Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) (29 page)

‘Yes?’ prompted Conrad, masking his impatience.

‘It’s also an exceedingly powerful commercial explosive,’ she said.

Coldness spread through Conrad as a memory reared its head. ‘Pentolite,’ he breathed.

Anatole swore. Laura’s face darkened.

The Interpol agent studied their expressions with a raised eyebrow. ‘What’s Pentolite?’

‘It’s a military explosive made of 50 percent nitropenta and 50 percent TNT,’ Laura explained in a forbidding tone. ‘It was one of the most commonly used explosives during the Second World War.’

‘Nitropenta is the other name for PETN,’ said the forensic chemist. ‘These days, you know it more commonly as a main ingredient of Semtex.’

A bleak silence descended on the lab. ‘Are you suggesting these guys were making Semtex?’ said Moreau, his lips pressed in a thin line.

The scientist shrugged. ‘I’m not saying anything of the sort.’ She indicated the computer. ‘But there are a number of drives on there that I can’t access. The data they contain may tell you why Strabo Corp. was so interested in PETN.’ She showed them the locations of the drives on the company’s private network.

Conrad studied the screen for some time. If Strabo Corp. had deemed it necessary to lock these partitions with such advanced security protocols, it meant they contained important information. They had to access the data—fast.

‘Call Vienna,’ he told Anatole in a low voice.

A tiny smile flitted across the other immortal’s face; he nodded once and exited the lab.

‘What’s in Vienna?’ asked Moreau with a curious frown.

‘A friend.’ Conrad gazed steadily at the agent. ‘Time is of the essence here. I want our analysts in Washington to look at the Strabo Corp.’s network. The US government has some of the world’s best hackers at its disposal. It will speed up the task.’

‘He’s right,’ Laura concurred as mutters broke out among the French officers. ‘They may crack these codes faster.’

It was the Interpol agent who convinced the other agencies to agree to Conrad’s demand. Twenty minutes later, Moreau obtained the approval of the Ministry of Interior to allow the US to access the French company’s systems. They returned to the security office, where Laura linked them up to the White House Sit Room.

A familiar face blinked into view on the display of the laptop they had borrowed from the Interpol agent.

‘Hey,’ said Connelly. Dark circles underscored the eyes of the Director of National Intelligence; she looked like she hadn’t slept in weeks. ‘How are you guys holding up at your end?’

‘We’re surviving,’ said Conrad.

Connelly made a face. ‘Really? I saw a video of that fight on the roof. There’s also one of you pulling some men out of a car just before it exploded. You’ve not exactly being the definition of subtlety, Greene.’

Conrad shrugged. ‘Call it collateral damage.’ He saw Laura smile out the corner of his eye. As he updated Connelly with their most recent findings and what he wanted the Sit Room analysts to do next, the screen on the Strabo Corp. computer next to the laptop flickered.

Anatole walked back in the room and dipped his chin slightly. Tension eased out of Conrad’s shoulders. The immortals running the sophisticated intelligence network supporting the Bastian Councils had successfully infiltrated the Strabo Corp.’s computer systems.

Stevens had left to join the French agents and police officers investigating the other levels of the secret research facility. He returned moments after Conrad ended the call to the White House, his expression guarded.

‘There’s something upstairs you need to look at,’ said the agent.

Conrad’s pulse jumped at Stevens’s tone. They followed him to a lab that took up almost the entire twenty-third floor of the tower. Stevens guided them past rows of abandoned workstations and cubicles before stopping in front of a sealed entrance at the back of the facility.

‘At first, we thought this was just another sterile workroom,’ he explained as he punched a key into the security panel on the steel door. ‘Once we found the access code though, we discovered it was something else entirely.’

He grabbed the handle and pulled. There was a low hiss of escaping air. The door swung open on thick hinges. Stevens stepped across the threshold and entered a sizable chamber lit with bright, fluorescent strips.

‘There’s about two feet of reinforced concrete above us,’ he said, indicating the low ceiling. ‘Walls and floor are the same.’

Unease filled Conrad as he followed the agent. Although it looked for all intents and purposes like a normal lab, this space had more in common with an industrial unit than with the other facilities he had seen inside Strabo Corp. so far. His eyes roamed over the heavy production machinery crowding the floor and work surfaces before landing on a dark gray, tank-like structure on the far side of the room.

