The Lance (The PROJECT: Book Two) (4 page)

CHAPTER EIGHT

It was after two in the morning on Wednesday in Jerusalem. It was seven in the evening on Tuesday in Washington. Nick called Harker. He told her about the attack on the mall, his new alliance with Shin Bet.

"
Give me a minute."

Carter heard her coughing in the background. He rubbed the back of his head where he'd hit the pavement. He had a hell of a headache and he was dizzy. Probably a mild concussion. He'd sleep it off.

After a brief pause Harker came back. "I've got a file on Herzog on my screen now."

"
How far should I go with him?"

"
He's a serious player. You don't get Jerusalem as your job in Shin Bet without a great track record. Wounded twice in the field, commendations from his superiors, a medal from the Prime Minister. He's a good man to have on our side."

"
So, full cooperation?"

"
Yes. Let Herzog run the show, but keep your ear to the ground and keep me informed."

"
Roger that."

"
Get some sleep. You'll need it."

Carter
signed off. He thought for a moment and decided to call Selena. He wasn't sure why.

"
Hey."

"
Hey, yourself. How's Jerusalem?"

"Not what I expected." Her voice made him realize he missed her. It was an odd feeling, something he'd forgotten. He told her what had happened.

"Are you okay?"

"
I'm fine, just tired."

H
er voice was tense. "You were almost killed by a bomb, two thugs went after you with knives, you were arrested and you're just tired? That's it? How do you feel?"

"
Like I said, tired. What am I supposed to feel?"

"
I don't know. Upset, maybe?"

"
What good would that do? What did you do today?"

Carter felt his head getting tight, like it always did when someone pushed him
for feelings. After Afghanistan some shrink was always asking how he felt. It was a stupid question. He'd always answered it the same way. How would you feel, if you'd blown the head off a kid? There wasn't any point in talking about it. Probing it. He'd had to do it, that's all. He didn't want to think about it. Feelings just got in the way.

Selena
took a deep breath. "I worked out with Ronnie. He's something, isn't he?"

That was better. "
You bet. He'll run you under if you let him."

"
I got even, though. We practiced some hand to hand combat. After that he decided we'd go to the range."

Nick
laughed. Selena had a 7
th
degree black belt in Kuk Sool Won. Ronnie was outmatched.

"I miss you," he
said. It surprised him. It was true. "I wanted to hear your voice."

"
When are you coming back?"

"
I don't know. After Rice's speech."

"
When you get back, let's go someplace and drink too much wine."

"A date? You're on."

A few more words and Carter hung up.

On the other end, Selena set the phone down. She let out a long breath. Talking with Nick was like talking to someone who lived inside an armored car. As long as it was about anything except the way he felt, it was fine. Try to get in, and the doors were locked.

She knew something about armor. She'd been ten when her parents were killed. Armor kept the pain away. Hers was forged out of achievement. Perfection in everything. Academics, sports, it had worked like a dream. Maybe it intimidated some people, but it had worked.

At least it had worked until her uncle had been murdered.

Then she'd met Elizabeth Harker and been tossed into Nick's world. A violent, dangerous world, and she'd gotten hooked on it, hooked on Nick in spite of herself. She'd never be able to go back to the life she'd had before. It was gone. Gone like the wind.

It made her mad at herself. She was hooked on a man who kept the lid clamped down tight on his feelings. Who kept them locked up in the dark. Sometimes looking at him was like looking at a mirror. She wasn't sure she liked what she saw.  

She went down to the workout room in the hotel and began stretching. She was almost ready to test for her next belt. At her level, there was no room for error. One mistake and it would be a year before she could test again.

For the next hour she practiced, watching herself in the big wall mirrors. She told herself that anyone who decided to mess with her would be making a big mistake. She told herself she was invulnerable.

She almost believed it.

CHAPTER NINE

Carter got out of his bloody clothes. His back was turning colors from where he'd hit the pavement. The disc injuries he'd gotten in the Himalayas sent warning shocks up his spine. He stepped into the shower and turned up the hot, trying to keep the stitches on his leg out of the stream.

He thought about Selena, how different they were from each other. It was hard to see how people as different as they were had come together. Take family, for instance.

His family was a mess, a textbook example of dysfunction. His father was an alcoholic bully. His sister was neurotic and angry and married to a total asshole. His mother had been a doormat for his father and now she had Alzheimer's. He'd never had much money and he'd worked his way through school.

