After more than a month of this, Masson whispered that he could provide DeJonge with “found” research that would allow Europe to leapfrog past les États-Unis in the development of a millimeter-wave weapon. Because the Americans’ work was similar to DeJonge’s research into microwave weapons, the professor could credibly claim the breakthrough as his own—provided he could persuade Eurocorps to fund the project. Once DeJonge had agreed, Roland Eck emerged from hiding to explain his plan and reveal the organization commanded by Mathias Skyrm. All DeJonge needed to do was be the face of the Prometheus Project.
“Why would Roland Eck give his research to you?” Larissa asked.
“His Positive Enforcement program was languishing,” the professor said. “For years Congress debated its funding, and it was losing priority within the Pentagon. He did not think the weapon would be deployed unless the Pentagon were in an arms race with another government.”
“But couldn’t Eck give you the research without faking his death?” Brian asked.
Professor DeJonge shrugged. “I thought it would be ungrateful of me to ask. I suppose he wanted to remove any chance he could be caught and tried for treason.”
“Who came up with the name Prometheus?” Brian asked.
“Eck,” the professor replied. Brian nodded.
Larissa sank back into her seat. “But why did you agree to this madness, Papa?”
“If the demonstration today had been successful, do you know who I would be right now? I would be the scientist who gave Europe a technological advantage over the United States military. I could command any position at any university on the continent. I could demand any salary.” He turned to look at Larissa. “And I could give you so many opportunities, Lara. As I promised your mother.”
“She would never have wanted you to become a fraud, Papa,” Larissa said. “Do not deceive her memory, or yourself. You have done this only to reward your pride. And where has your pride placed us?” She bowed her head. “In a car running for our lives.”
Uncomfortable with this family tension, Brian diverted his thoughts to watching the road for any sign of pursuit. A tail would be impossible to miss. The landscape was practically a desert, and the field of view was wide open. Except for an occasional vehicle heading south, toward Zaragoza, traffic had been sparse. Professor DeJonge had changed roads twice, but they were still traveling north. The Spanish side of the Pyrenees spread before them in the twilight like a jagged purple shadow. The professor was driving conservatively. A dark blue Mazda CX-7 had passed them minutes earlier, but the professor made no attempt to overtake the other car, even though it now coasted a teasing thirty yards ahead. Good, Brian thought, don’t draw attention to us.
Still watching the road, Brian replayed Professor DeJonge’s story in his mind. One question lingered. “How did Tetzel figure into all of this?” he asked.
“One of Eurocorps’ conditions for financing Prometheus was that I assemble researchers from across Europe. Tetzel came to the team from Switzerland, the University of Neuchatel, with a specialty in high-frequency waves.”
The professor wet his lips and continued. “I did not know him well, but he called me one day last week and said he had just learned of Roland Eck’s death and feared the Americans might think we had stolen his research. I told him this was ridiculous, that researchers in similar fields often come to the same findings.”
“Did you tell Masson or Skyrm about his suspicions?” Brian asked.
“No,” Professor DeJonge replied. To Larissa, he added, “I swear to you I did not.”
“They probably had Tetzel’s phone tapped,” Brian said. “Or yours. Or both.”
The professor opened his mouth to protest, then closed it. “Perhaps so,” he said.
“Where are we going, Papa?” Larissa asked, breaking her silence. “We cannot drive into France without being caught.”
“There is a tiny village in the foothills of the Pyrenees called Nueno with a small inn where we can stay, practically a hostel. No one would look for us in such an obscure place. We can disappear there for a few days while I consider what to do.” With an air of condescension, he added, “Do you accept this plan, Brian?”
“It sounds like a good plan, sir,” Brian said, and he meant it. This would give Larissa time to persuade her father to seek help from the American embassy. And if the professor used a credit card to check into the inn, the Guardia Civil would find them quickly.
Brian’s stomach gurgled, and he wondered how soon until they reached Nueno. The lengthening shadows of the road signs told him sunset was imminent. He saw no traffic coming from the opposite direction. Brian noticed they were gaining on the Mazda. Then he looked at the dashboard and saw the professor had the cruise control engaged and had not changed speed for miles. They weren’t accelerating; the Mazda was decelerating.