Conrad headed toward the metal cabin with leaden steps and stopped in front of the heavy containment door set in the curved wall. A faint, acrid odor reached his nostrils. He peered through the narrow, glazed window near the top and observed the black marks staining the surfaces inside with a sinking feeling. Something to the left caught and held his gaze.

Footsteps sounded behind him. Laura appeared at his side. ‘What is it?’

‘It’s a detonation chamber,’ Conrad replied in a low voice.

An undefined fear filled the immortal as he stared at the ominous device propped on a thick metal support fixed to the floor. He glanced at Laura and saw the same dread reflected in her eyes. There was a sudden clatter from the other side of the lab. They turned and saw Stevens lugging a waist-high, metal cylinder across the concrete floor.

‘I found this as well,’ huffed the agent. He lifted the heavy canister onto a worktop, laid it on its side, and unscrewed the lid. ‘There’s another one in a locked compartment at the back.’

They joined him and studied the fat, red rods filling the container.

Anatole reached over and carefully pulled one out. ‘What the hell is this?’

Conrad took the rod off him and rolled the cold, smooth bar between his fingers, his pulse racing.

‘One of the Strabo Corp. scientists said she saw the woman who got away talking to Kadir and Sahin just outside this place,’ said Stevens. ‘The stuff inside the containers that went on those trucks all came out of this room. Kadir also gave her a metal briefcase.’

Hope flared inside Conrad. ‘Did she know what was in those crates?’

Stevens shook his head, dashing the immortal’s newborn expectations. ‘No. Kadir and Sahin were the only ones who had access to this chamber. It took us a while to unearth the code from their security system.’ He reached for the canister lid and was about to twist it back on when Conrad grabbed his wrist. The agent froze. ‘What?’

Conrad’s eyes did not shift from the faint engraving on the inside surface of the metal cap. ‘That symbol,’ he breathed.

Anatole squinted and leaned in for a closer look. ‘Isn’t that the one we found on that card inside Luther Obenhaus’s safe?’

Conrad’s heart thudded wildly inside his chest. ‘Yes. It was also on the amulet that woman was wearing around her neck.’

They stared at the complex of curved lines for long seconds.

‘Send a shot of the canister lid and one of these rods through to Washington and the Bastian intelligence network,’ Conrad instructed, a buzz of excitement underscoring his voice. ‘I want to see what they make of them.’

They conferred briefly with the French agents and detectives before leaving Strabo Corp. a short while later. Halfway to Orly Airport, Laura’s cell rang.

‘Agent Hartwell here,’ she answered in a crisp tone. Her brow furrowed slightly. ‘Wait, I’ll put you on speaker.’ She tapped the touch screen and held the phone face-up in her hand. ‘It’s Moreau.’

‘Can you guys hear me okay?’ came the Frenchman’s voice.

‘Yes,’ said Conrad.

‘I have some news,’ said the agent.

A flicker of apprehension blossomed inside Conrad at the man’s bitter tone. ‘What is it, Moreau?’ he said tensely.

‘The board of directors of Strabo Corp. is fake,’ said Moreau.

Conrad glanced at the immortals and the Secret Service agent and read the same concern in their eyes. ‘What do you mean it’s fake?’

‘You know the list we got from the company records?’ said Moreau. ‘Well, Judicial Police crosschecked the data provided by Strabo Corp. to the Register of Commerce in 1995. All the documents, including the passports and ID cards of the members of the board of directors, were well-executed forgeries. These people are frauds.’

Conrad detected the Frenchman’s frustration in the lull that followed.

‘French Central Intelligence just confirmed this as well,’ Moreau continued. ‘The addresses provided were anonymous mailboxes in Paris. Of the board members who supplied French birth certificates, none were on the Civil Register. If these people did in fact ever exist, they were not who they said they were.’

Conrad’s nails bit into his palms. ‘Then who the hell is running that company?’

‘I don’t know.’ Moreau sighed. ‘We’ll keep digging, Greene. Kadir and Sahin already have their lawyers barking at the doors of the Judicial Police. I wouldn’t be surprised if they were released on bail in the next twenty-four hours.’ He ended the call.

Conrad gazed blindly through the windscreen of the sedan as it sped along the French motorway. Planes rose and sank on the horizon to the right, distant white specks against a pale blue sky.

‘Let’s run those names through our intelligence network in Washington,’ he told Laura in a hard voice. ‘I want to know if these people are on any other company listings elsewhere in the world.’ He frowned. ‘Let Vienna know as well.’