Selena had been raised by a loving, wealthy uncle. She'd
gone to the best private schools and when her uncle died he'd left her more money than anyone could ever spend. His death had brought her to the Project. Education, money, background, Carter and Selena might as well be from different planets.

Carter got out of the shower and dried off. He set the alarm and lay down. He fell asleep
.

He dreamed the dream.

He's coming in over the ridge again,
the rotors echoing from the valley walls, beating out a rhythm of death. The village is like it always is, a shitty, dust-blown cluster of  flat-roofed buildings, baking in relentless heat, surrounded by sharp, brown hills. A wide, dirt street runs down the middle.

His team drops
from the chopper and hits the street running, M4 up by his cheek, his Marines behind him. On the right, houses. On the left, more houses and the market. It's just a chaotic mix of ramshackle bins and hanging cloth walls. Clouds of flies swarm around dead things hanging in the butcher’s stall.

They make their way past the market
. He keeps away from the walls, so a round fired won't burrow down a wall and right into him. He hears a baby crying. The street is deserted.

A dozen bearded figures rise up on the rooftops like ducks popping up in a carnival shooting gallery and begin firing AKs. The market stalls disintegrate in a firestorm of splinters and plaster and rock exploding from the sides of the buildings.

He ducks into a narrow doorway. A child runs toward him, screaming about Allah. Carter hesitates, a second too long. The boy cocks his arm back and throws a grenade as Nick shoots him. The M4 kicks back, one, two, three.

The first round strikes the boy's chest, the second his throat, the third his face. The child's head disappears in a red fountain of blood and bone. The grenade drifts through the air in slow motion...everything goes white...

He
woke, heart pounding, drenched in sweat.

Ghosts. Impressions from the past, his very own personal time machine.

He waited for dawn.

CHAPTER TEN

T
he Visitor looked out over the lights of Jerusalem.

A
cell phone rang, one of several he kept for these calls.

"
Yes."

"
We have a problem."

The caller
spoke in German, with a slight American accent. The voice was husky, a rasp of cigarettes or whiskey. He might have been in the next block or across the Atlantic. There was no way to tell.

"
Yes?"

"
Our business strategy requires modification. A representative of a rival consortium based in America has arrived. He intends to interfere with our negotiations. Perhaps you could resolve this with him?"

"
His name?"

"Carter
."

"
You wish me to visit him?"

"
Yes, please do. I am sure you can make a satisfactory arrangement. Your usual consulting fee will be doubled for this assignment."

"
Where is he staying?"

"
At the King David Citadel Hotel. He is one of their best negotiators."

A pause.

The Visitor asked, "Is the meeting still on schedule?"

"
It is. Continue supervising the arrangements. An update has been sent to you. Negotiate with our competition."

"
I understand."

The call ended. The Visitor placed the phone on the floor and crushed it with his heel.

It was an unexpected assignment, but it shouldn't take long. The Visitor went to his laptop. He opened a program that had never been certified by Microsoft or anyone else and tapped into the reservations computer at the King David Citadel. He noted Carter's room number and the fact that he was in the hotel.

He tapped another key and brought up an encrypted message, the
"update" his caller had mentioned.

Carter
was going to meet with an Armenian merchant in the Old City. The instructions were clear. Eliminate the Armenian and the possibility of that meeting ever happening. A picture of Carter, his contact and the address where the meeting was to take place were provided.

Perfect. The Visitor was efficient.
When Carter came to meet the Armenian, opportunity might present itself to take care of two problems at the same time.

He
thought about the day ahead. He went over the assignment in his mind's eye, a professional working through his game plan, visualizing the steps, the terrain, possible complications or obstacles.

The Visitor shut down
his laptop. He took out the silenced Ruger .22 he preferred for his work. Quiet, effective, with little chance of rounds penetrating places they shouldn't go, it was his favorite weapon. He got a kit and laid everything out in a precise row and began cleaning the gun. The smell of solvent and gun oil and the sheen of the deep bluing on the metal provided a peaceful, ordered sense of purpose, an existential meditation focused on the instrument of death in his hands.

