The Code Within: A Thriller (Trent Turner Series)

by S. L. Jones

  The Russian didn’t bother to repeat the question this time, and he began to pour the water over her head. Panic set in.

  “They took him!” she yelled through the water-soaked cloth.

  The Russian poured the rest of the cold water over her bare skin as she coughed her airway clear. The last time they had emptied a full bucket over her head, she’d passed out and woke up with a Russian pressing on her stomach to drain the fluid through her mouth and nose.

  Breathing was difficult. She gasped for air in between coughing the rest of the water out of her lungs. She didn’t want to go there again. They had broken her. The violent shivering was a brutal combination of cold and fear.

  “Who?” the Russian said.

  “The FBI.”

  Moynihan began to cough violently again. She was afraid to tell them he was dead in case his life represented a way out of this.

  “Where did they take him?” the Russian barked.

  “I don’t know. Maybe back to headquarters.” She tried to control her breathing to suppress her panic.

  There was silence for a moment, and then the two soldiers began to converse in Russian. She felt her muscles tense up as they turned on the water. Controlled breathing wasn’t enough to keep her calm, the sounds triggering a frenzied hysteria to which her restraints answered back and held her down. The Russian had just taken the three steps toward her. Her eyes were covered by the cloth, but she still closed them tight, hoping doing so would somehow take her away from this nightmare.

  The Russian dribbled some water onto the cloth, and her body jerked reflexively. The goose bumps on her body felt like they were growing with each shiver. She couldn’t see the maniacal smile of satisfaction he shared with his accomplice, but she felt it.

  “Why were you following us?” he demanded.

  “You killed our people,” she said, her voice desperate as she prepared for the inevitable.

  “Tell me what you were looking for, or I will kill you.” His voice was cold and calculating.

  “The person who killed Senator Soller’s son,” Moynihan pleaded.

  “What else do you know about us?”

  Her fear turned to anger as she teetered on the edge of shock. The Russian poured the water over her head and stopped just before she was out of breath.

  “Nothing!” she said coughing. “We thought you were Americans!”

  This was good news for the Russians.

  Chapter 82

  The Stradivari Society, Chicago, IL

  THEY HAD SPENT the last thirty minutes huddled in the hallway, listening to her warm up. It was an extraordinary moment for Dr. Nathan Becker and his wife. Their attention glided along every passage as they instinctively inched closer to the door. The hairs on his neck stood up when he took his first glimpse of Victoria Eden through the narrow, rectangular window in the door. The couple held hands, their cheeks pressed together, astonished by the sight.

  He had stolen a glimpse of the sheet music stowed in her violin case and reasoned it would be impossible for a musician he’d never heard of to do that particular composition justice. By the time she was ready to perform the piece, it was clear that she was special. Her hands glided effortlessly up and down the neck of the violin.

  He had left the door to the soundproof practice booth open a crack for two reasons: to let the musician know she was welcome to approach them if she needed anything further, and so he and his wife could listen in as she played. Seven and a half minutes went by, and he felt as if he hadn’t taken a breath. Becker was considering an appropriate response, given the circumstances, when a deep voice startled him.

  “Bravo! Bra-vo!” it said. His words carried the enthusiasm of a child waking to presents on Christmas morning. He clapped his hands triumphantly while he nodded his head in approval.

  The couple joined in with smiles of adoration as Becker pushed the door open.

  “Please. Excuse us. I’m at a loss for words,” he admitted. There was a spark in Becker’s voice that matched the fire in his eyes. “Absolutely enchanting.”

  “Yes, yes,” the newcomer chimed in. “I don’t believe there is an English word to describe something so beautiful. Please,” he said with a raised index finger, “one minute. Come, Nathan. Come quickly.”

  The man gave a gentle tug to Becker’s tweed suit and urged him toward the hallway. The proprietor hurried his pace when he remembered the provenance of an instrument he had locked in the vault down the hall.

  “You’re not thinking…?” Becker said, his eyes energized.

  “Yes, I think it would be.” The instrument’s owner looked up as if he would find the appropriate word hanging in the air. “How do you say in English? Apropos?”

  “Oh yes.” Becker nodded emphatically. “Apropos is the word. Eugène will look down upon us with a smile!”

  He unlocked the walk-in vault, and they both went straight to the place where the priceless treasure was stored. Its owner carefully removed the case and placed it on a mahogany table in the middle of the vault. He unlatched the case and handed the violin to Becker. They shared a knowing look.

  Becker was blessed with perfect pitch and instantly responded. It took less than a minute for him to confirm that the instrument was in tune, and he handed it back to its owner, before they marched back to the practice space.

  “Please.” The man offered his violin to the musician with a slight bow. “Could you do this wonderful instrument the honor.” He made a circle with his index finger as he smiled and said, “Your admiring trio here would also be most honored.”

  The old man could sense the butterflies that fluttered through his stomach were shared by the violinist. She handed him the violin she had been playing and accepted the mysterious instrument. She tilted the violin so she could peer into its f-hole.

