Chapter 20

 

 

The Colosseum

Rome, Italy

 

It came swiftly. An oversized outline skulked from behind a pillar in the shadowy hallway. Nash vaulted back, evading an abrupt knockout from the attacker’s left hand. He lunged forward, caught the attacker’s arm and shoved him backward with a violent heave. The impact threw their attacker to the ground briefly. Undeterred he sprang to his feet and wrenched forward with a weapon.

Calla examined the dolch brass. A short, gladiator stabbing sword, perfectly suited for brutal, close combat. She broke away from his forceful strike only to grasp that whoever he was he’d armed himself with weapons she’d only housed in museum vaults. Had Watcher followed them to Rome? When their assailant surfaced in the shady light, negotiating calculated steps, she observed his eccentric attire as they stood cornered in the far end of the room. Their eyes followed his heavy paces. He veered toward them, his face covered with a brass visor helmet, matched with a round shield and metal shoulder pieces. His attire was completed with both leather, elbow and wristbands and metal greaves shielding his shins.

Nash’s eyes scrutinized the heavy armor. The attacker was a Gallus. A gladiator! The gladiator took a protesting lunge forward, bending his massive knees as he reached for Calla. He moved his large hands to her throat, catching wrists instead and clamped them above her head while his free hand thrust his sword at Nash.

In an evasive motion Nash was knocked off his feet. He flailed forward for the gladiator’s bicep. Throwing his entire weight in the attack, Nash clamped the weakened arm and gnarled it under the gladiator’s backbone. The movement freed Calla, who gasped for breath and staggered a few steps away with a quick shiver of apprehension. Glancing upward the man’s height overpowered her, standing at all of seven feet.

The gladiator dropped his sword, tugged his arms out of Nash’s grasp and spun around. He pounced to one side, reaching for his discarded sword and swung its double-edge, charging once more at Nash, who stood positioned in analysis of the gladiator’s techniques. Nash’s eyes narrowed into the assailant’s approach without an ounce of fear or hesitation evident in his stance.

The gladiator heaved forward. Nash sidestepped as the gladiator swept past him and collided into the wall behind him. Calla glanced over at Nash, the shudder in her veins welling into determination. She made a visible effort to pull herself together and with every ounce of courage took a violent step forward, only to witness the heavy man rise, grip Nash by the neck, and knee him with a thud that propelled him senseless.

Nash slammed against the rear wall of the cage and dropped to the floor unconscious. Calla darted toward Nash’s limp body and held back a choking cry. The giant warrior threaded toward her with a grin of amusement as she hunched over Nash’s wearied body. With an instinct to run she fought fear on all fronts and calculated her options.

Fight him! She couldn’t tear her eyes off the double-edged sword and the injury it could cause. She sprang up and retreated, her gaze fixed on the silhouette inching in her direction. Calla failed to see his face and as the ancient warrior cornered her at one end of the cage. The action gave her no passage for escape. He stood a mere three feet from her, sliding his fingers up and down the blade.

A ray of light from the arched doorway hit his face and, for the first time, she caught a glimpse of dilating pupils through slanted eye holes. His excessive breathing and muffled grunts clouded her eyes, tuning out every sound around her.

Is this it? The gladiator stepped back and drew a second sword from behind his shield.

Calla shut her eyes. No!

When no movement followed she threw them open and observed him as he held out a second sword to her.

“Come on! Fight back.”

His grunted command stunned her and the weighty sword fell at her feet. He took a step back and with flat feet, braced himself for attack. She reached for the ancient weapon and studied the pommel, adorned with gold and silver. Its weight alone astounded her and almost pulled her down. A new level of adrenaline shot through her charged veins. She raised the weighty metal, drawing it back in her outstretched arms, a newly acquired craft. Calla had never held a sword in her life and had also never fought a man, let alone a seven-foot one.

