The Medina Device

by T. J. Champitto

  “How many?” Michael struggled to ask.

  “How many what?”

  “How many of your assholes did he kill?”

  Carson chuckled. “I’m glad you find this amusing. It’s only a matter of time. Do you know that in my thirty-plus years of service, not one—not a single person—has ever gotten away from me? Many of them were much more talented than Cam, but they never lasted more than a couple of days. A very select few survived a month or so on the run but, eventually, they all fell.” Carson turned his back and walked to the door. “We’re all mortal, Mr. Lyle,” he threatened before leaving the room.

  Michael exhaled in relief. Cam was still alive out there.

  Chapter Forty-Two

  The black Audi pulled into the drive at Centre d’Accueil Universel Christian Church. Cam jumped out and removed the plastic taxi sign from the roof and tossed it into the backseat. He and Rand jogged across the road and quickly immersed themselves in a small crowd gathered at Parc de la Légion d’Honneur—a sprawling parkland of lawns, gardens and pathways.

  In a slow, unpronounced pace they made their way around the perimeter walkways. When they reached the southern end of the park, Cam turned right, then continued up the N1 sidewalk. A well-clipped, seven-block walk brought them to the Châtillon Montrouge metro station, where Cam dug through his backpack for some cash and plugged €5 into the automated kiosk. The machine spit out two tickets and a handful of change.

  A train eventually arrived and took them south to Place de Clichy—another bustling section of Paris he was familiar with.

  “Now what?” Rand gasped, as they exited the station.

  “Now we locate the good doctor. James looked him up online without much trouble. There’s gotta be an internet café around here.”

  “Your brother, James? You mean James found Damion?”

  “He stumbled onto it,” Cam muttered, catching himself in the slip-up.

  They began a hurried walk up Boulevard des Batignolles. Cam checked the stores along the street for anything that might have an internet connection.

  “I called James when there was nowhere else to turn,” he finally admitted as they hustled up the sidewalk. “I wanted him to be prepared when the CIA came knocking on his door.”

  “Did they?”

  “Of course. But before they did, James cross-checked our photos of Eisenhower with the White House visitor logs from the day the pictures were taken, which led us to identify Marco Damion.”

  “Okay, so what does that mean?”

  “For starters, it means Dr. Damion is about to have a lot of explaining to do.”

  Rand took it all in, trying to piece together a timeline of events.

  “Cybercafé,” Cam pointed as they came to the intersection of Rue de Rome.

  Half a block up the street hung a small, dirty white sign—one in a long row of interconnected shops that dotted the square.

  Rand checked over his shoulder at the stampede of tourists pacing the block. There was still no sign of a CIA team. He and Cam wove their way through a group of pedestrians and continued up the sidewalk.

  They slipped into the tiny café and marched to the back, where a pair of computers rested on a long desk.

  Cam slid out a plastic chair and sat down.

  Before he could begin, the shopkeeper hollered from the front of the store. “Payez-moi d’abord!”

  Cam froze—he had absolutely no grasp of the French language and was hesitant to reply in English. Surely, there were police bulletins out for two Americans fitting their description.

  “Money, he wants money,” Rand whispered with a tap on Cam’s shoulder.

  The bruising American scrambled to pull more cash from his backpack and lumbered to the register. He handed a wad of bills to the grumpy old Frenchman and returned to the computer, only to find Rand typing away on its sticky, out-of-date keyboard.

  “Found it. He’s here in Paris. 59B Rue Voltaire,” Rand said.

  “How far is that from here?”

  Rand hurried to find the address on a map. “Not far, we can be there in thirty minutes by train. Should I write this address down?”

  “No, Rand,” Cam whispered through a devilish grin. “We’re international criminal masterminds. We don’t write things down.”

  They chose a different route back to the metro station and jumped the next train to Gare de Courbevoie, five stops away just over the Seine River. They were now outside of the city, northwest of downtown Paris.

  . . .

  “We don’t have anything yet, sir, but our teams are running grid checks.”

  If Kevin was concerned, he was hiding it well.

  Carson scowled. The hidden Irish estate was dark and callous; he could think of a million other places he’d rather be. The agent had already wasted more of his precious time on the Lyles than he’d intended to. Yet here he sat, with one of the brothers bleeding in an interrogation room and another running loose around one of Europe’s largest cities.

  “Why is he in Paris?” the frustrated officer wondered aloud.

  “We don’t know. He has no known contacts there.”

  “We’re the CIA, Kevin. We know where almost every human being on Earth is at all hours of the day. It’s one goddamn international fugitive and an FBI agent! How hard is this?” he yelled, slamming a fist on the table.

  “With all due respect to our team, sir, Cameron Lyle is more than well-trained—he trained operatives who are well-trained.”

  “Do I need to bring in bigger guns, Kevin?”

  The junior agent knew what this meant. The blood flushed from his face. “No, sir.”

  “He’s utilizing the metro system,” Carson surmised. “He would have ditched the taxi immediately, which likely left them on foot in the northeast corridor.”