  Becker saw the sparkle in her eyes, and imagined her reading the maker’s inscription. He knew exactly what it said: “Antonius Stradivarius Cremonensis Faciebat Anno 1732.” He noticed her hands begin to tremble and her breathing quicken.

  She cleared her throat. “It’s beautiful.”

  The owner offered a broad smile. “Together you are a match made in heaven,” he said.

  Eden blushed, still unable to fully grasp the moment, the instrument, the stranger.

  “Please, please. Get familiar with it. Become one with its song,” the man insisted.

  His enthusiasm managed to snap her out of the trance, and she began to play. First in short, quiet bursts, and then her fingers began to attack the instrument with confidence.

  “It once belonged to Eugène Ysaÿe,” the man said with an approving nod. “He no doubt performed, perhaps even composed, the ballade you just played on that very instrument.”

  She looked up in amazement, and he continued, “Herkules is his name, and it deserves to be played with the depth of expression and unbridled passion you command.”

  Victoria played scales up and down instrument for a minute. She then took a deep breath and began. The instrument sang the opening vocal-like passage that began the movement.

  Becker, his wife, and the owner of the instrument were left hanging on every note. She swayed and shifted, sometimes violently, expressing the longing half steps and executing the composition’s incredible leaps in pitch. She moved on to flawlessly play the rapid triplets and double-stops that climbed as she reached its conclusion.

  There was absolute silence when she finished. She was exhausted from the emotion of it all, but after brief reflection, she came to life.

  “That was better than sex,” she proclaimed with a laugh. Her expression changed to embarrassment just as abruptly. She bit her bottom lip and winced.

  There was an uncomfortable moment of silence.

  “Yes it was,” the man said with appreciative laughter and applause.

  Becker remained speechless and slightly uncomfortable.

  The stranger picked up the conversation to overcome the awkwardness. “And to what do we owe the privil
ege of your visit to the society?” he asked. Then, realizing they hadn’t been formally introduced, he said, “I’m sorry, I don’t know your name.”

  “Victoria. Victoria Eden. I have an audition with the Chicago Symphony Orchestra.” She looked down at her watch. “In a couple of hours. A friend sent me here to get a loaner, since my violin was damaged on the plane.”

  “I’m sorry to hear that. Please do use this for your audition, if it’s your pleasure,” he said and smiled. “I will have them come here so you won’t have to be bothered with the transport.”

  She was still in shock after what had just happened. “Thank you,” Eden said. “That would be incredible, and that way I won’t be in such a rush across town.”

  “There is one more thing.” He looked to Becker and his wife with a raised eyebrow. “It would be a most delightful surprise, no?”

  The couple looked at each other and smiled back at him.

  “You mean?” Becker said, his eyes wide with excitement.

  “Yes, I do.” He motioned to Victoria. “This young lady’s talent must be heard.”

  “It would be unprecedented, unexpected, and unbelievably well received,” Becker admitted.

  “Good. Victoria, have you any plans for this evening, say around six?” He reached into his coat pocket and handed her an envelope that held two tickets.

  She looked down at the gift and then back up with surprise. “Tonight’s performance? I couldn’t. It’s too much, but thank you for the generous offer.” She smiled in appreciation. “You’ve already been far too kind.”

  “Victoria,” the man said, understanding the need for clarification. “Those tickets are for your friends. Every performer, especially for an evening this special, deserves to have their friends present in the audience for support.” He bowed his head respectfully. “You wouldn’t mind doing us the honor, would you?” He could see she was stunned, so he added in a matter-of-fact tone, “It would certainly help fill the seats when you join the orchestra, and I have a friend who will be happy to set you up with the proper attire for such an occasion.”

  She shook her head as though she was unsure whether she would wake up from this fairytale. “Of course,” she said nervously. “And you are?”

  The silver-haired gentleman gave her a warm smile that spread to his eyes. The heavy lines on his face looked to have been chiseled from a hard life, but that looked to be behind him now.

  “Forgive me. My name is Pavel,” he said as he made his way out the door. “An absolute pleasure to make your acquaintance. I will see you in a few hours.”

  Chapter 83

  The Artist’s Café, Chicago, IL

  TRENT TURNER WAS sitting outside underneath a green umbrella. The Artist’s Café was a trendy spot that spilled out onto the sidewalk in front of the Romanesque building it called home. The Shop had made a last-minute discovery of Pavel Kozlov’s Sunday routine, and the team collectively held its breath with the hope that the information was accurate.

  The Fine Arts Building was only a ten-minute walk from the hotel where Turner and Etzy Millar were staying. Earlier this morning, Turner had quickly packed what he needed into his bag and headed to the park across the street from the building. Most Chicagoans had been engrossed in their morning run, so there was nobody paying him any attention when he assembled the PMD.

  He initiated the quiet whirring sound from the touchscreen of his XHD3 and plugged a small attachment into the device to increase the range of its remote-control function. He selected its destination from a satellite map and sent the vehicle off ahead of him. The wind was a concern, but he didn’t have a choice. There was no telling when they would have another opportunity to track their target.

