The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4)

by M. C. Roberts

  The ringing of her phone jolted her from her daydreams. She looked down at the display, suddenly nervous. She had expected the call, of course, but she felt apprehensive every time they spoke.

  “Ms. Matthews, I hope you’re well. Where do we stand?”

  Noah Pollock’s voice sounded friendly, almost warm, but Yasmine knew it was a façade. The man was not friendly, and very far from warm.

  “I have the president’s go-ahead.”

  “And the essence?”

  “On its way. We’re sending it to our Belize plant today.”

  “And you will supervise the process personally, Ms. Matthews?”

  Yasmine faltered. That had not been part of the deal. She had agreed to make her water bottling plant available for the project, and that alone had meant some major logistical adjustments on her part. If NutriAm’s board of directors got wind of the changes she’d already made in bottling and distribution, she might as well resign today. She was already taking serious risks. And now they wanted her to be there in person? If anything went wrong, it would mean not only the end of her career—she would also find herself in jail.

  “Uh, Mr. Pollock, that was not part of the plan.”

  “The plan has been changed. Do you have a problem with that?”

  Yasmine said nothing. Noah let several seconds pass, and each one felt like an eternity to Yasmine.

  “Then that’s settled,” he finally said. “You should keep in mind who it was who put you in the CEO’s chair.”

  “Yes. But if anything goes wrong, I can kiss my career—”

  “If anything goes wrong, your career is the least of our concerns. You know how far this goes. You knew what you were letting yourself in for. So don’t start pissing in your designer panties now. Get the job done.”

  Noah had not raised his voice at all, but his tone had taken on an intensity that terrified Yasmine. “Of course. I’ll arrange a flight to Belize right away,” she said meekly, her voice trembling.

  Noah’s tone returned to normal. “Everything will go according to plan. You don’t need to worry about your career,” he said, and hung up.

  54

  A dark side street, Washington, D.C.

  He’d parked his car in a dark alley. The overhead lamp cast a pale glow on his injured face. He looked at his watch. He hated lateness with a passion, especially with something so important at stake. Too much had gone wrong already. He had underestimated Tom Wagner once again. Another glance at his watch. His contact was already two minutes late. Friedrich von Falkenhain rubbed his aching chest. Tom had fired seventeen bullets into his bulletproof Kevlar vest. Two had grazed his side, but those had just left scratches. He hardly felt them. But his bruised and broken ribs . . . he certainly felt those. Every breath hurt. But he was still alive. Thank God Wagner is a good shot, he thought grimly.

  Two firemen had found him in the rubble, and he had murdered them and escaped through the hole blasted in the back wall. AF’s global network had quickly patched him up, arranged new papers for him, and put him on a plane to D.C. He had actually arrived in Washington before Tom. But to the Kahle’s disgust, Tom was now sitting in the basement of the J. Edgar Hoover Building, FBI central, and had been in interrogation for hours. The Kahle had missed his chance to avenge his brother.

  He checked the time again, and then he saw it. In the alley opposite, a car appeared and flashed its headlights at him. The Kahle started his engine and rolled across the quiet, abandoned street into the alley on the other side. He came to a stop directly beside the other car, in the shadows of the high buildings. Both drivers rolled down their windows.

  A man in a gray suit, bathed in sweat and looking panicky, sat at the wheel of the limousine with the government license plates. He looked into the Kahle’s cold eyes. “And then you’ll let her go, right? That was the agreement,” he said, his hands shaking as he handed over Sienna Wilson’s small case.

  The Kahle took the case from him. “I’m afraid that’s no longer possible. Your wife is already dead.”

  The man in the other car had no time even to process the Kahle’s words before a bullet from Friedrich’s silenced Glock splattered his brain across the car’s interior.

  The Kahle rolled his window up again and slowly drove away. He lay his Glock on the passenger seat, reached for his phone and tapped out an SMS: Goods obtained. On my way.

