by Jack Bowie
Walker glanced over at Chu who nodded. “I called Karen last week after I read about Adam. We got together and complained about these three testosterone junkies we know.” Fowler tried his best to sink into his chair. “With Adam gone, Cerberus was losing business and she thought maybe a woman’s touch would help. So she offered me a job. A prerogative Adam gave her if he was … unavailable.”
“But what about DIA? What did they say?”
Walker smiled. Fowler remembered the full lips and perfectly straight, sparkling white teeth. That seductive expression had fooled many an enemy of DIA when Walker had been undercover.
“The Defense Intelligence Agency and I came to a mutual understanding that we didn’t really work well anymore,” she explained. “I got an honorable discharge at the end of my tour. Figured it was time to finally get a real job. And, as you may remember, I do have some background in computer forensics. Now, what about Adam?”
Fowler couldn’t delay this any longer. It was time to confess.
“Roger sent me home this morning,” he began. “He said Adam had been vindicated. I got confirmation from my contact in Cambridge PD after I landed.”
“That’s great!” Chu exclaimed. “When is he—?”
“Where is Adam?” Walker interrupted. She did have a knack for getting to the bottom of a problem.
“I don’t know. Roger sent him somewhere safe.”
Fowler could see the concern on his friends’ faces. “Where is Roger?” Walker asked.
“I don’t know. He hasn’t answered his cell all day.”
Chu dropped her head in her hands. She started to sob.
Walker rubbed her lip. “I think it’s time to start at the beginning, Sam.”
Fowler spent the next fifteen minutes describing his trip to Cambridge, his meetings with CPD and the revelation about ChildSafe.
“What does all this have to do with Adam?” Walker finally asked.
“I don’t know,” Fowler replied. “That’s something Roger isn’t telling me.”
Chu raised her head. Her eyes were scarlet. “There’s a surprise.”
“I thought everything was fixed,” Fowler added. “Now I’m not so sure.”
”What can we do?” Chu whispered.
“What I do is call in some IOUs,” Walker replied.
Chapter 29
Outside of Geneva, Switzerland
Tuesday, 6:30 a.m.
Braxton awoke to the shouts of Rockwell’s children on the exercise field. He shook away the cobwebs in his head and crawled over the cold dirt to the pillar. The lack of nourishment was definitely taking its toll. His hands were wrinkled from dehydration, his head echoed with a constant pounding and his stomach burned with acid. He wanted to be positive, but the possibility of a successful escape was dimming rapidly.
He could now barely tell if the nail was more exposed than when he started. He was sure it was, but his mind wasn’t clear enough to tell how much.
He assumed his position and began.
Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull.
Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull—.
It moved!
He actually felt the motion. It was that close.
He pulled his legs up until his feet were braced against the pillar and pushed as hard as he could.
Up, down. Up, down. Left, right. Left, right. Pull.
Suddenly the nail released, and he spun head over heels across the floor, landing hard on the back of his head. The adrenaline he had built up rapidly dissipated and he felt like he was about to pass out.
He sat up and ducked his head between his knees, a position he had learned in basic training. Slowly his head cleared. It was then he realized he didn’t have the nail.
Where was it?
He scanned the room—enough light filtered through the door that he could at least see—but nothing lay on the dirt floor. Panicking, he started crawling over the room, scraping in the dirt for his treasure.
Two minutes later he had found it buried in a pile of loose dirt where the outside wall met the floor.
It was an ancient box nail, over three inches long and almost a quarter inch thick. The point was dulled, but still serviceable for Braxton’s needs.
He shuffled back to his corner to rest and prepare for the next step of his plan.
* * *
The flight from Boston to Heathrow had been delayed, of course, so Slattery had missed his connection to Geneva. He had gotten a seat on a later plane and had finally arrived at three o’clock. Half an hour later he was sitting in the third-floor office of commercial attaché Terrence Jacobs, aka the CIA’s Chief of Station in Geneva, in the US Mission.
