Return to Atlantis: A Novel (23 page)

Another snort. “If I gave you their names, I’d be dead within twenty-four hours.”

“You could be dead a lot sooner if you don’t. And you gave me Takashi’s.”

“Anything that might have connected him to the Group will already have been wiped from existence. You don’t know how powerful these people are, Chase. Or what they’re capable of doing. What they’re actually
planning
to do—with your wife’s help.”

Eddie narrowed his eyes. “Meaning what? What do they need Nina for?”

“It’s something to do with those statues. She—”

“I want more than fucking
something
, mate. What?” There was a lengthy silence. “Well?”

“I … don’t actually know, precisely,” Dalton admitted. “Only my partner does.”

“Doesn’t sound like much of a partner if he keeps secrets from you,” Eddie scoffed. “More like a boss.”

“It’s an alliance of convenience,” said the politician, prickling. “We have a mutual enemy—the Group.”

“What’s he got against them?”

“They tried to kill him.”

“Well, yeah, that does tend to piss people off. Why?”

Another pause. “He was a member,” said Dalton. “The statues are part of their plan—something to do with earth energy, I assume. He was opposed to it, so they tried to eliminate him. But he escaped, and has been in hiding ever since. He arranged the helicopter attack in Tokyo. The statues and your wife were the primary targets, Takashi was the secondary, and you were … Well, he didn’t even know you were there. That was entirely down to me.”

A frown creased Eddie’s brow. “You know, I’m having a really hard time thinking of reasons why I shouldn’t just shoot you in the face.”

“I can think of one very good one,” said Dalton, with a smug smile. “Nina.”

“What about her?”

“You think this is over? She’s the key to the Group’s plan—they can’t achieve it without her. So I’m afraid my partner will still be trying to have her killed. Instead of threatening me, you should be trying to protect her. And you won’t be able to do that without my—”

Eddie exploded from his seat, lunging across the room to grab Dalton by his throat and slam him backward on to the bed. He thrust the gun hard against the ex-president’s cheek. “I want this fucker’s name in five seconds, or you
die
! Four, three, two—”

“Glas!” Dalton squealed. “His name’s Glas, Harald Glas!”

To Eddie’s surprise, he knew the name. “But he’s something to do with the IHA …”

“One of the—non-executive directors,” Dalton managed to gasp. “He has a lot of involvement with the UN. He’s in the energy business—oil, gas, coal, even nuclear.”

“So where do I find him?”

“I don’t know—
I don’t know!
” he repeated with considerably more fear as the silencer was rammed harder against his face. “I told you, he’s in hiding. And I don’t know how to contact him—he always contacts me. But I do know that he’s already tried to kill your wife again. In Rome, earlier today. One of my people in the State Department told me.”

Cold shock froze Eddie. “Is she …”

“She’s all right. She has the same damn charmed life as you.” He sat up and rubbed his bruised cheek as the Englishman pulled back. “But it won’t last forever. He’ll keep sending people after her, and sooner or later one of them will succeed. Unless …”

“Unless what?”

“You’d like to go home, wouldn’t you, Chase? Be reunited with your wife?” The smarminess of a politician making promises returned at full slimy intensity. “I can arrange it. Bring the statues to me, so I can show Glas that they’ve been destroyed, and I’ll get him to call off his dogs. I’ll even do what I can to get you off the hook with Interpol.”

Eddie stared at him for a long moment. “Nah, I don’t think so.”

It wasn’t the response Dalton had expected. “What?”

“I trust you about as much as I could shit an elephant. Soon as I go, you’ll scream for the Secret Service, and then either I’ll be dead or every cop and government agent in the country’ll be looking for me.” He regarded the gun. “Unless I make sure you can’t.”

Dalton went pale. “No, no, wait. There’s no need to kill me—I can help you, I really can! Whatever you need, I can get—I still have the connections. I do!”

Another silence, the gun fixed on the trembling man … 
then unexpectedly Eddie let out a sarcastic chuckle. “You’re right, I don’t need to kill you. I can do something worse.”

“W-worse?”

Eddie crossed the room to a dresser, on top of which was a collection of framed photos of Dalton in his presidential days—and picked up a phone that had been propped, half hidden, behind one of the pictures. “Did you get that?” he said into its camera.

“Came out great, mate,” said an Australian voice from the other end of the line. “Bluey” Jackson, the friend who had provided Eddie with his fake US passport.

“Cheers. You know what to do.” He turned the phone around and tapped its screen to disconnect.

Appalled realization hit the former president. “You
recorded
this?”