  Fifteen minutes later, Friedrich arrived at Leesburg Executive Airport outside D.C. He turned onto the grounds of the small airport from Sycolin Road and drove directly to one of the executive hangars. Passing through the massive rolling gate, which immediately closed behind him, he parked beside the black stretch limo that had arrived moments before.

  The limousine driver opened the rear door and Yasmine Matthews got out. She made her way quickly toward the Bombardier Global 6000 jet. Friedrich took the case and hurried after her.

  “Mr. Pollock was not wrong. Right on time.” She acknowledged the Kahle with no more than a cursory glance. “It looks as if getting the essence wasn’t so easy at all.”

  “Everything in this world has its price,” Friedrich replied. Not only had he been injured, but he had lost his chance to take revenge on Wagner. And the way things looked now, it would take a miracle for him to ever get another one.

  “You’re right about that,” Yasmine said, climbing the steps of her private jet. “But let’s toast our success. We’re nearly there. The president has given us the green light.” She proudly showed him Samson’s message.

  The Kahle followed her inside. The door closed and the plane rolled out onto the tarmac.

  55

  Interview room, secret prison complex, New Mexico

  “I don’t want to put pressure on you in any way. We know that you will meet each and every challenge you face here in our institution. As you know, we operate separately from the rest of the federal prison system, and our employees, accordingly, are not just regular prison guards.”

  Terrance Zane looked immaculate. His three-piece suit was perfectly tailored, his hair parted as if with a ruler, his voice calm but firm. His eyes scanned the seven new employees starting work that day in his “institution,” as he liked to call it. Normally, ADX was the highest designated security level in the U.S. prison system. These "supermax" prisons housed the most dangerous offenders: serial killers, terrorists. The conditions in an ADX prison were exceptionally tough, with extreme isolation the standard. In Zane’s “institution,” they went a step further. In administrative terms, the prisoners here didn’t exist: either they had never officially set foot on U.S. soil or, for other reasons—usually related to national security—they were never supposed to see the light of day again.

  “No doubt you were surprised at our exceptionally stringent selection process. We employ only the most professional corrections officers here. The inmates in our custody are among the most dangerous criminals and terrorists in the world. Because they are true professionals in their fields, we have to be as well.”

  His eyes moved around the conference table where the new guards were seated, taking time to gaze intently at each man in turn, but no one in the room seemed unnerved by the tension.

  “Welcome to your new home. My assistant, Shelley, will hand out your assignments and send you to your senior officers.”

  Zane nodded first to Shelley, then to the new arrivals, and left the room without another word. Shelley had a file prepared for each of them. She went around the room, handing them their paperwork, explaining the next steps of their first day on the job and sending them on their way. Shelley’s pulse was hammering when she reached the last man. It took a huge effort even to look him in the eye: the man she’d met first just a few days before at the karaoke bar, with whom she’d spent perhaps the hottest night of lovemaking she’d ever experienced, and who had afterward kidnapped her son. And now here he was, sitting in front of her in the uniform of a corrections officer, expecting her to complete the final steps of their bargain. Shelley wai
ted a few seconds until they were alone in the room.

  “Did you organize the ID card for me?” Isaac Hagen asked, as calmly as if he were asking about supermarket coupons. Shelley nodded and pushed the card to him across the table. “Access to IT and all server rooms?” She nodded again. Hagen stood up with a grin and patted her chummily on the shoulder. “Good girl,” he said, putting the paperwork and the ID card away. “What does my schedule look like?”

  “Every night, between 2 and 3 a.m., there’s a small window of time when the IT department is not occupied. There’s a shift change, then the staff takes about half an hour to get some fresh air. One of them always has a laptop with him so he can react quickly if there’s a security problem. Zane doesn’t know anything about it, because it is strictly against regulations. But since nothing’s ever happened, the IT guys have made it a regular habit.” Hagen continued to look at her placidly. “In that half hour, you can get into the server rooms and . . .” her voice faltered, “ . . . and do whatever you have to do.”

