Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) (18 page)

‘Tell Laura to send us the pictures of that female suspect and a sample of the hair the FBI found,’ Victor requested. ‘We’ll get the Bastian and Crovir techs working on them as well.’ There was a short lull. ‘Get me the bastards who did this, Conrad,’ the Bastian leader added darkly. ‘I’m counting on you.’

Chapter Fourteen

T
he words of his former mentor were still ringing in Conrad’s ears when they made their next breakthrough.

Disappointingly, the National Geospatial Intelligence Agency’s GEOINT satellites had only yielded a couple of stills showing the female assassin boarding a Zodiac boat where the Beaverdam Creek met the Anacostia River, before making her way south past Kingman Island. Though it helped them draw up the assassin’s escape route, it had been impossible to deduce any useful information from the limited imagery. It was the FBI’s labs in Quantico that came up with a crucial lead.

‘I’ve got good news and bad news,’ announced Lewis. The FBI agent had just returned from a trip to Virginia. ‘The bad news is that we have no match on the DNA from the hair sample we obtained at the Ronald Reagan Airport.’ He let out a frustrated sigh. ‘Whoever this woman is, she’s not on any criminal or intelligence database in the world.’

A groan of disbelief swept across the Sit Room at his words. The rest of the task force had reconvened at the White House as night fell across the capital. It was now six in the evening, and the conference table was littered with sandwich wraps and disposable coffee cups.

Conrad stared at the FBI agent. The fact that they hadn’t gotten a hit on the suspect’s DNA bothered him greatly. It could not fail but give him yet another inkling of how powerful the enemy they faced was. He saw the same concern displayed on Connelly’s face.

‘What’s the good news?’ the immortal asked bluntly.

A gleam appeared in Lewis’s eyes. ‘The techs looking at the guns and the jackets framing the ceramic bullets think they’ve identified the plastic polymer used in their manufacturing process,’ he said with barely veiled excitement.

An animated rumble rose in the room.

‘This material apparently has a distinctive microstructure,’ Lewis continued. ‘We got a lucky break.’ The agent’s teeth flashed briefly. ‘One of our guys has an interest in macromolecular science. He’s built up quite a database on synthetic polymers over the last fifteen years.’

‘Get to the point, Lewis!’ snapped Connelly.

‘He’s traced this particular product to a company in Germany,’ said Lewis, unfazed.

Conrad observed the FBI agent with a guarded expression. ‘How confident is your man about this?’

Lewis grinned. ‘Very.’

Ten minutes later, they were looking at the German firm’s details on a wall monitor.

‘The Obenhaus Group is a multibillion dollar corporation founded by Franz Obenhaus in the mid-1940s, just outside the town of Arnstadt, in central Germany,’ said the Sit Room intelligence analyst. ‘The current president of the board of directors is one Maximilian Obenhaus, the first-born son of Franz Obenhaus. That’s his picture.’

The professional photograph next to the intelligence summary featured a charismatic, middle-aged man with a shock of white hair and piercing blue eyes. The patriarch of the Obenhaus dynasty looked relaxed as he leaned against a desk in an ultra modern, white-walled office. Behind him, a floor-to-ceiling glass wall offered spectacular views over acres of forested land.

‘Almost all the board members are related in one way or another to the Obenhaus dynasty,’ continued the intelligence analyst. ‘The company originally started out making vulcanized rubber products for the car industry. It expanded rapidly in the decades following the end of the Second World War and has since placed a particularly heavy emphasis on polymer science research and development. To that aim, the group has substantial, state-of-the-art labs across several of their sites, all using the latest technologies in chemistry, physics, and engineering. The materials they’ve produced over the years have had far-reaching applications, from transplant medicine and car manufacturing to the building and aviation industries. Their silicone seals even made it on several rockets.’

Connelly drummed her fingers on the table. ‘How big is this group? Could they be the ones behind these assassination attempts?’

‘They have an extensive global presence, with offices and production plants on every continent,’ said the Sit Room analyst. ‘However, there’s no intelligence data to suggest that they’re the front of a terrorist organization.’ He shrugged. ‘All in all, they seem pretty above board.’

