“Whatever it is, we can’t wait, because we’ll run out of battery. I’ll need more time than those few seconds that it’s open to maneuver through the entrance. I’m going to have to pilot it around the corner and use the laser etcher to weaken the glass on a window. Can you find out from Marty which window has the fewest eyes on it? Human or otherwise?”
Beckmann returned to his desk and began typing a message to Marty, who pinged him back almost immediately.
“He says west wall. The sentries are busy watching the front and rear of the building and the nearest camera that he can see is set up at the lawn’s perimeter and far from the action.” Beckmann rolled his chair back over to watch Russell maneuver the drone.
Russell flew the bird higher, turned it, and piloted it around the building. She cleared the west end of the structure before starting the descent toward the window. None of the guards on the ground looked up.
“Why not fire the bullets through the pane? Then you can hammer it through the opening.”
“Too loud. And there’s a risk that the bullets will hit someone.”
Russell had the drone in place before the window. She activated the laser etcher and it hit the glass with a tiny, laser-pointed LED. The bird wobbled as it did. Russell found it difficult to move the drone while the laser option was activated. It was as if the bird was pushed backward from the force of the light beam when it hit the glass, and it kept wobbling out of position.
“Lawrence looks drunk,” Beckmann said.
Russell didn’t respond but kept at it, doing her best to hold the bird in place yet move it in increments to cut a line and weaken the pane.
“You’ve got ten minutes of battery power left,” Beckmann said.
Smith and Arden started up the stairs to the entrance. Smith made a last-ditch attempt to dissuade her from entering.
“You’re a weekend warrior and you have no business bringing a gun here. Guns should be kept in the hands of professionals. Military and law enforcement,” he said.
“Now who’s arrogant? Just because I’ve armed myself doesn’t mean—”
“—Names and identification, please.” The first man behind the registration desk spoke to Smith.
“Katherine Arden and guest Jon Smith.” Arden stepped up next to Smith and smiled at the man, who bent his head to review a typewritten list. Smith handed his passport to the second guard, who looked at it and then took Arden’s for review.
Smith’s mind was racing while he thought of and then discarded possible scenarios. Tossing the weapon was out, as was distancing himself from her. As her guest, he would likely be detained for questioning as well.
“I’m going to ring your phone. Pick it up and use it as an excuse to step out of line and buy some time.” Smith heard Beckmann’s voice in his ear. Seconds later his phone began vibrating in his jacket pocket and he placed a hand on Arden’s arm to stop her from moving forward. He pulled her a little to the side.
“Excuse me. This may be important,” he said to the men flanking the detector. “Smith here,” he said into the phone.
“Abort mission. Leave now. Let the nutcase handle this one alone,” Beckmann said.
“I’m not sure that’s a worthwhile choice,” Smith said in a careful voice. Arden watched him with an intensity that made him nervous.
“They find that gun and you’re both detained indefinitely. Abort mission.”
“I’ll meet you inside,” Arden said.
“Wait.” Smith shut off the phone and jumped ahead of her. “Allow me.” Arden gave him a suspicious look, which he ignored, and he stepped around her and through the metal detectors. They buzzed.
“Sir, place your phone in the bowl,” the sentry on the left said. Smith nodded, removed his phone from his pocket, and placed it into a small bowl proffered by the guard. He tried a second time and was through without a beep.
Now it was Arden’s turn. Smith retrieved his phone, which was rattling with an unknown caller that Smith was fairly certain was Beckmann, and slid it back in his suit pocket without answering. He moved in closer to the edge of the detector’s area and waited.
Arden lifted her chin and her face wore a determined expression. She stepped through the metal detectors and they shrieked their unmistakable positive warning. Smith moved up next to her and slid his foot against hers in a brushing motion, literally sweeping her foot off the ground.
Arden made a small noise and began to fall and as she did Smith caught her in his arms, wrapping one around her torso and placing his hand on her waist above the right jacket pocket. He slid his hand into the pocket, grabbed the weapon, and then pretended to lurch with Arden’s weight. He let his knees collapse and they went down. Smith twisted to take the brunt of the fall onto the hard marble floor. He landed on his side with her facing him and clutched tight. His hand was still on the gun in her pocket and under their bodies pressed against the floor. Smith slid the gun up and between them and continued until it was under his jacket. He placed it in his waistband. When he was done he disentangled from Arden, got to his feet, making sure that his jacket didn’t flap open, and held a hand out to her.
“I’m so sorry. Can I help you up? Are you hurt?” he said in a solicitous tone.
Arden frowned at him, shook her head, and grasped his hand. “I’m not usually so clumsy. It was almost as if my feet were swept out from under me by an unknown force,” she said pointedly. She gave Smith a sour look before smiling at the guard. “I’m fine.”
“I’m glad that you are unhurt,” the guard said. “But the alarm went off and you’ll need to walk through again. Please place your phone in the bowl.”
Arden watched Smith as she reached into her left jacket pocket and dropped her phone into the bowl. Smith kept his expression neutral. The gun’s weight at his waist felt both dangerous and comforting.
The sentry stepped aside. “Please go through again,” he said.
Arden walked through the detector. It remained silent.
