“Before I conjure up a whiskey sour for myself, let’s have a little peace and quiet,” said Tom. He went to the phone, picked it up and dropped it back onto its hook. “Let there be silence,” he said with a grin and began looking around for a good bottle of bourbon.
The telephone rang again.
Hellen tilted her head to one side and looked at Tom. “If this goes on much longer, my drink will get warm and you can forget your tip,” she said with an impish smile.
Irritated, Tom strode to the phone and picked it up.
“Hello?”
“In front of you is the remote control for the TV on the wall,” said a voice with a strong Russian accent. “Turn it on.”
The caller had already hung up. Mystified, Tom looked at Hellen.
“Who was it?” she asked.
Tom reached for the remote. “He said to turn on the TV.”
“How romantic,” Hellen teased.
The flat-screen TV sprang to life. On CNN, a report about wildfires in Central America was just finishing, and the anchorman moved on to the WHO conference in London. The camera swung across the crowd and zoomed in on the director-general of the WHO. At the same moment, Tom and Hellen saw who was standing directly behind him.
7
Camp David, country retreat of the president, Maryland
“I didn’t say a word, sir!”
Chief of Staff Jordan Armstrong raised his hands defensively as President George William Samson took his seat in the beige leather chair bearing the presidential seal. They were aboard Marine One, the president’s helicopter, and the two Secret Service men accompanying the president took their seats at the other end of the cabin.
“But you said it very loudly, Jordan,” Samson said. He thought his chief of staff was eyeing him a little judgmentally.
The modified Sikorsky VH-3 took off and joined two identical helicopters, which flanked Marine One as they flew.
“It’s been a year,” Samson said. “I think the American people will learn sooner or later to get used to the idea that I’ve got a girlfriend.”
“Not when it comes to your re-election, Mr. President. Your focus should be on nothing but the election and your objectives. A sex scandal is the last thing we need, and—with all due respect—least of all with a CEO who is under constant fire because of her corporation.”
“I see. Well, what’s so important that you felt you had to interrupt my brief return to normal life? And why couldn’t it wait for the daily briefing?” Samson asked.
“The NSA picked up a phone call.” Armstrong pushed a file marked “Top Secret” across the folding table set up between them.
“You don’t say. That’s one for the books,” Samson said ironically. Smiling, he accepted the file from Armstrong and opened it to find a photograph of an attractive woman and a few loose documents: scientific papers and chemical analyses.
“We don’t know much. In 2018, in a jungle in Central America, a young botanist, Sienna Wilson”—Armstrong leaned forward and tapped on the photograph—“rediscovered a plant that many thought had died out long ago. The research team behind the discovery perished in mysterious circumstances, all except for Wilson and her boss. They were the only survivors, and Wilson has spent the last two years researching the plant.”
“And why exactly are we interested in a plant?” Samson asked, furrowing his brow.
“It shows enormous potential. We are very close to having a new biological weapon out there to deal with. You can imagine what that would mean in the wrong hands.”
Armstrong paused to let his last words sink in. President Samson raised his eyebrows and leafed through the file.
“The NSA alerted us to the situation after they picked up a phone call from one of the leading scientists of the Genesis Program, Dr. Emanuel Orlov. Unfortunately, so far, they haven’t been able to trace whoever was on the other end. They seem to have used some kind of extremely advanced encryption. So we don’t know who Dr. Orlov was passing information to.”
“So, you’re telling me that Great Britain—our most important ally—is home to some scientists who, by pure chance, have stumbled onto a new kind of biological agent and that apparently they’re about to sell it to the highest bidder? Have I understood you correctly?” Samson leaned forward and looked keenly at Armstrong.
“Yes, sir.”
“I’ll be sitting across from the British Prime Minister at the WHO summit. What do you suggest I say to her?”
Samson looked steadily at Armstrong, who took his time answering. As an advisor to the most powerful man in the world, his advice had to be carefully thought through.
