“Then why do you not just ask him?” Larissa said.
“We probably should,” Harte said. “If he’s in danger from Skyrm, we can protect him. Or offer to, anyway.”
“He is in Spain,” Larissa said.
“Specifically, he is in Zaragoza,” Harte said. She steered into an industrial area. “In three days—” Harte looked at the dashboard clock. “Correction: In two days, your father will demonstrate the Prometheus machine during war games at San Gregorio field just outside Zaragoza.”
Brian checked his Batman watch to confirm midnight had passed. “What does the machine do?” he asked.
Harte laughed. “Hell, Brian, I thought you knew everything about it.”
“It’s some kind of heat ray. That’s all I could read before Skyrm interrupted me.”
“Heat ray is about right. Some people call it a ‘pain beam,’ but if you ask me that’s a sure way to end congressional funding. Positive Enforcement—and Prometheus, I suppose—are non-lethal weapons. They shoot a beam that tricks your nerves into thinking your body is on fire.”
“What is the point of that?” Larissa said.
“Do you know what fight-or-flight is?” Harte asked.
Brian shook his head. Larissa was silent. Harte explained, “It’s the instantaneous decision your body makes when it realizes it is in danger. Do you stand your ground—fight—or do you run—flight? What these weapons do is take fight out of the equation. You feel such instant, overwhelming pain your only instinct is flight.”
“That sounds horrible,” Larissa said.
“No, because the moment you step out of the beam, the pain stops,” Harte said. “And it beats getting hit with gunfire. Positive Enforcement was developed to disperse dangerous mobs. If you’re familiar with Black Hawk Down, a Positive Enforcement beam could have saved those soldiers and greatly reduced the fatalities among the Somali rebels.”
Harte parked outside a jumble of anonymous cinderblock buildings, each identical except for the numbers above their doors. “I just have to check in on my duck blind before we go to my apartment.”
“Duck blind?” Brian asked.
“The team working on Prometheus used one of these buildings, which is suspicious because neither the university nor Eurocorps is leasing the premises, but a Barcelona holding company. I tried to bug the place, but there’s some kind of Faraday cage inside.”
“A what?” Larissa asked.
“Faraday cage,” Brian said. “It jams electronic communication like radio waves and cell phones.”
“Video cameras, too,” Harte said. “So I placed a microcamera on the opposite building to keep track of who’s been coming and going. I call it my duck blind.”
Harte opened her door. “This won’t take long,” she said. She closed the door with her hip and vanished behind a corner.
Brian turned in his seat to look at Larissa. She glowered back. “I hope you do not believe what this spy has been saying about Papa.”
“She’s on a fishing expedition,” Brian replied.
Larissa cocked her head. “I do not understand.”
“She’s looking for something, but she doesn’t know what she’s looking for.”
“And she will not know until she finds it?”
“That’s about the size of it.” Brian saw Harte trotting back. “Maybe she’ll find something here.”
Harte opened the door, but before getting back into the car she stooped to retrieve a notebook computer from beneath the driver’s seat. As she slid behind the wheel, Harte pulled from her pocket a device Brian assumed was her microcamera. It looked exactly like a flash drive except for a black lens in the center.
Harte caught Brian’s look and smiled. “Yes, sometimes even real-life spies get to have cool gadgets.” She turned on the computer, which powered up instantly, popped the cap off the flash drive camera and pushed it into the computer’s USB port.
“These will be time-lapsed pictures—every thirty seconds for the last twelve hours,” she said. Brian marveled at the drive’s storage capacity. “I don’t expect to see anything significant because everyone working on Prometheus is in Spain right now,” Harte continued, “so I’ll speed through the images. We’ll be on our way in a minute or so.”
A door appeared on the computer screen, and as Harte flashed through the images only the shadows of the numbers above the door moved. Occasionally people appeared, but they were walking past the door. After several minutes Harte stopped on an image and gasped.