The Visitor thought of his home in Germany
, in the mountains of Bavaria. It was so different from the barren, desert land of this Jew nation. Green trees and black earth, snow capped peaks rising like gods to the pure, blue skies. The smell of pine and the glory of alpine flowers blooming in the high country in the spring. Warm summer days. Fair women with rosy cheeks and wide hips.

But his beloved Bavaria
was corrupted, diseased.

P
oisoned by Jews and foreigners, mongrel races swarming like cockroaches over his beloved Fatherland, Germany's patrimony traded for a mess of porridge by spineless politicians catering to the Zionist Americans and their ilk.

It wasn
't too late to reverse the damage. Soon, the Jews would be brought down. A long delayed completion of the final solution was coming to this nation of sub-humans called Israel.

The Visitor hummed to himself as he wiped excess oil off the pistol.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

At the German research station on the Princess Martha Coast in Antarctica, spring was in full swing. For the last four weeks the thermometer had soared above freezing. Global warming and the hole in the ozone layer were hot topics of conversation in the dining hall.

The thinning ozone layer was Hans Schmidt
's field of expertise. Thirty years old, he was a rising star in the expanding science of environmental studies. Hans had an engaging, open face, hazel eyes and fair hair. He'd let his beard grow over the last few months, the reddish color hinting at his Viking ancestry. In a month he was going back to Germany to marry his childhood sweetheart, Heidi. Life was good for Hans.

He'd
dressed in high brown laced boots, sturdy pants over insulated underwear, two shirts and an open red jacket. He wore a fur lined hat with flap ears tied up on top. Antarctic weather could change to fury in an instant, even in the warmer months.

He'd
checked out a Sno-Cat and persuaded Otto Bremen, the head of the station and the chief geophysicist, to go inland with him to the mountains of the
Fenriskjeften
, the "Jaw of Fenris", named for the giant, ravenous wolf of Norse myth. It was still largely unexplored territory.

Bremen was older,
in his early fifties. He was stocky, shorter than Hans. His face was round and jolly, which made him a favorite for playing Kris Kringle at Christmas time. He had tufted eyebrows turning white over blue eyes and silver-rimmed bifocals set slightly askew on his large ears. He wore an insulated yellow parka with a German flag stitched on the shoulder and sturdy boots and pants.

They pulled out of the garage cavern hollowed from the ice beneath the station and headed toward the mountains. The heater in the high cab of the Tucker Sno-Cat was on low
in the fine weather. Hans cracked a window for fresh air. The Tucker was one of three identical vehicles donated to the station by Eric Reinhardt, a wealthy American businessman of German descent.

The
big Allison diesel engine rumbled in a contented drone. They headed over the snow and ice toward the mountains an hour away. With two 60 gallon tanks, a closed cab and plenty of storage, the Tucker was like a Rolls Royce in this part of the world.

Bremen
tinkered with another Reinhardt gift, an experimental device using ultra sound technology to detect mineral deposits. The Fenris Mountains would provide a good field test. No one had ever found much in the Antarctic ice, only a little iron and some copper. None of it promised commercial development. Besides, the Antarctic treaties prevented any kind of serious mining operations.

The big Sno-Cat closed on the mountains and Hans turned parallel to the front of the range
, looking for anything unusual in the melting ice and snow. After ten minutes the mineral seeking device began to beep.

"
Something ahead," Otto said. "According to this, no more than three of four hundred meters." He consulted a chart. "High density iron, copper, the readings are going crazy."

"
Look there!" Hans pointed through the windshield.

He
slowed and brought the Tucker to a halt. On the side of one of the jagged peaks, ice and snow had broken loose in the spring thaw. A gray, regular outline was visible against the dark rock.

"
What the hell is that?" Hans let the engine idle.

"
I don't know. It looks man made. That's where the readings come from."

"
I don't remember anything about a station or camp here."

S
tations were often abandoned in the Antarctic. Both men were familiar with the history of the region. Neither had ever heard of anything in this area.

They climbed
down from the cab and walked to the mountain wall. Two wide doors of rusting steel, each twelve feet high, were set into the rock. Ice and snow blocked the lower part of the doors.

Excitement filled both men.

"What do you think?" Otto said. "Can we get in?"

"
Maybe we can push the debris aside."

"
Let's try it."

The Sno-Cat was equipped with a heavy blade used to
groom the station runway for supply planes. Otto and Hans climbed back into the cab. Hans engaged the four speed transmission and brought the Tucker around to the doors. He lowered the blade and began working. In twenty minutes, the way was clear.

