Andras cleared his throat. “Someone tried to stop us. Americans. I would guess a SEAL team or two. Makes me think your secret has leaked out.”
Djemma considered the possibility and then rejected it. If information had leaked, they would have been stopped before the attack commenced. More likely a simple rescue party with a few guns.
“Did you deal with them?”
“I escaped and covered our trail,” Andras said. “There was nothing else I could do.”
Djemma was not used to hearing that someone who’d tangled with The Knife had survived. “I hate to think you’re going soft on me,” he said.
“Not on your life. These men were tough. You’d better find out who they were.”
Djemma nodded. For once they agreed.
“And what about your operation . . .” Andras said. “Python, is it? Will that still be going off?”
Operation Python was Djemma’s masterstroke. If it succeeded, it would bring his country endless wealth, stability, and prosperity. And if it failed . . . Djemma didn’t want to think about that prospect. But if his weapon did not work as planned, failure was a real possibility.
“It cannot be delayed much longer,” Djemma said.
“Want me to come lend a hand?” Andras offered. His voice dripped with cynicism. He’d made it clear earlier that he thought Djemma was mad for attempting what he was about to do. Even madder for trusting his own army to do it. But Andras was an outsider, he didn’t know Djemma’s troops the way their general and leader did.
Djemma smiled. By using Andras’s services, he was making the man incredibly rich, but if there was a way to get even more wealth and power Djemma expected Andras would follow it. There was no filling his insatiable pockets.
“Where I grew up,” Djemma said, “the old women had a saying. A snake in the garden is a good thing. It eats the rats that devour the crops. But a snake in the house is a danger. It will kill the master and eat the baby, and the house will ring with sorrow.”
He paused and then clarified. “You will get your money, Andras, perhaps enough to buy a small country of your own. But if you ever set foot on the soil of Sierra Leone, I will have you killed and your bones scattered to the dogs in my courtyard.”
Silence rang across the phone line, followed by soft laughter.
“The UN is wrong about you,” Andras said. “You are ruthless. Africa could use more men like you, not less. But in the meantime, as long you keep paying, I’ll keep working. Don’t run out of money like the papers say you’re about to. I would hate to extract my fees in less pleasant ways.”
The two men understood each other. The Knife was not afraid of Djemma, even though he should be. He was not afraid of anything. This is why Djemma had chosen him.
“Get yourself to Santa Maria,” he said. “I will give you further instructions once you arrive.”
“What about the Kinjara Maru?” Andras asked. “What if someone goes to look at her?”
“I have plans to deal with that if it occurs,” Djemma said.
Andras laughed again. “Plans for everything,” he said sarcastically. “You make me laugh, Garand. Good luck with your mad plans, fearless leader. I will watch the papers and root for your side.”
The phone clicked, the line went dead, and Djemma placed his receiver down on its cradle. He sipped water from a glass of fine crystal and looked up as the doors to his office opened.
The aide he’d sent running out came back in. Two of Djemma’s personal guards followed, escorting a white man who looked less than happy to be present.
The guards and the aide left. The twelve-foot-tall doors closed with a thud. Djemma and the Caucasian man stood facing each other.
“Mr. Cochrane,” Djemma said officiously. “Your weapon has failed . . . once again.”
Alexander Cochrane stood like a scolded child might, staring with insolence at his would-be father. Djemma did not care. There would be success or there would be consequences.
9
ALEXANDER COCHRANE WALKED toward Djemma’s desk with a sense of foreboding far beyond anything he could recall. For seventeen months, Cochrane had been toiling to construct a directed-energy weapon of incredible power.
This weapon would use superconducting magnets, like those Cochrane had designed for the Large Hadron Collider what seemed like several lifetimes ago. It would accelerate and fire various charged particles at almost the speed of light in a tight beam that could be rapidly “painted” over a target, destroying electronics, computers, and other circuitry.