“Enjoy the reception,” the sentry said.
32
Smith hauled her away from the door to a bar placed in a far corner of the room.
“What would you like?” Smith asked. “How about some champagne to celebrate our continued existence on this planet without any bullet holes to ruin our evening clothes?”
“You’re being just a bit dramatic, aren’t you?” Arden said. “I mean, for a military man. And give me back my gun.”
Smith grabbed two glasses of champagne from a tray set with ten and handed one to Arden.
“To the contrary, I’m a scientist. Drama is not in my nature. And we scientific types don’t like surprises, so if you have any others up your sleeve why don’t you clue me in now. I hate being the last to know.”
Arden took a sip of her drink. “That was a smooth move. Where’d you learn to pick pockets like that?”
“France. During a charitable mission to assist with the Gypsy population there.”
“I want my gun back,” Arden said.
Smith shook his head. “Not a chance.”
“I told you, I don’t trust them.”
“How about we make a deal? If they come at you I promise to protect you.”
Before Arden could answer, a man walked up and tapped her on the arm.
“Ms. Arden, how nice to see you again.”
Arden turned and gave the man a brittle smile. “Mr. Darkanin. Hello.”
Darkanin gave her an equally brittle smile in return. “So you accepted the challenge. I didn’t expect anything less of you.” He turned his attention to Smith and held out his hand. “Berendt Darkanin.”
Darkanin stood about five-ten and wore a dark suit with a blindingly white shirt and a muted purple silk tie. He wore cologne that wafted toward Smith, and it smelled expensive. His olive-colored skin and dark eyes suggested that he was of Middle Eastern or even African descent, but Smith doubted that he was an Arab. If he had to guess he thought probably Libyan or Lebanese. From his b
espoke suit to his clipped hair and English laced with an accent that was melodic rather than strong, Darkanin exuded an air of manufactured refinement. To others he might appear to be a member of the upper crust, but Smith got an overwhelming feeling of menace just standing near the man. Years with Covert-One had honed Smith’s personal radar to sense danger; to him it seemed as though Darkanin’s real persona was thinly veiled behind the trappings of society.
“Mr. Darkanin is the CEO of Bancor Pharma’s Middle Eastern division,” Arden said.
Bancor was a pharmaceutical company of recent incorporation. It had appeared out of nowhere five years ago and was pushing a newly developed drug to treat Alzheimer’s patients. The drug provided mild cognitive improvement, and though still considered investigational it had been fast-tracked by the United States’ FDA for use in assisted living facilities and nursing homes nationwide. The conditional approval was a coup for Bancor, because the usual process could take years. FDA only fast-tracked drugs in cases where nothing else existed and the risk of death from the disease far outweighed the risks from the drug.
“A pleasure to meet you, Mr. Smith,” Darkanin said.
Smith nodded and shook Darkanin’s proffered hand. Darkanin watched him with an intensity that Smith found both disconcerting and interesting. He was sure he hadn’t met the man before, yet he felt as though Darkanin watched him with particular interest, though he couldn’t say why.
“There’s Margaret with the World Health Organization. I need to speak to her, would you excuse us?” Arden said. Darkanin raised an eyebrow but nodded. Arden looped her arm through Smith’s to steer him away. He strolled with her, but gently moved her in the direction of the door that he knew led downstairs. She shifted with him, keeping pace and walking alongside.
“That was abrupt. I got the definite impression that you didn’t like the man,” Smith said.
“I don’t. His company engages in tactics that I find reprehensible,” Arden said. She sipped her champagne and kept her gaze flitting around the room.
“Such as?”
“Such as paying off the guerrilla armies in North Africa to stay away from Bancor holdings. For those that won’t be paid off, he hires Stanton Reese to quietly eliminate them.”
Smith stopped walking and looked at her. “The contract security company currently under investigation?”
“The Stanton Reese that is suspected of running a rogue army that sacks entire civilian villages, burns them to the ground, and then claims that they were terrorist cells.”
“Another case of yours?”
Arden nodded. “I represent three survivors who claim to have seen the carnage. Witnesses under subpoena to testify before Congress. Currently hiding in safe houses afraid for their lives. I think Bancor and Stanton will do anything to keep them from testifying. Including killing their lawyer.” Arden took a deep swallow of her champagne. “So you see why I’ll need my gun back.” Smith did see, but he still wouldn’t return it.
“Now I understand why you did it, but getting arrested doesn’t help your clients or protect you from a future attack. And it’s a bad tactical move to let your attacker know the extent of your defenses. You’re taking away the element of surprise. I’ll give it back to you eventually, but it’s risky to transfer it between us right now.” He tipped his glass to indicate a camera high on the wall. “Not when there are cameras at every corner of the room. How about I stay at your side while we mingle? Anything untoward happens and your gun will be close and I promise to use it to protect you.”
He placed his glass on a nearby tray, twisting his body slightly so that she wouldn’t see him remove the detonator pen from his suit pocket. He held it in his hand with his thumb on the button top and raised his wrist to hit the button on his watch to switch it to chronograph mode. When he returned his attention to her he found that she was watching him with what he now thought of as her contemplative look.