Conrad inspected the facts and figures next to the photograph. ‘Do they have any political affiliations or strong ideologies?’ he said pensively.

The analyst scrolled down the screen. ‘The Obenhaus dynasty is firmly left wing. The family’s made significant contributions to the Social Democratic Party over the years and appears to favor the idea of social capitalism. They fund several art, science, and cultural projects around the world and are generous contributors to a number of local and international charities. There’s even an Obenhaus Innovation and Technology Prize aimed at university graduates in Europe. The Obenhaus Group itself regularly features on the Forbes 100 Most Innovative Companies.’

Laura crossed her arms, lines crinkling her brow. ‘They
must
have skeletons in their closet,’ she muttered. ‘Is there anything in their background checks that might give us an idea why one of their products ended up in our assassins’ guns?’

The Sit Room agent turned to the computer and tapped some keys. Fresh data streamed across the screen. ‘Hmm,’ he murmured after a few seconds.

Laura straightened. ‘What?’

‘The company’s had an exemplary audit trail except for a red flag in the annual report produced by an external inspector eighteen months ago.’ The analyst highlighted a small paragraph on the monitor. ‘Says here there was some sort of irregularity in their records traced to one of their company directors. The matter was dealt with by Maximilian Obenhaus himself, and the case was later closed by the auditor.’

Conrad leaned forward, his interest piqued. ‘Who was the director in question?’

The analyst brought up the names of the Obenhaus Group board. ‘The report mentioned a Luther Obenhaus as the culprit.’ He typed swiftly on the keyboard.

A photograph flashed up next to the list on the screen. The picture showed a thin man with graying hair. He was bundled in a heavy winter coat and was stepping inside a car in front of a tall, Neoclassical apartment building. Sunglasses obscured his eyes and a scarf covered his lower face. Light gleamed on a thick ring on his left middle finger. The shot looked to have been taken covertly.

‘How is he related to the president of the board?’ said Connelly.

‘He’s Maximilian Obenhaus’s younger brother,’ replied the analyst. He panned down the screen, a faint frown dawning on his face. ‘There isn’t a lot of information available on the man. According to the data the European intelligence community has on him, he’s a notorious recluse and hasn’t engaged in the public life of the Obenhaus dynasty for some years.’

A contemplative silence descended on the room.

Conrad turned to Lewis. ‘Is your guy in Quantico positive this polymer could only originate from the Obenhaus Group?’

‘Absolutely,’ replied Lewis. ‘The stuff is called OG1140. Like I said, it has a unique composition and morphology. Our tech tells me it’s only recently come on the market. He also mentioned that although the polymer is present in many products readily available to the public, the unique way it has been bonded with the carbon fibers in the guns indicates it was used in its pure form. The only way to get your hands on the original material is directly from the company’s manufacturing plant.’

‘Have they ever reported any thefts from their factories or security breaches at their research facilities?’ asked Laura.

The man turned to the computer. ‘No,’ he said after a while. ‘They employ one of the largest corporate security firms in the world. Their safety measures are pretty tight. Even their computer networks are well protected.’

Anatole scratched his head, a puzzled expression on his face. ‘If they have production plants all over the world, then the polymer could have come from any of them, right?’

Lewis grinned. ‘Wrong. Our guy at Quantico tells me this OG1140 is pretty hot stuff. As such, it’s being manufactured by a single Obenhaus site.’ He signaled to the Sit Room analyst. ‘Bring up the address of the first Obenhaus plant.’

A satellite image popped up on the wall monitor.

‘That’s their factory outside Arnstadt,’ said Lewis. ‘The company’s headquarters are also located there, as is their biggest R&D lab.’

Conrad studied the extensive complex featured on the monitor. The Obenhaus primary operational facility occupied approximately one square mile of land south west of the town and was surrounded by pristine countryside. A network of service roads crisscrossed the site and linked several industrial-scale, rectangular buildings. An array of medium-sized constructions separated by areas of parkland dotted the grounds around them.

A landscaped garden featuring a large, central fountain stood at the southern periphery of the compound. Sunlight reflected off the glass facades and roofs of a pair of round structures in the middle of the green plot. A transparent sky-bridge connected the two buildings.

Conrad’s pulse picked up. His instincts told him that they were on to something.