The Mission was a modern concrete and glass structure sitting on a hill overlooking Ariana Park, a sprawling public area in the northern section of Geneva. Inside the park stood the Palais de Nations, a majestic limestone edifice built to host the original League of Nations. The Palais now served as United Nations office in Geneva, and was a hub of UN and NGO activities, hosting thousands of international meetings every year.
And a popular site for the gathering of clandestine intelligence.
“I certainly wasn’t expecting a visit from the Chief of Counterterrorism when I got up this morning, Roger. I hope there’s not a threat at the Palais.”
“Nothing like that, Terry. It’s about that request I made yesterday.” Jacobs was a bright, enthusiastic agent Slattery had met at a couple of D.C. cocktail parties. He was thin with wiry brown hair and piercing green eyes. In many ways, he reminded Slattery of a younger Peter Markovsky.
“We still haven’t heard anything from your Mr. Greystone, Roger. I did send an inquiry to the Geneva Canton Police. They said they would put out their version of an APB, but I haven’t heard anything back. Is this important?”
Slattery was again faced with the damnable dilemma of need-to-know.
Oh, well. “In for a dime, in for a dollar,” as his father used to say.
“Honestly, Terry, yes. Mr. Greystone is a civilian who we believe stepped into the path of the group responsible for the Middle East assassinations.”
Jacobs’ surprise was evident. “They’re in Geneva?”
“We now think so.” Slattery realized that the “we” he was using amounted only to him. That limb he was sitting on just got thinner.
“How can I help?” Jacobs asked with a bit more excitement than Slattery would have liked. He didn’t need a high-profile search that would raise unwanted attention.
“This actor is holding a group of children, ten or so, that it is using in the assassinations. They have to have a base that would support a core staff and training of the children. It would be a long shot, but can you check property acquisitions—farms, large buildings—over the past five years?”
“Okay, but is that all the information you have? I hope you at least have a name?”
“You can try Henry Rockwell, but I doubt that’s what he’d use. See if anything comes up with ‘Nod’.”
“Nod?” Jacobs asked, cocking his head.
“Yeah. Don’t ask.”
* * *
When Braxton heard the bar being lifted from the door, he stretched out and lay face down in the dirt. His timing had to be perfect.
Samson walked into the room and, seeing his prisoner inert on the ground, behaved exactly as Braxton had expected.
“What’s the matter asshole? You tired? Get the hell up!” Samson punctuated the order with a kick to Braxton’s exposed hip.
He winced from the pain but didn’t move.
“Then I guess we’ll do this my way.” Samson grabbed the back of his prisoner’s collar and pulled him up like he was lifting a stray dog. Braxton feigned standing, then weakened his legs with the anticipated result.
Samson slammed his arms around Braxton’s chest and squeezed. “You worthless piece of shit. I’m gonna break you in two.”
Braxton again smelled garlic and cigarette smoke. So far so good.
He straightened his right arm and pushed the point of the nail—which had been hidden in his hand—between his fingers, keeping the nail’s head against his palm. He had to be perfect. A centimeter one way or the other and he was dead.
“You first,” he whispered.
He could barely breathe, but he willed himself to stay calm. Then he gathered his strength, swung his arm up and drove the nail into Samson’s neck, just in front of the thick “strap” muscle that ran from below Samson’s ear to his collarbone. He prayed he remembered his crash military medic course.
Samson’s eyes burst wide but there was no scream and no release from the vise-like hold.
That was when Braxton yanked the nail out of the soft tissue.
A geyser of dark red blood erupted from the wound and exploded against the stone wall next to them. It stopped, then pulsed again. He had hit the carotid artery.
Samson jerked from side to side; starved of oxygen his mind was now unable to control his body. After five seconds, he simply fell backward. Braxton fell with him, landing hard on the dirt floor.
The geyser of blood had slowed to a trickle.
