The Tesla Secret

by Alex Lukeman

  Malcolm Foxworth was a small man with a large presence. His hair was black with streaks of silver and carefully styled. His ears were a little too large for his head. His eyebrows formed thin, black streaks over flat eyes blue as glacier ice. Foxworth's face was unremarkable, common even. When he was angry, his complexion turned red. When he was very angry, his face turned chalk white.

  Foxworth had started out with a small newspaper inherited from his father. Over the years he'd created a world-wide media empire by telling angry people what they wanted to hear. He controlled radio stations, newspapers, magazines and television outlets, all with one thing in common. Each worked to feed and strengthen the ominous cloud of divisiveness and fear spreading over the globe.

  Fear was Foxworth's stock in trade. Fear overwhelmed reason. Fearful people became angry and could be manipulated. The world's leaders had always used fear to get what they wanted. They congratulated themselves and imagined themselves masters of the world. But few knew who pulled the strings that made the world dance.

  Foxworth knew, because he was one of them. The conspiracy theorists were right about a hidden group seeking world domination but they'd gotten most of it wrong.

  AEON had been called by many names over the centuries. The Illuminati. The Secret Masons. The Hidden Masters. The New World Order. The Trilateral Commission. The Bilderberg Group. Those were useful red herrings, shadows thrown up against the screen of human paranoia, psychological sleight of hand. No one had ever managed to expose the real conspiracy.

  In the past year someone had begun to interfere.

  Someone had pointed Harker's dogs at the Demeter operation. It was like throwing sand into a machine with closely cut gears. Years of preparation had been destroyed in hours by an insignificant team of ignorant, washed up soldiers led by a woman. It wasn't the first time she'd derailed one of AEON's operations. Every time he thought about Harker, Foxworth wanted to take her throat in his hands and crush it.

  Harker drew her power from the Presidency. President Rice didn't play by the rules. He couldn't be bribed, or persuaded to see reason about things that mattered. He was weak, opposed to war. Without him, Harker would become irrelevant.

  Rice's opponent in the upcoming US election was AEON's puppet. Voting was untrustworthy, no matter what the polls predicted. Foxworth had no intention of waiting until November to see his man elected.

  He was going to assassinate Rice, then eliminate Harker.

  He gazed out at the changing London skyline. A light rain spattered the glass. Beyond the Thames, the giant Ferris wheel Londoners called the Eye stood out against the gray sky.

  A sudden stab of blinding pain staggered him. He placed his hand against the thick glass of the window to steady himself. His vision blurred. Then his sight cleared and the pain on his skull receded. He walked unsteadily to his desk and sat down.

  A door on the other side of the room opened. A tall, smartly dressed woman with pale skin and long black hair came in. She moved with unconscious ease and sexual promise. She glowed in a cream-colored suit that set off her hair. Her red blouse showed just enough cleavage to intrigue the eye. Her dark eyes glittered with unspoken thoughts.

  Mandy Atherton had been a model at the top of her profession when she'd met Foxworth two years before. In the cutthroat world of high end fashion and beautiful women there was always someone scheming to take her place. Mandy was no fool. She knew where her future lay, and it wasn't with the fashion industry. It lay in a rich man's bed.

  Lately Foxworth had been finding it difficult to perform, but that wasn't a problem for Mandy. Besides, she had other ways to satisfy her needs. She was inventive and intelligent as well as attractive. During working hours she acted as Foxworth's executive assistant.

  "Malcolm, Doctor Morel is here."

  "About time. Send him in."

  Doctor Morel wore a goatee and mustache and a three piece dark suit that had cost a great deal of money. He was 50 years old, balding and beginning to show a paunch. He looked like an actor portraying Sigmund Freud. Custom shoes that added to his height and expensive cologne hinted at his vanity. In his right hand he carried a smooth black leather briefcase full of select medications.