If tuned correctly, the weapon could act like a giant microwave beam, heating organic matter, cooking its targets from the inside out, setting them afire, even if they took cover behind steel-and-concrete walls.
Through the skies, Cochrane’s weapon could shoot down attacking aircraft at ranges of two hundred miles or more, or it could wipe out approaching armies by sweeping back and forth across the battlefield like a garden hose aimed at approaching ants.
At its ultimate level of development, Cochrane’s weapon could destroy a city, not like an atomic bomb, not with fiery heat or explosive force, but with precision, cutting here and there like a surgeon’s scalpel, turning one block after another into a wasteland.
It could kill the occupants or leave them alive, at Cochrane’s—or Djemma’s—choosing. But even if tuned to destroy electronics and systems only, it could render a city uninhabitable by destroying all modern technology within it in a matter of seconds. Without computers, phones, an electrical grid, or running water, today’s modern, integrated city would become a land of anarchy or a ghost town shortly after Cochrane—or Djemma—set his sights on it.
But to do all that, the weapon had to work, and so far the results were inconclusive.
“I told you it needs more testing,” Cochrane stammered.
“This was supposed to be the final test,” Djemma said.
“What happened to the boat?”
“You mean the ship,” Djemma corrected.
“Ship, boat,” Cochrane said, “same thing to me,”
“Your lack of precision bothers me,” Djemma replied, with an undertone to his words. “A ninety-thousand-ton vessel is not a boat.”
“What happened to the ship?” Cochrane asked, sick and tired of Djemma’s condescending attitude. The man acted as if he were asking Cochrane to build a television set or assemble a computer from prefabricated parts.
“The Kinjara Maru has gone down to . . . what do you Americans call it? Ah, yes, Mr. Davy Jones’s locker.”
“And the cargo?” he asked. Nothing would improve without this cargo.
“One hundred metric tons of titanium-doped YBCO,” Djemma said. “Removed as per your request.”
Cochrane breathed a sigh of relief. “Well, that’s good news.”
“No!” Djemma snapped, slamming his riding crop on the desk. “Good news would have meant your promises to me were kept. Good news would have been to hear that your weapon worked as you said it would, completely disabling the ship and killing all the crew instantly. As it was, the ship continued under power, and there were survivors, who we had to deal with.”
Cochrane had grown used to Djemma’s moodiness but was stunned by the sudden anger. He jumped at the snap of the crop. Still, his self-confidence was not shaken.
“So what?” he said finally.
“So, our men were exposed,” Djemma said. “A group of Americans tried to interfere. We have now attracted the wrong kind of attention. All thanks to you and your lack of precision.”
Cochrane shifted in his chair. His sense of discomfort would have turned into outright fear were it not for one simple fact. Even though Djemma could have him killed with the snap of his fingers, he never would as long as he needed and wanted the weapon to work.
So far, Cochrane had covered his bases well, everything from insisting his disappearance be made to look like a kidnapping—so he could go back to the industrial world someday—to the way he’d gone about const
ructing Djemma’s weapon.
He’d done all the development work himself, drawn up the plans and supervised the efforts on-site. He’d made himself so integral to the project that Djemma could do little to threaten him, unless he wished to abandon the hope of finishing it and possessing the final version of the weapon.
Remembering this, Cochrane spoke with renewed confidence.
“All systems take time to fine-tune,” he insisted. “Do you think they build the supercolliders from scratch and then just flip the switch and watch them go? Of course not. There are months and months of tests and calibration before they run even the most basic experiment.”
“You’ve had months,” Djemma said pointedly. “And I don’t want any more experiments. The next test will be full-scale.”
“The weapon isn’t ready,” Cochrane insisted.
Djemma’s glare rose to a new level of intensity. “It had better be,” he warned. “Or you will burn alongside me when they come for us.”
