Chapter 62
DAY 8
NATIONAL HOSPITAL FOR NEUROLOGY AND NEUROSURGERY
LONDON, UK
1125 hrs.
“How is she?”
Calla paced into the National Hospital for Neurology and Neurosurgery in London, biting at her lips, a dismal shadow veiling her face. The long flight had drained her. But nothing prepared her for the look on Allegra’s face when she walked into Veda’s hospital room. Allegra stood over Veda’s weakening frame in the little private room. She turned her head as she saw Calla approach. “Thank God, you’re here.”
Her feet felt heavy by the time she’d stepped to the side of the bed. She watched as Veda breathed steadily, her head facing the grand window that looked out into Queen’s Park. A monitoring screen hung above the bed evaluating Veda’s critical condition. Calla knew little about hospital instruments, yet the bleeping from the small screen told her Veda’s state was more life-threatening that Allegra had shared.
Calla stood to one side of the half-raised bed and fixed her eyes on Veda’s heaving chest. Her eyes were closed. She rolled her head, moaning gently.
Allegra moved to her side and whispered in Calla’s ear. “She’s had difficulty keeping medicine down. The doctor told me this morning that her heart is also slowly failing.”
Calla shifted her weight uncomfortably from one leg to another as a tear swelled in one eye. She fought it back with a sniffle. “Failing? But she’s one of the healthiest people I know, Allegra.”
Allegra’s hand found Calla’s shoulder.
“Whatever Mason did to her in that prison room, destroyed more than we first imagined,” said Dr. Risebergl as he approached them.
They turned toward him. Calla slid Veda’s hand in to hers. “Dr. Risebergl, what’s happening to her?”
“She has quite a persistent cough, severe lack of appetite and a rapid heart rate. That’s what the machine up here is monitoring—her heart.”
Allegra’s phone rang. “I’ll take this outside,” she said and moved out quietly.
Veda stirred her head. She threw open her eyes and sluggishly found Calla’s concerned stare. “Calla. You came.”
“Of course.” She slid into the chair next to the bed. “How’re you keeping?”
Veda shot a weak glance at Dr. Risebergl. “I’m in good hands.”
Always an optimist, Veda would not admit how off-color she was from the ashen lines around her eyes, and the dryness of her skin. Her lips and nail beds had turned pale and bluish. Calla gave Veda’s hand a gentle squeeze. “I’m here now to take care of you.”
“No, Calla.” Veda fired a quick glance at the doctor who jotted down some notes from her monitor.
“I’ll leave you two alone,” he said.
Veda’s breathing labored as she tried to raise her head. “Calla, I’ve had the worst nightmares since I went into hospital.”
“Shh . . . It’s over now.”
“No, you don’t understand. Mason Laskfell read my mind. I saw my mind communicating words and emotions that I couldn’t control.”
“Mason can’t hurt you any longer.”
Veda let out a chesty cough. “I’m ashamed to say I used to indulge in hypnotism as a hobby. That nonsense can really muddle with your mind, or at least it did mine.” Her eyes glinted as she spoke. “Calla, I looked in to his sick mind.”
“Veda, I don’t want you to think about it.”
“No, Calla, listen it’s important. When he took control of my mind, I tried to hypnotize him in self-defense. That’s what got me. He was too strong. And I didn’t like what I saw. His mind has no reason, no compassion, and he feels no emotion. There’s not an inkling of human empathy in him. It’s as if he needs to finish something he started long ago.”
Calla gently massaged the lower part of Veda’s arm in a circular motion that eased the older woman’s nerves. She hated to consider the possibilities. Hypnotism had its side effects, like minds swirling into hyper attention, losing normal judgment, and the increased ability to conjure a whole range of imaginary situations. Had Veda engaged in a battle of the minds? “Veda, Mason’s been rumored to be telepathic for years. In fact, many avoided him, afraid he knew their thoughts.”
Veda let out a cough. “He’s a step ahead of everyone.”
Calla folded her arms across her chest. “He’s mimicking his mind’s chaos and translating it to operating systems.”
Veda drew in a profound breath. “You and I know that technology is showing human intelligence a run for its money. He’s only obliterating what humanity has raised as a god, and that is the intelligence to do anything with a machine or a byte.”
Calla understood. “If he controls minds, he controls systems, basically eliminating individual will on all fronts.”
Veda gripped Calla’s sleeve and pulled her down to her level. “But he’s afraid of something. Something to do with you, Calla, and he thinks you’ll find it before he does.”
“He wants my mother. But why?”
Veda released her sleeve, her eyes glistening with fear. “I don’t know, Calla, but you need to get to her before he does.”
“I’m trying, Veda.”
“I got your letter, by the way. The one from Colorado.”
“I almost didn’t send it.”
She’d sent the snail mail to Veda the day before she was attacked in Colorado. She pulled her shoulders back, rose and strolled to the window. “I don’t know how to find her. All I have are two pieces of cloth, each no bigger than my palm, with medieval German strokes. None of which make sense. I also have a coded anagram and mysterious, historic riddles she wrote. How do I know they actually lead to something? It could all mean nothing.”
“What about your father?”
“You know about him too?”
Veda nodded. “Calla, you’re the smartest girl I’ve ever known. Even when I taught you history at Beacon Academy, you outsmarted many, not only in that private school, but your national peers and superiors. You’ll figure it out.”
“We don’t have time. I’ve two pieces that form part of a larger puzzle.”
“If I know you and your mind, you memorized her words. You used to collect anything related to your parents as if it were gold.”
“Yes, I wrote them down when we landed.” She fished for a paper from her pockets. “Why did my mother leave this thing to me? I really can’t do it. I don’t know what she means. And even if I do, no one who knew her can tell me where she is and what she meant by this game of words.”
Veda struggled to let her words out. “What does it say?”
Calla turned to face her boss and read the message:
AMENDABLE TILLER
A linguistic victory for one so fair.
AWAIT EMBANK OAT
A model of modernization, a cry from my dwelling charred to the ground.
RAM SKIN NU
A mystery out of ten, a mausoleum on inexplicable men.
“It’s the last bit that remains a mystery.”
