Sabotage (38 page)

The line went dead.

Dirgo watched from the sidelines as Chatham flung the phone against the wall, his sanity braced by a fragile scaffold.

“There's nothing we can do about the ship,” she said. “We've got to speak to Malcolm and recover Baldr.”

“Once we've wired the Viking's money, he'll have no reason to squander the lives of those passengers. We'll call for a naval response, which should provoke little conflict since the ship's technically adrift in international waters. A rescue operation will be in order. None of this happens until we've consulted Malcolm. Is the plane ready?”

“Ready and waiting.”

“Get your stuff together. No more time wasted. Let's head to the airport.” He clapped his hands together. “Everyone get that? If you haven't heard from us in twenty-three hours and fifty-five minutes, transfer the money. Then send the cruise ship's coordinates to the Pentagon. If he calls beforehand, pass along my cell number.
Don't
disclose my location. We're headed to Reykjavik. From there we're taking a chopper to the vessel. If anyone can save the company, it's Malcolm Clare.”

 

THIRTY-NINE

“Chin up. Game's not over.”

Brun's men appeared disconnected from the situation as he toyed with the ring. He placed the diamond in his left palm and closed his fingers around it, then showed his right hand empty and copied the same motion.

“You look tired, Jake,” Brun said. “We'll make this one easy. Where's the ring?”

Rove batted a sluggish black eye. “Left hand.”

“Still some wits about you, then. Now, eyes peeled…”

Fists still clenched, Brun gesticulated like a performer on stage, waving his arms. They came to rest before his spectator.

“Same hand,” Rove said.

Brun shrugged. He threw open his hands. Rove waited expectantly to hear the ring clank on wood. No sound came.

“No more ring,” Brun said with a cavalier shrug. “Where did it go?” Rove dropped his head, preparing for the worst. “I don't think you'll be making any more correct guesses. Boys, have at him.”

Before they could move in, Brun's look of conceit melted. He sprang for shelter behind the ship's helm as the timber portals to the below-deck quarters burst open and disintegrated, raining fragments. Framed in the doorway was Malcolm Clare, who stood bracing an assault rifle against his shoulder, heralding the inevitability of gunfire.

“Better have a look at your brig locks, gentlemen.” He held the rifle steady. “They've weakened with age.”

“How did you break them?” Brun fumed.

“I'm afraid your old tumblers had corroded. A simple butter knife did the trick.”

“Where did you find…”

Clare asked on a different subject, “Which one of you just tossed me a diamond ring? I'd like to deliver proper thanks.”

The underlings turned to Brun, who crouched somewhere at the ship's bow. “Put the weapon down, old man,” he said. “Someone might get killed.”

“Someone was already getting killed before I arrived.”

“Don't play with things you don't know how to use.”

“If you doubt my skill with the rifle, then come out from hiding. I'm no threat to you.”

Brun gave no ground.

“Listen closely, everyone,” Clare continued, sounding like a lawman. “You all have ten seconds to jump overboard before I open fire. That means every one of your men. Ten … nine…”

He'd hardly pronounced “eight” by the time Brun and the other six had abandoned ship. They splashed into the water and swam. Clare began untying the ropes to finish the job Rove had begun.

“Thanks,” Rove said.

“Good thing you remembered the butter knife.”

“Didn't occur to me when I brought you the food that I'd also given you a decent lock pick.”

“You don't miss a detail.”

“Apparently not. I'm wondering, though, why didn't you just fire at them?”

“You don't know?” The professor started to laugh. “The magazine was empty,” he said, stretching his smile.

Rove had a look of retroactive terror. “You're not serious.”

“Apparently, it was the same AK-47 you'd already used. I fired the last of the bullets when blazing through the doors.”

Rove eased up and joined him in his laughter. “Didn't realize I'd practically emptied it.”

“No matter. It worked.” Clare dropped the weapon onto the floor and brushed a hand through his white hair. “Serves him right for acting like some sort of Houdini. I, on the other hand, happen to be a real magician, and master of escape.” He rolled up his sleeves.