  Morel was under five and a half feet tall, one of the reasons Foxworth liked having him about. Aside from the bonus of his height, Morel was also discreet. He was a man who knew how to make his clients feel pampered and respected. More important, he knew how to make them feel better.

  "Goddamn it, Morel, what took you so long? I can't think with this headache."

  "Sorry, Malcolm, there was construction on the M1. I came as quickly as possible. Please, sit down."

  Foxworth insisted that associates he saw all the time call him by his first name. Worker bees called him "sir".

  Foxworth sat at his desk. Morel placed his case on the desk, opened it and pulled up a facing chair. He took out an instrument and shone a light into Foxworth's eyes.

  "Look up. Now right. Now left." He put the instrument away, took out a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.

  "Any other symptoms, Malcolm? Blurring of vision? Hearing problems? Any problems with balance?"

  "Never mind that crap. Just give me something for this headache. I've got an important meeting in twenty minutes."

  "Of course." Morel filled the syringe, squirted a few drops. "Pants, please."

  Foxworth stood. Morel noticed he was a bit unsteady, but said nothing. Foxworth exposed his buttock. Morel gave him the injection.

  "You'll feel better in a minute or two," he said. "Are you still unwilling to put yourself in for a few tests? Just overnight."

  "I don't want any tests." Foxworth felt the drug working. The pain receded. He took a deep breath. "I don't need any tests. These headaches are just stress."

  "Malcolm..."

  "Morel. I said I don't want any bloody tests."

  Foxworth's voice had gone cold. Something ancient and dangerous lay just beneath it. Morel took an involuntary step backward, as if he had just seen something unspeakably evil. Ridiculous, he thought. It's just the stress talking.

  Foxworth calmed himself. "Don't ask me again. A long as I can reach you, I don't need anything else."

  "I'm always available for you." Morel closed his case.

  The money he got for these visits guaranteed it. If his patient didn't want tests, well, that was his decision. Morel had done what he could. He wouldn't bring it up again, not after what Foxworth had said. For a moment, he'd actually felt threatened.

  CHAPTER SIX

  Selena's condo had security good enough for Langley or the NSA. She needed it. There was enough rare art on the walls to start a private museum. She'd inherited a fortune from her uncle. His murder had brought her to the Project. She'd never imagined then that she would end up working for Harker.

  One of the things Nick liked about her was her lack of pretension. Selena didn't flaunt her money. She had no false airs of superiority because of wealth.

  He sat at the counter and watched her in the kitchen. She moved with smoothness perfected in twenty years of martial arts training. The reddish blond coloring of her hair revealed her Celtic ancestors. Her eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes deep violet. Her face was interesting. One cheekbone was a little higher than the other. She had the kind of look people called striking. There was a small dark mole on her upper lip, a natural beauty mark.

  Selena had a lot of skills, but cooking wasn't one of them. She was trying out a recipe for beef stroganoff. A pan of noodles burbled on the stove.

  "You need any help with that?"

  Nick kept the nervousness out of his voice. Selena's last two attempts to make dinner hadn't ended well. They usually ate out when they were together, or Nick fixed something.

  "No, I'm fine. How's your drink?"

  "I'm good." He picked up his whiskey, took a sip. Foam lifted off the noodles and boiled over onto the stove.

  "Darn!" She turned down the flame.

  "Won't hurt any
thing," he said.

  She took the noodles off the stove, strained them into a colander in the sink. Half of them stuck to the pan. She scooped them out and added the beef and brought everything over to the counter. It was already set with plates and napkins and silverware. She'd put a rose in a bud vase on the counter. Water in crystal glasses. A large Greek salad.

  Nick eyed the stroganoff. "What are those black things?"

  "Olives. I didn't have any pickles."

  He took a bite. The meat was like leather. His eyes watered. "Kind of hot." They both reached for water. "How much pepper did you use?"

  "It said a tablespoon. You like spicy things so I added a bit more."

  "A tablespoon." No way, he thought. "Not bad," he said. He took another gulp of water.

  "It's terrible. Damn it." She pushed her plate away.