Cochrane paused. Djemma’s words confused him. Why would they burn? All along, Djemma had insisted they would sell the weapon, not to one world power but to all of them. Let them point Cochrane’s gun at one another’s heads much as they’d pointed nuclear missiles at one another for fifty years. They would never use it, and both Cochrane and Djemma would be rich. There was no danger in that. And no need to rush.
“What are you talking about?” he asked.
“I have something else in mind from what I told you,” Djemma said. “Forgive me for deceiving such an honorable man.”
The sarcasm in Djemma’s voice showed how he really viewed Cochrane, and despite the lure of wealth and even clandestine fame, Cochrane suddenly felt worse than he ever had at CERN.
Djemma pulled a file and leafed through it. “You come to my country with your careful plans,” he said. “Plans to have your cake and eat it too. To build a Weapon of Mass Destruction, deposit millions in Bahamian and Swiss banks, and then flee back to the high life, no doubt spinning tales of your great hardship and daring escape.”
“We had a deal.”
“Deals change, Cochrane,” the African leader said. “And you made it easy for me.”
He pulled a photo from the file and slid it across the desk to Cochrane. The main part of the photo was a police shot of Philippe Revior lying dead in the snow. A smaller inset in the upper right-hand corner showed a handgun laid out on a white cloth. The gun looked terribly familiar to Cochrane.
“You are a murderer, Mr. Cochrane.”
Cochrane squirmed.
“Do not be shy,” Djemma insisted, “this is true. It is only by the poor placement of security cameras that the world doesn’t know this already. If you attempt to leave, or to cross me or continue to drag your feet, I will be sure the story gets out. For proof, I have the gun with your fingerprints all over it.”
Cochrane’s face tightened in a look of disgust. He was trapped and he knew it. Whatever Djemma had in mind, Cochrane would have to make it work or his life would be forfeited in the bargain.
After stewing in silence for a moment, Cochrane finally spoke. “You know I wouldn’t cross you. It’s worth too much to me to finish.”
“And yet you fail.”
“Only on your timetable.”
Djemma shook his head. “It cannot be changed.”
Cochrane was afraid of that. It meant he would have to own up to the truth. “Fine,” he said. “I will do what I can. But there are only two ways to get the weapon more power. Either we need better materials or, if you want it done more quickly, I’ll need some help.”
Djemma smiled and even began to laugh, as if it brought him great joy to have pried this confession out of Cochrane. “You finally admit it,” he said. “You have promised more than you can deliver. You are in over your head.”
“It’s not like that,” Cochrane insisted. “The system is—”
“You’ve had a year and a half and every dollar you’ve asked for,” Djemma growled. “Dollars that could have brought food and housing to my people.”
Cochrane looked around. The palace was immense, and built of imported stone and marble. Gold-plated fixtures sprouted from every bathroom. What about those dollars?
“It’s an incredibly complex machine,” Cochrane said. “To get it right may require assistance.”
Djemma looked down at Cochrane, his eyes burning holes in Cochrane’s mind much the way the weapon was supposed to.
“I know this already,” the African leader said. “Go back to your work. You will get your materials and your help. This much I promise you.”
10
Santa Maria Island, the Azores, June 17
THE INHABITANTS OF VILA DO PORTO spotted the sleek lines of the NUMA vessel Argo just after noon local time. Because the Argo had originally been built for the Coast Guard and designed for rescue work, law enforcement, and interdiction, her profile was that of a small warship: long, lean, angular.
Two hundred fifty years prior, the appearance of such a ship, or the equivalent type in its day, would have been studied cautiously from the streets and the watchtowers of the Forte de São Brás.
Built in the sixteenth century, with cannon mounted high on sturdy walls of stone and mortar, the fort was now a Portuguese naval depot, housing personnel and local authorities, though few vessels from their navy visited the island regularly.
As the Argo dropped anchor outside the harbor, Kurt Austin considered the act of piracy he’d recently witnessed and the fact that such acts were on the rise worldwide. He doubted such forts would be needed again, but he wondered when the nations of the world would grow angry enough to band together and begin fighting piracy on an international level.
