The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4)

by M. C. Roberts

  Hellen laid her head on Tom’s shoulder and closed her eyes for a moment. He made her feel safe just by being there.

  3

  Camp David, country retreat of the president, Maryland

  The man pulled the woman hard against him with the last of his strength, holding her tightly, and they both moaned loudly. His mind was blank, focused entirely on never letting her go again. Seconds later, an eruption rocked the two drained, perspiring bodies, a shuddering explosion that almost drove them out of their senses.

  Exhaustion overtook them completely. The sweat poured from their naked bodies and their hearts hammered wildly against their ribs. The woman slumped onto the man’s body with a blissful smile and lay without moving, as slowly but surely their pulsating climax ebbed.

  “Thank you, Mr. President,” the woman whispered breathlessly into the panting man’s ear.

  “No, thank you, Ms. CEO,” George William Samson, the president of the United States, replied exhaustedly.

  She rolled off him to the side and they lay on their backs, gazing at the ceiling. “I didn’t think I’d ever get used to this,” she said, slowly starting to catch her breath.

  “Get used to what?”

  “Sex. Like this. With four Secret Service agents standing outside the door making sure no one tries to attack you while you’re fucking my brains out.” She paused and looked at him intently. “As only the leader of the free world can.”

  President Samson didn’t really know what to say to that, but the chime of his mobile phone saved him from having to. He looked at the display.

  “Armstrong,” he said, although she could have guessed as much.

  “Your chief of staff knows your every move, doesn’t he? So he also knows what you’re up to right now.” The thought startled her. “Christ, that’s something else I’ve had to get used to. Can’t the man wait a few minutes?”

  “Until we’re finished, you mean?” Samson looked back at Yasmine Matthews, CEO of NutriAm, and smiled.

  “Exactly,” she said, grinning. “Until Mr. President is finished.”

  They both laughed, and Samson read the message from his chief of staff.

  “It’s about my re-election. We need a strategy, and the sooner the better,” the president said.

  “But it’s still three years away.”

  “That’s a very short time when you’re talking about a U.S. presidential election,” Samson explained as he disappeared beneath the blanket. She playfully pushed his head away from her belly.

  “Mr. President, duty calls.”

  He sat up with feigned exasperation and looked at her, pouting like a little boy who’s had his favorite toy taken away from him.

  “I think I have an idea,” she said, her voice suddenly cool and calculating.

  “An idea for what? How I can tell my watchdog and chief of staff, Armstrong, that I’m not coming to the meeting?”

  “No. How to make sure you get re-elected.”

  The president’s expression changed instantly. “What do you mean?”

  “Maybe I’m getting ahead of myself. A week ago, we had another confidential meeting of the country’s leading food companies.”

  Samson raised his hands. “Sorry, I don’t want to hear it. I don’t want to know anything about price fixing or whatever other antitrust escapades you indulge in.”

  She laid her index finger on his lips, then kissed him.

  “Don’t worry, that’s not what it’s about. You won’t be compromised. We’re all on your side, and we’ve done no more than start brainstorming ways we can support you—in addition to our substantial donations, of course. We also think long-term.”

  She ran her hand playfully through his hair and kissed him passionately. Her mouth wandered down his throat and on to his chest. Pleasurably, slowly, she traced a path unerringly toward his lower regions.

  “And what did this brainstorming come up with?” Samson groaned, although his head was somewhere else entirely.

  “I didn’t get to be CEO by gossiping about half-baked plans,” she said, kissing his navel. “You’ll have to be patient a little longer.” Samson’s phone beeped a second time. Yasmine, halfway down his body, looked at the annoying device dispiritedly. “With that, too,” she said, and she sat up and got out of bed.

  “Don’t keep me in suspense too long,” he said.

  “I thought you liked it,” Yasmine replied flippantly. “I’m just going to jump in the shower.”

