Last year Saajid thought all of his and his brother’s hard work was going to pay off. They had aligned themselves with childhood friends who were heirs to a Greek tycoon’s fortune. Saajid’s mother had actually been their nanny. Thanks to the negligence of their ultrarich parents, Anastasia, Andonios, and Gregor Maragos partially grew up in the slums where Saajid’s home was. The home where Saajid’s father had opened the children’s eyes to the sins of the West and how it would ruin the world if it were able to continue to thrive.
Over a decade of plotting and planning had been set in motion last year. They had built the perfect weapon, and been able to keep it off the radar of the world’s intelligence agencies. Until Gregor Maragos—the brains behind the nanotech weapon they attempted to unleash on the United States and their leaders—got sloppy. Anastasia and Andonios were supposed to keep their brother Gregor focused solely on the building of the weapon. However, when one of his techs leaked information about the weapon to an American agent, Gregor decided to take matters into his own hands. He’d hired an assassin to kill the American agent, and the plan quickly unraveled after that.
If Gregor had consulted Anastasia and Andonios first, they would have contacted Saajid, and Saajid himself would have been able to dispose quietly of anyone who knew about the weapon they were building. Instead, the CIA found out about their agent’s death and subsequently sent in one of their best to clean everything up.
Alexander King.
Despite King and his team throwing a wrench into everything they had planned, Anastasia and Andonios had almost managed to pull it off. They had unleashed the deadly nanotechnology on the White House, but King had been able to stop it before the president was harmed. He did so by killing Anastasia before she could reach the president. Losing her had been a great loss to the cause, because she was unwaveringly dedicated. And it had been a great personal loss as well, because she had always been like a sister to Saajid. The fact that Alexander King was dead—paying for his interference with his life—offered very little in the way of a sense of retribution. Anastasia was still gone, and the plan to strike a blow to the power in the West had still been a failure.
The only positive for Saajid was the way he and his brother had managed to keep completely clean and undetected during and after all of that mess. This was by design, but when people you plot with for years, like Anastasia and Gregor, die trying to commit an “act of terror,” it’s hard to stay clear of the debris. Their deaths were most likely the reason for Saajid remaining free from suspicion, because it gave the United States a bookend to tell their people that it was all taken care. The US government could tell the American people they were safe, because they had killed the bad guys.
The only Maragos who had managed to stay alive after the failed mission had been Andonios. This was great for Saajid and Husaam because they had always been closest to him, but now it was the reason that Saajid was sitting in his backyard watching the sun disappear behind the mountains with a stomach full of anxiety. Saajid had called and texted Andonios several times over the past twenty-four hours. Andonios always answered within the hour. It had now been an entire day.
Saajid heard the laughter of his children as they rounded the side of his house. As they ran over to him, he forced a smile. His daughter was twelve, and his son was nine. Both of them were as curious as he had been at that age about the teachings of Allah. However, they were far more knowledgeable than he was. The commune Saajid had built around their house had ensured as much. He loved the two of them. It was one of the reasons the failed mission a year ago had disappointed him so deeply. He wanted it for them. He wanted them to be as proud of him as he had always been of his own father for working for his people and their culture. For shielding him from the sins of the ignorant.
He checked the burner phone one last time. Still nothing from Andonios. He swallowed his growing worry and embraced his children. He needed to hear himself preach the teachings of Islam as much as his family needed to hear it then. It always brought him comfort.
As he gave them a smile, he said a prayer that Andonios would be okay. The next mission Saajid had been working on so diligently for over a year was all but ready to go. But he didn’t want to do it without Andonios.
7
London, England
King and Bentley made it back to his flat, took the lift to the fifth floor, and casually walked down the hall to his door. They had driven over to Westminster first, changed cars as a precaution, then finally circled all the way back to Soho. Just blocks from where the car bomb had exploded earlier. King had chosen the location in Soho, between Oxford Street and Marlborough Street, because of its vibrant activity during the day and its active nightlife. Not because he had ever planned to partake, but because a lot of movement around his residence, day or night, made it much easier for him to come and go unnoticed. Blending in was essential when the last thing he wanted to do was stand out. Soho made this easy for him. And the Oxford Circus station right outside his building also enabled him to travel anywhere in the city with ease. It was a stark contrast from his home in Kentucky.
Or what used to be his home.
King opened the door for Bentley and let her in. Other than asking why they had to change cars, she hadn’t said a word since exiting the tunnel. King’s flat was a two bedroom. The kitchen was open to the living room, which was where they were standing now. It was painted a neutral tan color that complemented the hardwood floors. There wasn’t much in the way of decoration, mainly just a couch in the middle of the room that faced the TV. The only real glimpse into his personality were the books that packed the inset shelves behind the TV. When you’re constantly alone and there is a bookstore around the corner, books worked well for passing the time. Sometimes you don’t choose your hobbies, they choose you. He was surprised how much he enjoyed the slower pace of reading. He’d been consuming all of Vince Flynn’s Mitch Rapp books. They were excellent and surprisingly realistic.