  By the time he reached the café, the PMD was already perched on top of the building. He had put the flying machine into what they called edge mode, so it would automatically select the optimal surveillance location to land. The PMD had been programmed to use image recognition to determine an approach that would minimize the risk of compromising its position.

  He took a seat against the back wall next to the fence that separated him from one of the building’s two main entrances. A few minutes had ticked away before Pavel Kozlov’s limousine pulled up to the curb. It was surrounded by a pair of black Range Rovers.

  The Russian traveled with a significant amount of firepower. His men operated with the precision of a presidential detail. Turner watched the mafia boss enter the building on his XHD3, courtesy of the video feed being taken from above. It was the safest way to preserve his cover. None of the men had spoken on the way inside, but he was able to mark each of them by touching their image on the screen. Modern technology would take care of the rest. The PMD had the capability to record every conversation, capture images and profile individuals, and catalog the signals from communication devices so they could be tracked.

  The operative had had better luck when Kozlov was on his way out. Turner had just ordered another cup of coffee and was ready to go over the information he had collected. He was fluent in Russian, so he put in an earpiece and began the playback of Kozlov’s conversation. A fire engine had passed by at the time, so some of what was said was unclear.

  “…is short. Tell Dimitri we are moving forward quickly. After the performance, I will return to oversee things myself,” Pavel Kozlov had said.

  A familiar voice interrupted Turner’s work. “Excuse me?”

  He didn’t look up until he realized it wasn’t his waitress’s voice. Their eyes locked as she pulled out the chair across from him and sat down. She tilted her head to one side and squinted as she spoke.

  “Tony, isn’t it?” she said, her voice betraying the questioning look she had feigned.

  “That’s right.”

  He felt the energy again. It was a strange combination of butterflies and excitement, but this time there was something else.

  “I think you’re full of shit, Tony.”

  He couldn’t help but smile. There was definitely something else at play, and anger would be his first guess.

  “I should be pissed off at you.” She lowered her chin. “You know that, don’t you?”

  Turner wasn’t in the mood to digest a plateful of drama. He took a sip of his coffee, stroked his five o’clock shadow and stayed engaged against his better judgment.

  “Well, Victoria, I can assure you that wasn’t my intention.”

  Her eyes softened. He could sense she was as uncomfortable as he was with the chemistry between them.

  A smile followed and she said, “Thank you.”

  He smiled wryly without responding, so she elaborated.

  “You made one of my dreams come true today.” Victoria smiled when his expression showed even more confusion. “I just played Herkules,” she said in a playful tone.

  He smiled and took another sip of coffee. “Well, he’s a lucky man.” Her green eyes were even more captivating as they reflected the morning sun.

  “It’s a violin,” she said. “A Stradivarius.”

  He laughed sarcastically. “Congratulations. I’m glad I was able to help you out with that.”

  She showed him the palms of her hands. “No, I’m serious. I won’t bore you with the details, but trust me, it was amazing.”

  Eden was clearly excited from the experience, and it felt good to see her happy.

  “What piece did you play?” he asked.

  “Ah, that’s not important,” she said dismissively.

  Turner took it as a polite way to say it wouldn’t mean anything to him. “Try me,” he said with an appraising eye.

  She smiled at the challenge. “Okay. It was a piece by Eugène Ysaÿe.”

  Turner whistled. His mother loved classical music, and it was one of the few things left that could connect him to home. “The Belgian. Appropriate considering the instrument. You know that violin has an interesting history.”

  Eden’s expression turned quizzical. She was obviously impressed that he was familiar with cla
ssical music.

  “Oh yeah?” she said curiously.

  “I believe it was stolen from a museum in Moscow.”

  “Russia?” She pursed her lips. “That explains it.”

  “Explains what?”

  “The man who owns it. He’s Russian.”

  “I see.” The connection made him uncomfortable. He shifted in his chair knowing it wasn’t a coincidence.

  She reached into her bag and pulled out an envelope. “Here,” she said. “I owe you this.” She pushed it across the table to him.

  He opened it and pulled out its contents. “Tickets?”

  “Yep. Pavel gave them to me.” She forced a smile and paused for a moment. “You can bring your girlfriend. I don’t know anyone else in town, and it would be a shame if they went to waste.” She shrugged and said, “I’ll be performing.”

  Trent Turner could tell the stunning violinist was fishing for personal details. Heckler had called earlier and said he was sending someone to Chicago today, so this new development was convenient. It provided a safe place to meet, and he could keep tabs on Pavel Kozlov at the same time.

  “Thank you,” he said. “We’ll try to make it.”

  Sadness clouded her eyes at the news that he would bring a companion. He diffused the moment with a smile, stood up and left money for the bill.

  “Until then?” she said, trying to smile.

  He nodded and shot her a playful wink.

  Chapter 84

  Island Industries satellite office, Reston, VA

  “JACK SAID HE’LL bring him back online. Chicago, yeah. There’s a performance at the Fine Arts Building later this evening. There will be a meeting there. Yes, send them straight to Chicago. We’ll need them there as soon as possible in case we need more feet on the ground. Okay, thanks.”