by David Caris
Stew Boy hadn’t given up his meat thermometer, though. That was still firmly in hand. To Kovac’s surprise, Stew Boy reached with his free hand and grabbed the small plastic bag containing stew. He did this as he tried to slip past the chef. But the chef waved his knife, blocking Stew Boy’s path. He started talking to Kovac in French, but Kovac wasn’t listening.
Kovac went for the eggs. The guy who cleaned oranges for a living looked to be siding with the chef, trapping Stew Boy. That suited Kovac fine. For now, anyway.
Kovac pelted eggs at Stew Boy one by one. He took a real, schoolboy-like delight in the way they exploded on his face, blinding him.
Stew Boy spun the thermometer in his hand and, suddenly screaming, charged Kovac.
The humiliation, Kovac figured.
Kovac expected a stab, but the man swung the metal spike more like a sword. He was clearly trying to bury it in Kovac’s throat, but he was too blind and too slow. Kovac slammed the back of his left palm into the man’s wrist, just under the thermometer, then used the back of his other hand to keep Stew Boy’s entire arm moving across the face of his body. Stew Boy was left doing a strange sort of meat thermometer Dab, blinking egg yolk, his face scrunched, his head up and back and completely unprepared for Kovac’s left jab.
The punch put him on his knees, and Kovac confiscated the thermometer before going after his second target – Orange Boy. This man, realizing he wouldn’t be able to pass himself off as a good guy, tried to turn and run. But Kovac tripped him and sent him sprawling.
The chef gave up on his phone call and dropped his knife. It clattered on the floor and Kovac scooped it up, gesturing for Orange Boy to stay down, and to slowly, carefully, join his friend.
Orange Boy agreed. He crawled back to Stew Boy, who put his hands up behind his neck without Kovac even asking.
Orange Boy did the same.
The chef stayed where he was, pancaking himself to a stainless steel wall. Kovac once again checked for any sign of Bibi or Malone, but it wasn’t going to be that easy. He was going to have to do this the old-fashioned way. Start at the bottom of the food chain, grab whoever he could, and work his way up.
Kovac noticed Stew Boy had dropped his little bag of stew, so he tossed the useless thermometer aside and picked up the stew. He circled around his two captives, removed their hairnets and studied their faces. The egg made it hard, but he was sure now. They matched the photos Megan had sent.
He had found his two missing Frenchmen, Kante and Gasly.
Chapter 48
Megan spent thirty-five minutes showering, dressing and applying makeup, erasing the fatigue born from time spent with Kovac. Then she hurried downstairs.
She was escorted into a car near the middle of the motorcade and driven to the venue she had selected – a small opera house. At first glance, it was a strange choice of venue. But it had everything she wanted: a stage that elevated her and Nix above the media, good seating, and a pit that could house cameras. The pit would drop the cameramen down an extra level, and elevate her in all footage.
There was another reason for choosing this venue, too – a reason she planned to reveal as soon as she was on stage.
She recognized her driver but wasn’t sure if he was Liam or Leon. She knew he had a son who was fanatical about soccer, so they talked about that until the conversation ran its course. Anything to get her mind off what was coming. Then, unable to live in denial any longer, Megan opened her laptop.
She made notes in dot-point form and tried to face her inbox, just in case there was something she really needed to know before heading into this. At one glance, she saw this crisis was well beyond the capacity of email. She had received close on one hundred new emails in the last hour alone, many designated urgent. She would lose two days just trying to sort and prioritize them, let alone replying. Added to that, half of them were probably already out of date.
She minimized the window, ran through her dot-points again, then shut the screen.
Staring out the window at early afternoon London, Megan thought about Kovac. Where was he right now? She had read about the accident in Vienna and a woman’s escape from the van and subsequent escape from hospital. Was Kovac going after her? She hadn’t heard from him since he told her to return to London, which seemed strange. But then, Megan hadn’t worked with Kovac much at all. Who was to say what was normal…?