The two men stood before the doors. There was a large, U-shaped handle on each one.

"They have to open in." Hans rubbed his glove across his face. "No one would have doors that opened out. They'd get blocked by snow."

"
I wonder if they're locked?"

"
Against what? Penguins? Let's push and see."

They pushed against one of the doors.
Grunting, they pushed harder. With a rusted squeal, the steel door opened. They pushed at the other door and swung it inward. The interior lay in darkness.

Hans went back to the idling cat, backed it around and pointed it straight at the open entrance. He switched on the six halogen headlamps and hit high beam. The interior lit up with brilliant white light.
He took two hand held torches from the cab and joined Otto.

A
high roofed tunnel ran straight as an arrow into the mountain. Bare electric light bulbs, long dark, were spaced down the center of the ceiling.

"
Whoever built this bored right into the mountain."

"
What could it have been for?" Otto said. "This is huge. It would take a lot of equipment. I never heard of anything like this down here."

A little way in,
Hans paused at a room on the right.

"
This could have been a guardroom." He pointed at a frost covered stove in the corner. "That looks like something from sixty or seventy years ago."

"
A military base? For what? Who built it?"

On the other side of the corridor was a kitchen and eating area, big enough for
a hundred men. They passed two barracks rooms with gray wooden lockers still in place at the ends of the bunks. Hans opened one. Empty.

They walked
down the corridor, past what might have been officer's quarters with two bunks to a room. They came upon a radio room. A microphone and telegraph key still sat on top of a metal desk, next to a large transmitter console tied with snaking cables to a tall rack of receivers and test equipment. Next to the transmitter was a wooden box. Otto opened the box. Inside was something like a typewriter, with a complex keyboard arrangement of letters and buttons.

Everything was covered by a thick layer of white frost.
Otto wiped off the face plate of the silent transmitter. The switches were marked in German. Both men saw the swastika at the same time.

"
Holy shit! This must be Doenitz's secret base!"

Grand
Admiral Karl Doenitz, head of Nazi Germany's naval forces, had once referred to "an invincible fortress in the Antarctic", but no one had ever found evidence of its existence. Now Otto and Hans were standing in it.

Hans picked up a logbook
lying on the desk. He thumbed through it without absorbing the words, set it down again.

"
This short wave stuff was state of the art in the forties," Otto said. "Look at the size of that transmitter. Must be two kilowatts at least. There've been rumors of this place since the war, but no one ever knew where it was, or if it was real."

"Berlin
isn't going to be happy about this."

"
No one wants to think about that Nazi crap anymore. What they do with this is their business. But we have to report it."

They left the radio room and continued down the passage.
The next room contained two large diesel generators, silent and cold. Exhaust tubes disappeared into the ceiling.

Down the tunnel a series of four rooms opened to the sides. T
hree were empty. The fourth held six large wooden crates, each stenciled in black with an eagle and swastika. Hans rubbed frost away from a label.

He looked at Otto. "
It says 'kitchen supplies'."

"
That's a lot of supplies."

In the corner Otto spied a long
crowbar, set against the icy wall. He picked it up and pried away the lid of a crate. He shone his light inside.

"
Not kitchen supplies. Look at this!"

The crate was filled with paintings. They peered in.

"That's a Vermeer!" Hans said. "I recognize the style. Or it's a damn good copy."

"
No one would stash a copy here." Otto pushed the lid back in place. "That painting is worth a fortune. It must have been stolen during the war. I'll bet all these crates are full of things stolen by the Nazis."

They walked down the tunnel and passed two large closed doors on their left. The doors didn
't budge when Otto tried to open them. At the end of the corridor they came to a steel door with a spoked wheel and a combination dial.

Hans tried to
turn the wheel, but it was locked in place.

"
If they left paintings worth millions outside this vault, what could be in here?"

Otto shrugged.
"Who knows? We'd better get back and tell the others. It's going to play hell with our research time once Berlin sends people to check it out."

"
Look on the bright side. There has to be a finder's fee for that art work. Maybe we'll get some real funding out of it. Publicity, too. That never hurts."

In the scientific world, fame
was a good thing. Both men thought that the future had just gotten brighter.

Back at the station, Otto contacted
Berlin by satellite with news of the find. It never occurred to him that someone else might be listening.