Heike!
Laura Palmer’s Private Jet, Over the Atlantic Ocean
The phone vibrated on Dawson’s chest. He was drifting in and out of sleep as he lay back in the ridiculously comfortable Gulf V seats. He answered.
“Go ahead.”
“Mr. White, a mutual friend wanted me to contact you.”
Dawson recognized the voice of the young CIA analyst he had dealt with several months ago during the New Orleans crisis, Chris Leroux. He was trusted by Kane and had come through in a big way. He also had it on good authority this young man had figured out the Brass Monkey incident long before anyone else.
“What have you got for me?”
“Do you have access to a laptop and the Internet?”
Dawson looked at Professor Palmer.
“Doctor, do we have a laptop with Internet access?”
She nodded, pointing at the laptop on her pullout desk.
“Go ahead,” she said as she shuffled out of her seat. He took her place as the two professors stood behind him, the rest of the team gathered around. He put the phone on speaker.
“You’re on speaker. I’ve got a laptop with Internet access.”
Leroux quickly gave him a set of login instructions and moments later they were looking at a secure briefing the CIA analyst had put together.
“I’ve put together everything we have on Martin Lacroix. He’s a medical doctor, apparently brilliant when he worked publicly, but he’s gone more into the political side of things now, directing third world funding for various programs the World Bank supports. He’s a big proponent of family planning programs, woman’s rights in the third world—”
“That’s ironic,” commented Niner.
“—birth control, population control programs, conversion of traditional farming to larger corporate based farming using genetically modified grain and rice. He seems to be a crusader to bring the third world into the twenty-first century when it comes to reducing poverty and improving food supply.”
“I’m guessing he has ulterior motives,” muttered Acton.
“What?”
“Nothing,” said Dawson. “Continue.”
“Well, it’s all in the file, but if he’s not off on a World Bank junket, he’s usually found at his home in San Marino.”
“San Marino? Never heard of it,” said Jimmy.
“The Most Serene Republic of San Marino,” said Acton. “It’s a microstate within Italy, about twenty-four square miles, maybe thirty-thousand people.”
“Jesus, I’ve dropped deuces bigger than that,” muttered Niner who then looked at Professor Palmer. “Umm, sorry ma’am, I was born crude.”
“Call me ma’am again and you won’t need to worry about how the next generation turns out.”
Jimmy punched Niner in the shoulder as Acton gave his fiancée a thumbs up then continued.
“On a per capita basis it’s one of the richest in the world, very stable, very safe, no debt, budget surplus, little unemployment. It’s a leftover from the fourth century that managed to survive the turmoil around it. The rich love it because they can live in Europe, live their lifestyle, come and go as they please, and have all of their money sheltered from the idiocy of the European Union.”
“So it’s a tax haven,” said Niner.
“Pretty much.”
“Do we know if he’s there now?” asked Dawson.
“Intel has him arriving there two nights ago,” said Leroux. “Also, we’ve traced the calls to and from that cellphone you retrieved. It was a burner. All of the calls were to and from the same number. The number was a repeater that bounced around the world a few times, but I managed to track it down.”
“Where?”
“San Marino.”
“Anything on his movements over the past few years? We’re thinking he might be linked to seven others in his organization.”
“It’s difficult to say. Passport records show him travelling all over the world, almost a different city every week.”
“Any pattern?”
“Well, I cross referenced these trips with World Bank business and was able to find one anomaly.”
“Yes?”
“Four times a year he goes to France like clockwork, only missing a few times in ten years. Each solstice and equinox, he is in France. Sometimes there is World Bank business, but never on the day before or the day of.”
“That’s odd,” commented Acton. “Almost pagan. The Rosicrucians were Christian, but they did embrace all belief systems that were thought to better themselves.”
Palmer cleared her throat.
“You gentlemen do realize the next solstice is in three days?”
“He could lead us right to them.”