  "Great chefs weren't made in a day. The wine's good." He leaned over and kissed her. "And you taste good. Kind of like peppered wine."

  "You taste like whiskey. With curdled sour cream."

  "Let's just eat the salad."

  When they were done they moved to a long couch where they could look out over the lights of the city. The Capitol Dome glowed white in the distance.

  "I wish it could always be like this," she said.

  "It's like this right now."

  "For how long? Something's going to come up. It always does. We still aren't certain who came after us."

  "No. We'll find out, though."

  "You think they'll try again?"

  "Yes."

  "How can we stop them?"

  "They'll make a mistake. Sooner or later, there's always a mistake. All we need is a lead. We follow that, we learn more, we keep going. Somewhere there's an end to the trail. Then we eliminate the threat."

  "We don't know what the threat is."

  He picked up his drink and gazed into the amber glow of the whiskey. He set it down.

  "We'll find out," he said again. He changed the subject. "You miss what you did before you hooked up with Harker?"

  Selena had a unique gift for ancient and obscure languages. She had a world wide reputation as an expert.

  "Sometimes. Mostly not. After this last year, I could never go back to my old life. Even with the drawbacks of working for Elizabeth."

  She stared into her wine glass. "You think you'll ever want to get out of this? Do something different?"

  "I think about it, sometimes. It would be hard to just have a normal life. Whatever that is."

  "Some things don't change, normal life or not."

  "What do you mean?"

  She set her glass down and kissed him. A long kiss.

  They broke apart. "Let's not change that," he said.

  She looked into his eyes. Gray eyes, with flecks of gold.

  They went into the bedroom and undressed. She pressed against him and wrapped her arms around him. She ran her hands over his body, feeling the geography that told his history. His right side was stippled with scars from the calf to the shoulder, the result of a grenade in Afghanistan. A puckered ridge marked where a round had passed through his upper chest. The scars were familiar to her touch. She took in his scent, tried to inhale him. She pushed him down on the bed and straddled him.

  "Tell me you love me," she said. "Tell me."

  "You know I do."

  "Tell me."

  "Yes. Yes, I love you."

  She was ready for him. She guided him in and they began moving together. Afterward, they lay for a long time in each other's arms.

  Nick fell asleep. He dreamed the dream.

  They come in low and fast over the ridge, the rotors hammering out the hard heartbeat of war.

  The village sits in a sandy valley between sharp, barren hills under a relentless sun. He's first out of the bird, his Marines fast behind. They hit the street running. On the right, low, flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market. The shoddy bins of the market are made from old crates, the walls of hanging cloth. Flies swarm on meat hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.

  A baby is crying somewhere. The street is empty.

  Bearded figures spring up like dragon's teeth on the rooftops and open fire. The market stalls turn into a storm of splinters. Plaster and rock explodes from the sides of the buildings.

  He ducks into a shallow doorway. From one of the houses, a child runs toward him with a grenade, screaming about Allah. Nick hesitates, a second too long. The boy throws as Nick shoots him. The child's head turns into a red mist of blood and bone. The grenade floats through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

  Nick shouted and sat up in the bed, slick with sweat.

  "It's all right, Nick. It's just a dream." Selena waited until she was sure he was awake before she touched him.

  He rubbed his face. "Try and go back to sleep," she said.

  "There's no point."

  He got up and waited for daylight.

  CHAPTER SEVEN

  Endgame Development was housed in a concrete and brick building off Brighton Beach Avenue. The area was a zoning nightmare. Apartment buildings and row houses butted up against commercial shops and services. Most of the business signs were in Russian and Ukrainian. Brighton Beach was known locally as "Little Odessa". It was the base for the Russian and Ukrainian Mafia in the US.

  The August day was hot and humid. Nick and Lamont sat at a grungy sidewalk cafe down the block from the building, eating Russian pastries and drinking black coffee. Sport jackets concealed their weapons. Nick had a brought a .45 caliber Sig-Sauer P229 designed for concealed carry. He was thinking about changing over from his H-K. The Sig was smaller, less obvious. It sat snugly in a holster at his side.