Brian gasped, too. On the screen, Jack Silver was emerging from the door with another man. They seemed to be arguing, and the time stamp at the bottom of the frame indicated the picture had been taken four hours earlier.
“There’s a dead man who should not be walking,” Harte murmured.
“Silver’s dead?” Brian said sharply.
Harte looked up at him, the computer screen’s luminescence highlighting the surprise in her face. She pointed at Silver. “Is this your CIA kidnapper, Silver?”
“Yeah,” Brian said. “Who’s the other guy?”
“This man,” Harte said, tapping the figure on the screen, “is Roland Eck.”
CHAPTER 16--DETOUR
Brian examined the blurred image of Roland Eck. The immediate impression was a body at odds with gravity. Thin and frail, Eck stood about three inches shorter than Silver. Eck’s head—specifically, his face—appeared too heavy for his frame. Enormous brows, sallow eyes and a grimace pulled his features downward. If Silver slapped him between his shoulders, Eck would topple forward from the weight of his face.
Larissa craned her neck between the seats to look at the screen. Her cheek came within an inch of Brian’s, and he felt his skin tingle.
“Are you sure this is Eck?” Brian asked.
“Positive,” Harte replied. “I’ve had his face imprinted on my brain for the last two months.”
“What about the plane crash then? How was his body identified?”
Harte sighed. “It wasn’t, and I was never happy about that.” She tapped her fingers on the steering wheel. “The thing is, the military liaison officers working on PosEn considered Eck a suicide risk. His wife had died fourteen months earlier, and shortly after that Eck began exhibiting mood swings. He flew his own plane, commuting between D.C. and Connecticut—his wife was buried in New Haven—on the weekends. So when his plane plunged into Long Island Sound, many assumed it was suicide.”
“But the body?” Brian asked.
“Investigators determined that prior to the crash the plane caught fire. The fuel tank exploded before the plane hit the water. What was left of the body was disfigured beyond recognition. They identified Eck through his personal effects: the clothes he was wearing, his watch, his wallet, his credit cards, and the wedding band he wore as a pendant.”
“If he faked his death, why do you suppose he is here?” Brian asked. “Trying to find the people who stole his research?”
“I think those are questions for your friend, Mr. Silver.”
Brian agreed, but he doubted Silver was collaborating with Eck. It didn’t jibe with Silver’s claim that he kidnapped Brian to unofficially investigate Tetzel’s death.
Harte advanced to the next picture. A third man had joined Eck and Silver. The frost that seized Brian’s veins at the sight of the man carried into his voice.
“Skyrm,” he said.
“That’s Matthias Skyrm?” Harte asked.
“The man you fought on the stairs?” Larissa added.
“Yes.”
“No intelligence service has ever had this clear a picture of him,” Harte said.
Brian looked at the new image. Skyrm had appeared behind and between Eck and Silver. He gripped Silver’s arm, and Silver was looking back at him with a scowl. Had Skyrm captured Silver in Nice? Silver appeared angry, but he didn’t look like a prisoner.
Brian was still trying to read Silver’s expression when Harte said, “Shit!” and snapped the laptop shut. She
leaned forward to stash the computer beneath her seat with her left hand and to shove the key into the ignition with her right. Harte started the Peugeot, threw it into gear, and roared out of the industrial park. Larissa was tossed back into her seat as Harte shifted directly from first gear to third.
“What’s going on?” Brian asked.
“What time do you estimate that thug attacked your house?”
“Shortly before ten,” Larissa replied. Brian nodded in agreement.
“That picture was taken at ten oh seven,” Harte said, “a few minutes after the attempt to abduct you failed.” Brian remembered Ruby Stud using his cell phone. “I think Skyrm, Eck, and Silver just got the news when that picture was taken,” Harte continued. “They know you’re in Toulouse, Brian, so I have to make sure they don’t find you.”
“How?” Brian asked.
“I’m taking you to Paris.”
“Now?”
“After we stop at my apartment. I still have to report in, but no matter what my control officer’s instructions are, I will drive you straight to the Defense Attaché Office in Paris the minute I file my report. As I see it, your safety is now my first duty.”
