Death and Deception

by Seeley James

  Zafar told them he had witnessed road rage by the blue Audi. He went on, doing his best to exonerate us with the cops. It was an honorable and effective effort.

  But I still didn’t know if I could trust him.

  He’d just given me his promise to give up the tunnel’s location by using an invisible infrared beacon, a signal only seen by someone dialed into the right frequency. That could work well. All I needed to do was calibrate my Sabel Visor for the frequency and I would see the tunnel from miles away.

  The trouble was: the 1PN121 frequency was unique to Russian SVLK 12.7mm sniper rifles. The most powerful in the world.

  CHAPTER 47

  Griffith stood before his computer and large screen on its hydraulic stand. He read the intelligence reports on Pia Sabel. His investigators had earned their keep. They’d dug up a damning transaction. He paced his suite at Claridge’s in Mayfair, memorizing his talking points for Sabel. With anyone else, he wouldn’t worry, but Sabel could be one horrific bitch when rubbed the wrong way. She had been known and feared for her temper in international soccer. And she was quickly earning a similar reputation in business.

  A thought occurred to him. He crossed to the keyboard and typed out another bullet point and moved it to the top. She was a winner. Born that way, raised that way, ruthless about it throughout her soccer career.

  His video conference app beeped. The Protector summoned him. Griffith glanced at the time. He had only minutes before Sabel’s meeting. He checked his look on the monitor before clicking over.

  The Protector lay in a bed. A nasal cannula delivered oxygen to his nose. He coughed and wheezed.

  “You are shocked, Guardian.” The Protector took a deep inhale of oxygen. “My secret will become public in a matter of days. Pancreatic cancer.” He took another inhale and coughed and closed his eyes while pain passed.

  Griffith realized why the Protector had not taken the lead with Pia Sabel. The cancer had moved too quickly. In his condition, no one would take his threats seriously. Now the old man was grasping for solutions before he died. Which, Griffith realized, could be a good or terrible thing for him.

  “My plans must move quickly. The board is restless about Captain Amanow.” Another long pause followed by labored breathing. “He was to be my heir. The papers were drawn up. But the board is concerned.” Pause. Breathing. Coughing. Breathing. “They find his unfortunate incident with Hidalgo … unsavory. They do not care for him.”

  No surprise to Griffith. He could only wonder why a man of the Protector’s education hadn’t seen it earlier. Mass murder might be standard operating procedure around the Caspian, but not on the world stage.

  “All this leaves me,” he wheezed, “in a particularly precarious position. You are too weak, unwilling to be brutal when brutality is required. Yet, he will not succeed me. And so, this is a delicate problem.”

  The old man left the sentence hanging for Griffith to unravel. If he had promised Amanow the position, it would be painful for the Protector to retract it, admitting to everyone he had chosen badly. He looked to Griffith for a way out.

  And one came to Griffith in the moment.

  “Succession is always a tricky problem,” Griffith said. “It was a custom of the Roman cult of Mithras to determine rank by contest. You can easily draw papers to that effect and make the contest tomorrow’s event. The loser will suffer the Roman fate for failure: to fall on his sword—or be beaten to death by his men.”

  The Protector coughed and smiled and coughed again. He closed his eyes for a long time. So long, Griffith began to wonder if he’d died. Then they opened again. “Your confidence … hmm. