King's Ransom

by E H Jennings

  Sampson looked dubious. “Maybe.”

  They were quiet for a while and Carson went back to the anagrams. They could speculate all they wanted, but he knew the only way to discover the truth was to crack Colton’s code. He read through several hundred more, and finding nothing of interest, glanced back over at Sampson. He was surprised to see she had put away the dossiers and was staring out the window.

  He nudged her. “What is it?”

  “Nothing.”

  He had been around enough women in his life to know that “nothing” rarely meant nothing. He nudged her again. “What are you thinking about?”

  She shook her head and eventually turned toward him. There was something noticeably different about her.

  “I’m thinking about why,” she said.

  “About why they would choose to attack now?”

  She looked back out the window. There was a pause where all they could hear was the low hum of the train and the chatter of the other passengers. She was still looking away when she spoke again. “I did some reading up on you, Carson.”

  Carson grunted. “That’s a shocker.”

  “You had a nice life. Grew up in a small-town, great family, All-American football player. But you were more than an athlete. I know you were Pre-Med. I know you were two months from graduating when you dropped out to join the Army. You had a four-oh and were one of the best football players in the country. You had a resume’ that would have gotten you into just about any medical school in America.”

  “What’s your point?”

  “My point is I’m thinking about why. I’m thinking about why the hell you would throw away everything to join the military and then some black ops group you’d never heard of. I never had a nice life, Carson. I never had that privilege. I was born into my profession. But not you—you had a choice. And no offense, but I want to know why you chose wrong.”

  It was a long time before Carson said anything. He considered simply ignoring her, letting the unexpected personal assault pass without comment. But he found he couldn’t do that. He had to tell her because he wanted to tell her.

  “Her name was Jessica Chapman,” he said. “Evidently your little briefing wasn’t very thorough or you’d already know that.

  “We met on a Saturday night in Commonwealth Stadium parking lot. She and her family had tailgated for the game and they were packing up as I walked by on the way to my truck. I picked up a cornhole bag and handed it to her.” He smiled as he remembered the glint of the streetlight in her eyes, the rustling of the leaves on the pavement. “Once we started talking, it seemed like neither of us could stop. The conversation just flowed, from day-to-day, week-to-week, and everything else in life became an afterthought.

  “The following March I asked her to marry me. The wedding was scheduled for November, just after she got back from her internship. She was a journalism major and landed one of the nation’s most coveted placements at a firm in New York City.

  “She left in July and I visited her a few times; she absolutely loved the city. So much, in fact, that I applied to Columbia Medical. We had it all planned out. I would go to school while she started her career on the big stage.” He looked down at his hands. “It was a great plan.”

  When Sampson put her hand on his, Carson made no attempt to pull away. He went on to the part of the story that had changed his life forever.

  “The firm she worked for had an office on the sixty-third floor of the World Trade Center.” Now Sampson gently squeezed, interlocking their fingers. She knew what was coming. “On the morning of September 11th, 2001, Muslim extremists buried my bride beneath a mountain of fiery ash and rubble. There would be no wedding; there would be no life in the city. There would be no life at all.”

  He shrugged. “Why did I join the military? Why did I sign on to Mirkwood? Because I wanted to slaughter as many of those radicalized fuckers as humanly possible. Is that a good enough answer?”

  “Yeah,” Sampson said softly. “It is.”

  They didn’t speak as the train sped eastward. It wasn’t until the Swiss border that they realized they were still holding hands.

  • • •

  As it turned out, Benjamin Caruso was a true artist. The French passports he had constructed passed customs without so much as a second glance.

  They were three French citizens headed for a weekend trip to the Alps. Not only had the customs agents not questioned them in any way, they had actually offered advice on which attractions were worth their time. Carson politely thanked them and pledged to show pictures upon their return journey back to France.

  Mendez had wandered, sufficiently buzzed, back to his seat shortly before the customs check. He now had his head leaned against the headrest, dozing.

