyond, another was sealed i
n a safe-deposit box, and a third went with them, hidden somewhere on the island, insulated and protected. They were insurance policies. Bryson and Elena hoped they’d never have to collect on them.

  This morning, about an hour after bringing the morning paper, Elena emerged from the perfect water to find Bryson absorbed in the newspaper, which rippled and crinkled in the wind.

  “Only when you finally give up that nasty habit will you finally be free,” she scolded him.

  “You make it sound like smoking.”

  “It’s almost as bad.”

  “And probably almost as hard to give up. But if I do, what excuse will you have for your morning ride?”

  She chuckled. “Milk? Eggs? I’ll think of something.”

  “Jesus.” He was leaning close over the paper.

  “What is it?”

  “Buried on page D-16. The business section.”

  “What does it say?”

  “It’s a tiny item—reads like nothing more than a rewritten press release from the Systematix Corporation in Seattle.”

  “But … but Manning’s in prison!”

  “He is. His company’s being run by certain of his deputies in the interim. This dispatch says that the National Security Agency has just acquired a fleet of low-orbit surveillance satellites manufactured by Systematix.”

  “They try to bury the news, but it’s really not very subtle, is it? Where are you going?”

  Bryson had gotten up from his beach chair and was bounding up the dune to their bungalow. She followed him up. The wind carried the sound to her, so that she knew he had the television on. Another terrible habit she wanted to break him of: he had rigged up a satellite dish so that he could watch the news, though he had promised to keep that to a minimum.