So Brian would beat his schoolmates to Paris by a few days. He wondered if he would be able to see them when they arrived. Maybe he would get a military bodyguard. That would blow Tim’s mind.
Few other cars were on the road so early in the morning. Harte was driving fast but she wasn’t flying. Didn’t want to risk the police pulling her over, Brian figured. When they stopped at a red light, Harte turned to the back seat. “Miss DeJonge—Larissa—I realize I have no jurisdiction over you—”
“You don’t have jurisdiction over me, either,” Brian said.
“I realize I have even less jurisdiction over you,” Harte went on, “but after the attack on your home, I believe it would be in your best interest if you accompanied Brian to the attaché office. It’s in the American embassy compound.”
“What about my father?”
“After I report in, my agency will contact your father immediately to offer him protection and to let him know you are willingly going to the DOD attaché office for safekeeping, provided you agree.”
Brian turned to Larissa. “I could use the company,” he said.
Larissa regarded him thoughtfully before saying, “All right.”
Brian smiled at her then turned forward. Harte said, “Thank you, Larissa. I wouldn’t feel right leaving you behind.”
“I have something to ask,” Brian said. He felt his face flush; he was embarrassed to say this in front of two women. “Can I take a shower at your apartment before we leave? It’s been three days.”
Larissa giggled. “If there is one thing we Europeans dislike about you Americans, it is your terrible bathing habits.”
Brian didn’t get the joke, but Harte let out a robust laugh that belied her nasal speaking voice. Brian joined in as the meaning dawned on him.
“That’s OK, Brian,” Harte said as her laugh subsided to a chuckle. “I have a lot to brief my control on. I’m sure you could get a shower in before I’m finished.”
Harte merged onto a multilane highway. Brian watched the signs as they flashed by and learned they were heading north on the A 61. “Where are we anyway?” he asked.
“Near Castelnaudary,” Larissa replied. She stifled a yawn before adding, “About sixty kilometers from Toulouse.”
Harte sensed Brian’s question before he asked it. “A little less than forty miles,” she said.
Brian hadn’t realized they had driven so far from the university. He was so surprised to see the dashboard clock’s readout of 2:28 that he looked at his watch to verify the time.
“Time flies, huh?” Harte said.
“Sure does,” Brian said.
“We should be at my apartment before sunup,” she said. “Figure a half hour for me to report in and for you to shower, and then it will be another six hours to Paris and safety.”
“Safety,” Brian said. “I like the sound of that. Will I be able to talk to my parents?”
“Once we find the individual Silver sent to spy on your family, but after that, certainly.”
“You sure it’s only one guy?”
“More than one person would be too great a security risk,” Harte said. “I’m amazed Silver even got one man to do it. It’s career suicide for an FBI special agent to get caught doing off-the-books surveillance on American soil, but for a CIA officer? That’s suicide, period.”
From behind them, Larissa’s breathing became a soft snore.
Harte glanced at Brian. Quietly, she said, “I have to admit, Brian, I’m impressed with your tradecraft instincts, particularly your escape and evasion skills. I know a few colleagues who would have failed to escape Silver or Skyrm the way you did.”
“They underestimated me because of my age,” Brian said. He was careful to keep the pride he felt from Harte’s praise out of his voice. “They won’t let it happen a second time.”
“Well, you don’t have to worry about a second time. You’ve got me on your side now.”
Harte drummed her fingertips on the steering wheel again. “You’re a fine young man, Brian. Too smart for your own good, but a decent young man. You want some advice?”
“Sure, why not?”
“When you’re out of this, and that’ll be soon, focus less of your attention on Foster Blake and more of it on girls like Larissa.”
“That’s probably good advice,” Brian said.
“Damn straight it is. You should get some sleep, too. We’ll be there in about twenty minutes.”