  Across the aisle, Carson and Sampson hadn’t spoken much since Carson’s admission about his past. Nor had they addressed the handholding. There was a definite tension lingering between them, but now wasn’t the time to address it. Instead, Carson kept himself immersed in the anagrams, desperate to find something of utility.

  Sampson had read and re-read the dossiers and had more or less drained them of all relevant intel. They still knew very little about the three Syrians tied to Angie’s murder, but they knew a hell of a lot more now than they had six hours ago.

  They rode on for another hour, and just before pulling into Bern Bahnhof, the TGV Lyria station in Bern, Carson’s eyes widened. He stared at the screen for several seconds, trying to regain his composure.

  He glanced over at Sampson who, like Mendez, had nodded off. As much as he liked her, he still wasn’t willing to trust her completely. He couldn’t shake the feeling she was hiding something. So when he finally found the anagram they had been searching for, he quietly closed the computer and put it away.

  Once fully stopped, they gathered their luggage and detrained. Though not as elaborate or as iconic as Gare de Lyon, Bern Bahnhof was a very large station with lots of people moving about. They gladly melded into the chaos.

  As they were about to exit the station, they found the man.

  Sitting on a bench beneath a streetlight, the elderly gentleman wore a dark green Barbour jacket and had a black umbrella across his lap. When he saw them, he lifted the umbrella and sat the tip on the pavement.

  As they walked past, the man reached into an inner pocket of the jacket, removed a set of keys, and handed them to Carson. The transition was seamless and Carson didn’t break stride. To Mendez, who brought up the rear, the old man said: “Just push start.”

  Carson unlocked the black Range Rover using the key fob. They tossed their luggage in back then climbed inside. It quickly became apparent this man they were meeting was not wanting for resources: the seats were black leather and the dashboard looked more like that of a spaceship than an SUV.

  When Carson turned the ignition, the dash lit up and a large flat panel screen above the radio revealed what the old man had meant. Carson pressed start on the GPS navigation system and the pre-programmed route appeared on the screen.

  Their estimated time of arrival was in one hour and twenty-three minutes.

  No one said much as they left the parking lot, but things were very noisy inside Carson’s mind. He prayed Connor hadn’t actually gotten on a plane back to the states. They needed to talk, and soon. Because if Carson was right about the anagram, everything was about to change.

  Put another way, if Colton’s code was true, nothing would ever be the same.

  CHAPTER FORTY-SEVEN

  Gstaad, Switzerland

  44 hours remaining

  Downtown Gstaad was a picturesque menagerie of boutiques, cafés, and shops, and as Carson guided the Range Rover past the promenade, he rolled down his window, letting the cool mountain air sweep inside.

  A few miles outside town, the GPS directed them onto a narrower road that veered steeply uphill. The trees became thicker and the air cooler as they gained altitude. After several kilometers of near-vertical slope, the road swung to th
e left and slowly leveled out. The alpine forest around them was vast and dark.

  They turned once more, this time off the blacktop and onto a wide concrete slab. The GPS announced their destination was on the right. Carson tapped the brakes and they all looked around, dumbfounded. Nothing but mountains and darkness.

  “Well shit,” said Mendez.

  Sampson leaned forward. “Wait.”

  She was pointing into the wilderness and initially Carson saw nothing. But then, he caught a glimpse of a twinkle glowing through the pines.

  He pulled the Range Rover forward and the headlights revealed a hidden driveway. The gap in the trees was barely wide enough for the SUV, but Carson deftly maneuvered beneath the branches and began ascending the drive. Half a mile later, the source of the twinkling came into view.

  The chalet was immaculate. It was a massive, well-lit structure tucked against a tree-covered ridge, and despite the darkness, the Swiss Alps could be seen rising against the sky in the background. The driveway ran through a green pasture before circling in front of the mansion.

  Two other vehicles were parked in the circle; one was a Bentley, and the other was a Range Rover identical to the one they were driving, except it was white.