Brian saw the trap as soon as they passed the crossroad. A hulking black Land Rover waiting at the intersection roared onto the road and pulled alongside the Audi. The blue Mazda was directly in front of them, blocking their escape. The Land Rover bumped the Audi’s side. Professor DeJonge yelped and the Audi slewed to the right, but the professor straightened the car. Brian looked out the window and in the orange glow of sunset he caught a glimpse of Skyrm at the Land Rover’s wheel as the SUV drew away from the Audi. Then the Rover came at the Audi with the mass and speed of a barreling rhinoceros. Its bumper clipped the Audi just above the front tire, sending the coupe into a diagonal skid toward the pavement’s edge. Larissa screamed and the distant Pyrenees went sideways as the Audi pitched over and sailed off the road.
CHAPTER 36--BEEPS
How long they had sat in the darkened room was a mystery. From the hallway light seeping beneath the door, Brian could make out the shapes of the desk in the corner and the shrouded device suspended from the ceiling. He turned his head to look at Larissa, her silhouetted profile sharply defined despite the dim light. He couldn’t see her hands but he knew that they, like his, were tied to the chair.
At least his strength was returning. Brian was able to keep his eyes on Larissa for nearly a minute before his neck muscles gave and his chin fell back to his chest.
She was sobbing again. Brian had tried to speak earlier, but all that came out was a gurgle and a line of drool that dripped from the corner of his mouth.
They had been drugged at the crash site. Not enough to put them to sleep, but enough to keep them docile so that the two men from the blue Mazda, Kralik and Carter (Brian had decided this was the bald man’s name), could handle them like gunnysacks.
He had no memory of the crash, only rushes of emotion and flashes of images from its aftermath. Distress as blood welled from a gash in Professor DeJonge’s forehead. Fear as Skyrm threw the professor into the Land Rover’s rear seat. Anger as Kralik jabbed Brian’s shoulder with a syringe. Helplessness as Larissa, who was being restrained by Carter, yelled after her father until her injection took effect and her limbs sagged. A surge of hope as a tow truck arrived, then a plunge into despair as Voss (the tall man’s name by default) stepped down from the cab.
Skyrm drove off in the Land Rover as Voss started to hook up the professor’s Audi to the tow truck. Kralik and Carter dragged Brian and Larissa to the Mazda. Before shoving him into the back seat, Kralik punched Brian in the stomach—payback for the limp, probably. Brian fell to the floor and rolled onto his back as the car made a sharp U-turn. His view for the rest of the ride was Larissa’s sneaker hanging over the seat’s edge.
When the car eventually stopped, Brian had given up on calculating the trip’s duration. He attempted earlier to count the seconds, but always lost concentration somewhere around fourteen. Kralik opened the door, revealing a warehouse interior. He and Carter dragged their captives past forklifts and rows of wooden crates stacked five high. They came into an area where the floors were tiled with pale green Linoleum and the walls painted salmon. It reminded Brian of a doctor’s office.
The men dropped Brian and
Larissa onto the floor of the room with the desk in the corner and the device, covered in a light gray tarp, suspended from the ceiling. The two men left the room and returned with the type of folding wooden chairs Brian associated with church picnics. They positioned Brian and Larissa in the chairs and lashed their hands behind them.
Then the men did something Brian couldn’t comprehend even as he watched. Each man tied a rope to an arm of Brian’s chair and attached the other end of his rope to the facing wall. If Brian’s chair were raised off the ground it would be suspended between the walls like a swing. But the chair was firmly on the ground. It made no sense. Brian expected them to truss up Larissa’s chair as well, but they switched off the light and left.
Since then, nothing.
Brian raised his head again and counted the seconds. Two minutes passed before his neck muscles protested, but they were only twinges and he kept his head up. After another minute the twinges faded. The haze inside his mind lifted. He turned his head and tried to see the ropes that secured his chair to the walls, but they were invisible in the dark. He looked at Larissa. Her head was raised, too. He was about to test his voice again when the phone rang.