Calla strolled back to her side. “With each part of the riddle, she left a piece of cloth and gibberish written all over it, mixing symbols from across languages and cultures. She left each with a person close to her. My father only knew one. We found the other person in Japan.”
“Hmm—”
“We can’t unscramble the name of the last person. Nothing came up on government files, public or hidden.”
“Maybe, you should unravel the mystery first this time and not the name.”
Her mind pondered the words again. A mystery out of ten, a mausoleum of inexplicable men.
“Veda, there’s a million ancient mysteries that have puzzled the world. It could be anything.”
Veda muttered to herself before speaking. “It could be personal to your mother.”
“My father claims she was fascinated by history, like me. She studied it and never took anything at anyone’s word, always having to verify facts for herself.”
“Much like you.”
Calla smiled. “It’s as if she wanted to be there and experience it herself.”
Veda’s cough rose to uncontrollable judders. “Don’t . . . give up.”
Calla sank in to the chair. “That’s what Nash said. Rest, Veda. You’re going to get better. The museum needs you. I need you. I should let you rest.”
“You could do my job with your eyes closed. You always could. Now tell me that the frown on your face is caused by Mason and finding your mother or is there something more? Who is this Nash?”
Calla averted her eyes.
Veda studied her face. “What are you afraid of?”
Her intuition impressed Calla. “There’s something I’ve never told you. Something to do with why I left for a sabbatical. I had to figure something out.”
“What? Has it got to do with the letter you sent me?”
“Yes.”
Calla wondered if the letter had really made sense to Veda. Would she believe anything Calla had to surrender? Veda had sympathized with her at Beacon Academy and even now, she understood Calla was different.
Veda smiled. “Is this something to do with Nash or your special gifts?”
Calla blushed.
“Huh! I knew it. Must be that athletic one who came to the museum opening of the ‘Zoroastrian Traditions in Persia’ exhibition that you curated several months ago. He seemed quite impressed with you.”
Veda raised her head and leaned toward Calla. “He has that look in his eyes that says it’s real, Calla. You met my husband John once. That same look never left his eyes the whole time we were married. Trust yourself. Trust the ones you love, cherish the ones that love you.”
Calla wanted to tell her all. She wanted the best advice she could get from an impartial person and from someone who’d mentored her since she was a teenager. “How do I know what I feel is real? It wasn’t for my parents. It wasn’t for his parents neither.”
“It was for me, Calla.” Veda continued. “Only death will ever separate you two–either that or distance may kill both your hearts.”
Calla took a deep breath. “What if we are different beings, and come from different places? Literally.”
“Go on.”
Calla took another deep breath. “Seven months ago, Veda, as you know, I found my real father, Stan Cress. I also found out why they had me adopted. It’s because I have extraordinary abilities as I wrote to you and an exceptional assignment because of it.”
Veda listened intently. Her look edged Calla on.
Phew, she’s still with me. Calla felt a prickle of unease stir the small hairs at the nape of her neck as she spoke. “I come from this ludicrous family that can do impossible things like . . . counter gravity.” Calla’s eyes lit and she hoisted herself on the edge of the bed, grabbing Veda’s hand as if she sought the wisdom of a mother, she’d never had. “I can fight with strength and ability that defies any reason . . . that no woman or man should have.”
Her eyes intensified. “I can see through things.”
“Calla, that explains much. Things that I wondered about you at Beacon Academy.”
“But what am I supposed to do with all of this? I discovered that I belong to . . . that I’m supposed to direct these people, a group of people like me that I don’t know and am not sure I like very much.”
“Sounds as though somebody believed enough in you to give you such responsibility.”
“That’s just it. I just have names and broken pieces. ” She fingered the paper in her hand. “Like these medieval patches and mother’s anagram.”
“Calla. I don’t care if you come from Jupiter. You were born on this Earth, for a purpose on this Earth. There are many laws that govern our world, physics, science, astrology, technology and so on. I don’t think we have all the answers. There’s so much we still don’t know about our world, its past, its present and its future. Who’s to say that man in his academia is right? Everyday, science puzzles man, nature takes him by surprise and history mystifies him. We can’t explain it all and maybe, we’re not supposed to.”
Veda’s insistent voice cut slowly through the pulsing in Calla’s head. She grasped Calla’s hand. “You have free will and choice. The two greatest gifts we have and ones that have been abused many times. Trust in those who walk with you and most importantly, trust your instincts, no matter what. And don’t apologize to anyone for them.”
Tears stung Calla’s eyes. For the first time in six months, she felt free, not torn between the operatives and what they wanted or what she wanted. Veda, an honorable woman, understood her and her abnormalities, accepting them without resolve.
Veda mopped the tears from Calla’s eyes with the edge of her hospital robe. “Now, tell me again. What does your mother’s message say?”
Calla wiped her eyes. “A mystery out of ten, a mausoleum of inexplicable men.”
“And you say your mother loved history? Hm . . .”
Calla nodded.
“Something happened four thousand years ago that still mystifies us today. A mystery found in a basin. Of course!”
“What?”
“Think, Calla, I think we’ve even had them at the British Museum. It’s one of history’s ten greatest mysteries.”
Calla’s eyes widened. “Yes!” Calla said. “The Tarim Basin in China. She must mean the Tarim mummies.”
“Don’t you see? These ancient people buried their dead, four thousand years ago, in a hot climate and rocky soil that helped keep the mummies’ bodies preserved. The bodies should have decomposed hundreds of years ago, but they have not. It’s a huge mystery,” Veda added.
“My father told me mother went to China often on secret missions, so did Tamiko Watanabe in Tokyo.”
“Your mother was a spy?”
“So I’ve been told. So was my dad.”
Veda smiled. “And I thought I led an exciting life.”
Calla glanced down at her friend’s feeble body. Veda erupted into an irrepressible cough.
Calla seized the glass of cool water on her bedside table. “Veda, I’m sorry. You really need to rest. I’ll stay here for a while with you. I’m going to see you through this.”
The blue veins in Veda’s temples beat wildly as she closed her eyes. Her lips curled into a smile. “Whatever you are, Calla, I’ve never known anyone with a heart as genuine as yours. It’s your true strength. You care intensely about those around you.”