Braxton rolled off his captor and sat up. He wanted nothing more than to lean back and rest, but his window of opportunity was narrow. There was no telling when Samson would be missed.
All he had thought of since his capture was the plan, the steps that would enable him to escape. There were things he had seen, things that might stop the assassinations. He didn’t give a damn about Slattery. About how the spook had put his life in danger. He was going to show all of them.
It was now time for his diversion.
He pulled Samson away from the pool of blood and leaned him against one of the timber posts. Braxton then began the transformation from filthy prisoner to arrogant mercenary. He stripped off his dirt-encrusted clothes, put on Samson’s pants, shirt and jacket, and laced up the much more functional combat boots. The man was about the same height as Braxton but much stockier. The result was sloppy and awkward, but passable from a distance. If anyone got close, it wouldn’t matter.
He found a well-oiled Glock 9mm stuffed in the small of Samson’s back. Apparently, Samson had had no concern about his ability to handle his prisoner. Braxton slid the weapon into the same place.
Staring at the near-naked body on the floor, Braxton saw how appropriate the man’s name had been. In addition to his black mane, the rest of Samson’s body was covered in thick, dark hair. He looked like an ape dressed in underwear.
Braxton then ran his hands through his new clothes looking for what he needed.
Samson’s pockets held a small pocket knife, a pack of Gitano cigarettes, a wallet with a handful of Euro notes, and last, but most importantly, a Bic propane lighter.
He needed to find something to burn. There was nothing in his cell combustible except the creosote-soaked timbers. If he could just get them hot enough they would give off the smoke he needed. But he would need something much more than the flame from the lighter. The cigarettes were a start.
He grabbed his old clothes and piled them around the base of the timber. Then he placed the pack of Gitanos under the pile.
Now he walked over to the open cellar door and peeked out. Long shadows stretched across the empty training field. The winding gravel driveway he remembered wrapped around the house and disappeared into the woods. Two guards swinging AK-47s paced the perimeter. About what he expected.
He studied the sentries’ tours. Despite his newfound disguise, he couldn’t afford to have them close enough to be recognized. As he watched, he saw the Colonel was off his game. The remoteness and relative safety of the farm led to complacency. Even Braxton knew that varying sentry schedules and tracks were critical to maintaining high security. These two drones mechanically paced each side of the house, met at the front entrance then reversed direction and went back the same path.
Braxton knew he couldn’t get from the cellar to the safety of the tree line while their backs were turned. In his current condition, he just wasn’t that fast. He had to get them out of the way.
He watched as they met and turned, then he hurried to the back of the cellar. The timing had to be just right. He held the lighter to the pack of cigarettes and clicked it on. Nothing.
Click. Still nothing. Dammit!
Soon they would be missing Samson. They’d come to find him.
He shook the lighter until his arm ached.
Click.
A weak blue flame emerged from the plastic container. It flickered and the corner of the pack glowed. Braxton blew a light breath on the tiny luminescence and it became brighter. He continued to nurse the Gitanos. The glow gained strength, finally engulfing the pack in flames. The flames grabbed at the clothes and soon the pile was burning brightly.
Heavy, dark smoke began curling around the timber and filling the room. Braxton coughed and it felt like a spear was being driven into his chest. It was time to get away.
He returned to the door. The sentries had again met at the front of the house and were going back toward the rear.
He turned back to the fire and saw that the flames had ignited the hair on Samson’s body. Between the fire, acrid smoke and nauseating odor, the cell had turned into a scene from Dante’s Inferno. At any other time, he would have been repulsed by the sight, but his only thought now was on escape.
Braxton’s focus went to the guards. When they were halfway around, he left the protection of the cellar overhang and ran, as best he could, toward the driveway. Once he had gotten far enough toward the front of the property to see them both, he yelled.