When she arrived, she followed one of her PR employees – a young pretty girl with a simple ponytail – into the building. Bodyguards flanked them both. As soon as she was inside, Megan went straight for the nearest bathroom and locked herself in a stall. The stall was probably overkill. The bodyguards checked the bathroom quickly, then hurried out again to take up position at the bathroom door. ‘The space is all yours, Ms. Curzon,’ the last man had said as he exited, sounding sheepish.
She stayed in the stall anyway. Its walls closed the world down to a space she could control. She closed her eyes and saw the dot points. She ran through them, settling on phrases and reminding herself that nerves were good. She was good at this. This was what she did.
When she was something close to centered, breathing a little less rapidly, she exited and made her way through a labyrinth of corridors and rooms. She passed dressing rooms, people guiding her now, until suddenly she was stage right.
Nix was already on stage, sitting at the table. He glanced at her, but didn’t acknowledge her existence. He wasn’t going to warn anyone she was close with a big grin and offer of water.
Megan heard her father’s voice. “Silence trumps a blunder every day of the week.”
Was she heading into a blunder now?
No. This was the role of the CEO. She would go with Kovac’s instincts on this one. She wasn’t officially Chairman yet, but as the defacto leader of the company, she was expected to be the spokesperson. The public, the company’s shareholders, even regulatory officials… everyone expected to hear from her.
She walked onto the stage and sat down beside Nix. She smiled professionally, but also warmly, as the camera clicking reached a crescendo in the pit below.
Nix introduced her and Megan hit her first talking point. She offered her sympathy to all victims of what was clearly a targeted attack on Curzon, its employees and clients. ‘I want to thank our employees for the work they’ve been doing at this difficult time. And I want to reassure our employees and loyal clients all around the world that Curzon will continue to cover all expenses generated by this deliberate breach of our networks. We are doing everything we can to restore normal business operations as quickly as possible, and to prevent anything like this from ever occurring again. We are a market leader with a focus on client and customer service in almost every country in the world. We lead the world in corporate climate initiatives and we donate millions to charity. We consider this an attack on all these initiatives, and we will assist law enforcement in bringing to justice any individuals who seek to perpetrate terror, be it in the digital realm or otherwise.’
As planned, she followed this up with details for clients in need of emergency funds to cover Curzon-generated losses.
The questions were predictable. The first came from Reuters. ‘Was this due to inadequate precautions at Curzon?’
‘No, we don’t believe so.’
The next was from Associated Press. ‘Could this happen again?’
‘As I said, we’re aiming to prevent that.’
The questions went on. BBC News, ITN, Sky, CNN. Megan fell into a nice rhythm, remaining empathetic, talking about the gratitude Curzon had for its brave staff, and repeating that the company rewarded loyalty. When asked about timelines for recovery and why Curzon had delayed requests for help, she said as soon as possible and ignored the second half of the question entirely. She ran through a few more examples of why Curzon was a force for good in society instead.
Towards the end, she was leaning on the phrase “I couldn’t venture to guess”, and Nix took that as his cue to start fielding questions
.
Megan was happy to let this happen, because Nix had scribbled her key talking points on a notepad and tilted it towards her. She had nodded to confirm, and off he went, repeating her message until one journalist hit him with a curveball.
Megan realized her mind had drifted at exactly the wrong moment. She wasn’t even aware it had happened until it was too late. She had relaxed ever so slightly after Nix took over, and she had been wondering why she sought out Kovac, sticking with him for as long as she had. Why hadn’t she been up on this stage 24 hours earlier? Kovac himself had told her that she was hiding, that it had to be her up here in front of the cameras. And she knew now beyond any shadow of a doubt that he was right about that. She was still fragile after the failures in central Australia, but she –
‘Megan?’ Nix said.