Calla relished her friend’s kind words. Soon, her soft breathing told Calla she’d drifted in to a peaceful sleep. Calla’s hand still grasped the gentle woman’s right hand as the monitor above recorded a steady heartbeat. Sensing her own travel exhaustion, Calla settled back in to the bedside chair and shut her eyes, falling into a slumber of her own.
“Calla?”
A gentle hand nudged her awake. Calla glared up to see Allegra’s pained face. “I’m sorry. She’s gone.”
The monitor above Veda’s bed lay still. It had been shut off.
Calla sensed the wild thumping of her own heart. She swallowed the sob that rose in her throat. The person she’d known as mentor, boss and friend lay immobile, her hand still intertwined in Calla’s.
ST. LUKE’S INTERNATIONAL HOSPITAL
TOKYO, JAPAN
2121 hrs.
HER EYES WERE closed. Above her, a glinting face scrutinized Eva’s condition as she slept deeply, in the private ward of the international hospital wing. She’d failed. He had no time for time wasters. Mason had asked her to perform one simple thing. Imbecile! Like your father, a quitter!
He’d worn light-colored informal clothes and a set of dark eyeglasses. A routine nurse paced into the room and checked Eva’s blood pressure. Mason edged away from the bed and threw her a charmed smile. “What’s the condition of my daughter?”
The nurse’s English was feeble, but she managed to join a few words. “You must be Mr. Samuel Riche. Eva’s father.”
Mason nodded.
“She needs to rest now,” said the woman in Japanese. “Her body is almost clear of the mercury, I understand from the doctors. Although they’re checking to see whether poison was ingested in her lungs.”
“But of course,” Mason said as he threw her a charmed smile.
“I’ll be outside at my station if you need anything,” said the nurse as she cleared several items from Eva’s feed tray and sauntered out of the room.
Mason picked up the clip board next to her bed. The next physician’s visit would not be for another hour. More than enough time.
His eyes traveled to the ventilator next to her sleeping frame as the machine mechanically transported breathable air through her lungs. Pity you have to go like this. I thought you had it in you, Eva. He tugged at the tube that traveled to Eva’s mouth and nose, its other end attached to the ventilators oxygen supply. Eva breathed deeply.
He drew a sharp knife from his slacks and sawed at the tubes’ edge, his eyes glancing at her as she continued to sleep deeply. The oxygen slowly seeped out of the severed pipe. You know way too much and I can’t have that, little girl.
The tube snapped. Eva remained motionless. Mason traversed to the door, dragged it open and peeked out into the hallway. He pushed it shut and locked it from the inside, then turned and watched.
He waited.
Five minutes later, Eva’s face paled and her breathing labored producing loud gasps and wheezing. She brought her hands to her throat and her eyes shot open. She glared up, her body heaving before she turned her head and locked eyes with Mason. Her eyes widened as she realized her fate.
“Miss Riche, all you had to do was ask the right questions and be yourself. Your carelessness delays my schedule.”
She shook her head in frantic jerks, unable to speak as the machine’s windpipe clogged her air passage. She let out an involuntary cough, followed by a gurgling sound.
“It’ll be over soon,” Mason said softly.
A loud thud pounded on the door behind him. “Eva!”
The pounding continued. “Eva! C’est moi. C’est papa!”
Mason moved away from her side not bothered by the bellowing voice. Eva’s father had made a late appearance at the hospital. Samuel Riche! Moron!
Mason stood immobile as the oxygen seeped through the end of the severed windpipe. He needed sixty more seconds. More commotion rose at the door, and a loud clamor showed that someone had joined Samuel in the hallway. Mason stood adroit, undeterred by the noise. He strolled to Eva’s bluing face and set livid eyes on her. “Bon nuit, ma petite. Good night. Sleep comes to those whom struggle less.”
A gun shot exploded through the room, and echoed for seconds in Mason’s ears.
Mason’s left hand traveled to his leg. A patch of discharging blood stained his light-colored slacks and trickled to the immaculate tiles.
ST. GILES SQUARE, LONDON
1847 hrs.
Nash tugged at his tie, trying feverishly not to feel discouraged. He felt a lump in his throat as he mused on the news about Veda. Calla’s loss was his loss. He reached for his travel kit and found his small comb. He groomed his drying hair, sliding it back smoothly, before cloaking on his tuxedo coat. They’d flown in early that morning from Tokyo and with Calla at the hospital; he’d stopped by his London apartment to find a tux. There’d been none. A quick stop on Bond Street had solved that little problem, giving him enough time to reach Allegra’s residence, where she’d asked him to come early for the 7:45 P.M. limousine pickup.
He reached for his phone, slid it in the breast pocket and gawked at the gun on the bed of the guest room Pearl had assigned him to use. Surely, it was just a diplomatic function, no need for guns, though he was authorized to carry one into the Embassy reception. On second thought, he reached for it and put it in his tuxedo’s shoulder-holster.
Allegra’s guest room was nothing short of extraordinary. Her interior decorator had spared no expense for the upper floors, from the chilling champagne at the end of the hand-carved mahogany bed, to the walls of varicolored Venetian plaster, and the rich mingling of Versailles, French-style furniture. He glanced briefly at his reflection in the studded floor-length mirror, as light from a twelve-arm, acrylic chandelier dazzled the virgin wool of his new tux.
He heard a soft knock on the door.
“Come in.”
Allegra sidled into the room, an apparition in scarlet. Her flattering frame drifted in a floor-length, haute couture gown, embellished with lace and embroidery. Nash tried to hide his surprise at her elegance. Sure, she was touching sixty, or sixty-five, yet she knew how to work a gown like a monarch on their wedding day. “Allegra, you look magnificent.”
“In this vintage? Wait till you see what I ordered for Calla,” she said, taking his hand playfully and twirling under it. “Who says missions need to be boring. I always enjoyed this part of the foreign service.”
“I can certainly see that.”
Allegra handed him a listening device. He’d requested a special miniature radio transmitter with a microphone that could record any incriminating material, if necessary. Coercion was not his style, but with only a couple of days left, persuasion with the Chinese ambassador could be necessary.