  She went to the bathroom, and Samson followed her with his eyes. He was suddenly struck by a pang of conscience. His wife had passed away just a year before. Was it too soon to get caught up in another relationship? Was it all right to start an affair, to have a little fun, so soon after such a devastating loss? When was he supposed to tell his daughter, Bethany, about it? Should he tell her at all?

  His brain was beginning to pick up speed again; the brief respite offered by his tryst with Yasmine was over.

  If there was any chance the food industry could ensure his re-election, he had to take it. Of course, publicly, everything had to be above board. In the past, entire campaigns had been derailed because trivialities, like his affair with Yasmine, had been leaked. But that’s what he had Armstrong for. He would make sure that everything stayed kosher.

  With no warning at all, memories of his deceased wife, Sloane, returned. And of the promise he had made her. He and Sloane had first met as college students at a campaign rally for Al Gore. Back then, she was an ardent young warrior in the fight against the gun lobby. And like him, she had stood at the threshold of a huge political career—a career that, for his sake, she had put on hold.

  Back then, they had made a crazy pact. If he ever became president, he would devote his entire second term, if he got one, to one thing: dismantling the gun lobby and tightening gun laws. Sloane’s brother had been killed by a madman on a rampage with an assault weapon. Ever since, she’d campaigned tirelessly for gun control.

  He had promised her that, and had reaffirmed his promise twice: at their wedding and at her deathbed. Samson knew that it would be a long, hard battle to make her wish come true and to complete her mission. But she had earned it. Of course, he had a second iron in the fire, too.

  His phone rang. Chief of Staff Armstrong seemed no longer content just to send text messages. President Samson answered the call.

  “I’m already on my way, Jordan.” He looked out the window to see Marine One landing in the garden.

  “Thank you, Mr. President. It’s very important.”

  4

  Three days earlier, Genesis Program, Cornwall, England

  Dr. Sienna Wilson leaned on the railing of the narrow bamboo bridge and gazed down pensively into the stream sparkling beneath. The oppressive humidity did not bother her at all. In fact, she loved this climate. For the first time in two years, she was standing in the middle of the biggest indoor rainforest in the world again. After her return from Central America, she hadn’t set foot inside the rainforest dome once. The traumatic loss of her research team ran deep, and still gave her nightmares. But with the help of her therapist, she had come a long way.

  After a few minutes, she returned to the entrance. This place was at its most beautiful in the early mornings—until the tourists started swarming in, at which point the idyll transformed into Disneyland.

  She left the dome, boarded her Segway, and rolled through the lush green paradise of the surrounding park and up to the research center located above the larger dome. There was a shortcut she could take, but Sienna enjoyed this morning ride through the verdant wonderland. She looked up and saw one of her colleagues zooming past in midair.

  “Morning, Sienna,” the man called. He waved as he flew overhead, crossing the grounds on England’s longest zip line. Every morning, he tested his equipment before the paying guests were snapped into their harnesses.

  When Sienna entered the laboratory wing, she shivered. England wasn’t the warmest of countries, of course, but th
ere in the laboratories, the air conditioners were still working overtime. Moving directly from the tropical dome to the research center was quite a shock. She moved through the labyrinth of white passages until she reached her lab, slid her key card through the scanner, and stepped inside.

  She knew immediately that something was wrong. It was too quiet. She pulled on her white lab coat and hurried to the rat cages. For a moment, Sienna’s breath caught in her throat. It was a horrific sight. The five lab rats she had requested especially for this project lay lifeless on the floor of the cage, torn apart. Covered in blood. They looked as if they had bitten each other to death.

  But what had happened? She glanced at the observation camera she had set up to watch the rats in her absence, then quickly turned to her laptop and called up the recordings. She scrolled back to the moment when she had mixed the plant extract into the rats’ water and watched in horror as the rats began to attack one another shortly afterward. It was a gruesome spectacle. Repulsed, she closed the laptop. What had happened?