“Worked last time, didn’t it?” Eddie said cheerily as he pocketed the phone. “That was a live video call to a mate of mine in another country—the same mate who helped me make you into a YouTube star a couple of years back. He was recording it, and right now he’s copying it and sending it to
his
mates for security. You just confessed to conspiracy and attempted murder and Christ knows what else, so it’d be a real shame if the video got sent to, I dunno, the Justice Department. And
The New York Times
. And the BBC. And—”

“I get the picture, damn you,” spat Dalton.

“So will everyone else. Fool you twice, eh?” His voice became harsher. “So first off, you keep quiet about me being here. Second, next time this Glas bloke calls, you tell him to call off anyone he’s sent after Nina.”

“I don’t know when he’ll contact me next,” said Dalton, sweating.

“You’d better hope it’s soon.” Eddie tossed the panic button onto the chair. “Anyway, I’ll be off. You have a nice night.” He opened the door, then paused halfway through it. “You’ve got more to be scared of than this
Group, Dalton. You’ve got me.” The door closed behind him.

Dalton stared after him for several seconds, then scurried to the chair. He picked up the panic button … but didn’t dare use it. Instead, trembling with fear and anger, he threw it down on the carpet and returned to sit on the bed, head in his hands.

T
he arrivals area of John F. Kennedy Airport’s Terminal 7 was far from welcoming, but to Nina reaching the huge, impersonal structure felt oddly like coming home. Since joining the IHA five years earlier, she had done so much international travel that she imagined her total mileage would stretch to the moon—yet no matter how far-flung her travels, at the end the comforting sight of Manhattan was always waiting for her.

There was the usual rigmarole to endure first, however. Standing in line at immigration control, the interminable wait for her baggage … and then she would still have to battle for a cab.

Which was why the sight of a card reading
DR. NINA WILDE
was such a pleasant surprise when she reached the concourse. It was held by a mustachioed man in a chauffeur’s uniform and dark glasses, who stepped forward as she approached. “Dr. Wilde?” he said. His accent had a European tinge, but she couldn’t place it precisely. “Mr. Penrose sent me to bring you to the United Nations.”

“Oh. Huh. Y’know, I was kind of hoping to go home first. I’ve had a long couple of days.” She had attempted to sleep on the flight, but despite her exhaustion from
the chase in Rome her rest had been fitful. And now Penrose probably wanted to drag her into another lengthy meeting with senior UN officials to explain how death and chaos had followed her to two foreign capitals … “Well, guess not,” she said, on the chauffeur’s silence. “Okay, let’s go.”

She waited for him to take her luggage, but instead he started to turn away before halting, as if belatedly remembering that his duties extended beyond simply driving a car. “May I … take your bags?”

“You certainly may.” Nina relievedly passed them to him, then followed him through the concourse.

He led her to the sprawling parking structure beyond the AirTrain light rail station. Nina stifled yawns on the way. Fortunately, her chauffeur didn’t seem inclined to be talkative.

The chauffeur had his own reasons for not wanting to engage her in conversation. Large among them was that he was not actually a chauffeur.

His left arm nudged with every step against the gun concealed beneath his jacket. He was sweating, the perspiration due in varying degrees to the weight of the bags, the wig and false mustache he was wearing to shield his identity from the airport’s surveillance cameras, and the enormity of what he was about to do. He was no stranger to violence, but straight-up assassination was something new and troubling.

He knew it had to be done, though. He had complete faith in his boss, and if Harald Glas said that the innocent-looking redhead was a threat to the entire world, he believed him.

She was famous, wasn’t she? Some kind of scientist. Pretty, too, for an egghead …

He forced himself not to think about her. All he had to do was get her into the back of the blacked-out limo, then draw the gun and fire. Three shots to the head would do it. She wouldn’t even have time to be scared.

They descended through a stairwell. He had parked in a quiet corner with limited CCTV coverage—the limo was soundproofed and his gun silenced, but anything unusual could still attract attention. A couple of people passed them on the stairs, but neither gave a second glance to a driver and his passenger.

His heart began to race as they reached the lower level. The limo was a long dark shape in the concrete gloom about fifty yards away. He headed for it, the gun hard against his ribs.

“Jeez, could you have parked any farther away?” said Nina, trying to hold in another yawn. She had expected her ride to be waiting near the terminal’s entrance with the buses and cabs.

The chauffeur mumbled a vague apology, then opened the rear door for her. She climbed inside. “Thank you.” He didn’t acknowledge her, instead closing the door and putting her bags in the trunk. Nina checked her watch. If the traffic were favorable, she might reach the UN in around forty minutes. No telling how long Penrose’s meetings would drag on, though …

The trunk lid slammed. The chauffeur walked back to the driver’s-side door. He opened it, but didn’t immediately get in, instead reaching inside his jacket with a gloved hand.

Turning away to make sure his target couldn’t see what he was doing, the assassin drew his gun. He started to enter the limo—

Someone hit him hard from behind, smashing his face against the edge of the roof.