“Listen, tonight we’re ordinary guests at the Chinese Embassy ball. We need to isolate Ambassador Jiang Mah and get his signature on this.” She pulled out a document from her sparkling, evening clutch. “It won’t be easy, right? With the state of current relations with them? Should ambassador Mah refuse to comply, we’ll persuade him with your recording and this little baby.”
Nash took the document from her hands. “What’s this?”
“A little detail British Intelligence has kept an eye on for a few months. It’s Mah’s, should we say, undiplomatic behavior while on our soil.”
Nash eyed the details. “Quite comprehensive.”
“If he doesn’t comply, I’ll need you to help me coax him.”
Nash scrutinized the details of Ambassador Mah’s unofficial dealings. The British government threatened to revoke China’s entry into ISTF, if he failed to authorize an excavation license for them in the Tarim Basin. The trading chips were details the border police had gathered, but failed to act on owing to Mah’s immunity status. Mah had trafficked a shipment of sixteen kilos of cocaine, with a street value of $2 million, passed on from Mexico, through the UK and disguised as shipment resulting from a pharmaceutical trade agreement. He’d authorized other narcotics to be hand-carried into the UK, cushioned in a series of diplomatic bags.”
“Isn’t ISTF closing?” Nash said.
“Mah doesn’t know that and if we succeed, then no.”
Nash set the envelope in his tuxedo pocket next to his cell phone and shook his head slightly. “Whoever said politics was uneventful?”
“You seem to disagree.” She took a breath. “Nash, I believe ISTF can be instrumental in dealing with cyber crimes of the future. ISTF could be the visible side of our operatives. We could get operatives in there to combat the worst cyber crimes of the future, not to mention other international policing that may be necessary. This is where crime is on the rise. It’s on every major government’s agenda. You know that.”
Nash smirked. She was right. “But—”
“Oh, you don’t agree,” said Allegra lifting her chin.
“Allegra, I let the operatives do what they want. It’s when they get too close that they piss me off.”
Allegra raised her eyebrow. “This doesn’t have to do with Calla and Colorado.”
“It does.”
“Nash, I like you. I think highly of you and in my opinion, you’re better than a hundred operatives put together, because you have guts. You’re fearless and have something in you that stems from more than a man serving his country.”
“I’m glad you approve,” Nash said, cynicism ringing in his voice.
“Nash, look at me.”
He shot her a quizzical look.
She took a deep breath. “I’m sorry I sat by and let Vortigern persuade Calla to leave you. It was against my better judgment. As you see, Calla listened to her heart and told him to stuff it where it hurts.”
“Easy, Allegra.”
She glanced away from his stare. “I now know better and I never meant to wound you.”
Nash was silent for several seconds. He took a few steps toward her, seized her hand and raised it to his lips. “Apology accepted.”
Her tight lips curled into a smile. “See. I knew I liked you.” She turned toward the door. “Is Calla ready? The limo will be here in thirty minutes?”
“I’ll check on her.”
They strolled out into the majestic hallway and Allegra ambled down the stairs as Nash continued to Calla’s room. When he stepped to the door, it stood slightly ajar. “Cal?”
He knocked three times.
No answer.
He pushed the door open and strolled in. His eyes caught the ball gown she’d laid out to wear next to a Harry Winston, wreath diamond necklace Allegra had loaned Calla for the evening. The vivid, marquise diamonds glimmered in the luminosity of the reset lighting. He let himself dream for a moment as he imagined them around her gazelle like neck. Nash heard a sound from the bathroom.
Dripping water.
He progressed to the bathroom door. “Cal? It’s me.”
With no answer from the other side, he poked his head through the door. Calla reclined in a bubble bath, head back, and her tight chin facing the ceiling. Her face held no expression and her hair spilled out of the tub in a silk curtain that nearly touched the floor tiles. Nash made his way to her, watching as she tried to stifle the sobs that threatened to overwhelm her. “Hey, Cal?”
She dropped her chin noticing him for the first time as he sank to the soft Persian on the side of the free-standing, roll-top bathtub. Her face was stained with tears and excruciating emotions as her eyes met his.
He put his hand on her face and set her cheek on his shoulder, unable to imagine the grief she felt. They’d had their first casualty with Mason and it had struck at their cores. Nash let her grieve in silence as the whirlpool fizzed, quietly massaging her sorrow. She raised her face and he kissed her chin softly. “Nash. She’s gone. I can’t believe she’s gone,” she said biting her lips to control the sobs.
“I know, beautiful.”
Nash was not sure whether she would want to go on. Whatever way she chose to go, was all right with him, whether that was quitting or going after that moron Laskfell. He let her set her head on his shoulder for several more minutes before she raised it slowly, facing him with rouged eyes. She fared a faint smile from behind teary eyes. “I’m getting your tux wet. Nash, you look exquisite.”
He returned her smile. “Still wanna go tonight?”
She nodded. “I need to do this for Veda. Even though, I’m exhausted.”
“You must be.”
“Nash, I’m jetting around the globe chasing a mother I’ve never met and the more I dip into my family fund, the more money there is. Who’s doing this and why?”
“Why won’t you let me take care of you? You don’t need to worry about—”
“Nash, you’ve just lost your house.”
“There’s plenty more where that came from.”
“How so?”
“Remind me one day to tell you about some errands I ran in Qatar and Luxembourg.”
The comment brought an amused smile to her face.
“Besides, that trust fund in your name has been gathering interest for decades. It’s all yours. I think your family was smart in setting it up decades ago,” he said.
“I’ve never felt right touching it . . . until they really become family.”
“I don’t want you thinking about that. I’m here always.”
She nodded. “I need to do this for Veda. Could you please hand me a towel?”
Nash shot up and grabbed a towel from the heated handrail. He handed it to her. Calla took the towel from him and draped it around her body. “Let’s go get that permit, even if we have to gate crash the Chinese ambassador’s little party.”
TOKYO, JAPAN
0934 hrs.
The gunshot had been fired inside Eva’s room.