They rolled into the airport moments later. Conrad thanked the Bastian Hunters who had driven them there, before heading for the Learjet parked on the tarmac with the others. They had just stepped inside the cabin when the pilot came out of the cockpit.

‘A Detective Lacroix just rang. He said to call him on this number.’ He handed them a note.

Conrad glanced at Anatole. ‘Any idea what he might want?’ he said, perplexed.

Anatole shrugged. ‘Nope. Not a clue.’

Conrad turned to the pilot. ‘Call him.’

The man nodded and returned to the cockpit. Lacroix’s voice soon came over the cabin speakers.

‘I’m at Ridvan Kadir’s home in the 7ème arrondissement,’ the French detective explained after Conrad greeted him. ‘There’s something you need to see. You got access to a computer?’

‘Yes,’ Conrad replied.

Stevens logged onto the aircraft’s desktop.

‘Good,’ said Lacroix. ‘This is a secure site where you can view the pictures.’ He gave them a web address followed by a username and password.

‘This guy’s apartment is as clean as a whistle,’ the French detective continued as they accessed the site and waited for three files to load up. Voices rose in the background behind Lacroix; the local crime scene investigators were still working the place. ‘I’m afraid that apart from the items I’ve uncovered, we’re not going to find much else here to help you.’ He paused. ‘You have those items yet?’

Stevens clicked on a document.

‘We’re opening the first one,’ said Conrad.

An image unfurled across the screen.

‘That one is pretty self-explanatory,’ said Lacroix. ‘Call it pride or stupidity on Kadir’s part, but considering that this is not on his official CV, I was surprised to find it in his study.’

Conrad’s mouth went dry. The photograph was of a picture frame sitting on a wall. Inside it was a certificate proclaiming that Ridvan Kadir held a postgraduate degree in physics from MIT.

‘He’s a physicist as well?’ the immortal said in a stunned voice.

Blood thundered inside his head as he thought of the sealed tank on the twenty-third floor of Strabo Corp. and the heavy production machinery inside the isolation chamber. Stevens opened the remaining attachments.

‘The last two files are the front and back of a picture I found tucked inside his desk,’ said Lacroix. ‘I’m hardly a forensic facial mapping expert, but I thought I recognized Kadir and Sahin among the faces.’

The display filled with two adjacent images. The one on the left was a faded, black and white photograph depicting a group of children and teenagers standing and sitting in an orderly fashion around a central figure seated regally in a beautifully sculptured, high-back chair.

‘What the—?’ Anatole exclaimed.

‘Is that
her
?’ snapped Laura.

Conrad stared at the woman in the middle of the picture. Although the image was a monochrome, there was no denying that she was stunning. Her complexion was creamy and flawless, with lips that glistened in the light and pale eyes that seemed to drill into the camera. Her expression was one of serene pride, with a hint of cruelty in the lines of her mouth.

She bore an uncanny resemblance to the woman he had fought with several hours ago on the glass rooftop in La Défense.

‘No, that’s not her,’ Conrad said slowly. ‘But they sure as hell look alike.’

A teenager and an older child, who could have been Kadir and Sahin, stood on either side of the woman in the picture.

‘Guess we have the answer to the question of whether those two knew each other before Strabo Corp.,’ Conrad murmured.

His eyes switched to the second image. It was a shot of an inscription on the back of the picture.

‘Is that Ottoman Turkish?’ said Anatole warily.

‘Yes.’ Conrad peered at the handwriting. ‘“To my little soldiers. Signed, Ariana,”’ he translated. His pulse accelerated as he considered the meaning behind those words. Soldiers meant an army—and Donaghy’s undercover operative had seen plenty evidence of that.

‘I hope that helped,’ said Lacroix in the heavy silence that followed. ‘I’ll get in touch if we find anything else.’

‘What the hell is going on?’ Stevens muttered after the French detective ended the call.

They were still pondering their worrisome discoveries when an alert signaling an incoming connection sounded on the computer at around six that evening. The video link to Washington flashed open on the screen.

‘Victor Dvorsky got in touch with us just over an hour ago,’ Connelly announced in a harassed tone. Conrad straightened in the executive chair.

The Sit Room was a hive of activity. Agents and White House staff crowded around the command console behind the Director of National Intelligence, their voices raised in a hubbub of conversation.

A muscle jumped visibly in Connelly’s cheek. Conrad had a sinking feeling there was more to her agitation than him getting the Bastian Councils’ intelligence team involved in the matter at hand without her permission.

‘What’s wrong, Sarah?’ he said quietly.