“Fire,” he shouted to the sentries, pointing toward the smoke now billowing from the cellar door. “Get the extinguishers!” The sentries stopped and turned around. But they didn’t move any further. He had to get them moving. “It’s a fire, dammit,” Braxton repeated, again pointing to the smoke. “We’ve got to put it out. What are you waiting for?”
The sentries hesitated, then ran to the door of the farmhouse. Braxton could see no one else in the twilight and once they were out of sight, he limped down the driveway to the darkness of the forest.
Chapter 30
Outside of Geneva, Switzerland
Tuesday, 5:30 p.m.
Rockwell held the review in the cellar. Lanterns had been brought in to evaluate the damage. The dirt floor was muddy and slick from pails of water that had been brought down from the kitchen. Rockwell’s lieutenants stood uncomfortably in the muck shifting their stance from foot to foot. At the base of one of the thick posts, the apparent source of the fire was covered in a wet foam residue, the result of chemical extinguishers brought by the sentries. The body looked like an over-sized piece of fried chicken.
“Serves him right,” commented a burly soldier. It was Carlos Lopez, one of the sentries. “What the hell did he think starting a fire in here?”
Rockwell ignored the comment and continued his examination of the room. His lack of response quieted the comments from his men. This was an error, a miscalculation. He had wanted to starve the damn consultant and then drop his emaciated body on Slattery’s doorstep. That would teach him to use amateurs in a professionals’ game.
Slattery had always thought he was smarter than everyone else. He’d flaunt his youth and his new ideas to the suits. What had he known about the realities of conflict? He was just another civilian playing at espionage. Well, they had thrown Rockwell out and the world had gone straight to hell. They all deserved what they were going to get. And even Slattery wasn’t smart enough to stop it.
The loss of the amateur angered him. He could still punish Slattery because the body could be identified from the remains, but the impact would be less. This was just another corpse. Why had Braxton started the fire? Did he hope to escape?
An uncomfortable cloud darkened his thoughts. “Where’s Samson?” he barked.
The room was silent as his men looked blankly at each other.
“Has anyone seen him?” Rockwell yel
led. He felt a burning rage engulf him.
“He was supposed to be delivering dinner,” answered Penrose. “Who saw him last?”
“I guess I did,” said Lopez hesitantly. As he spoke, the other mercenaries stepped slightly aside opening a clear line of sight between him and their commander. “He was running out of here yelling ‘fire.’ That’s when we headed for the extinguishers upstairs.”
“Then where did he go?” Rockwell’s eyes drilled into the mercenary.
“I guess to warn the others,” Lopez mumbled cautiously. The space between him and his colleagues widened.
“But you don’t know for sure?” Rockwell’s tone grew increasingly menacing. The smell of fear rose in the room. “You just left your post and he disappeared.”
“Sir. I … I was trying to help with the fire.” Lopez’ attempt at bravado failed completely. “Samson must be around somewhere.”
“Oh, he is,” Rockwell replied slowly. His hand fell to his side. “He’s very close. And now you’re about to join him.” His expression never changed as his arm rose, Sig Sauer in his hand, and he put a round in Lopez’ forehead. The report echoed through the small cell as Lopez fell backward into the mud.
“William, get this room cleaned up,” Rockwell ordered. His face was beet red and the muscles of his neck rolled over his shirt’s starched collar.
He turned to the rest of the men. “William, put a team together and find that bastard civilian. Now!” With a wave of his hand, the group parted and Rockwell strode to the door. “I’m going to send his body parts back in a shoe box.”
* * *
Braxton stood at the end of Rue du Vieux-Collége gazing down the length of Rue du Purgatoire. It had only been an hour since he had escaped from Nod. When he had reached the end of the gravel driveway he had found a narrow macadam road. He had turned to the right—following the direction his captors had taken when they had brought him to the farm—and walked slowly along the road, ready to jump into the adjoining woods should he see anyone following him.
Night had come quickly and he had struggled to navigate the terrain while watching for possible assistance. The adrenaline of the escape had long dissipated and he felt a weariness deep in his bones.