Jack surged from the seat he’d taken outside of her room and glared at Samuel Riche, who’d only arrived minutes earlier. “What was that?”
Calla and Nash had left the hospital the night before and no one had gone in except two authorized physicians and one nurse. He’d seen to the security checks himself. Eva had not awoken once all night the physicians had said.
Jack slid his hand down to the gun in his holster and placed a hand in front of Samuel. “Stand back!”
Samuel Riche reared back and watched Jack pull out his M11 pistol.
Taking a deep breath, Jack edged up against the side of the door and reached for the knob. In one swift movement, he twisted the handle, booted the door and it burst open.
A face he’d hoped never to see again and there it was scrutinizing him.
Mason!
Jack’s lips pressed together in a tight grimace. Bloody hell!
Samuel perched behind three security men whom Jack had organized through Tokyo’s arm of Kōanchōsa-chō, Japan’s Public Security Intelligence Agency. They bolted toward the open door behind Jack. Not sure what to make of what he saw, Jack scrutinized a blood train on the floor, snaking from about three meters from the bed toward the door.
Blood caked on the hospital bed clothes. A titanium, Double Tap .45-caliber pistol–the globe’s smallest pistol known to ISTF forces—leveled at him.
Jack calculated as Mason turned the tiny pistol toward Eva’s temple. This was not his weapon. Jack had seen Mason’s firearms. Aggressive and much too visible. This wasn’t it. Eva had fired at Mason and sliced a bullet through his thigh. Jack’s quick guess was Mason had succeeded at wrenching the gun out of Eva’s frail grip. Her right hand still trembled from the struggle. Barely awake, her ashen face communicated horror and her elbows pressed tightly into her side.
Jack blinked and directed his aim at Mason. “Hold it right there!”
“One step forward and you’ll be singing a French funeral song.”
Jack froze and glared at Eva’s terrified face. His pulse pounded loudly in his ears. Maybe I can aim for his hand. Will I be quick enough?
Mason’s hand hovered over her neck. The bullet would injure both–possibly killing Eva in the process.
The security men hurtled behind him with guns of their own.
“Mason!” Samuel’s voice startled Jack from his deliberation. “We can talk about this! Leave my daughter alone!”
“Time to play father, I see. A bit late for that, isn’t it, Samuel? Let me see. I think we tried that a few months ago.” He dug the steel deeper into her temple. “No, I don’t think so.”
“There’s no way out,” Jack said. “You can’t get out.”
Mason swung to one side and aimed the gun at Jack. The security men took a step back as he slowly drew back the trigger of the progressive barrel. The moment Jack had dreaded since learning to aim a firearm, drew into focus with Mason’s perfect aim.
He shut his eyes.
Gunfire exploded in his ears.
Breadths of seconds later, he felt the brutal weight of the four men scuttle for cover on the tiles around his boots.
Jack drew one eye open.
The light had been extinguished by that one gunshot. And with the shades drawn, all Jack could do was squint through blackness. He heard moans and snuffles from the bed. Is she hit?
The security guards mumbled in Japanese as they slowly shot to their feet around him. Jack’s hand slid to find his smartphone.
He could hear Eva’s rapid breathing.
He turned on its brilliant flashlight.
She was alive.
Mason was gone.
2031 hrs
Nash set his ear against his phone. “Masher?”
That was the fourth time the phone had gone silent after an abrupt pickup. Someone was listening in on Masher’s phone. Who?
He’d tried to reach Masher every few hours after leaving the US Embassy. He clicked off the phone leaving a brief message about trying to reach his lieutenant friend. His eyes caught an incoming message. Heck, not again!
A text message stared at him.
Nash,
I can’t let you contact me. Calla’s life depends on it.
Don’t let her go into China.
Nicole Cress.
Nicole Cress would be no coward. Why would she hide herself from a daughter she was trying to help? He fingered a swift reply.
Where are you?
Show yourself.
The message would not go through. All he received was a flashing text:
Invalid number
Damn!
He parked his car on a quiet street across from the Mandarin Oriental Hotel with the serenity of Hyde Park on one side and the elegance of Knightsbridge on the other. Stepping out of the BMW, he joined extravagant, embassy guests arriving at the historic venue, en route to the Opera Ball, a black-tie, fundraising social, hosted by the Chinese ambassador. He’d left Allegra’s residence, hoping to get a moment to reach Masher and told Calla he’d wait for her and Allegra at the hotel’s entrance.
He fixed his cuff-links and let the evening, October breeze sweep over his clean-shaven face. Would ambassador Jiang Mah generate any problems for them tonight? They had no time for delays and needed that excavation license signed promptly for an early departure to Beijing. Allegra had tried to see the Chinese diplomat at a less public appointment, however, she’d failed.
Tonight was it.
Nash glanced at his Rolex and proceeded toward the front entrance where he waited as guests trolled into the luxury hotel, honoring Eastern culture and the unique mélange of the easygoing Edwardian slant harmonized with contemporary luxury. The hotel was one of London’s first tall buildings, a redbrick estate, long recognized as one of London’s grandest hotels in the flagrant district. He’d been here more than once for work functions with his previous post as a marine and security adviser at the US Embassy in London. If anything, knowing the security prerequisites inside out would work in their favor tonight if needed. If their meeting would be in one of the hotel suites as Allegra had indicated, then security would be better controlled up there for the hosting ambassador, and would mean less intrusion.
Then he saw her.
His eyes focused on her silhouette in the carefully constructed ball gown, a one shoulder, asymmetric, silk-chiffon showing off a line of floral appliqués, embellished with tiny beads. It swept in a breathtaking manner, nipped-in at the bodice for a flawless fit. Nash studied the intricate design Allegra had selected. He admired the classical dress from shoulder to the architectural hemline that sealed the train. His eyes did not leave her for a second as Calla stepped out of the limousine with Allegra.
Lacking self-consciousness as his stare, he waited at the top of the stairs and gawked at her siren appearance as the women made their way to him. Certain his mouth had slacked in approval, he rubbed an eyelid, realizing he’d never seen Calla in evening wear or anything that feminine, if he remembered correctly. His eyes failed to turn elsewhere.