He stomped forward with burdened steps and pointed his weapon at her throat. Calla’s arms and legs moved with confident skill. She stood perpendicular to her opponent and thrust the sword directly at his chest. The swords met in perfect match. Close to two and half feet shorter she booted him in the groin, causing him to lose his grip on his shield.

He staggered backward and broke out of the cramped cage.

“Coward!” she said. “Ever fight a girl?”

She pursued.

Clashing swords they continued to the bridge levels above the underground rooms in the main auditorium space. Not knowing with what power she battled he was no threat to her as she stretched a high kick to his midriff. He dropped back to the cobbled turf. She leaped onto his chest with her steel pointed at his neck. Heaving and gasping for air the gladiator tore off his helmet as a sign of surrender.

Calla wanted to see his face, and with what audacity he dared interfere with their research.

As the helmet slid off the first thing she noticed were his piercing eyes, then his white beard and cropped white hair, yet his face showed little sign of aging.

“You finally made it back?” he smirked.

He’d used the Roman vernacular.

Latin.

Calla squinted, attempting to understand his drift. She recoiled, tossing the cumbersome sword to the ground. “Who are you?” she said in fluent Latin.

He angled upward. “You’re the true proprietor of the carbonado you’ve come for. You must be the one the rock has waited for all these years. Don’t you remember me?”

Calla slowly shook her head.

“Come with me. I have something you need,” he said as he pulled himself upright.

Calla glimpsed behind her, her thoughts on her companions.

The gladiator read her mind. “They’ll be fine. We don’t kill. It’s not our purpose. We train. Come with me.”

Calla let him lead the way as she stalked with caution. They proceeded back to the caged room.

“I remember you,” she said. “You were that tour guide!”

He spun around having now minimized to her five-foot-eleven height. How on earth had he shrunk? They crossed three hundred yards to get back to the room before reaching the iron gate. Jack lay still, but breathing, on cold stone. The gladiator stepped over him, crossing over to the back wall where Nash also lay still, also breathing steadily.

So it exists? The door stood visible in the middle of the back wall. It swung back as Calla made her approach. Calla gawked at the contents inside as she stepped into the phenomenal space that resembled a weapon storeroom. Filled to the brim with early weaponry of various natures the gladiator beamed, proud of his trophy room. “These are souvenirs from those who’ve tried to get what you want.”

“What happened to them?” Calla asked.

He smirked. “They walked away. Alive.”

Calla’s fingers settled on her parting lips at the sight of a gun among the plunder, certainly the most modern of all the weapons. She grasped it in her trembling hands and noticed it was a Secret Intelligence Service P99 Commemorative. She’d seen one before at the ISTF Museum in London.

Following her gaze the gladiator slowly reached for it. “That, I took from your parents.”

“My parents?”

“Yes.”

“They were here? When?”

“I really can’t tell. It’s been years.”

“How do you know they were my parents?”

“A young couple arrived here. It must’ve been at least twenty-five or so years ago. Or maybe more, I can’t remember.”

He glared at her. “Just like you and your friends they tried to get to this room.”

He fished around through the weaponry and produced a wooden box that he presented to her. “This is yours, I believe.”

She cradled the container, identical to the first one they’d obtained previously in Oxford.

“Open it,” he said.

Inside she found another carbonado. This one glowed red, gold and blue, the colors of fire.

“Protect this well,” warned the gladiator. “There so many covetous hands looking for that. They’re not to be trusted. You’ve very little time left to unite all three stones.”

“But you were saying something about my parents—”

When she moved her eyes from the stone and glanced up, the warrior had vanished.

Jack stirred. She scuttled back into the caged room. Behind her, with no cautionary warning, the door guarding the weaponry slammed shut.

Soundless.

She studied the space. Only an arched slump in the wall remained in its place. She glanced down at the container in her hands. Had she imagined the whole thing? Jack moved a pained leg as Calla threw herself at his side. “Jack, are you okay?”

Rubbing his neck Jack regained consciousness and took in a deep breath. Nash roused and rose slowly dusting off his shirt. He reached for his backpack and his eyes settled on her hands. “What do you have there?” As if suddenly remembering his ordeal he drew in a deep breath. “And what the heck happened to that guy?”

 

 

 

 

Riche Enterprises Media Offices

Central London

 

Eva slid her fingers along the bubble-wrapped desk and chair that had been delivered the previous night. She’d selected only Parnian designed furniture. A small outlet in East London had stocked only a few items that they could deliver quickly. More was on the way. This was nothing like that cheap stuff she’d had to sit on in her last office. As Chief Editor and Director she could command this office as she wished.

Eva plopped into the chair and admired the executive Radius desk that didn’t disappoint, even for its dear price. The leather chair descended back into a comfortable slouch. You’ll eat your words soon, Alex.

She stretched for the phone. Eva had requested the business systems department for a secure line. She dialed a Berlin number. Over the years she’d established contacts, inside the Berlin police force, however shrewdly. It all started with an old German boyfriend after university. He’d ended up in Berlin as a police officer. Eva wasn’t sure why. Gruesome work really. But I guess somebody has to do it.

They’d stayed in touch.

Time to call in old favors. Berlin was an hour ahead. She tried his cell phone.

No answer.

She left a scruffy voicemail, fibbing about a trip she was planning before placing the phone in its cradle. Someone must know more about the Deveron.

This was the second time she’d contacted the Berlin police seeking information on who was in charge of the Deveron and Pergamon case. She breathed in the newness of her office, barely ready to function as a full-fledged newspaper. She dialed another number in Berlin, the Berliner Zeitung, a local newspaper company.

A woman picked up. “Ja?”

“Hello, Frau Fuhrmann. You might remember me. We covered the Berlinale, the film festival not too long ago. This is Eva Riche, the journalist from London.”

“Ah, ja,” said the confident voice, who spoke with the elegance of refined English, even though her pronunciation wasn’t quite there. “Must be quite early in London. Are you working on a story?”

“Yes and I wonder if you can help me?” Eva continued. “I’m covering the recent happenings at the Pergamon Museum. I’m following the investigation. Tell me, do you know who’s covering the piece for the Berliner Zeitung?”

Heavy breathing, followed by a pause, hovered on the line.

Eva adopted a fierce tone. “I’m looking for a contact within the police investigation team.”

Frau Fuhrmann chuckled. “Ah Eva! Always on the go. I remember you well. You were the glitzy reporter mixing with the stars at the film festival after parties. I remember the press often mistook you for a film star yourself.”

Eva bit her tongue. That was the exact image she wanted to eradicate. She’d been a bit of a party socialite, having naturally settled into it. Her work then was the gossip column for the Guardian.

Frau Fuhrmann snickered. “What would you want with such a high profile case? Even our journalists are struggling to get the exclusive.”

Eva stopped herself from swearing. Before she could interject the German reporter proved to be a little helpful. “My colleague Bernard may know. Just give me a second.”

The phone went on hold. Eva drummed her fingers on the bubble-wrap as the call-hold music screeched in her ear. Within seconds Frau Fuhrmann was back on the line. “The inspector you want is Raimund Eichel. He’s in charge of the investigation. But I understand he’s not taking any press interviews. He likes to work in isolation and away from the curious eye of media speculation.”

Eva cradled the phone and turned around on her swivel chair, glancing out the window at the morning sunrise view. “Do you have a number I can call?”

“Hold on a second.”

More jostling came on the other end of the line before Frau Fuhrmann returned to the call. “I’ve obtained a favor from Bernard. Here’s a number for Eichel’s office in Berlin.”

Eva took the number down. “Thank you, Frau Fuhrmann. I look forward to seeing you soon. You know, I've my own paper now.”

“How nice.”

Frau Fuhrmann voiced her goodbyes and hung up. Eva caught a glimpse of Mark, the personal assistant she’d hired at a moment’s whim. He’d come early as instructed to start his new job and crouched over his computer, attempting to connect his monitor, aided by the information technology staff. She closed the door, picked up the phone and dialed the number Frau Fuhrmann had given her.