  “From there, they’d have easy access to the entire city,” Kevin added. “That was 103 minutes ago, they could be anywhere by now. Hell, they could be out of the country.”

  “No,” Carson snapped, thinking deeply. “They went there for a reason. Cameron’s in Paris, and he’s looking for something. A friend, a contact—”

  “He could have just used Paris as a landing site,” Kevin refuted.

  “Maybe. But Cameron Lyle is trained in swift, unobstructed tactical maneuvers. He’s not a counterintelligence agent, he’s a battlefield soldier, trained to take the path of least resistance and strike with immediate force. Every move he makes is intentional and direct.”

  “And when we find him?”

  “I don’t want him.”

  Kevin stood confused. “I’m sorry?”

  “He’s killed six of our operatives in Paris and seven in Mexico. The surgical strike teams aren’t working. He’s just picking us off one by fucking one. And we can’t exactly send in an army, he’ll turn Paris into a war zone.”

  “So, what do you suggest?”

  “Pull back the strike teams and send in surveillance. The device holds no value to him, but Michael does. Cameron will give us what we want if his brother’s life hangs in the balance. Let’s remove his tactical advantage and force him into making a decision.”

  “And you think he’ll do it?” Kevin asked.

  “I do. He and Michael are blood. They grew up together, they’ve fought together, and they stole together. Thick as fucking thieves, those two. He’ll give us what we want.”

  . . .

  Cam stood at the tall wooden gate of a small residence, sealed off from the rest of the world. With a stern glance at his new partner, he pushed the handle and stepped into the cour
tyard, then up to the front door. After a quick gut check, he knocked.

  A climactic moment passed with no answer. He knocked again.

  Finally, an older gentleman with a cardigan sweater and khaki pants opened the door. His white stubble was weeks old. His bifocals portrayed a subtle intelligence.

  “Qu’est-ce que vous voulez?” the man grumbled.

  “I’m sorry, are you Marco Damion?” Cam asked in a friendly tone.

  The man’s peaceful expression melted away as an awkward tension filled the courtyard. After deep consideration, he opened the door and waved them in.

  “I am Marco Damion,” he finally confirmed before shutting the door behind them. Marco noted that his two guests were either military or law enforcement—or both. “And you are?”

  “My name is Cameron Lyle. This is my—my friend, Rand Kershaw. I believe we have something that you may be able to help with.”

  Marco stared at Cam with concern, then at the other fellow, who appeared to be sweating through his dress shirt. These young men are in some sort of danger, he guessed. And he knew exactly what it was.

  “Yes, I believe you have something of importance.”

  Cam couldn’t quite place the accent. It had the slipperiness of Italian with a soft Scottish cadence.

  Dr. Damion escorted his guests to the study, where an oil painting of hunting dogs hung on a wood-paneled wall above a brown leather couch. A gentle breeze passed through an open window, knocking the stench from the musty furnishings.

  “Please, sit,” Marco told them.

  “The accent, I can’t quite identify it,” Cam mumbled inappropriately. “You’re Italian, right?”

  The physicist laughed for a moment. “A mutt really. Born in Florence, raised in Edinburgh. Spent a bulk of my career in the States. I retired here almost twenty years ago.”

  “I see.”

  “Am I not what you expected, young man?” Marco joked.

  “I guess I didn’t know what to expect,” Cam conceded.

  “You’re on the run,” the old man bluntly pointed out with authority. “From what exactly?”

  “What makes you think we’re on the run?” Rand interjected.

  “Two Americans. One backpack. Pulsing heart rates. And it appears you’ve walked further in those shoes than what they were designed for,” Marco noted, glancing down at Rand’s loafers. He leaned in with a look of discern and spoke slowly. “What in God’s name have you brought to my house?”

  “This backpack—” attempted Cam before being interrupted.

  “I know what’s in the backpack, lads. I’m asking who you have brought?” Marco darted an eye at the front door. “There are dogs on the loose, it’s only a matter of time before they pick up your scent and follow it here.”

  “We weren’t followed,” Rand assured. “But we don’t have a lot of time.”

  “Very well,” Marco conceded. “Let’s see it.”

  Chapter Forty-Three

  As Marco sat calmly in the old study, Cam rustled his backpack from the floor to a mahogany tea table. He took a seat across from Marco and pulled the photos out one-by-one, then the stone tablet, and finally the mysterious metal device.

  “This was precision machined, and there seems to be electrical components,” Cam tried.

  “Not so fast, Mr. Lyle,” Marco scolded with a wag of his finger. “The tablet.”

  “We don’t know anything about the tablet,” Cam confessed. “My brother deciphered it from Dublin, then sent the translation to Philadelphia. Unfortunately, we couldn’t stick around long enough for it to arrive.”

  “I see. And the photos?”

  “With all due respect, Dr. Damion, you seem to be familiar with these items,” Cam countered. “And I couldn’t help but notice that you’re in most of these photos.”