From what he’d heard, the sinking of the Kinjara Maru had sent shock waves around the maritime community, and tough talk was growing. That was a good step, but something in Kurt’s mind told him the talk would fade before any real action occurred, and the situation would remain unsatisfactory and unchanged.
Whatever the outcome, another thought had dominated Kurt’s mind, even as he’d repeated his story in conversations with Interpol, with the Kinjara Maru’s insurers, and with several maritime antipiracy associations.
They steered all questions toward the notion of piracy and seemed to ignore Kurt’s point that pirates didn’t sink ships they could steal or kill crew members they could ransom.
His thoughts were acknowledged, and then, it seemed to him, filed away and most likely forgotten. But Kurt didn’t forget them any more than he could forget the sight of crewmen being gunned down as they tried to flee, or Kristi Nordegrun’s strange story about the lights flickering, a screaming noise inside her head, and blacking out until daylight came.
Something more was going on here. Whether the world wanted to acknowledge it or not, Kurt had a bad feeling they would be forced to in time.
With the Argo standing down, Captain Haynes gave most of the crew shore leave. They would be here for two weeks while Kurt and Joe finished their testing and competed in the Submarine Race. During that time a skeleton crew would remain aboard the Argo, with a different group rotating on and off every few days.
The captain’s last words of advice to the crew was to keep their noses clean and stay out of trouble, as the islanders were known to be pleasant but not the kind to put up with rowdy outsiders, having detained many, including the crew of none other than Christopher Columbus himself.
As Austin stepped off the Argo’s tender in the shadow of the Forte de São Brás, he wondered what that reputation might mean for his good friend Joe Zavala. Joe was a solid citizen, but he tended to immerse himself in the social scene wherever he went, and while Joe wasn’t a troublemaker, he liked mischief and he loved his fun.
When Kurt arrived at the shop where the Barracuda was being prepared, Joe was nowhere to be found. A security guard laughed when asked about him.
“You’re just in time to see him fight,” the guard said. “Over at the rec center, if
he hasn’t been knocked out by now.”
Kurt took this news suspiciously, got directions to the recreation center, and double-timed it over there.
Stepping inside, Kurt found his way to a large gymnasium from which the sounds of an excited crowd were flowing.
He opened the door to find a crowd of two or three hundred sitting on bleachers arranged around a boxing ring. It wasn’t exactly Madison Square Garden, but the place was packed.
At the sound of the bell, the crowd rose and cheered and stamped their feet until the building shook. Kurt heard the scuffling sounds of feet on canvas and then the thwap-thump of fists in padded gloves exchanging blows.
He made his way down the aisle and got a glimpse of the action in the ring. He saw Joe Zavala in red trunks. His friend’s short black hair was all but hidden under the protective headgear he wore. But as Joe shuffled back and forth, moving lightly on his feet, his rugged, rangy frame and his tanned, well-muscled arms and shoulders glistened with the sheen of sweat.
Across from Joe, in black trunks and headgear, Kurt saw a larger man. In fact, he looked like some version of the Norse god Thor. At least six-foot-four, with blond hair, blue eyes, and a chiseled physique, Joe’s opponent moved with far less grace but threw punches like bolts of thunder.
Joe dodged one, ducked another, and then backpedaled away. For a moment he looked a little bit like middleweight champion Oscar De La Hoya—a comparison that would have made Joe proud. Then he stepped in, landed a few punches that seemed to have no effect, and suddenly looked less like the middleweight superstar as a thundering right hand from Thor caught him in the side of the head.
The crowd gasped, especially a line of women in the front row. Joe stumbled away, grabbed the ropes in front of the women, adjusted his headgear, and smiled. Then he turned and kept moving until the bell rang again.
By the time Joe reached his corner, Kurt was already there.
Joe’s trainer gave him water and hit him with the smelling salts.