“If he thinks we’re after him, do you think he’d be stupid enough to go?” asked Jimmy.
“Not stupid enough, but he just might be arrogant enough,” replied Dawson. He picked up the phone. “Sir, thank you for your assistance. We’ll contact you if we need anything else.”
“My pleasure, Mr. White.”
Dawson ended the call, looking at those gathered around him.
“We may just have what we need. Let’s get to Geneva, gear up, pre-position in France, then find out where this bastard goes. With any luck, we take these guys down by season’s end.”
Geneva Cointrin Airport, Geneva, Switzerland
Customs was usually cleared quickly on private jets. Private terminals, a separate customs gate for the few passengers that came through that particular terminal, then you were free and clear to enjoy whatever city you had just flown into.
Acton had only been to the Swiss city of Geneva once before. And he loved it. The history, the architecture, the people. It was small for such an influential city, it carrying a lot of responsibility internationally, reflected in its multinational population, fully half of its nearly 200,000 residents foreign. With its neutral status, Switzerland had managed to avoid almost two centuries of neighboring wars, and was able to play arbiter to many conflicts and international projects. Recognized worldwide as a center for diplomacy and international finance, its bank accounts were still legendary, if not as secret as they once were.
But this time he was here for anything but pleasure. He had been filled in on what had happened to Stucco and his family, to the Geneva police detective’s family, and to Dawson’s family as well. It was unbelievable. It was horrifying. He glanced over at Laura and gave her a little smile.
If anything ever happened to you, I don’t know how I’d go on.
He had never been truly in love before in his life. He had thought he was several times, but it wasn’t until Laura had come along, and they had fallen in love, that he realized all the previous times had been nothing. This was true love, this was what life was about. Imagining life without her was something he couldn’t fathom. They had had a lot of close calls since they met each other, and every time he had thought he had lost her he had felt empty, hollowed.
Sometimes he wanted to become a hermit, settle down in some small college town somewhere and teach, her in the town’s other college—a nice, safe, predictable routine. No dangers, no secret cults, no bullets or rockets flying by their heads.
But that wasn’t them.
Being out in the field at a dig site with their students, that was what they lived for. Holing up, leading a sheltered life, wasn’t for either of them. They’d go shack-whacky within weeks if they couldn’t get their hands dirty. And if that meant grenades and ninjas, then so be it.
Ninjas?
A quick mental rerun of the last few years and he confirmed Ninja’s hadn’t made an appearance.
Yet.
Too cliché!
As they exited the terminal, the familiar face of Spock greeted them along with Mickey, both standing in front of SUVs.
Why are they always black?
He didn’t see any rental stickers as they loaded their luggage in the backs in silence. He and Laura were in the same SUV as Dawson, Red
and Spock, the rest in the other with Mickey. Spock began to immediately bring them up to date.
“I’ve secured rooms in a busy part of town so our comings and goings shouldn’t be noticed. Wings and Jagger are securing supplies now. Comms have been set up with Atlas already. I’ve already tapped into the locals and got their files on Maria’s rape case and the suicide, along with the Inspector’s family’s murder. Not much in the details. There’s no forensics, nothing to lead to the killers, but you’ll find this interesting,” said Spock. He pulled a file folder off the dash and handed it to Dawson. Dawson flipped it open as Acton leaned forward to see what it was.
Dawson shifted in his seat, holding the contents higher so the backseat could see. The first was of the suicide scene where Maria had been hit by the bus.
“See anything unusual?” asked Spock.
“No,” replied Dawson. Acton stared at it and admitted he didn’t see anything either.
“Don’t look at the accident site. Look at what has nothing to do with the accident.”
Acton leaned in even closer, still seeing nothing. An intersection, a stopped bus, a chalk outline where Maria’s body had come to rest, painted lines, a pool of blood, a pole covered in bills in the foreground, occupying the right-hand side of the photo, slightly out of focus.