And that was when she had realized everyone was silent, waiting on her answer. She blinked across the glaring cameras to the silhouetted journalists. One was standing, notepad at the ready. Megan had been jolted back into this opera house by the name “Kovac”, but not in her head. She had heard it out loud. She looked down at the notepad, where Nix now wrote “KOVAC” without taking his eyes off the seated reporters.
‘I’m sorry,’ she said, ‘I didn’t hear the last part of the question, could you repeat it please?’
‘Is there any truth to the rumor Curzon’s been hiring mercenaries, most notably a man called John Kovac?’
Megan felt her face break into a smile. ‘Have I been hiring mercenaries? I thought that’s what you asked and I told myself surely not.’
‘Yes. That’s my question. Particularly one mercenary, John Kovac.’
‘No.’ Megan softened the word with a laugh, all the while affecting genuine bemusement. She was going to leave it at that. The journalist was young and plucky, with a pixie cut and an Irish accent. She was clearly trying to make a name for herself, and she was fishing. But on a whim, trusting her gut, Megan added: ‘I’ll get that name from you after the press conference, though. Kovac, was it? Now that my father’s retiring, his diet and exercise program both need an overhaul. He might just listen to a soldier.’ There was muted laughter. Megan pointed at another journalist with his hand up.
But the young woman who had asked about Kovac followed up.
Nix tried to cut her off.
‘No, that’s fine,’ Megan said, not wanting to come off as defensive. ‘Let her ask another question if she has one.’
‘Did your mercenary, John Kovac, murder a man called Virat Kapoor?’
‘Excuse me?’
‘Did your mercenary, John –’
‘I heard the question.’
There was a protracted silence in the opera house’s old auditorium. Someone coughed, and the noise bounced around while Megan, stuck for an answer, floundered. She focused on not fidgeting until, out of nowhere and with a flood of relief, she remembered why she had chosen this venue.
‘My father sat on this stage,’ she said. ‘And for reasons you’ll soon understand, I won’t say exactly how many years ago that was… He sat more or less where I’m sitting now, and he announced my birth at a press conference just like this one.’ She paused, taking in a deep lungful of air and reminding herself to speak slowly. ‘And whenever I watch that old footage, I wonder what was going through his mind, what was in his heart that day. There are plenty of rumors swirling around online about my older sister. The truth is, she was kidnapped, she was murdered. As a family, we’ve chosen not to dwell on that publicly. As most of you will be aware, out of raw pain, and for security reasons, we’ve repeatedly denied it.’
She paused, daring the Irish journalist to interrupt her. But she was too smart for that. She remained silent.
‘As a family, we live very public lives. That was made all too clear recently. We hire bodyguards, we give thought to our travel, we think carefully about venues. Are we blessed? Absolutely. And that’s why we devote so much time and money to causes that matter to us. But all that aside, and contrary to popular belief, no one gets used to living under a microscope. Not when you’ve seen things go horribly wrong, as my father did.’
She was talking off the cuff and using a lot of words. All things she had been trained not to do at times like this. It was like dancing on a cliff edge, one wrong move and that would be that. But for some reason, she was confident she could do this.
‘Another thing I’ve never quite managed to get used to are the endless lies that circulate, not just online but in newspapers. Maybe we brought it on ourselves as a family, asking for privacy, denying the true circumstances of my sister’s death. I don’t know. But whatever the case, I’ve been raised to stay quiet, to swallow the anger I feel – and contrary to my calm exterior and earlier joke, I can assure you, I am angry right now. Not at you. I don’t know you, I don’t care what your name is. But at whoever put you up to this…’
She paused and swallowed hard. She felt her eyes begin to glass up and she let it happen.
‘I get that it’s a job to you, a game, I do, but I’m going to –’
‘You’re avoiding the question,’ the girl cut in, though she sounded a lot less sure of herself now. ‘Are you denying hiring a mercenary called John Kovac to murder Virat Kapoor?’
Megan took a deep breath. She blinked and wiped at the tears, and let her voice harden.