“You saved my six. I wouldn't have lasted much longer.”

“Glad it didn't backfire and get us both killed. Anyway, on to more important matters. We've a ship to save, and you're in awful shape.”

“I'll live.”

“You could use a few icepacks, to start.”

“I doubt that'll happen.”

“At least let me bandage you.”

“There isn't time.”

“They just beat the living daylights out of you.”

“I may not look my prettiest, but we need to transport passengers onto lifeboats. They've run out of food and water. Soon people will have no choice but to leave their cabins. When they do, the hijackers will shoot them unless we bring them to safety. Which gives us reason to bring down as many Marauders as we can. Time to raise hell for Ragnar. Distract him. Take his mind off things. With me?”

“You're preaching to the choir,” Clare said. “We magicians practice a fundamental called misdirection.”

 

PART V

SABOTEUR

 

FORTY

At ten thousand feet and climbing, the southbound Gulfstream V entered a dense, gray mantle, one that had looked like a pearly white pinnacle from afar. The cold cabin fell dark, soaring over lands that soon would feel the lash of rain and the pound of ice pellets. Isolated with unwelcoming company, Victoria stayed in her seat with the safety belt fastened, a kernel of uneasiness mushrooming within her as they breached the cumulus cloud. To the best of her knowledge, everything had worked without a hitch. But if that were the case, why were they still flying toward Libya at near sonic speeds?

Deeb unbuckled himself and moved to sit beside her.

“Hungry?” he asked.

He gave her a famished look, eating, drinking, and devouring her with his eyes as they roved from her pinched knees to the wealth of dark hair spilling onto her breasts.

“No.”

She regarded him as she would a rabid dog, wondering how long her feminine authority would act as his muzzle.

“You haven't had dinner.”

“I'm not hungry.”

Deeb snapped his fingers at his bodyguards, now his flight attendants. “Prepare some soup,” he said. “She'll come around.” He set the leather briefcase on his lap and rubbed his hands over the surface to wipe away the dust. He ran a finger over the latch but didn't open it. “You know what's in here, don't you?”

Victoria remained snow cold. “It belongs to my father.”

“Belonged. I'm sure you're aware it has exchanged hands multiple times.”

“It won't be yours for long. Two people will come after you—my father, and the Viking.”

“Both dead,” Deeb said, noting an incongruity. She had reacted tearfully when he'd informed her of her father's demise. Was she not willing to accept his death?

Victoria shook her head. “Wrong on both accounts.”

“Your father died in a plane crash in the North Atlantic. The Viking perished atop the Bruges bell tower by my own pistol.”

“Vasya Kaslov wasn't the Viking. Either that, or you believe in flying carpets.”

“He admitted his alias before I shot him. It wasn't until you tipped me off that I realized his intentions.”

“Which were?”

“Restore Soviet power. Incite a new arms race. Steal Baldr and use nuclear EMP satellite technology against its creator.”

“You make a great conspiracy theorist. Maybe so, but he wasn't the Viking.”

“How do you know?”

“Think you might tell a lie at gunpoint? Unfortunately for him, it didn't deter you.” She sighed. “I know he's not the Viking because I hacked Vasya's email account and saw messages between him and the mystery man. They were communicating. Unless he's an odd case of Jekyll and Hyde, Kaslov was not what he claimed to be in the tower.”

“You could be lying.”

“Sure. But I also read some meaty exchanges between you and Vasya. Arrival times, travel plans, meeting places, transportation logistics, rides, even confirmations of your bidding history. Slogged through it all.” Comprehension began to strain his face. “And if I could hack the account of an ex-KGB agent, you can bet the daughter of Baldr's inventor knows its password.”

Deeb flushed, his hands becoming talons. He lunged for her neck. “Tell me the password now, or—”

“Hands off.”

The voice belonged to a still, slender silhouette—one that seconds before had unfurled from the coat closet near the cockpit. Austin Hardy stretched his muscles after leaving the cramped space, though his firearm didn't once peel from its target. He took several steps forward and stood still and serene as a Grecian statue over the minister, who stared down the tunnel of a silenced Mak.