“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as it finally jumped at him.
“Ah, the Doc has it,” smiled Spock as he made a turn. “I haven’t had time to retrieve it yet, so we’ll go there now. Only about two minutes from here.”
“I must be dense because I still don’t see it,” said Dawson.
“Neither do I, Sergeant Major, and I know I’m smarter than him,” said Laura with a wink at Acton’s feigned wounding.
“Ouch,” he said. “That’s it, we’re done. Spock, I insist on separate rooms.”
Spock cocked an eyebrow and looked at him through the rearview mirror.
“Doc, I like you and all, but I insist on separate rooms as well.”
Laura giggled, whispering, “burned!” as they came to a stop.
“This is it.”
They climbed out and walked about fifty feet to the intersection. Acton immediately saw what they were looking for and walked up to the lamppost. Dawson, still holding the photograph, held it up once he saw where he was supposed to look, and cursed.
“How the hell did I miss that?”
Posted on the pole was a black sheet of paper with a bright red rose filling most of the page, and a golden cross in the center.
Proof that Maria Esposito’s death was no suicide.
It was an assassination.
Lacroix Residence, San Marino
Dr. Martin Lacroix’s time was being eaten up by this entire fiasco. If it wasn’t for his apprentice, he wouldn’t even have time to eat or sleep. He certainly wouldn’t have time for his daily stem cell harvesting. At the moment he was hooked up to a machine that was drawing his blood, extracting stem cells, and reintroducing the blood, freshly oxygenated, back into his system. It was a daily ritual when at home, and it made him feel terrific, and it prepared him for the future when he would need the cells to reverse any damage to his body from heart attacks, strokes, his drinking—whatever might ail him.
It was the future. Forget fetal stem cells. They were a dead end—there simply weren’t enough, and science had moved beyond that, discovering stem cells were in everyone’s body their entire lives, not just in the fetus. There were just far fewer of them, and they were harder to get, but the beat of science drummed on, soldiering forward, and adult stem cells were getting easier and easier to harvest, and store, to ultimately be used when needed.
His intent was to have these cells injected into each of his organs to repair any damage caused by age and a libation filled life. Stem cells had already restored sight to the blind, repaired damaged heart muscle and more. It was the future of medicine, and would ultimately lead to the extension of useful human life far beyond anything imagined today.
And he was alive at the right time to take advantage of it. In his mind 150 years old was a reasonable life expectancy, and by then, he was certain nanotechnology along with computer and cloning technology will have progressed enough for science fiction like possibilities.
The thought was what kept him going.
Soon it would be time for him to exit the public eye, and move into the shadows. Already he looked ten years younger than he should, and in another ten or twenty years, it would become far too obvious unless the technology they now used went mainstream. But if their plans were to succeed, that mainstream would be far smaller than anybody today could imagine.
Earth will be the Eden God intended, once again.
The machine beeped indicating the end of the procedure. His private nurse entered the room immediately and removed the needles. Lacroix hurried to his study and found his apprentice huddled over a computer. He turned to face him.
“Master, you won’t believe what I’ve found!”
“What?”
“I’ve had the first team tailed since they arrived. About an hour ago two of them went to the airport to pick up a new set of arrivals. Four of them we knew about, Delta Force, but they had two other people with them—a man and a woman. I ran their faces and found out they are two archeology professors—a Professor James Acton from St. Paul’s University in Maryland, and a Professor Laura Palmer from University College London.”
“What would they be doing with the Delta Force?”
“Classified files indicate these two professors have been involved in a few incidents lately, but that doesn’t matter. What matters is this.” He pointed at a photo on the screen and Lacroix felt his knees about to give out in excitement.
Rue du Mont Blanc, Geneva, Switzerland
Acton pushed away the photo showing the Laviolette family crime scene. It was disturbing, a clear message being sent to any who would understand it.
Don’t mess with us, or this could be your family.
He squeezed Laura’s hand.