‘The problem with what you’re doing right now, is that the lies you serve up as questions have real ramifications. So my answer to you – and again, this is with a heavy heart, because I’d much rather be talking about what Curzon’s doing for its staff right now, what it’s doing for its clients and the community at large – is the only answer I can give. I know it’ll be seen as defensive by some, but I can’t do anything about that.’ She paused, letting everyone hang on her next utterance. ‘My answer is the answer I’ve been raised to give all my life, and I give it proudly now, because I know from bitter experience it’s the best way to avoid tragedies like my sister’s death.’ She leaned closer to her mic. ‘My answer to you is no comment.’
To Megan’s surprise, the girl sat down. There was silence for a moment, then she heard Nix’s voice – both from beside her, and coming back at her from speakers right around the auditorium. ‘I think we’ll leave it there,’ he said, managing to convey his disappointment at the way things had devolved. ‘We’ll send out the hotline details to clients for emergency financial aid, and we’ll provide updates as we continue to work with appropriate authorities to bring this digital terror attack to an end.’
Megan thanked Nix, then thanked the journalists. She stood on wobbly feet, and a moment later, in the safety of the wings, collapsed against a wall. Struggling for air, she whirled on Nix. ‘Get her name, get her fucking employer’s name, and for God’s sake, Nix, make sure she has no idea we want either one.’
Chapter 49
Kovac stared out the window, fighting a seething rage. It was mid-afternoon. He was parked on the outskirts of Paris, at the point where the city fell away and long stretches of residential housing slowly morphed into soulless aluminum warehouses. He was in a delivery truck, depending on a burner phone that he had arranged with his John Kovac passport and Malone cash. He had his two Frenchmen in the back, tied and gagged, and he had spent the last hour going through their phones.
He knew logically that he had just saved a lot of lives. From what he could tell, he had prevented a BoNT attack on three elementary schools in Paris. But he wasn’t congratulating himself just yet. If Bibi was capable of this, she was capable of anything.
Kovac didn’t want a few children home safe, he wanted all children home safe.
He was trying to clear his head of anger, working through his options, when his new phone buzzed. A reply to a text he had sent Megan.
He called up her message. It read – “Free to talk?”
Was he free to talk? Sure. He was only sitting in a delivery truck full of BoNT, with two French terrorists and no plan…
His phone r
ang before he could reply, and he sighed and took the call on the first ring.
‘I just saw your message,’ Megan said. ‘How many schools?’
‘Three, I think. It’s BoNT. I think it’s in stew and maybe on the salads.’
‘I’ll put a rush on our ventilators. We’ll get everything we have to Paris by tomorrow morning at the latest.’
‘No. I’ve got it all here.’
‘What?’
‘Nothing’s gone out to the schools.’
‘Oh thank God. How did you –’
‘And I found our two Frenchmen – the two who worked for Curzon for a short while, then emptied out their apartments and vanished.’
‘They’re terrorists?’
‘I have their truck and all the school lunches. I might know who’s controlling them, too. Assuming delivery was intended for today, that’s everyone getting sick tomorrow right?’
‘The BoNT would need that long to take effect, yes. Why?’
Because tomorrow’s significant, Kovac thought. But he wasn’t ready to share that with Megan. ‘The kitchen keeps samples in little bags, and my Frenchmen was trying to take one with him. I can’t test anything, but I’m pretty sure it’s your missing BoNT.’
‘Where are you?’ she asked. ‘Exactly, I mean.’
He wasn’t ready to share this, either.
‘I’m getting out of Paris. I’ve got a feeling I’m going to be on a few watchlists.’
‘Watchlists? As in police?’
‘Call it a hunch.’ Kovac explained everything that had happened after he parted ways with Megan in Austria, and when he was done, Megan said: ‘You think this Bibi Dauguet woman framed you?’
‘I think they’ve been filming me as I move around, yeah, and they’ve set me up to look like I’m helping with this attack on French schools.’