  She had to get to the bottom of it. She immediately carried out an autopsy on one of the rats; within hours, she had her answer. And it was far from pleasant. Exhausted, she sat on one of the rolling stools and stared at the results of the computer analysis, her mind racing. Was this what Otto Hahn had felt when he discovered how to split the nucleus of an atom? Had he also known what his discovery would mean for the future of humanity, what terrible things people would do with it? When Sienna finally dragged herself out of her gloomy thoughts, she realized that she had been sitting at her computer, unmoving, for far too long.

  What was she supposed to do? The properties of this plant extract could change the world forever. She had to sleep on it. One night, then she would decide what her next step would be.

  The following morning, after her usual stroll through the dome, Sienna had made up her mind. She hurried to her laboratory to gather the papers she wanted to show to her boss, Dr. Orlov. But as she drew her key card through the scanner, she got a rude surprise: the card no longer functioned. “Access denied,” she read on the display above the scanner each time she tried.

  Finally, Sienna gave up and strode off furiously to her boss’s office. She raised her hand to knock, but paused. She could hear Dr. Orlov’s voice through the door. He was talking to someone on the phone. She listened.

  “ . . . it is beyond belief. The properties are simply unprecedented, and the applications are limitless. I’ll send you the documents as soon as I’ve gathered everything. You can send my fee directly to my Caymans account.”

  Stunned, Sienna leaned against the wall behind the office door when Dr. Orlov emerged. Had that really just happened? As the door swung closed, Sienna stepped forward.

  “What did it take to buy you?” she asked from behind the professor’s back. Startled, her boss swung around. Pale as chalk, he looked Dr. Wilson in the eye. She glared back at him. “You’re the head of this laboratory. Aren’t the thousands of pounds you get paid every month enough? Do you have to peddle your employees’ work to the highest bidder, too?” Taken aback, Orlov just stood there. Sienna slapped him hard across the face. “Do you even know what you’ve just sold? Don’t you care at all what this substance is capable of in the wrong hands?”

  Orlov was able to fend off the second slap. He grabbed Sienna’s wrist and held it in an iron grip. “Dr. Wilson, you’re fired.” With his free hand, he took out his portable phone and dialed a number. “Send two men to my office, now,” he said into the phone, then hung up.

  Sienna tried to twist free of her boss’s painful grasp, but in vain. She beat her other hand against his chest. “Let me go. You’re going to regret this,” she hissed.

  Dr. Orlov grabbed her other wrist, pulled her closer and snarled into her ear: “No one will ever believe you, sweetheart. You had a nervous breakdown after you came into contact with toxic substances. And your little trauma two years ago, the visits to your therapist—they all support my story much more than yours. So do yourself a favor and hold your tongue. A few calls is all I need to end your career.” He paused, unable to suppress a self-satisfied grin. “Understood?”

  When the two security men turned the corner, he let her go. Sienna rubbed her wrists where Orlov had held her.

  “Escort Dr. Wilson off the premises. She’s just been fired. We’ll arrange for her things to be sent to her.”

  “You’ll be sorry,” Sienna shouted after Dr. Orlov, who had already turned away and disappeared around the next corner. “Get your hands off me,” she snapped at one of the security men as he tried to take hold of her arm. “I know my way out.”

  With her head held high, Sienna walked in front of the two security guards, who followed her dutifully to her car.

  She had to think of something, had to tell someone what had happened. Someone would believe her. But it was going to be difficult without any proof.

  Then she had an idea. She started her car and drove onto the A390, heading for London.

  5

  Secret prison complex, New Mexico

  Ossana Ibori was disappointed. And furious—at herself. The last weeks had taken their toll on her. Physically and mentally, she was exhausted. And that was the source of her anger: she couldn’t believe how soft she had become.