“Hallo,” said a man’s voice. “Peter Manuel hier.”

Eva didn’t speak a word of German. “Hello. My name is Eva Riche calling from London, do you speak English?”

“A small bit,” said the man in a scruffy, German accent.

Eva took a breath. “Am I speaking to Raimund Eichel?”

“Nein. This is Peter Manuel, his deputy. How can I help you?”

“Can I talk to Mr. Eichel?”

“He’s not here. What is your business?”

“Where can I reach him?”

“What’s your business?”

A lie wouldn’t hurt. He wouldn’t put her through if she admitted she was from the press. Flattery always works. “I’m interested in security systems that can be employed in large companies. I own a segment of Riche Enterprises in London. I’ve heard that Mr. Eichel is an expert on the subject. I believe he would be able to advise me.”

 

Peter knew the Riche group of companies well. He’d even applied several years ago at their German branch in Stuttgart. Not thinking twice about surrendering the information he entertained her inquiry.

“Herr Eichel is in London until tomorrow. But I’ll give you his cell phone number.”

That was easy.

She jotted the number down. “Where’s he staying in London?”

“I believe he’s at the Hilton in Kensington.”

“Thank you, Peter. You were most helpful.”

He smiled to himself, realizing that he hadn’t followed protocol. The woman had charmed him.

Eva dialed the cell number.

 

Eichel was still asleep in his Hilton hotel room. His half-groggy eyes focused on the buzzing noise on his bedside table.

He extended his hand and grasped the phone.

“Hello, Mr. Eichel. You might recall we met some years ago in Berlin?”

“Who am I speaking to? How did you get this number?”

“My name is Eva Riche. I need your help with something. I’m currently doing some investigative research on the disappearance of the artifacts from the Pergamon Museum, can you help me?”

“Are you a journalist?”

Eva ignored the question at the risk of a hang up. “Could I meet you today? I understand you’re in London and in charge of the investigation.”

“Fräuline, please call my office. They’ll give you the official statement. I’m not taking any interviews.”

Eichel hung up and struggled out of bed. Rubbing his eyes he rose fully awake, accustomed to early wake-up calls.

 He swore. “Nosy journalists! They’ve always distracted me from doing my job. Morons! They just get in the way.”

 

 

Eva had covered more ground than she’d expected for the first day. The clock in her office read 12:40 p.m. She’d spent the good part of the morning researching anything she could find on the Deveron Manuscript. Surely Eichel won’t be in his room for ever.

Could she take a chance? She knew the hotel well and perhaps she could bribe a few willing money-makers. She dialed Mark’s extension. “I’m going out now. Cancel all my meetings for the day, especially the one with Raphael.”

Mark nodded trying to keep up with who Raphael was. On her way out, Eva grabbed her coat from the hook by the door and darted out of the building with determined haste.

 

Kensington Hilton stood proudly in the leafy district of Holland Park. Eva parked her white Bentley in the hotel underground garage and made her way to the elevators that led onto the hotel lobby. As Eva approached the front desk a silver-haired hotel receptionist leaned his ear over a phone receiver, calming an annoyed customer. With an impatient air she placed her hands on her hips tapping her stiletto until he concluded his conversation.

He set the receiver down and beamed a courteous smile at her. “Good afternoon.”

“Hello,” she said with a confident drawl, exaggerating her French accent. “I was supposed to meet my husband here. He’s in town from Berlin, on business. Could you tell me what room he is in?”

The man deliberately lowered his head and studied her. “What’s your husband’s name?” he asked.

“Raimund Eichel.”

“Let me see.” He typed on his machine. “Ah, here he is. I’m afraid he’s not in at the moment. His key is here. Perhaps you can wait for him in one of our waiting areas.”

“Couldn’t I just wait in the room? You see,” she leaned closer, the fragrance of her perfume whiffing past his nostrils, causing him to twitch his nose as she tossed a flirtatious wink. “I want to surprise him.”