King turned and locked the three dead bolts on the door. Then he pulled out a key to lock the last one.
Bentley noticed what he was doing. “You lock people inside your home often? That’s pretty creepy. And I’ve got to be honest, it doesn’t make me feel warm and fuzzy.”
“It should. Keeping you safe is the reason I’ve added the lock. If you wander the streets now, they’ll find you.”
“Who the hell are you?”
Bentley’s accent reminded him of Sam. So did her feisty nature. Samantha Harrison had been King’s closest ally after he left US Special Operations. When their paths crossed in a violent way a few years ago, her grit and determination in a horrible situation had linked them together for life. Shortly after, Sam left MI6, and because King had saved her life, she vowed to fight beside him in whatever way he chose. She ended up returning the favor more than once by keeping him from certain death. He really needed to check in with her. She’d called and texted several times that day. King knew she’d be worried.
“Earth to bearded guy. I said, who are you? And why are people trying to kill me?”
King walked past her and over to the kitchen. He reached into the cabinet, grabbed two glasses and a bottle of King’s Ransom bourbon. The bottle was the only reminder in the house of what seemed now to be a very distant past.
“I’m trying to get those answers myself,” he told her. “You should be able to help me clear up a lot of things.”
“Me? I was just going for a run, then back home to study for an exam I have tomorrow. Why would anyone want to kill me?”
King studied Bentley for a moment. Though her hat was still pulled low, he could see that she was a beautiful girl. Olive skin, dark brown hair, tall and slender, and hazel eyes just like her father. Not the typical look of a Brit. But that’s because her father was Greek. He examined her expression trying to determine if she actually had no idea what was going on or if she was bluffing. So far she was pretty convincing.
He poured a couple of fingers of bourb
on for himself, then raised an eyebrow at Bentley.
“You do know I’m only seventeen.”
He did, but she certainly didn’t look it. She looked more like twenty-five.
“And? You think I’m so out of touch that I don’t know you’re partying? I’m thirty, not seventy. Do you want a drink or not?”
“I’d rather have some answers, but I could use a drink too.”
He poured one for her. Both of them were quiet as they sipped. King found it hard to believe that she could be completely in the dark. But he’d been watching her every move for over a month and hadn’t seen anything to make him suspicious. It was more likely she was a pawn in a much larger game. The unsavory associations her biological father kept played a hand in making her look guilty. King was also trying to assess what communications she may have had with Andonios Maragos. From everything he’d seen, there were none. And after last night, there sure as hell wouldn’t be any in the future either.
However, King was really just getting used to being a spy. His assessment thus far of his own covert abilities was a five on a scale of one to ten. His expertise lay much more in the art of assassination. The difficult thing for him was that he was used to relying on Sam for all the technical legwork. Over the years they’d been the perfect combination of her setting things up and him knocking them down, sealing the deal. This was still how their current relationship worked, but this bit of special operation with Bentley had grown from a passing conversation overheard by Sam, to a bit of a side project for him. CIA Director Mary Hartsfield knew that King was still working to get answers for what happened about a year ago—the reason he had to fake his own death—but she thought he was only doing work through the CIA. Sam, of course, knew King had found Andonios, but they both agreed not to tell Mary because they didn’t want it to get botched somehow by other agents. Mary wouldn’t be too happy about King running his own side mission—neither would Sam regarding Bentley, for that matter—but as King had always played it since leaving Special Operations, what they didn’t know wouldn’t hurt them.
He couldn’t help but think Sam would find out about this one, though. It was going to be all over the news. And when the American agent he locked horns with back in the underground reported back to the agency that an unknown American man had saved his life, and walked away with The Asset they were searching for, word would make it back to his two leading ladies. That much he was sure of.
“I said, what are we going to do now?” Bentley finally got his attention.
King finished his drink as he thought about the plan. He knew she was just going to have to sit tight while he determined whether or not she was truly uninvolved with the terrorists her father Andonios had been in bed with. If in fact she wasn’t, he then had to figure out why in the hell the terrorists would want her dead. If that was even still the case. The terrorist in the tunnel saying it was an American who’d paid them for the car bombing was as tricky a curveball as King had ever seen. Even if Sam didn’t find out it was him who’d saved Bentley today, he was going to have to tell her. He was going to need her help in a major way.
“Look, Bentley, this is an extremely complicated situation. You were just the central theme in a terrorist attack. If you don’t know why, I have to find out for you.”
“I don’t understand. What’s in it for you? Are you CIA or something? If so, why would you take me back to your place? Why not take me to your offices or whatever?”
King poured another one for himself. “That’s not how it works. Not for me anyway.”
Bentley rolled her eyes and turned away from him, taking in the small living room.
He pulled his phone from his pocket. More missed messages from Sam. And it was getting late. He needed to get to the rest of what needed to be done that night.
“Listen, I have to go. But you’ll be safe here.”
Bentley whipped back around. “You can’t just leave me here. What if they followed us?”
For the first time, her innocent look of fear revealed her teenage demeanor.