  “Well, if it all happens as you’ve just described it, then by this time tomorrow your son will be free again. How do I know when the IT guys take their break?”

  “They’ll pass your post, probably about 2.15. Then you’re in the clear.”

  Hagen was on his feet now and heading for the door.

  “For you and your son’s sakes, let’s hope you’re right,” he said, without even bothering to turn around.

  56

  J. Edgar Hoover Building, Washington, D.C.

  After Jennifer left, a guard had brought Tom a bottle of water and had left him to stew a little longer. Sometime later, he laid his head on his crossed arms and nodded off. He woke with a start when the door flew open and two men in black SWAT gear stormed into the interrogation room. Everything happened fast. One of them yanked a black hood over his head. The other unlocked his handcuffs and bound his hands with zip ties. Then they dragged him out of the room.

  “What the hell? Who are you? Where are you taking me?”

  The men ignored his protests. In their iron grip, he was dragged down a corridor and into an elevator, then through several doors and finally into a garage. They bundled him into the back of a large SUV, its windows tinted almost black. He was pinned in the middle, between the two SWAT men.

  “Where the hell are we going?” The men stayed silent.

  A few minutes later, the car stopped and the two men hauled Tom out of the SUV and up an endless series of steps, but he could tell that he was out in the open.

  Suddenly, they jerked the hood from his head, and Tom found himself staring at the immense seated form of Abraham Lincoln. A man approached from the shadows behind the statue and Tom recognized him instantly: Vice President James J. Pitcock.

  “We won’t be needing those anymore,” he said, pointing to Tom’s hands, and one of the men stepped forward and cut the nylon restraints. Tom rubbed his wrists. He’d had more than enough of handcuffs.

  “A hood? Really? To get from the Hoover building to here? We could have walked.”

  One of the men pushed a bag into Tom’s hands—his personal effects—then followed his colleague back to the SUV.

  “Thanks, boys,” Pitcock called after them. Without a word, they climbed into the SUV and drove away.

  Still confused, Tom looked around. Two Secret Service men were close by, but out of earshot—one there at the top, the other down at the foot of the stairs.

  “What is this, sir? Why the theatrics?” Tom asked.

  “Mr. Wagner . . . or may I call you Tom? How much do you actually know about the assignment President Samson gave you? Yeah, I know, we soldiers”—he clapped Tom fraternally on the shoulder—“we get it drilled into us not to ask questions, or at least not too many.” Tom was about to answer, but Pitcock continued. “Let me guess. You were told that there was a biological agent that had to be kept out of the hands of terrorists, and that the best scientists would then examine this stuff and keep the world safe from it.”

  Tom nodded.

  “What they didn’t tell you is that the research team that originally discovered the plant stumbled onto an ancient Mayan recipe at the same time. The essence derived from the plant makes people obedient. But if the dosage is too high, they go berserk and turn into killers, as the team back then discovered the hard way. Administered in small doses, however, it makes people extremely susceptible to suggestion and manipulation.”

  Tom could hardly believe his ears. An ancient Mayan recipe turns up just when he and his team are on their way to find the gold of El Dorado? Tom had stopped believing in coincidences after the Kahle showed up at the safe house.

  “How do you know all this?”

  “When Samson gave you this assignment, his slimy little chief of staff came to me and told me about you and the biological agent. He also told me about the president’s affair with the CEO of NutriAm, Yasmine Matthews. His only concern was the president’s reputation, of course, but the whole thing got me thinking. I asked a buddy of mine, an ex-Marine who works for the NSA, to poke around a little and he came back with some very interesting information. The NSA had never heard of this weapon. So my buddy dug a little deeper and found out that NutriAm recently built a water bottling plant in the same area where the researchers originally found the plant and the Mayan recipe. Then I put two and two together.”

  “But how does the water figure into this?” Tom asked.