Calla reached the top steps where he stood. He held out a hand for both women, taking one on each arm. Allegra’s lips curled into a beaming smile. “Are you all right, Nash? Looks like you’ve been hit by an arrow–an angel’s arrow to be exact? It took me a good thirty minutes to persuade her to wear this prime outfit.”
Calla tugged at the tight bodice that accentuated her magnificent waistline. “I can hardly breathe.”
Turning to Calla, he whispered in her ear. “Me, too.”
“I’m glad there’s a limousine ride tonight. How do girls walk in these?” Calla said as she showed off her studded leather pumps.
Nash tossed her a cocky smile. “I don’t think you ever do much walking. It’s running I’d be worried about.”
She grinned at him as she slid her arm into his secure grasp and they advanced behind the line of guests waiting to be greeted by Embassy delegates at the entrance of the palatial ballroom. Minutes later, a Chinese embassy official in a dark tuxedo and his female colleague greeted them. “Good evening, Ms. Allegra Driscoll and guests.”
Allegra nodded and extended her hand to him. “Attaché Ning Yuen.”
He bowed. “Ms. Driscoll, you honor us with your presence.”
She returned his half nod. “Attaché Yuen, may I introduce Mr. Nash Shields, a colleague and US representative from the NSA, and this is Miss Calla Cress.”
Yuen dipped his head slightly in greeting. “An honor. Ambassador Mah has requested I take you to his suite, where you’ll conduct your evening’s business. This way please.”
Allegra shot Nash a quick glance. “Thank you.” She turned to Calla. “Nash and I will go up to the suite. Will you be all right here?”
Calla scanned the room. Nash could tell she wasn’t in the mood for small talk among a group of politicians, opera enthusiasts and economists–an aristocratic gathering of people she didn’t know. “We won’t be long,” he said.
Assured, Calla nodded and glimpsed in to the glamorous ballroom that showcased an opulent feast of rich twenty-four-carat gilding chandeliers and theatrical floor-to-ceiling windows.
“I can entertain the beautiful Calla Cress while you finish your business,” said a voice from a watching eye that had stood behind Yuen in observation. “I’m First Secretary Fu Liao.”
Liao turned to Calla and raised her hand to his lips. With a verifying look from Allegra, Calla allowed Liao to lead her toward the festivities.
Nash and Allegra tailed the bulky Yuen, his fine iron-grey hair sleeked back with gel. He reminded Nash of the bodyguards he’d often seen around senior dignitaries. This was the military attaché according to Allegra’s prep and presumably his presence around the ambassador in their discussion would be more of an advisory one. He slid a hand through his tuxedo, to assure himself of his gun’s presence–a habit he’d picked up from his marine days and fought uncertainty that came with their silent walk to the elevators.
They ascended to the top floor. Not a word was exchanged among the three. Nash glimpsed over at Allegra. Like him, she noted the silence. She contracted her eyebrows.
As they stepped out into the corridor, Allegra broke the silence. “Is ambassador Mah comfortable with the terms of our ISTF agreement?”
Yuen smirked. The guarded look in his face told Nash that he was not fond of the terms that had been stipulated. “Ms. Driscoll,” Yuen said, “while ambassador Mah maybe a fan of China joining ISTF, I hold my reservations. ISTF is expensive, demands many resources on our cyber, military and technology funds and frankly, I think the organization produces very little results.”
“I beg to differ,” Allegra said.
“You’ve not exactly contained the heightened insecurity caused by Laskfell’s disappearance, and if I recall, he was the last person in charge of ISTF. Now, he harasses the globe with the same criminal lunacy he was hired to prevent, a romping fugitive.”
“The situation is under control,” Allegra said.
“Is it? After NASA? Who’s next? The Chinese Ministry of State Security? You and I know that nothing is off limits with that man.”
“All the more for China to be involved,” Nash added.
Yuen shook his head. “If I were the ambassador, I would be cautious.”
Nash and Allegra exchanged a grim look. Coercion would be an option. Nash padded the intelligence document he’d discussed with Allegra earlier as they minced to an elaborate door.
Nash peered at the door label.
Imperial Suite
Yuen slid his card through the key reader and the three sidled into the extravagant space, swathed in traditional and imperial elegance. The suite paraded king-sized beds, elegant side tables, antique desks and Regency-style furnishings. Two bedrooms led off the primary entertaining area, with ensuite bathrooms attached to each. Nash felt as though he’d stepped back into Edwardian royalty, with only the tasteful cocktail cabinet, crystal chandeliers, the HD Bang and Olufsen plasma TVs and atmospheric lighting convincing him he was still in contemporary Britain.
“Ambassador Mah?” Yuen said in Mandarin. “I have Allegra Driscoll and Nash Shields for you.”
No response.
Yuen shot Nash and Allegra a glance. “Please wait here,” he said as a shadow of alarm touched his face.
He inched his way toward one of the bedrooms. Nash saw him approach the adjoining bathroom and trailed him with light feet.
“Where are you going, Nash?” Allegra said, her voice firm but cautious.
“Be right back,” Nash said.
He continued into the bedroom after Yuen, who’d advanced into the bathroom. When Nash reached the open door, Yuen burst out waving a firearm. “Quick, call an ambulance! The ambassador’s been shot!”
Nash shuffled past him and barreled into the dimly-lit room.
Mah lay face down in a pool of his own blood.
FLIGHT TO LONDON
SAMUEL RICHE’S PRIVATE JET
Jack scrutinized an e-mail from his sister. He didn’t want to get into that now. Not only had he not seen her in five years. E-mail was the only contact if any that he’d kept with her. He’d barely had any sleep and now with Eva resting in the back of the plane, attended to by Samuel’s physicians, and out of harm’s way, the tranquility of a billionaire’s private jet was what he needed. Maybe he’d get some shut-eye.
How had Mason gotten in, then out of that hospital, let alone the country? How could he have let the thug get away? He’d had one chance in that hospital room, to incapacitate him for good. Mason was using connections and underground methods deeper than the earth’s crust. How had he leached on to the world’s most guarded networks? NASA, the UK government and what next? How had he maneuvered in and out of borders undetected? He was on every international wanted list, yet he’d appeared in Tokyo, not a hair, nor a thread out of place.