“They didn’t. You’re just going to have to trust me. I haven’t let you down yet, have I?”
He watched her search for a reason to say yes.
“No. But what am I supposed to do here?”
King pointed to the shelves covered in books. “You could start there. But I also have Netflix . . . oh, and pizza in the freezer.”
“If I’m not a prisoner, can I have my phone back?”
King walked around the center island. “Sorry, kiddo. It’s for your own safety. No one can know you’re here.”
“This sucks.” She pouted.
“It could be a lot worse.”
8
Columbus, Ohio, USA
The Schottenstein Center in Columbus, Ohio, was buzzing. The crowd of nearly twenty thousand were rattling the rafters as if a game-winning shot had just gone down from the Buckeyes’ basketball team. However, there wasn’t a game going on tonight. The mass of people had gathered to support the surging presidential hopeful Senator Bob Gibbons—Bobby to anyone who’d known him more than a minute. As he stepped away from the podium after another awe-inspiring speech, however, the gleam of the crowd was already far from his mind. Other matters that he’d been trying to distance himself from were at the forefront—matters that were quickly becoming the biggest threat to derailing his bid to be the next president of the United States of America.
He bypassed the outstretched hand of his campaign manager and hustled toward the tunnel on his way to the men’s locker room where Ohio State University had arranged a small celebration for him and a few local influencers after the rally. The crowd continued its rabid excitement behind him, their echoes following him down the hall. As he hurried along the tunnel, he noticed a banner of himself hanging on the wall. The well-kept, silver-haired, sixty-five-year-old man on the banner exuded confidence. You could see it in his eyes. Bobby Gibbons wished he had that confidence at the moment, but he was actually doing his best not to sweat right through his suit—not because he was hot but because he was nervous about what was going on while he was giving his speech.
He walked through the doorway of the locker room. The room was circular, with wooden lockers fanned out along the wall, a red seat in front of each one. The round Ohio State logo that usually hovered over the center had been covered with a banner featuring Bobby’s “Gibbons 2020” logo—complete with his grassroots slogan, “A Better America.”
The roomful of supporters, campaign workers, and media all let out a roar when Bobby entered. He feigned a smile, waved his hand, then walked right over to his wife, Elizabeth. As he gave her a hug, he whispered in her ear.
“Where’s Doug? Have you seen him?”
She kissed him on the cheek. “He’s waiting near the showers.”
Bobby’s stomach dropped. This was the first step in clearing himself of everything that happened with Everworld Solutions and the fallout of some of his fellow investors. He and a couple of other congressmen were heavily involved in the corporation founded by the current US president, Mark Williams. When President Williams was elected, he abruptly left the company, and a host of seedy information began to surface. The biggest consequence was that many people, most of all the two fellow congressmen who had convinced Bobby to invest, lost a lot of money because of some shady dealings. A lot of people were angry at the president for leaving the company vulnerable, but none more than Senators Jerry McDonnell and Graham Thomas. Bobby was upset with the president as well, but not like the two of them. It was all downhill after that.
Bobby never really wanted to be involved in the company in the first place. But Jerry and Graham had convinced him it was a sure thing. Millions would come easily. However, the biggest reason Bobby pulled most of his money out early was because, as things began to crumble, it seemed Jerry and Graham were in it for other, more sinister reasons. Things Bobby wanted nothing to do with. He had been upset that the president had left the company hanging, but h
e didn’t want revenge. Bobby also knew that things ran much deeper than that for Jerry and Graham. They had never gotten along with the president.
After Bobby had pulled most of his money, he’d thought everything with the company had died off. Turned out, it was Jerry and Graham who ended up dead. From all Bobby gathered from his inside sources, the entire thing was tied back to terrorism. At first Bobby could hardly believe it—that was until the White House was attacked a year ago—the president being the main target—and Jerry and Graham both paid for their involvement with their lives. Ever since then, Bobby’s life had been a whirlwind of fear and exhilaration.
The tidal wave of support to run against President Williams came out of nowhere. The entire incident—even though the president had been cleared of wrongdoing—had scarred the presidency and left a bad taste in the American people’s mouths. The problem for Bobby was he knew that when you ran for the highest office in the land, all of your skeletons would come out of the closet. That is why he hired Doug—to make sure those skeletons disappeared. The nastiest skeleton being his involvement with Everworld and, even worse, the few private meetings he had with the two now deceased senators.
Though Bobby knew he never invested in the company for anything other than a good return, Doug Chapman—the expert on such political matters—insisted that every measure needed to be taken to erase all doubt in the minds of Americans that he had anything to do with the terrorism-funding company. Doug told Bobby that any lingering suspicions about such involvement would be political suicide.
Yesterday morning Doug came to Bobby and assured him he could erase any chance that Bobby’s name would ever be mentioned alongside the topic of terrorism. When Bobby asked Doug what that meant, he gave him the cliché answer that the less Bobby knew, the better. Plausible deniability, in other words, in case something went wrong. Doug said he would handle it discreetly, and then they would be in the clear.
The Secret Weapon Page 4