“What now?” he asked. “We’ve got the evidence to prove they are behind the killings, but since nobody knows who they are, and nobody knows that Lacroix is one of them, it’s pretty much useless.”
“Not true,” said Dawson. “We now know that the Rosicrucians are real and that Lacroix is high enough in the organization to warrant this type of effort to protect. We know where this man lives, we know that he goes to France in the next couple of days for what is most likely some sort of Rosicrucian meeting or ritual, and we know that this meeting will most likely attract the rest of the leadership. I think we know a lot more than what we did before we arrived.”
“Okay, again I ask, what now?”
“When the others get back we pre-position in France and get a team on Lacroix in San Marino. When he goes to France and this meeting starts, we hit them with everything we’ve got.”
“Which isn’t that much,” said Niner, looking about the room. Acton actually thought they had enough to start World War III, but perhaps it was only enough to start it, not win it.
“We’ll make do,” said Dawson.
“Aren’t we forgetting one thing?” asked Laura.
All eyes turned to her.
“What’s that?” asked Acton.
“While I understand your desire for revenge—blast, even I want to stomp on their bollocks until they die—don’t we have a responsibility to find out what they are up to?”
There was silence for a moment, then Acton nodded.
“She’s right. You heard what that CIA guy said. All of these programs he supports are aimed at reducing the population of the third world through reducing the birthrate. They seem innocuous enough, but it just fits too nicely into their desire to cap the planet’s population. What if there are other plans they have, already set into motion? Shouldn’t we try to find out what these are and stop them?”
“Isn’t a reduced population not necessarily a bad thing?” asked Niner. “I mean, they keep saying
we’re running out of resources and killing the planet. Maybe a few less births are a good thing.”
Acton pursed his lips, nodding slowly.
“Yes, but remember, those are all aimed at slowing down population growth, which I agree is an excellent thing. But what next? Reducing the population through birth control is a laudable and plausible goal, but would take centuries to accomplish any significant population reduction. We’re already seeing it in countries like Japan and most of Europe. The only thing sustaining European populations now is immigration, and that has proven to be a disaster. Their cultures are being overwhelmed by incompatible cultures, and if they keep trying to solve their demographic problems by bringing in cultures from around the third world that don’t share their belief systems, they’ll lose the very culture they’re trying to preserve.
“Europe and the other Western societies plagued by low birth rates need to embrace these rates and recognize that they aren’t a negative thing. The problem is we have massive pension liabilities and debts that were designed around the thinking that our societies would continually grow so that there would always be more workers than retirees. That simply isn’t true anymore without immigrants, but now with our social safety nets, many immigrants simply arrive and become a burden on society rather than a contributor. The West needs to rethink how it’s going to survive in a one point five birth rate world.
“Incentives to increase the birth rate, incentives for people to stay at home and raise kids rather than treating it as some horror that one spouse inflicts on the other, increased automation, reduced pension expectations, revamped health care aimed at prevention rather than treatment, allowing people to work longer, allowing people to continue working part time without clawing back pensions and entitlements. Treat our seniors as an asset rather than a liability. There are many solutions beyond opening the floodgates to fill jobs that perhaps just aren’t necessary or needn’t be thought of as beneath us.
“Take a maid for instance. Nobody wants to be a maid; it’s considered a subservient minimum wage position, so nobody in our society wants to do the job unless they’re desperate. So what do we do? We bring in an immigrant who is more than happy to do the job, doesn’t think it’s beneath them, and happily takes that minimum wage job so they can have a better life. Laudable if they then integrate into our society, support our constitution and institutions the way we do, and a generation later their offspring are as American as we are—or British!” he added with a wink at Laura. “But those immigrants aren’t available anymore for the most part. We’re bringing in people who don’t like our ways, so keep their own.
The Circle of Eight (A James Acton Thriller, Book #7) (James Acton Thrillers) Page 14