The bodyguards reached for their pistols. Austin held up a warning hand.

“I'd rather not play quick-draw at these altitudes,” he said. “Haven't you seen
Goldfinger
?” Withering, Deeb fluttered his eyelids. “Tell your men to toss their guns on the floor with the magazines removed.”

“Do as he says,” Deeb instructed. They obeyed.

“Now, raise your arms and rest your hands behind your head. Allow Victoria to take your pistol.”

She unbuckled herself and confiscated Deeb's gun. Assuming a new position beside Austin, she disengaged the safety.

“Strap in tight,” he said. “Or do you require a seatbelt extension?”

Deeb's fists trembled. “Has either of you ever fired a gun before?”

“We're dying to try,” Victoria said. “Tell your men to sit down and buckle their seatbelts like you.”

“What do you hope to accomplish by this?”

“A change of course.”

Deeb's open mouth suggested he was still doubting the reality of this mess. Nonetheless he waved to his men, and they fastened their belts.

“How did this man get here?” he shouted at them.

“I've been your shadow since you left the bell tower in Bruges,” Austin said. “Hid in the treasury rafters while you and Vasya stood off. When you walked down the stairs, I went up to find Vasya. Took his pistol. Let's see how well it works.”

While Victoria kept her aim pinned on the minister, Austin lowered his gun and fired a shot. The bullet pierced straight through the briefcase, discharging from the Mak with a muffled noise. The round tore a clean hole in the leather.

“Idiot!” Deeb exclaimed. Austin showed no concern. “You just destroyed a tool worth hundreds of millions!”

“Open the briefcase.”

Deeb flickered in shock when he opened the lid. The case was empty but for three paperweights taped to the sides.

“Where.…”

“Right here,” Austin said, reaching back into the coat closet and pulling out an identical case. “Custom-dyed Moroccan leather. Yours is a replica. This briefcase belongs to Dr. Clare. I caught up with you in the marketplace and paid a carriage driver handsomely for a little diversion. The stallion nearly trampling you was no accident.”

The realization visibly struck him, his resentment curdling as he searched for a buried bluff. He found nothing but sincerity.

“That's when you made the switch. When I stumbled.”

“Naturally I had to swap the cases early. Couldn't risk letting you get ahead of yourself with Baldr. Who knew when you'd start grilling Victoria for the password? What if I lost track of you in the crowds, and you ran off with the real thing? If anyone's to blame for not catching on, it's you. You'd have noticed sooner if you paid more attention to the people working in your circle. If only you'd tipped the limo driver.”

Deeb stammered bewilderment.

“That was
you
?”

“All the way from Bruges to Brussels, through the private gate, and onto the tarmac.”

“Another switch?”

“I admit I had to pity the real chauffeur. Holding an innocent hire at gunpoint was no fun for me. Poor soul was terrified. But he handed over the keys. Bet you'd have never guessed you were riding a stolen vehicle that whole time. From the tarmac I started loading your baggage onto the plane. Found my hiding spot in the coat closet, and voilà. Here I am. Amazing how easily some people forget the people who do these nice little things for them.”

Deeb turned to Victoria. “You said you pried into Vasya's email account. And it was you who told me to meet in the bell tower. The whole thing was a setup!”

“Don't feel too bad,” Austin said. “The same trick worked on Mr. Secret Police.”

“That's why Vasya was poised with the sniper rifle. You tried to lure him to the same place. The only viable vantage point for a shot … was in the bell tower.”

“Now you have it.”

Deeb stuck his finger through the bullet hole in the empty briefcase and began fidgeting. It was a nervous gesture, reminding Victoria of a cornered animal. She kept alert while Austin continued.

“Even if I had shot the real laptop,” he said, “no damage would have been done. After the switch, I opened the Baldr program, entered the password, and cancelled the override. Glitnir Defense has regained control of the satellite. There's nothing you can do about it.”

“What was the password anyway?” Victoria asked.

“You mean you didn't actually know?” Deeb said.