A gasp escaped the receptionist’s throat. “Technically, we’re not allowed—”

Eva didn’t want to waste time. She drew out a wad of twenty-pound notes and made sure he saw them as she slipped them under some papers on the desk.

“Listen.” She read his name badge. “Gustav? I’m a busy woman. I’m sure this will help any trouble I’ve put you through.”

Gustav slid the money back at her. “Madam, I’m sorry.”

“Don’t expect any business from me or Riche Enterprises in the future.”

She spun on her heels and inched toward the elevators, glancing back once to see if Gustav was watching. Her Stuart Weitzman stilettos clicked with each step on the marbled floor. She’d managed to see Eichel’s room number on Gustav’s screen.

Room 245.

Second floor was her guess. Eva rode the elevator to the second floor. Soft glowing light fell gently on the relatively isolated hallway, except for a uniformed chamber woman.

“Good afternoon,” the woman said.

Eva maintained a straight face as the stocky woman resumed inventorying her cart items.

“Could you please open my room? My husband has our key downstairs and I really have a bad migraine. I need to lie down.”

They paced a few meters to Room 245 and the housekeeper slotted her master key through the latch. The door clicked open. Eva took a deep breath. “Thank you.”

It was empty, already tidied with the curtains drawn. Eva turned to the nonchalant woman. “You can go now.”

The woman twisted her bottom lip. “Do you want me to get you something for your headache?”

“Oh, no thank you. I have some pills in my bag.”

The woman lingered for a few seconds before maneuvering toward her cart. Eva pulled the door shut and stepped into the room, spying around for a travel or work bag. Moving with the stealth of a hungry cat her eyes fell on a Rimona brief case on the far end of the bed. She hurried toward it, knelt on the floor beside the silver case, and checked the lock.

Open.

She checked all compartments. Nothing of use seized her interest, just some travel documents, itineraries and crime photographs. She shot up, her head swimming with anxiety and proceeded toward the somewhat small bathroom near the main door. Turning on the light in the windowless room her reflection on the far mirror made her stop mid-stride. She inhaled a short breath, ignored the reflection and searched for any stashed overnight bags.

Three minutes later Eva was wrestling with luck and she knew it. Lastly, she decided to check his closet opposite the bathroom door. Inside the dark space hung a Hugo Boss jacket and a couple of trendy slacks.

“Nice, Mr. Eichel. More style than I imagined for a cop.”

As she set her hand on the tweed threads the room telephone sounded with a piercing classic ring tone. Her heart skipped to her throat. Someone was calling for Eichel. She considered her options for all of three seconds. The front door was only an arm’s length away. Eva turned toward it and, before she could reach the doorknob her eyes fell on a wad of papers jetting out of a long coat in the closet.

“What have we got here?”

She reached for the rolled papers that poked out of the inside pocket. Eva seized them and carefully unraveled the find, scanning the contents with interest. She almost dismissed the documents entirely until her eyes read yellow highlighted words:

 

 

TOP SECRET:

The Deveron Manuscript

 

 

Classified documents from the British government! Along the margins, several handwritten notes had been scribbled. Eva couldn’t understand the language. Must be German.

She scrambled for her work camera from her shoulder bag and photographed page after page. Footsteps plodding in the hall caused alarm to surface to her face as a shadowed silhouette fell across the floor, formed by the lights in the corridor.

Damn!

A rattle sounded on the door knob and she sprang back, holding her stomach as nauseating pain shot through her abdomen.

 

 

 

8:00 p.m.

Waldorf Astoria Hotel

New York City

 

 The campaign was in full swing in Wisconsin, Maryland and the District of Columbia. Margot Arlington, Governor of Indiana, could hardly have spared this distraction at a crucial point in her presidential campaign. These were important rallies. The Arlington camp believed that the results in Wisconsin could help boost Margot to victory in the popular vote in the elections, now only eight months away. This would deliver a crushing blow to her opponent.