“I’m not quite sure what to make of you, Colonel Smith. Somehow you strike me as much more than a mere microbiologist.”
Smith winced. “You make microbiology sound irrelevant. I assure you it’s not. One day another pandemic may sweep the earth, like the Black Plague, and you’ll be very, very thankful for the microbiologists of the world.”
Before Arden could respond, a window at the far end of the room shattered and a large bird hammered through the shards. Smith pressed the top of the pen and the canister in the bird’s talons exploded in a billowing black cloud.
33
Smith started the timer on his watch and moved next to the door to the lower level just as the room turned thick with smoke. There were people yelling all around him, but Arden held his arm and he could feel her attempting to pull him away from the door and toward safety. Sixty attendees, all blinded by smoke and all in a state of panic, were jostling and stumbling toward the exit. Smith opened the door to the lower level and stayed near the wall while the smoke billowed into this new area.
The smoke was dense but didn’t carry an acrid smell the way real smoke would, and while it filled the room he still felt as though he could breathe. Visibility, though, was non-existent. Even the beautiful crystal chandelier that dominated the center of the ceiling was lost to sight; he could only make out brighter patches from the bulbs. He could discern the outline of Arden as she stood beside him, but he couldn’t see her features. What he could feel were her fingers clutching his arm, a problem because he needed to move. He removed a handkerchief from his breast pocket, pried her fingers off his arm, and shoved the cloth into her palm.
“Use this to cover your nose and go ahead, I’ll be right behind you,” he said. To his relief she let go of his arm and he moved a step closer to the lower-level door.
“I think the exit is forty-five degrees to my right. We need to get out of here,” Arden said from somewhere to his left. She spoke in a remarkably calm voice. He didn’t reply, but instead felt for the open doorway, located it, and started down the stairs.
He put his palms on the walls on either side of him and moved lower, counting the steps. At the bottom he turned right and walked two paces, running his outstretched hands along the wall on his left as a guide. He was rewarded when his fingers hit the brick molding surrounding a door. The smoke was still too thick to allow him to see the handle with any clarity, so he ran his palms around the door until he felt the cold metal of a knob. He located the trim around the knob and was dismayed to find that the plate housed a keypad, not a keyhole. There would be no use for his pick set or his camera. His watch gave an audible beep, indicating that one minute had elapsed. He had three, perhaps three and a half minutes left to complete his search.
He moved along the wall, feeling for anything that resembled a door, and was rewarded when his fingers hit another molding that surrounded one. He found the knob and discovered that this door too was locked. He pulled the small camera on its cord from his pocket and dropped to his knees, using his fingers to feel along the door’s base for an opening wide enough to allow him to thread the camera through. There was the usual inch of space and he snaked the line underneath and flicked on the camera. Though dark, the door had successfully kept the smoke from entering the room in large amounts and he was able to make out a desk and chair along a far wall and a set of bookcases on a near one. The rest of the room was empty.
He pulled the camera line back out of the room, rose, and returned to the first door. He dropped again to his knees to fish the camera through, but his fingers hit a metal plate drilled onto the bottom of the door and extending to the floor. By running his fingertips along the plate he was able to discern that it was flush and tight, leaving no space for his camera. He wouldn’t be sliding anything under the door. He would have to find another way into the room.
The rapidly diminishing smoke and his clearing vision told him that he was reaching the end of his available cover. He glanced up and for the first time noticed a red blinking LED light on the top right side of the doorjamb. Behind him he
heard steps and turned to see Arden emerge from the darkened stairwell into the slightly less dark hall. He scrambled to his feet.
“I’ve been looking for you. What in hell are you doing down here? Hurry, we need to get out of this building, fast,” Arden said. Smith cursed under his breath. Her persistence was maddening. He didn’t respond and instead held the small camera a few inches from the door’s keypad, doing his best to keep it steady so that Beckmann and Russell would be able to identify what it was they were seeing.
Beckmann and Russell both strained to make out the image that Smith was showing them. Beckmann muted his speaker for a moment.
“No lock,” Beckmann said. “The only way to disable that keypad is to shoot it, and even then he would need a crowbar or Wonder Bar or to kick the shit out of the door to open it. And all of those options would be too noisy. Tell him to get out of there.” Russell nodded and switched on the audio two-way speakers.
“Beckmann says you’d have to shoot that lock to open it, and even then you’d still need a tool to pry open the door. Abort mission, we’ll have to find another way in,” Russell said.
She saw a flicker of movement outside the viewing range of the small camera and after a moment the screen went dark.
“I’m going to shoot, step back,” she heard Smith say.
Beckmann lurched forward, rolling his chair closer to the microphone, took it off mute, and put his mouth near the device.
“Beckmann here. You shoot that lock and every guard in the building will be pounding down the stairs after you. Do not do it!”
Smith heard Beckmann but ignored him as he aimed at the door. Arden had moved behind him but said nothing. He squeezed the trigger. The bullet dented the brass plate and bounced off the buttons, shattering them and sending bits of plastic flying everywhere before it ricocheted upward, embedding itself in the ceiling. The report echoed in the small area. Within seconds Smith heard the thudding sound of running feet as the guards upstairs reacted.