Jack had tried Nash’s phone, but it was engaged. He should probably alert him to Mason’s most recent jaunt. Unable to sleep, he reclined his seat, sliding into the comfortable leather. That would help. He shut his eyelids for several minutes until his tablet sprang to life alerting him of a new message.
It can’t be. Fiora?
Fiora Kleve was Jack’s younger sister, once a contender for Miss Universe, he’d not seen her in five years. She’d been Thaddeus’ girl and left him for a loaded jerk in New York, Heres Benassi, an executive vice president at a news channel, shortly before Jack finished his Masters at McGill. The move had torn Thaddeus into shreds, and Jack always thought his childhood friend would never be the same.
He ignored the incoming video call, and when he could no longer dismiss the infuriating blinking light, he scrolled open the video-casting program. Fiora’s face glared into the camera, fresh and jovial as it usually was. “Jack?”
“Fiora? How did you get this line? It’s a secure government line.”
“I have my ways.” She paused glaring at him with eagerness. “How are you, Jack?”
Jack edged up. He wasn’t really sure what had spiraled the lack of communication, possibly the fact that she’d distanced herself after the breakup. “I’m fine.”
“Listen Jack, I know we’ve not spoken in a long time, but you are my brother and I have thought of you often. I felt I could not call because—”
“What do you want, Fiora? Is Heres not giving you enough money?”
“Jack . . . I guess I deserve that.” She drew in a deep breath. “I spoke to Tad a few days ago and naturally your name came up.”
Why would she contact Tad? The bloke was probably still nursing rejection.
Fiora broke the silence. “He told me all the wonderful things you are doing for the UK government and for yourself. All you robotics work, and artificial intelligence projects. You were always one for the big time, Jack. To think you used to build your first models out of roadside steel and wire when we were kids in Seychelles. Are you married now?”
“No.”
“In love . . . girlfriend?”
“Fiora—”
“Okay. I’m calling you because I have something that may help you. I want to make up for all my mistakes with you, Jack.”
“How?”
“Tad told me. Listen, I may not have gone to college like you but I have instincts. Heres’ business usually brings in prominent people for various media functions and interviews. Last night, he asked me to host a dinner for Rupert Kumar, the Indian billionaire.”
Jack had not heard that name in months. “What of it—”
“Rupert confided in my husband. I was out of the room and as I was returning, I overheard a conversation about Mason Laskfell, the international fugitive.”
Jack contemplated his next question carefully and let it roll off his tongue in a grunted tone. “What did you hear?”
“Mason has been in touch with Rupert. What for? I’m not sure. But I overheard something about a colleague or person in Mason’s circles they kept calling Sage.”
The triplet with a sharp arrow that would give Robin-hood a run for his money!
“Heres kept asking how she could come in and help out in some way at the station. Something to do with connecting global media channels. I figured she’s a tech whiz who can hack any computer, wire any network . . . you name it, she has the codes, or do you call them algorithms that can unravel the NASA hack. Tad kept telling me about it when we spoke. Jack, he also mentioned that you rescued the UK Space Agency’s networks.”
How does she know all this? Was she lying? She couldn’t. Sage was not only Mason’s assassin, but his extended brain. She was the one with the codes to break the hack he’d wrestled with for weeks. What if Mason had planned that if he got caught, his jeopardizing efforts would continue with Sage?
“Fiora, be careful. Don’t tell anyone what you’ve told me.”
“Jack . . . will it help you? Heres and Rupert continued talking, but I could not follow all of it. All I know is that Laskfell used Sage’s intellect to mastermind his hacks . . . Jack is any of this helpful?”
Jack had stopped listening and in his mind he schemed his next move.
Fiora tunneled a hand through her thick waves. “Listen, I wanted to talk to you because Tad told me you’re involved with authorities to stop some of the craziness that’s been happening at NASA.”
“Fiora, don’t let your husband know what you’ve just told me. Mason Laskfell is dangerous and he’ll stop at nothing, even come after you or Heres if he has to.”
“What are you going to do, Jack?”
He pinched his lips together. “Get those algorithms.”
2123 hrs.
“So, are all curators as exquisite as you?” asked Liao as he leaned towards Calla, his over musky cologne crowding her nostrils.
Calla turned her eyes to the door not enjoying one bit of Liao’s exaggerated attempts at charm.
Where are they? What’s taking so long?
Stauss’s Emperor’s Waltz, provided by a hired Austrian orchestra, stopped abruptly. The guests’ voices clamored audibly above the silence as an official took to the microphone. “Ladies and gentlemen. I’m sorry to inform you that this evening will be cut short. Although we can’t confirm the circumstances, ambassador Mah has been taken ill to the hospital. There’s no need for alarm. Please finish your refreshments in an orderly manner and make your way to the rear exits of the room. The building is being evacuated. We apologize for any inconvenience.”
Calla scrutinized the movements of the announcer as she left the microphone and joined three other Embassy delegates in hushed conference. Soon one of the men’s voices rose frantically, his commands spilling out unsteadily. Calla spoke intermediate Mandarin and understood from the little she could gather that the ambassador would not recover from whatever had happened.
“Well, Miss Cress, I was hoping to know you better.” Liao winked. “I’d be happy to escort you to the exit and continue our conversation outside.”
What conversation? It had been nothing but thirty minutes of one-sided bragging about the First Secretary’s Tai Chi sword collection. Calla tilted her head. “I don’t think so. Our inequitable discussion on Chinese art wasn’t going anywhere, First Secretary Liao. I’m surprised at how little you know about your country’s rich heritage in classic armory. I’ll see myself out, thank you.”
She gave him a brief nod, swiveled quickly, and turned her back, leaving him arms folded in a stunned stare. Calla hurried toward the entrance they’d come through and slipped past a frenzied debate between officials and a crowd of security staff who’d made their way into the lobby. Stealing unnoticed, she paced briskly toward the elevators. She had to locate Nash and Allegra. She’d seen them take the elevator. One quick glance at the fortified security around the car doors was enough to alert her there would be no movement. She inched to the fire exit and found the staircase.