  Marco examined the photographs scattered across the table. He stopped on one in particular—taken from inside the Oval Office. “I was just a young man in this one.”

  “So, it is you?”

  “Of course, it is. Don’t be ridiculous.”

  “And the tablet?” Cam pressed.

  “How did you come into possession of these items, which I assume were encased in an ossuary?” Marco asked.

  “The ossuary was discovered by Dr. Diaz near Puma Punku. We were hired to intercept it on its way to the US,” Cam explained. “Let’s just say we ran into some unexpected hazards after retrieving it.”

  “If you were hired to steal it, then you were hired to return it. So why are these items sitting on a table in my study?”

  Cam and Rand exchanged looks of frustration. The old man was clearly masking his absolute knowledge of the situation.

  “We were hired by a group called the Knights of Medina,” Cam carefully admitted. “Ever heard of ’em?”

  The old man confirmed the notion with an abbreviated nod and a deep breath.

  “Do you know Rook?” Cam finally asked, growing tired of the charade.

  “Who and what I know isn’t going to keep either of you alive, Mr. Lyle. Keeping it out of the hands of wolves, however, might.”

  Rand wasn’t buying it. “You know what the best thing that could happen right now is, old man?” he expelled, standing up in anger. “We leave all this bullshit on the table and walk the fuck outta here and never look back! That’s our best chance of surviving!”

  “Sit down, Mr. Kershaw. It’s too soon to be shitting your pants,” Marco insisted.

  “Do you or do you not know the Knights of Medina?” Rand demanded.

  To the former agent’s surprise, Cam sprang to his feet and brandished a 9mm, holding it to the physicist’s head. “Answer the question, Marco. We told you we don’t have much time.”

  Marco didn’t flinch. He stared intently at the steel pistol in his face. A small fire began to roar in his eyes. “Put the gun down, Cameron. And I’ll tell you everything.”

  Cam narrowed his brow in disgust before holstering the pistol.

  “You young soldiers are so jumpy these days,” Marco noted. “I am indeed familiar with the Knights of Medina. And I am saddened by the news of Sir Rook. He was a good friend.”

  “So he’s dead?” Cam asked.

  “He is.”

  “And you’re part of this? You were part of the team that hired me, weren’t you?”

  “To the contrary,” Marco replied. “I have been out of the game for quite some time, in fact. I only heard of Rook’s passing yesterday. He was a good man.”

  “Then how do you know it was Rook that hired us?”

  Marco deflected with a deep laugh. “Because there is only one man in the world that could coordinate the delivery of such valuable relics.”

  “Relics?” Cam mocked. “These are twentieth century photos and twenty-first century technologies. These aren’t relics!”

  “Funny how those things work,” Marco scoffed.

  “The photographs,” Cam retorted. “Tell us about the photographs. Why are you in them and where were they taken?”

  “Various places around the world,” the physicist admitted. “Some I remember, some I don’t.”

  “This one, where was this taken?” Cam pointed to the grainy image with half-built pyramids in the background.

  Marco crossed his hands in his lap and sat back. “Giza, of course.”

  Unconvinced, Rand grabbed Cam by the arm and leaned in. “We need to talk for a sec.”

  Cam agreed with a nod and the two slipped out of the room to a shallow hallway.

  “Somethi
ng’s not right,” Rand hissed. “How do we know this isn’t a setup? We may have just walked into the hornet’s nest.”

  “Because we’re the only people that have seen those photographs and surely the only ones to identify Damion. There’s no way the CIA has put this together yet.” Cam leaned over and peered into the room to check on Marco.

  “Bullshit,” countered Rand. “This could be a widespread conspiracy, there’s no telling how many people are involved. How do we know he’s not CIA?”

  “You’re right. He obviously knows Rook, maybe this is the best place to leave that stuff and just walk away. On the other hand, that means we’ve given up, and they’ll just come here and kill him anyways. This doesn’t feel like closure.”

  “Fine by me,” Rand snapped.

  “Then what?”

  Rand took a moment to contemplate it. “I don’t know. At this point, we go our separate ways. I don’t know what else to tell you, we’re being hunted by the CIA for Christ’s sake. I just helped you unload your precious cargo. Hopefully now they’ll leave us alone.”

  “And if they don’t?” Cam questioned.

  “Then I start my life over in Europe, I guess.”

  “Rand, I know this has been difficult—”

  “No, you don’t! What’s been difficult is how much I’ve put into catching the assholes that committed armed robbery in my jurisdiction. What’s been difficult is having to show up for work every fucking day knowing that all the other agents see me as a failure.”

  “It’s over, Rand. The life you had is over. Listen, I’m going to get you a new identification and wire three million dollars to a new bank account. You’re smart enough to create a new life and stay off the grid for a few years. You’ll be fine.”

  “I don’t want a new identity!” Rand shot back.

  “It’s time to grow the fuck up and make peace with your reality!”

  After an intense stare down, Cam returned to the study to find Marco leering over the old photos.