“Nothing, sir. Don’t tell her anything,” Armstrong said. “We need to get our own hands on this substance as soon as we can, ally or not. While we’re at it, we should also get rid of every bit of information about it. No one else can be allowed to get hold of it.”
“What are you saying?”
“We could have a CIA team on site in two days. No one will ever find out about it.”
Now it was President Samson’s turn to think. He turned away from Armstrong and gazed out the window.
“No. Too risky. What would happen if something went wrong? Thanks to my fake-tanned predecessor, our relationship with the UK is already hanging by a thread. The last thing we need now is to get caught trying to run a CIA operation on British soil.”
“But sir, what alternative do we have? We have to do something, and we have to do it fast.”
Samson’s position had taken Armstrong by surprise. He had never opposed black ops in the past. Why now, when the subject matter was so incendiary?
“We need one hundred percent deniability. We cannot allow ourselves to provoke an international incident. Not now. Leave it to me.”
Armstrong looked at the president in disbelief. What did he mean by “leave it to me”? In all the years that Armstrong, one way or another, had served the office, no president had ever said anything like that.
“Thank you, Jordan,” said Samson, preempting any further commentary that Armstrong might have felt the need to share. President Samson went back to gazing out the window as Marine One prepared to land in Arlington. Air Force One stood ready for takeoff on the tarmac, waiting to fly the president and his entourage to the WHO congress in London.
8
Aboard a yacht, St. Katherine Docks, near Tower Bridge, London, England
Even now, Noah Pollock could hardly believe it. Again and again, he stood up and paced back and forth across the deck. Then he went downstairs to the luxury cabins and climbed up to the yacht’s viewing platform, on the same level as the helideck. Everywhere he went, he kept looking down at his legs. The operation was already a few weeks behind him, but it still brought tears to his eyes. For years, he’d been stuck in a wheelchair. For years, he’d been a cripple, forced to watch others do his job for him. And in the course of those years, he had learned to hate the man whose fault it was: Tom Wagner.
It had been a joint operation, and Tom had gotten sloppy. Noah had been seriously injured and ended up in a wheelchair. Shunted aside. Condemned to sit at a computer in an office.
It was no surprise that he’d jumped at the opportunity when it was offered to him. No surprise that he’d grasped at a straw, that he’d been ready to do anything to be able to walk again. The organization had made him a promise, and the organization had delivered.
Now it was his turn to show the Leader his gratitude and humility. And once again, there was a lot riding on it. An ambitious plan, far more ambitious than the operations in Barcelona and Ethiopia had been. Certain steps had to be taken, decisions made, the right pieces positioned on the chessboard.
He saw the Kahle, his hairless skull striking even at this distance, approaching from the side of the City Quay luxury apartments that enclosed the exclusive harbor at St. Katherine Docks. During his time with Mossad, Noah had had dealings with the man, although back then they had been adversaries. And he had learned that i
t was not pleasant at all to have him and his brother against you.
Now, however, they were united, fighting together for the organization known as AF—Absolute Freedom—and for their Leader, whom Noah still had not met face to face. Noah’s new team was unique in one glorious detail: they shared a common enemy, Tom Wagner. Not only was Wagner responsible for Noah’s years in the wheelchair, he had killed the Kahle’s twin brother. Wagner would pay. And everyone on his fucking team would pay with him.
The Kahle boarded the yacht and he and Noah nodded to one another.
“Drink?” Noah offered.
“No alcohol,” the Kahle stated flatly, almost reproachfully.
Noah shrugged, and the two men took their seats at the round table on the deck, from which a monitor flipped up at the push of a button. Noah made adjustments to the terminal from his smartphone, and a few seconds later the monitor screen split into three sections. One showed the AF symbol, while the other two remained black.
“One minute,” said Noah. “You’ll be happy to hear that we’ve given our mutual friend Wagner a spot in the plan. But only at the end, so he can’t screw things up.”