On the fourth ring the door opened and the lights came on. Brian squeezed his eyes shut against the sudden glare and didn’t know who had entered the room to answer the phone until he recognized Skyrm’s voice.
“Yes, I’m with them now. No, they have not been harmed.”
Brian blinked until his eyes adjusted to the light. Skyrm was sitting on a corner of the desk, watching him.
“The boy is conscious,” Skyrm continued. “The girl still appears to be under.”
Brian looked at Larissa. Her chin was on her chest and her eyes were closed. Did the darkness trick him into seeing her head raised moments ago? Did he imagine her sobs?
“They probably gave her too strong a dose,”
Skyrm said. Skyrm was silent for a few moments as he listened. Then he said, “I repeat my objections. I know your squeamishness, but they still represent a threat, especially the boy.”
Silence again. Brian looked to see how his chair was attached to the walls. What he saw baffled him. They weren’t ropes but bungee cords, the type with metal hooks used to secure cargo in pickup trucks. The cords were wrapped around each chair arm three times with the hook latched to the cord like a knot. The room had a chair rail, a green half-round two inches wide, and the hooks at the far ends of the bungee cords were wedged into the crack between the rail and the wall. Brian didn’t get it. The only purpose the bungee cords seemed to serve was to prevent him from rocking his chair from side to side. He wondered if this were a booby trap that would spring if he left the chair. Or if Skyrm intended to turn the chair into a catapult, however unlikely that seemed. Whatever the cords’ purpose, Brian could sense the tension pulling at the chair and felt like he was trapped in the world’s simplest spider web.
Brian looked at Larissa’s hands to see how she was bound. The rope was looped five times around the back of the chair, and the two ends tied her hands together. Brian tested the rope around his own hands. There was some give, but not enough to pull a wrist through. Still, if he were tied to the chair the same way as Larissa, all he had to do was stand to be free. This assumed he possessed the strength to stand, which Brian doubted. It also assumed he would be out of the chair before Skyrm shoved him back down, which Brian doubted more.
Skyrm spoke into the phone again. “Very well. No, I will not take my eyes off them.” Another pause. “You can do that when you get here.” Skyrm hung up.
Brian wanted to speak first, to gain a sense of advantage. “Was that your employer?” he asked. “Roland Eck?” His voice was hoarse. Brian sucked at his cheeks to generate saliva.
Skyrm stared at him coldly. “I told you once I do not find you clever. Don’t press me when there is no one here to protect you.”
“Eck is on his way,” Brian said.
“He will not be here for several hours. Until then, you are mine.”
“Where is Larissa’s father?”
“Elsewhere. We are renegotiating our arrangement with him.”
Brian glanced at Larissa. She hadn’t stirred at the mention of her father.
“What about the two men who brought us here?” Brian continued.
“They are handling the renegotiation.”
Brian’s stomach knotted. He pictured a renegotiation that involved brass knuckles and hobnail boots. Or waterboarding.
“Please don’t hurt her father.”
“That is up to the professor now,” Skyrm said. “Don’t worry about him. Focus on your own, considerable, worries.”
Brian hated where this conversation was going. He changed the subject. “How did you find us on the road?”
Skyrm allowed himself a self-satisfied smirk. “We planted a GPS device in the professor’s car as soon as he began working for us.”
“Planning for all contingencies, huh?”
Skyrm didn’t respond. His face went blank, which frightened Brian. Skyrm came forward to inspect one of the bungee cords. He flicked it with his thumb and nodded with approval at the taut thrum it produced. Still looking at the cord, Skyrm said, “The chairs in this building are not as sturdy as I would like, so we had to improvise.”
Skyrm went to Larissa. He crouched so that his face was inches from hers. He cupped her chin in his hand and shook it. When he let go, Larissa’s head lolled to the side and she murmured as if reacting to a bad dream.
“Stop it,” Brian said.