‘How fast can you get us to Germany?’ he asked Connelly.

The woman raised her eyebrows, her gaze swinging between his face and the wall monitor. ‘You want to go to the site?’

‘It’s the only clue we’ve got,’ said Conrad. ‘I want to see this place.’

Connelly watched him for a moment, her face unreadable. ‘I can have a jet ready at the Baltimore-Washington airport in forty minutes,’ she said finally. She leaned back in her chair and spoke to the Sit Room communications assistant. ‘Get the FAA Administrator on the line.’

Conrad rose to his feet. A thrill of nervous energy was building up inside him. The hunt was finally starting.

He turned to Donaghy and Franklin. ‘Start talks with the Obenhaus Group president,’ he ordered. ‘And let the German foreign intelligence and domestic security agencies know we’re on our way. They should cooperate with us after what happened to their chancellor.’ He started toward the door, stopped, and looked over his shoulder. ‘Oh, and see if they can dig up any more information about Luther Obenhaus and the company.’

Ten minutes later, he was in the back of a black Suburban headed for the airport. Stevens drove. Laura had commandeered the passenger seat.

The two agents occasionally spoke in low voices. Conrad could not help the pang of jealousy that rushed through him as he observed their casual interaction. He wondered whether their relationship went beyond the professional.

‘This is nice,’ said Anatole from where he sat next to Conrad.

Conrad looked at him. ‘What is?’

Anatole waved his hand in a gesture that encompassed the immortals in the vehicle. ‘This. The three of us together. It’s been ages since we’ve worked as a team. We should do it more often.’

Laura glanced at him in the rear-view mirror. ‘You’re treading on thin ice, Vassili,’ she said warningly.

Anatole’s smile faded. ‘Seriously, the two of you need to take a chill pill. All this tension is bad for your sex lives.’

Stevens almost lost his grip on the steering wheel.

A government-owned Learjet 75 stood waiting on the tarmac when they reached the airport half an hour later. A cold drizzle poured out of the clouded night sky. They exited the vehicle and jogged toward the plane.

Anatole stopped halfway up the cabin steps. ‘This sure is spooky,’ he murmured.

Laura frowned. ‘What is?’

‘Look around you. You ever seen the place so dead?’

Conrad turned. He had been so preoccupied with his own thoughts that it had taken until now for the eerie silence prevailing across the airfield to register.

Although the lights of the runways shone brightly in the darkness, not a single aircraft was lifting off or landing at the normally bustling international airport. The sky was similarly bereft of circling planes. It was like gazing at the aftermath of the end of the world.

Half a mile to the west, the shapes of dozens of jets crowded around the terminal buildings where thousands of passengers had become stranded as a result of the presidential order announced that afternoon.

Conrad dragged his eyes from the uncanny spectacle and followed the others inside the cabin of the Learjet, his heart full of misgivings. They stowed their bags away and settled into leather executive chairs as the jet taxied toward a runway.

A third of the way into their ten-hour flight to Germany, Connelly called them on the video link on the aircraft’s onboard computer.

‘Prime Minister Cunnington and Chancellor Dressler both made it through surgery,’ said the Director of National Intelligence. ‘They’re currently in ICU.’

Conrad’s elation at this news was short-lived. He observed her tight-lipped expression with a sinking feeling. ‘What about President Gorokhov?’

Connelly shook her head slowly.

‘Damn,’ muttered Anatole.

‘Westwood is talking to Russian Prime Minister Ivchenko, who is now the acting president,’ Connelly continued. She sighed. ‘Things aren’t going well. The Russians suspect we had something to do with their president’s assassination.’

Laura scowled. ‘That’s bullshit! They know full well Westwood was the victim of a similar attempt. We could accuse them of the same thing!’

‘Anti-US members of the Russian Federation are whispering in Ivchenko’s ears that it was all just a smokescreen to hide our nefarious plans,’ Connelly explained grimly. She rubbed her temple. ‘Westwood and the Secretary of Defense just increased the alert state of the US Armed Forces to DEFCON 4. This situation is getting uglier by the hour, Greene. I hope you come up with some concrete proof that an external force is at work here, before we’re all nuked to hell.’