  No one would think they belonged in this neighborhood. They'd probably be taken for cops. Nick didn't like it, but there was no way around it.

  There was little to see at the Endgame building. A long, dull yellow wall scrawled with graffiti. A large closed metal garage door at one end. Above and to the right of the garage, a door on the second floor opened out onto a black iron walkway running along the front. The building was four stories high. Two thirds of the way across, the walkway rose in a series of steps and landings to exits on the third and fourth floors. A few small windows, dirty and closed, looked out from the second story. At the other end was another garage.

  "Doesn't look like much, " Lamont said, "for a high tech production company."

  "Not very friendly. Like the architect was inspired by the Berlin Wall."

  "Some of these guys around here probably helped build the Wall back in the good old days."

  "I don't see any cameras." Nick sipped his coffee. The coffee was old. The pastry was new. "No obvious street surveillance."

  "Neighborhood like this, there has to be something."

  "Could be an agreement with the local mob boss. Plenty of security that way."

  "Let's take a walk." Lamont tossed a few bills on the table and they got up. Inside the cafe, a rat-faced man watched them go and made a telephone call.

  In this neighborhood Lamont's skin stood out like a neon sign. People passing by gave them hard looks. A small sign in English and Cyrillic by the entrance to the building announced that Endgame Technology was on the second floor. A short flight of steps led up to double glass doors. Stairs and a freight elevator were visible through the glass.

  "How about the direct approach," Nick said. "I need to develop my game."

  "After you." They entered the building.

  The entry was dark and smelled of urine and stale beer and cigarettes. The steps were steep and dark and stained.

  "Classy," Lamont said. "Their website made this look like the Hilton."

  "Yeah, masters of illusion. That's one of their game titles."

  They climbed the stairs. On the second floor a long hall covered in cracked linoleum stretched along the length of the building. Nick counted four metal doors, all painted a dull brown. A sign on the second door read Endgame Developmen
t, LLC.

  Nick tried the handle. Locked.

  A door opened down the hall. A large, muscular man with a buzz cut walked toward them. He wore a black tee shirt, black leather sport coat, black pants and black shoes. He moved like a boxer. His face was hard and he wasn't smiling. He looked like someone who could hold his own in the UFC.

  Camera somewhere, Nick thought. Pretty good. Didn't see it.

  "I help you?" His accent was Russian or Ukrainian.

  "Sure, thanks. We're looking for Endgame Development. Got some work for them."

  Nick reached in his jacket pocket, watched the reaction. The man covered it, but Nick saw the inner flinch. He's got a piece under that coat. Nick took out a business card and handed it to him. The card said he was Nicholas Allen, Executive VP of Video Production. It gave an address in Manhattan.

  "I'm Nick Allen. This is my assistant, Lamont Cranston. We have a gaming project in mind. Endgame has been recommended. We'd like to explore possibilities with them, but they seem to be closed."

  "Da, closed. Gone to beach." The man smiled. A gold tooth gleamed in his lower jaw. "You come back tomorrow." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

  Nick heard the entry door close below, a whispered word. His ear started to itch and burn. His personal warning system, a psychic quirk that had saved him more than once.

  "Well," he said, "I'll just slip my card under here." He bent down as if to push the card under the door, grabbed the man's leg and pulled it out from under him.

  Gold tooth was quick. He hit the floor and kicked out at the same time. The blow landed on Nick's shoulder. It numbed his arm and broke the hold. Gold tooth rolled away and bounced to his feet, reaching inside his jacket. Lamont kicked out and slammed the knee. Nick heard it break. Gold tooth howled in pain. He had the gun out and fired as he went down. The bullet tugged at Nick's jacket.

  Nick caught him with a hard kick to the groin. The man screamed. The gun skittered across the floor. Lamont kicked him in the head.