  She’d been a proud woman once, but that pride had not been her birthright. She had grown up in extreme poverty in South Africa, one of eight children and only two girls, and from birth she was condemned to servitude and misery. She could no longer remember the deprivation and abuse she’d had to endure as a child and as a young woman, nor did she want to. She had known only one thing: no one in the world had ever been able to break her, no one had ever forced her to her knees, and no one would ever rule over her. Where that inner strength had come from back then, she did not know.

  Not from God, certainly. As far as she was concerned, God did not exist. If He did, there wouldn’t be so much cruelty in this world. But Ossana had been destined for bigger things. She had freed herself—from her family, from the laws of her tribe, from the obstacles put in her way. She had fought through it all alone, and had reached a point where she no longer believed that anything in life could be easy. Until the day she met the Leader and he adopted her. She was eternally grateful to him and would forever be in his debt.

  But recent weeks had made her realize that the luxury yacht, the fast cars and the expensive clothes had done her no good. The five-star hotels, the first-class flights—all the comforts that she had enjoyed because of the Leader and her mission for AF had also turned her into a pathetic shadow of what she’d once been. As a child, if she had been as weak as she now felt, she would never have broken out of the hell of South Africa, never killed her biological father or escaped from her brutal tribal brothers.

  She heard someone tap in the ten-digit code for her cell door. The lock beeped and the door sprang open. Three guards stepped into the cell. Two held automatic weapons trained on her while the other snapped shackles on her wrists and ankles without a word. After the interrogations of the previous week, she knew what was coming. And she suddenly realized why she was so angry at herself: she was afraid.

  6

  Bar in Kulibin Park Hotel, Nizhny Novgorod

  Hellen closed her eyes and listened to the music. She loved Cole Porter, and “I’ve Got You Under my Skin” was one of her all-time favorites. Goosebumps stole up the back of her neck as she opened her eyes and looked around.

  The patrons had all left. Only the barman remained, leaning tiredly on the counter. And Tom was still there, of course, sitting at the piano. It was his mother who had taught him how to play the piano, Hellen knew. Back then, when she had heard him play for the first time, she’d been utterly bewildered: his sensitive, almost fragile playing style had nothing in common with the rough-and-ready, crude, occasionally cold and brutal man she knew. It was these contradictions that so fascinated her.

  But it wasn’t just the song. His presence was getting u
nder her skin as well. So much had happened between them in recent months. When they had met again in Vienna after a long time apart, she hadn’t thought for a moment that Tom would ever mean something in her life again. But then one thing after another had happened: in Malta, Barcelona, Alexandria, Washington, Ethiopia. And now here they were, deep in Russia, and she felt closer to him than she ever had before. Tom lingered on the last, wistful chords of the song, his foot on the sustain pedal. It felt like forever before the final notes died away, and as it did so Tom swiveled around and looked her in the eye.

  “Excuse me, I not like disturb,” said the barkeeper in broken English, his voice demolishing the moment, taking Hellen and even Tom by surprise. Both frowning, they turned to the man. “I have to do my cash. I leave you for few minutes, yes?”

  The question was purely rhetorical—he was already moving from behind the bar and heading for the exit.

  Tom smiled at Hellen.

  “Now’s our chance for a drink on the house. François’s taught me a trick or two.”

  For a second, Hellen regretted that the moment had been so rudely interrupted, but then she smiled back. “Surprise me with your cocktail artistry,” she said.

  “A White Russian for m’lady?” Tom asked playfully. He’d already fetched the cream from the refrigerator and was checking out the mixing options. Hellen had left her table and was now sitting on a stool at the bar. She was watching Tom at work when the phone on the wall at the end of the bar began to ring.

  Tom ignored it. He poured vodka and coffee liqueur into a tumbler over ice cubes, then inverted a spoon and slowly poured the thickened cream over it and into the glass. The telephone continued to ring. Tom jabbed a short straw into the glass, laid a cocktail napkin on the bar and set the drink in front of Hellen. She smiled at him. The telephone rang and rang.