  As Carson brought the vehicle to a stop, they all admired the sheer size of the mystery man’s home. It was made of light-colored wood, possibly pine, and stood like a fortress on the hillside.

  They climbed out, grabbed their bags, and before stepping foot off the driveway were met by a very skinny man wearing a tuxedo. The man was tall and had a wiry black mustache gracing his upper lip. He dropped into a formal bow.

  “I am Vincente Veracruz, Senor Stonehill’s butler,” said the man. “But please, do call me Vincent. Leave your bags and I will ensure they find your rooms.” He pointed toward the door. “Do hurry inside. Senor Stonehill has been expecting you.”

  After thanking Vincent, they made their way to the door and stepped inside. The amalgamated scent of wood smoke and delicious food cascaded over them.

  “Up here,” a voice called out.

  They climbed the stairs to the second level and were granted a masterful view of the living room below. Three leather couches surrounded a wide stone hearth and fireplace, while a decadent crystal chandelier hung from the ceiling fifty feet above. Freshly-cut wood had been stacked on the hearth.

  As they came up the final flight of stairs, they finally laid eyes on McManus’s contact, the man with the ability to secretly get them into any country in the world. After all the hype, Carson had begun to envision a James Bond-type character.

  That vision was grossly inaccurate.

  The man was in his seventies, quite short, and more than a little pudgy. He stood from an oak table and waddled over to greet them. He wore brown slacks, a dark green button down, and a red paisley sport coat with golden trim. On his face was a pair of round spectacles, the frames an audaciously bright blue, and a cigar hung from his lips.

  “Roland Stonehill,” said the eccentric little man. “Welcome to Switzerland. You must be Carson King.”

  “Yes sir,” said Carson, shaking his hand. He started to introduce his friends when Stonehill interrupted him.

  “Rachel Sampson and Troy Mendez,” said Stonehill, nodding. He shook each of their hands in turn. “Warren said you’d be bringing a group. But I do believe there’s one of you missing, am I right?”

  “Circumstances changed,” explained Carson.

  He had no intention of telling the man any details, but judging by the sharp blue eyes behind the obnoxious blue frames, he got the feeling the man already knew all the details.

  Stonehill motioned to the table behind him and patted his belly. “In my humble opinion, food and fellowship should always precede business. Let us eat.”

  And eat they did. Stonehill had prepared an elaborate dinner, consisting of more than two-dozen fondue entrees and desserts. There were assorted breads and cheeses, fresh meats and delectable dipping sauces, and best of all, for dessert, an array of authentic Swiss chocolates.

  As dinner progressed, they learned that Stonehill had a PhD in Biochemistry from Cambridge and had spent many years researching what he called “multi-step biosynthetic pathways”. His vast wealth had come from the development of novel antibiotic and anticancer therapies. The principles and methodologies he developed and patented were still being used by some of the world’s largest pharmaceutical companies.

  It was clear money would never be a problem for Dr. Roland Stonehill.

  What wasn’t as clear was how he had come to work for the CIA. They posed several questions regarding his association with McManus, but all he would say was that he had entered the intelligence business by way of an old friend.

  “Friends are important,” he said. “And loyalty is to be prized above all else.”

  When they finally made it to dessert, Vincent carried out a tray full of coffees. They dipped a large assortment of fruit into the fine chocolates and sipped coffee from expensive cups as the conversation drifted to more casual matters.

  Stonehill was married but his wife was away—he didn’t like for her to get tangled up in business matters. Not because she was a woman and had no place in his business, but for her own safety. Carson not only understood that notion, he respected it. He wished like hell he had done a better job of protecting his own family.

  Stonehill also had two children and three grand children, all of whom lived in England, his native country. He had moved to Gstaad and purchased the chalet as a retirement getaway for himself and his wife, Gloria. They had always cherished the mountains, he said, and what better place for mountain-lovers to settle than the Alps.