  “The water is the medium. In the past, it would have been done with, say, a smallpox vaccine program, but today, with all the psychos and anti-vaxxers out there, they had to come up with a new method. And if it worked with fluoride, it could work with this stuff, too. What could be better for the job than bottled water? Americans are obsessed with water in little bottles.”

  Tom’s head was spinning. “But what does all this have to do with me?” he asked.

  “I want you to help me stop Samson and his girlfriend and their plan.”

  “But the essence is safe. Armstrong gave it to the FBI.”

  “True. But . . .”

  “But what? Please don’t tell me it’s disappeared. Do you know what I went through to get that stuff?” Tom sat on the steps in frustration and gazed out over the Reflecting Pool toward the Washington Monument.

  “You’re right. The essence has vanished. And just a few hours ago, they found the body of the FBI agent who presumably passed it on. Apparently, he was being blackmailed, because when they searched his apartment, they found his wife’s body. Both of them had been executed. And the NutriAm company jet took off an hour ago. It’s on its way to Belize as we speak.”

  “Okay. How do you see this working?”

  “It’s not hard. You fly to Belize and do what you do.” Pitcock waved his hands vaguely in the air.

  Belize? This was starting to get spooky. Hellen was also on her way to Belize. And the CEO had to be connected to AF somehow, otherwise none of it made any sense. The Kahle, Tom suspected, was working for her, probably through Noah. And only a brain as sick as Noah’s could have come up with a plan this insane.

  Pitcock saw that he had Tom on his side, and he didn’t wait for an answer. “What do you need?” he asked.

  Tom was still deep in thought. “A contact in Belize would be good. And guns,” he finally replied.

  “I can organize a flight for you from Arlington, but I don’t think I can find you a contact there at such short notice.”

  “Thanks, but I already have a flight,” Tom said. The vice president looked at Tom in surprise. “We’ll work out everything else on site. It won’t be the first time.” Tom stood up and turned to leave. After descending a few steps, he stopped and said, “I do have one last question.”

  “Shoot.”

  “Why do you politicians always want to meet here at the Lincoln Memorial?”

  Pitcock laughed and spread his arms wide, taking in the breathtaking view of the sun rising over the Washington Monument and its twin in the Reflecting Pool.<
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  Tom used the time until Hellen and Cloutard arrived in D.C. to freshen up and organize some new clothes. The heavy metal t-shirt had served its purpose. A quick trip to Georgetown and the clothes problem was solved. Apparently, he had not completely fallen out of Theresia’s favor, because his Blue Shield credit card still worked. Along the way, he stopped at a small motel to take a shower and turn himself back into a presentable human being. He made it to Leesburg Executive Airport right on time.

  “Bonjour, Tom. We have missed you. It is about time you joined us. Theresia . . . uh, Madame de Mey is not enthousiaste that you went off on your own again,” Cloutard greeted Tom as he boarded the Gulfstream. The Frenchman was sitting in one of the leather seats. His injured leg had been through quite a lot in the last two days, and he had it propped in front of him. Tom was unsurprised to see that the hand raised to him in greeting held a cognac glass. “Come and join me for a drink.”

  Hellen had gotten up from her seat as soon as Tom came on board, and she went to him joyfully. But their embrace and greeting were a little awkward, neither sure whether to kiss on the lips or the cheek. Surprised at Tom’s reserve, Hellen returned to her seat.

  “Just waiting for fuel and for our flight plan to be approved,” said the pilot, emerging from the cockpit. “Hey, welcome back. No Cobra officer knocked out cold this time?” he greeted Tom. “Sorry, the boss ordered me back and I couldn’t wait,” he added.

  “No sweat,” Tom said. He turned to Hellen and Cloutard. “It looks like you were able to put this crate to good use.”

  “A knocked-out Cobra officer?” Cloutard asked.

  “It’s a long story, I can already tell,” Hellen said, a little reproachfully. “Tom, what were you doing?”