The Kahle man’s face showed no reaction. “I only want to avenge my brother. But don’t worry, I won’t let my desire for revenge get in the way. Work first, pleasure second.”
The circular indicators in the right-hand corners of the screens, which had showed red until now, suddenly flicked to green: the three participants were now online and the speech distortion was functioning. Noah was redirecting the audio conference through hundreds of proxy servers located all over the world, and using highly complex algorithms to distort the voices of the participants in real time—no voice recognition software in the world would be able to identify them. It was one of the first things Noah had introduced when he joined AF, and he was damned proud to be able to stick it to the NSA and their cronies with his technological prowess.
“Let’s get straight to business,” said the Leader’s voice. “This is a complex plan, and I hope you all know what needs to be done.”
“Absolutely,” Noah replied without hesitation. As he spoke, his icon changed color to green, signaling who had spoken. The other two participants, like Noah, also affirmed.
“Our first priority is the plant,” the Leader went on. “We now know almost everything about it, but one thing isn’t clear. We’re still missing a crucial ingredient and we don’t yet know how to get it.”
“Leave that to me, sir,” Noah said. “Count Palffy’s papers can probably help, and I’ll reactivate my old contacts in Vienna.”
“Good. Friedrich, your job is to make sure we get our hands on the plant,” said the Leader. “With the briefing I sent you today, that should not prove difficult.”
“Consider it done,” the Kahle said.
“Once all of that has been taken care of, Wagner is yours.”
“I appreciate that, sir.”
“Are things progressing in the White House?”
A voice with a broad southern U.S. accent drawled: “Yessir. As you know, we’ve been working on the implementation for some time. We’re taking a long-term view; the web we’re spinning won’t be finished in a few days. Everyone’s at their post and we’ve got our people in all of the administrative positions we need to make it happen.”
“Then all that remains is the final step.” Noah knew immediately what the Leader was referring to. “The situation has become intolerable and I will see to it personally that this is put right. It will be a hollow victory without all of our allies involved.”
A second later, the Leader’s indicator switched back to red. The meeting was over. Noah had gotten used to these abrupt endings; the Leader despised empty hellos and goodbyes.
“What did he mean at the end?” Friedrich asked.
“There’s someone important he’d like to have on his side. That’s all you need to know for now,” Noah replied.
9
Bar in Kulibin Park Hotel, Nizhny Novgorod
“Oh my God!” Hellen said. “That’s Noah!”
Tom narrowed his eyes and moved closer to the screen. There was no doubt about it. It was Noah. The same Noah who had turned on them and almost derailed their mission in Ethiopia. But seeing Noah was not the only thing that astonished them.
“That’s impossible,” said Tom. “It’s Noah, but he’s not in his wheelchair.”
Even as Tom spoke, he felt a pang of conscience. He knew he was to blame for Noah’s confinement to the chair.
“How can that be?” Hellen asked.
Tom was over his initial surprise and pushed his emotions aside. The fighter was back. “If Noah’s at the WHO conference in London, then AF is planning something.”
“Aren’t they expecting a lot of government heads? Even the U.S. president?” Hellen asked in disbelief.
“Yes. And the Austrian chancellor will be there, too. I have no idea what Noah and AF are up to, but we have to do something.”
Hellen’s expression clouded. “Tom, you promised my mother you’d fly to Vienna tomorrow and follow up on the El Dorado tip. She’ll kill you if you get sidetracked again.”
Tom scratched his head. “I need a drink,” he said, and quickly searched the bar’s selection of single malts. He found a bottle of Middleton 2010 Irish whiskey, raised his eyebrows in surprise, and poured two fingers into a whiskey glass.
“This is really a whiskey to be savored, but screw it,” he said, and he tipped the contents back in a single gulp. “You’re right. Your mother will blow her stack if we put this off again. But I can’t just let it go. Noah’s to blame for my uncle’s death. He turned on us, and now he’s working for AF. He’s not there on vacation.”