  They were chatting amiably by the time they finished their second cup. They had just started discussing Stonehill’s car collection when Vincent came back into the room and whispered something in Stonehill’s ear. Stonehill nodded and rose from the table.

  “As much as I wish the food and fellowship could last all night, I fear you didn’t travel all the way to Gstaad for the dinner and fine company, though I hope you’ve enjoyed both.” He gestured toward a hallway leading out of the dining room. “Please, follow me.”

  Stonehill led them into a space that looked a lot like the living room. A large stone slab split the center, serving as a table, and oversized leather chairs and couches lined either side. There was a fire in the fireplace and a chandelier overhead. On the far wall, a white projector screen descended from the ceiling.

  “Have a seat,” said Stonehill. “Let us begin.”

  Stonehill sat at the head of the table and pulled a cigar from inside his sport coat.

  Vincent pressed a button on the projector and an image materialized on the screen. He then quickly left the room, closing the door behind him.

  Stonehill lit the cigar. “So I understand your brother was abducted in Paris.”

  “That’s right,” said Carson. “Four days ago. How much has McManus told you about the situation?”

  “For the purposes of our meeting here tonight, assume I know everything.” He pointed to the screen. “This is where I believe your brother is being housed.”

  The image was of a three-story structure made of mud brick. It somehow looked both rundown and sturdy at the same time. There was also a second, smaller building off to the right.

  Carson looked at Sampson, then Mendez, then back at Stonehill. “How could you possibly know that?”

  “Sabah Farzat, Yaser Gourani, and Ahid Yasri—the three men you learned about from Miss Sampson’s old pal at French Intelligence—they have a meeting in this structure tomorrow night. A very important meeting. As you might have already guessed, it’s an attempt to form an alliance between three major Anti-Assad groups.”

  “Hamas, the FSA, and the NSC,” said Sampson.

  Stonehill nodded. “That’s correct. These three men have been working to form the alliance for many months. As it happens, I have discovered through various contacts of mine that their fi
nal meeting will take place tomorrow night, in this building.”

  “What is it?” asked Mendez.

  “It’s known as Q24. It’s a blacksite compound used by the Qassam Brigades.”

  “Hamas’s paramilitary wing,” clarified Sampson.

  Again, Stonehill nodded.

  Carson was staring at the screen just like everyone else, but his mind was focused on something else entirely: the anagram.

  When he first laid eyes on it, he couldn’t believe he had actually found it. But the more he thought about it, the more he realized he should have seen it all along. Just like seven-year old Colton, he had placed the answer right in front of their eyes.

  General Falsie Qua. He had skimmed over it when a thought caused him to go back. It sounded Latin. And of course, that’s because it was Latin. Colton had minored in Latin at UVA; that was the added layer of encryption. Taking it one step further, it was also almost identical to the code in reverse.

  E-U-Q-A-S-L-A-F-I-L-A-R-E-N-E-G

  G-E-N-E-R-A-L-I-F-A-L-S-A-Q-U-E

  When Carson typed the phrase into the Google Translate app on his phone, he could hardly believe his eyes.

  General Falsie Qua: The General is false.

  In Carson’s mind, that could only mean one thing: McManus was somehow involved in all this. And now, here he sat listening to one of McManus’s “old friends” tell him where Colton was being held.

  “But why take Colton?” Sampson asked. “Did he somehow threaten the alliance?”

  Stonehill puffed his cigar and considered the question. “I believe there are two legitimate possibilities. The most likely is that Xavier Thorsby, the CIA asset Colton was scheduled to meet, jumped into a pool well above his head. They tracked him to Paris, killed him, and took Colton as a means of tying up loose ends.”

  “But why not kill him right then and there like they did Thorsby?” This came from Mendez.

  “Because he’s a token,” said Stonehill. “His mind contains enormously valuable information, and I think it possible someone is planning to use him to sweeten the deal.”