Margot stood observing the New York skyline from the imposing height of the landmark Waldorf Astoria Hotel. She couldn’t afford this break in New York but it was worth it. She’d come too far. Not too long ago she’d been flipping hamburgers and running from one beauty pageant to another in an attempt to please her insufferable mother. Frustrated with this charade Margot wanted what she called ‘a real job.’ At eighteen she enrolled for her bachelors in political science at Indiana State University and later graduated with a Juris Doctor from Notre Dame Law School. Her determination and austere persistence were rewarded with admission to the Bar of the state of Indiana. She astounded her mother all the way to her election as Governor of Indiana, a vital triumph for Margot. Now her eyes were set on an even higher trophy, the presidency of the United States.

Job creation across the country and the economy were to be the focus of her campaign. Margot hoped that her background wouldn’t betray her. Her frequent appearances before conservative groups and in the news media had given Margot opportunities to woo crucial support after her unsuccessful campaign for the Republican nomination four years earlier. Many, though, had been doubtful of her convictions.

Margot cantered to the lounge chair and cranked her neck muscles. She ran her hands through her short black locks. Which part of her mixed race background was dominant, the Polish roots of her mother or her Zimbabwean ancestry on her father’s side? Had birth on US soil overridden both? She would never know given the premature death of her immigrant parents.

It had been a hard week.

“Malcolm?” she said.

Malcolm, her faithful aid, barely out of graduate school, poked his balding head through the door.

“Mr. Laskfell will be arriving any minute. Do you have the tickets?”

Malcolm nodded and slipped back into the office part of the suite.

He’d been given strict instructions. The Republican Party had been kept on a need to know basis about her dealings with Mason. She’d instructed Malcolm to keep her communications with Mason confidential and lied, claiming he was a distant relative. “No one in the party is to know of Mason’s proposal,” she’d told the ambitious aid. With a hard determination to rise within the ranks of the Republican Party the aid had succumbed to her wishes.

How hard could it be? If Mason helped her get elected, all she needed to do was make sure one thousand of his people were employed in America. She really didn’t care who these people were.

Malcolm reappeared. “Mrs. Arlington, Mr. Laskfell is downstairs in the lobby. Are you sure you don’t want me to come along?”

“No, this is just a social call. You can retire for the evening,” Margot said.

“Here are the Met Opera tickets you requested. Two tickets for Richard Wagner’s Der Ring Des Nibelungen. Sounds promising.”

Margot smirked. It didn’t really matter what they were going to see. She’d picked this place for its anonymity. She needed more support and money for the rallies. Mason could provide that incognito.

She wandered into the grand elevators on her floor whose doors were cast in nickel and plated with bronze. On the ground floor she rambled past the prominent murals in the Park Avenue lobby dating back to 1929 before spotting Mason smoking a cigar in a lazy armchair.

He sported an impressive Bottega Veneta tuxedo and held out a hand to lead her to his Rolls-Royce Phantom limousine.

They exited the building into New York’s early evening as the driver pulled the car door open, allowing them to settle in the lavish seats of the superlative automobile.

 

 

“Driver, raise the divider window,” Mason said.

He obliged and drove the limousine out of 49th Street, cruising down Park Avenue.

Mason pressed down a button in the armrest between them, which slid open a closed chamber behind the front street, housing a bar filled to the brim, proposing a wealth of liqueur including a bottle of Armand de Brignac champagne.

He lifted two glasses from the glass compartment.

“A hefty price. Celebrating already, Mr. Laskfell?” Her mid-western twang sizzled with nasality when she spoke.

He smiled. “For a splendid lady.”

She took the offered glass and raised a toast. “Welcome to the USA.”

Mason chinked her glass. “I admire a woman who has resolve and ambition. You’ll stop at nothing to get that seat in the White House.”

She raised her glass slightly. “You don’t know me that well.”