Tom refilled his glass and took another sip. “I have to go to London. If AF is there, people are in danger. And I have to do something about it in person—no one would believe us about Noah.” He pointed to the screen, which now showed the ExCeL London convention center from the outside. Thousands of people were milling about. Hellen hated to admit it, but she knew he was right.
“I’ve got another bit of bad news, too,” Tom said. He looked at Hellen, who had just finished her own drink, and lifted the Middleton bottle. She gave him a resigned nod and a few seconds later had a glass of whiskey of her own.
“Let me guess,” she said. “You want to take the Blue Shield jet?”
Tom nodded sheepishly.
“She’s going to have a fit. She’ll throw us out. I’ll never get a decent job as a historian ever again. I’ll be lucky to get a job at the Vienna Goulash Museum, and they wouldn’t hire you as a parking attendant. You know her. She’ll really do it.”
Tom had to grant Hellen that. He had come out from behind the bar and was now standing beside her. “You know I have to do this. People are in danger. I know how much this job means to you, but all the gold in the world can’t outweigh that danger. And El Dorado isn’t about to run away.”
Before Hellen could respond, Tom had pulled her to him and kissed her. Taken by surprise, Hellen’s first thought was you son-of-a-bitch, but her true feelings quickly won out. The kiss lasted a small eternity. They had never been closer than they were in this moment, not even when they had first come together after the hunt for the Florentine diamond, their first adventure together.
“I’ll join you as soon as I possibly can. Remember Atlas, the joint European counterterrorism task force? I’m pretty sure they’ll be in charge of security at the conference. I still know a lot of people there. I’ll tell them about the danger and then I’ll come find you, wherever you are.”
Hellen looked into Tom’s eyes and realized that he wasn’t feeling nearly as cool as he was trying to look. The kiss had upended his world, too.
Deep inside, she knew he had to go to London if he was going to make anything happen. She’d already resigned herself to that. “Okay. I’ll think of something,” she said. “I’ll come up with some kind of story for Mother tomorrow, don’t worry. Franç
ois will help.”
“He’s a much better liar than you,” Tom said, and he pulled Hellen close again. “I’ll be back before you can say ‘El Dorado.’”
Hellen leaned her head against his chest and felt the beating of his heart. Tom breathed deeply, his arms wrapped tightly around her, one hand on the back of her head. Neither one of them really believed it would be that simple.
10
Secret prison complex, New Mexico
Ossana soon realized that something was different. They had traveled much farther than usual, going up many levels in the high-speed elevator before passing through a series of security gates and checkpoints. Now they entered a wing that looked more like a modern office building than a high-security prison. No guards at the door, no security cameras at thirty-foot intervals, and it seemed to Ossana that the security measures in place were designed to keep people out, rather than in. As they passed through another checkpoint with a retinal scan and voice recognition and finally stood before an office door with a sign that read “ADX Management,” it was clear that this was not going to be the usual kind of interrogation.
The door opened and Ossana was led into a room that looked nothing at all like the interrogation rooms she knew. The windows offered glorious views of the New Mexico desert, and the furniture was far from the steel and concrete she had come to expect. The room looked like an early Victorian smoking lounge in an English castle: dark-brown shelves filled with old books, an enormous leather sofa, tapestries, a fireplace, Renaissance paintings on the walls, a billiard table, and an antique desk that would not have looked out of place at Buckingham Palace.
Ossana raised her eyebrows when the guards removed her shackles and left the room. The man sitting at the desk was a perfect match for the room: he was dressed in an anthracite-gray pinstriped three-piece suit, and from the left pocket of his vest hung the obligatory chain of a pocket watch. His burgundy necktie was tied in a double Windsor knot and held in place by a pearl-studded pin. On his right ring finger he wore a gold signet ring. His hair was parted neatly on one side, but without looking fussy. Mid-forties, Ossana guessed, as he stared at her with dark-gray eyes behind tortoiseshell spectacles. He radiated a cruel, almost cold-blooded charisma that Ossana found remarkably attractive.
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 3