Brian didn’t sleep, but he let the remaining kilometers pass in silence. The lights of Toulouse appeared before them as the A 61 became the A 620, then the highway curved to make a wide loop to the west of the city. When the road angled back toward Toulouse, Brian could tell they were approaching the city’s northern edge. The sky was still pitch black as Harte left the highway at a turnaround and bounced onto surface streets.
Larissa awoke with a grunt at the first jolt to the aged shock absorbers. She took in their surroundings and asked Harte, “Are we going to le Quartier d’Afrique?”
“All part of my cover,” Harte said.
The streets grew narrower and the buildings skinnier. “My apartment is there,” Harte said as they passed a grotty, three-story structure with a tiny restaurant named Café Couscous on the ground floor.
“Then why aren’t we stopping?” Larissa asked.
“She’s circling the block to make sure no one is watching the building,” Brian said.
“Oh, more spy stuff,” Larissa said.
“I thought you would appreciate the precautions,” Harte said, looking down an alley as they drove by, “seeing as a known killer is looking for you two.”
Harte drove around the neighborhood once more before parking a block from her building. “I’m going to make a final pass on foot,” she said. “You two sit tight.”
“Do you think all this is necessary?” Larissa asked Brian as Harte walked away.
“She knows what she’s doing,” Brian said. Harte disappeared down an alley and reappeared a minute later on the far side of Café Couscous. She walked past the entrance without glancing at it and headed back to the car. No one else was about this early. Brian reflected on Harte’s professionalism. She was the opposite of Silver, who corrupted the rules to serve his own greed. Not Lenore Harte. She was ruled by duty.
As Harte walked toward them, Brian thought about how good that shower would feel. He was imagining the warm water washing away the grit of the last twenty-four hours when Harte passed beneath a streetlight and her eyes widened in alarm. Metal flashed and a thin brown taper appeared just above the top button of her shirt. Red seeped through the yellow fabric, and Brian recognized the taper as the hilt of a throwing knife jutting from her larynx.
Harte looked directly at Brian and mouthed, “Run.” Then she fell to the sidewalk as the semicircle of blo
od on her shirt widened.
Larissa screamed and grabbed for the handle of her door. Brian reached between the front seats and stopped her. He pulled Larissa’s arm, forcing her to drop along the length of the back seat as he ducked below the dashboard. She looked at him incredulously. “We have to help her,” she said, struggling to rise as tears ran sideways down her face.
“We can’t,” Brian said, holding her down. He felt himself start to cry but knew they couldn’t afford it. “That knife went straight into her throat. We can’t save her. She told us to run. We can’t let her die knowing that Skyrm got us. We can’t let her die thinking she failed.”
Larissa sobbed, but nodded. Brian released her.
“Keep your head down so they don’t see us,” Brian said.
“How do you know they haven’t seen us already?”
“Because they haven’t grabbed us.” Brian wanted to peek over the window’s edge, but decided it was too dangerous.
“Whoever threw that knife is on this side of the street,” Brian said. “We have to get out through the driver’s side, run across the street and keep running, OK?”
“OK.”
Brian twisted himself beneath the steering wheel and got into a crouch next to the door. He heard Larissa slide to the rear door.
“OK,” Brian said. “Now!”
They opened their doors simultaneously and barreled out of the car and into the street. Brian looked behind and saw Skyrm standing at the spot where Harte had fallen. Cars parked along the curb hid her body. Brian was grateful for that. Two men, Ruby Stud and someone Brian didn’t recognize—a thick man with a cleanly shaved head and a Vandyke beard—ran toward Skyrm. The new man was unfolding a shroud of black nylon.
Body bag, Brian realized. Bastards came prepared.
Skyrm spotted Brian and Larissa instantly. “The boy and the professor’s daughter!” he yelled to the others. “They were with Harte.” Skyrm pointed at Ruby Stud. “Merz, after them!”
Merz, AKA Ruby Stud, slid across a car’s hood to reach the street. Brian grabbed Larissa’s hand and put on a burst of speed when a black car screeched around the corner and skidded to a stop in front of them.
The Boy Who Knew Too Much Page 9