Skyrm shot him an icy look and turned back to Larissa. “Your boyfriend is giving me an order, Mlle DeJonge,” he said, “which angers me. Open your eyes and I won’t kill him.”
Larissa murmured again, but her eyes remained shut.
Skyrm nodded once more and went behind Larissa’s chair. He tilted it backward, lifting the front legs, then pushed her across the room and parked her behind the desk. Skyrm stepped to the front of the desk, leaned his hips against it, and crossed his arms with the demeanor of an algebra teacher about to scold his class.
“Mr. Parker, do you know what it means to have a reputation?”
Brian snorted. “Of course I do. I’m in high school.”
Skyrm ignored the retort. “I have a reputation, a reputation that is a great source of pride and a reputation that took more than a decade to secure. My reputation is this: I plan crimes. I do it better than anyone in Europe. Thieves, gangsters, spies, terrorists—they recognize this. Anyone with a criminal enterprise in mind knows they will succeed if they hire me. I work out the logistics. I recruit the talent. I procure the weapons and the equipment. I have never failed. And to the police and security agencies across the continent, I am no more than a rumor. My reputation is formidable, and it has made me rich. If this reputation slips, I lose work, and my personal wealth declines. Therefore, my reputation is sacred to me.”
He took a step toward Brian. “So do you think my reputation might slip if potential clients learned this particular enterprise has been obstructed by a fifteen-year-old boy?”
Foster Blake would have cracked a joke at this point, but Brian was petrified. The red rings in Skyrm’s eyes caught the light and glinted. His voice took on the tenor of a knife being sharpened. “Do you think I can allow this insult to my reputation to go unanswered?”
Brian forced the words out of his mouth: “Your employer told you not to hurt me.”
“He will never know. And you can thank him for that.”
As Skyrm said this, he raised his eyes to the device suspended from the ceiling. Brian’s eyes followed. Under its gray cover, the contraption appeared to be about four feet long with a narrow snout and wide back end, almost a perfect cone. The device was attached to a track that crossed the ceiling’s width. The track was attached to twin runners along the ceiling’s length. It was a larger version of the mechanism that moved the claw in the arcade machine. The nape of Brian’s neck tingled as he realized what the tarp co
ncealed.
Confirming Brian’s fears, Skyrm reached up and pulled off the cover, revealing a Prometheus weapon identical to the one mounted atop the van at San Gregorio. No, not identical. This one would work.
“Our prototype,” Skyrm said as he tossed the cover aside.
Up close the machine didn’t appear anything like the sleek super weapons of the movies. It looked like it was built from oversized components purchased at Radio Shack. A curved black slab that looked like a miniature radar emitter extended from the back of the gun. The silver disk at the front appeared to be the muzzle. With that thought, Brian knew he was looking at a ray gun. An honest-to-God ray gun.
An honest-to-God ray gun currently pointed at the wall behind him and well to his right, although that would soon change. Skyrm picked up a device from the desk that resembled a model airplane’s remote control. His fingers manipulated a joystick the size of a miniature pencil, and the Prometheus gun glided backward, humming as it went.
“They consider themselves idealists,” Skyrm said, “Roland Eck and Eduoard DeJonge. They think they are giving the world a weapon that doesn’t kill.” The ray gun stopped moving backward and began to whir to the left until it lined up with Brian. “They will not admit this weapon’s greatest potential use. It leaves no mark. It causes no physical damage. Yet it dispenses unimaginable pain.” Skyrm was smiling now. “It is a torturer’s dream.”
Brian had no idea how to prepare for what was about to happen. His legs began to tremble and a film of sweat instantly covered his brow. Skyrm pressed another button, and the Prometheus gun’s muzzle slowly tilted toward Brian.
“The longest anyone has been able to endure the Prometheus ray before jumping out of its path, Mr. Parker, is five seconds.”
The ray gun stopped moving. It pointed at Brian’s chest.
Skyrm’s smile widened. “You are about to experience the worst six seconds of your life.”
Then, echoing louder in the small room than on the field in San Gregorio, two beeps sounded.
The Boy Who Knew Too Much Page 18