He sneered. “I’m sorry to bother you at a time when your campaign needs you most but time is running out for your decision with regards to my proposal.”

“I, in turn, revere a man who comes straight to the point. With regards to your proposal, there’s no decision to make.”

She took a sip of the champagne, leaving a lipstick mark on the chilled glass. “I’ve already signed the documents.”

Mason smiled. “Well then, this will be a lot easier than I thought.”

“How’ll this work?” Margot said. “The deal doesn’t take effect until I’m in office. Right?”

“Correct. There’s nothing to fear. You have a solid lead over all of your competitors.”

“Yes, but how’ll you make sure I receive the votes I need?”

“Let me worry about that, as long as I deliver on my end of the bargain. A guarantee is even tied to the agreement. It’s for your own security.”

The limousine steered to the curb in front of the Metropolitan Opera. Margot cradled her champagne glass and tapped it with a scarlet nail. “You’re a crude man. I would hate to be your enemy.”

She unlatched her beaded evening purse and drew out the folded papers. Margot unraveled and extended the crucial papers toward him. “Signed and, now, delivered.”

Mason reached for them. She held on tight.

He examined her frown. “I assure you, you have nothing to lose.”

She released the papers. “Let’s hope not.”

He stashed the documents in his breast pocket and waited for the driver to open the door. “If there’s nothing more to discuss, shall we?”

“On to Wagner now.”

They disappeared into the vibrant New York opera house.

 

Hours later, the couple emerged exploding with laughter like old friends. Margot beamed, her arm secure within Mason’s charmed by his suave nature. “The Ring is one of the most ruthless musical projects ever. I so thoroughly enjoyed that,” Margot said.

“Allow me to drop you off at your hotel,” Mason offered.

Back at the Waldorf Astoria Margot shook his hand and let herself out of the grand limousine. Mason held her hand and brushed a gentle kiss over it. “It’s been good doing business with you. Good luck with the rest of your campaign.”

He gave her an approving wink before settling back in the leathered seat. His limousine sidled out toward Manhattan. “To the airport, driver.”

He reached for the car phone. “Slate, turn on the signal.”

 

 

Margot bit her lip as she watched Mason’s car steer off. She glanced at her watch. “Time to move, I guess.”

Within the hotel lobby she peered toward the two-ton, nine foot Goldsmith clock.

Twelve past midnight.

She made her way back to her suite. The lights were on when she dragged her aching feet into the lavish interior. The adjacent office bustled with energetic activity.

Malcolm strode in her direction. “You ready for your other guest?”

“As ready as I'll ever be.”

She followed him in the adjoining room.

 

 

Nash emerged carrying some documents in his hand. “Governor Arlington, are you all right?”

She nodded.

Nash shot her a severe look, disguising his disapproval of her choice of company. He raked a chair across the floor to her table. “We managed to swap the documents. And with Mason on US soil we’ve started the process of infiltrating his private computer networks.”

“Do you have what you need?” she asked.

He slid onto the seat. “Yes. Thanks for your cooperation.”

Margot slumped into the seat next to him. Nash watched her disenchanted reaction, convinced she was puzzled as to how the NSA had apprehended her plan. He eased her discomfort with a smile. “Don’t feel bad. We’ve had reason to suspect much of Mason’s behavior. I wasn’t as successful in busting his movements with Samuel Riche as I would have liked but I managed to prevent the signing of the deal.”

“Malcolm. Got a cigarette?” she said tilting her head to the side.

“You really shouldn’t smoke,” Malcom said.

She threw him a chilling look, setting him off scampering to find her Marlboros.

Margot turned her attention toward Nash. “So now I’m a pawn for the British government and the NSA in return for their silence.”

“I’m afraid the presidential race has to be run impartially, ma’am.”

Her eyes fell on Mason’s original documents as Nash rolled them in his hands.

“What you gonna do with that?” she said.

“It’s classified.”

“What’s your next move?”

He glanced at the time. “Get on a plane back to Europe.”