Heaving the vintage cloth as she moved, she tugged at the bodice willing it to behave as she charged swiftly up the stairs. This is why I stick to my jeans.
She stopped abruptly, ripped the lower part of her train, and slashed a slit in the side, throwing away half of it. With an abrupt glance up the winding staircase, she flung her shoes on the steps and barreled up with better ease as she tore up the floors.
Taking a quick guess at the location of the suites, she headed to the last floors. Once on the topmost level, she stole into the dim corridor and marched several meters past a few suites before halting. A room attendant flung out of a room, her lungs screeching panicked screams. Behind her, a frenzied man in a black-tie leveled an automatic weapon at her face. He shot one glance at Calla, drew the woman into his grasp and wedged the gun at her temple. “Don’t move,” he instructed in mandarin.
“I wouldn’t dare,” replied Calla. “How about you pick on someone your own size. Like, me.”
He bellowed in the woman’s ear asking her to show him the servants’ hidden exits.
Calla locked eyes with him. His face, camouflaged with bad shoe polish, revealed that he was of Chinese origin and an amateur at what he’d achieved. Panic oozed from every inch of his posture. He flung the woman to the floor and scudded the length of the hallway away from them.
Calla flashed after him and nearly collided with Nash, who appeared from an adjacent room. He took one look at her, his eyes moving to her mangled dress and bare feet. “Hm. . .didn’t think it would last.”
“Come on, he went this way,” she said as she raced in the direction the man had taken.
At the end of the corridor, the hallway turned abruptly to the right, taking them through another passage congested with distraught hotel staff. They barged past them and reached the end of the second hallway.
The man stood at the end of the corridor, wrestling with an Edwardian sash window. The double-glazed feat of interior architecture refused to comply, and when he saw them approach, he tore out his gun and fired a bullet through the glass. Hoisting himself through the shards, he targeted the gun their way. “Stop!”
Nash had his gun ready and he inched a step in front of Calla. “It’s a drop to your death or my gun,” Nash said in fluent mandarin. “What will it be?”
He waved the unsteady pistol in their direction and glanced behind him. “Get back.”
Calla took a step ahead.
Nash held her back.
The man slashed open the rest of the glass, catching a blade that sliced his arm in the process. He yelped in fury and stole out on the ledge.
They pursued as he leapt on the railing that eased his escape to the slated roof. Taking calculated steps he staggered to the high tiles, balancing his weight against the rafter of the gable and dodged jutting chimney stacks.
“He’s getting away,” Calla said.
“He can’t get far,” Nash replied and advanced to where the bloodied escapee had stopped.
The man squatted over the ledge of the pitched roof with slopes on all four sides.
Nash balanced his weight and shifted closer to the terrified face. “Why did you shoot the ambassador?”
“He’s a disgrace to diplomacy. ISTF will destroy us. That’s what the man in prison said. He said if I can stop Mah’s romance with Western diplomacy, he’d in return, leave my family alone.”
“Who?”
“The mind reader.”
“Hey,” Nash said. “Can we get off the roof and talk about this? Laskfell can’t touch you and you’ve nowhere to go.”
The man glanced down the dazzling views of Knightsbridge. He was losing blood from his arm and blacking out.
Nash stretched out his hand. “Give me the gun.”
The man resisted and raising the weapon above his head, he fired a menacing shot. Sirens of Metropolitan Police cars mingled on the sidewalk below with the mania of uncontrollable evacuated guests, who’d not paid attention to the roof until now.
The man shifted against a chimney stack and glanced down the number of floors.
Nash balanced a meter from him. “Don’t do it. Your family needs you.”
Calla edged up against Nash, slowly maneuvering forward on her knees. “Laskfell is psychotic. Don’t believe a word he says.”
A cold draft whisked past them, tossing the man off balance slightly. He slid a foot off the edge and caught the rail in time.
Nash pressed in. “We just want to talk. Let us help you.”
The man aimed his gun, apprehension arresting his face. He carried a classic MI6 pistol, possibly a souvenir from Mason. With three bullets fired in the bathroom, and one on the roof, he still carried two more rounds that could amass the damage he threatened. He was no professional. And at this close range, Nash didn’t want to test the man’s shaky aim.
Panicked pedestrians gawked up, restrained by the erected barriers that had begun to appear below on Knightsbridge Boulevard. The man glanced down again for a second. Losing focus as he peered at the commotion below, Nash knew this was his only chance. He lunged forward and chopped the man’s wrist with the flat of his palm. The gun sailed out of the jittery man’s hand and flew off the roof.
As the man lost balance, Nash reached for him. In his grasp, the assailant’s weakening frame slammed against the side of the roof.
Calla reached for Nash’s midriff and heaved the men’s combined weights toward her.
Nash pulled back in sync with her. One glance in the man’s face revealed volumes. He was hallucinating and panicking more at being caught, than the fall that waited for him below.
When the man’s shoulders rose above the roof‘s level, Calla heaved at his neck muscles, then gripped his torn tuxedo.
The man tore his body from Nash’s grip. He swung his legs and kneed Calla’s neck. The movement quivered her arms and her hands released his convulsing frame. Her eyes widened as she perceived the inevitable. Time slowed and with added concentration, she reached for the belt around his slacks and hurled him above her head.
He landed inches from Nash, who secured his hands behind his back and held him down incapacitated by a wrist grip.
“He’s with Chinese intelligence,” said Allegra in the hotel lobby as Nash wrung his aching wrist realizing he’d taken hold of the man’s body for more than a minute. “The police have confirmed he skipped security. The Embassy is not commenting and is still trying to identify him. He’s not on any of their databases.”
Calla rose from her seat dusting off what remained of her dress, tainted with soot. “That’s because he’s on Mason’s payroll. Think about it. He shows up just as we are about to get a permit to go into China’s Tarim Basin. Mason doesn’t want us finding whatever my mother left there for us.”
Allegra stood and joined her. “But how did he know? The only people were ourselves and Veda before she—”
Nash pulled off his jacket. “He’s following us and getting help.”
“Or,” Calla said. “He’s reading our minds.”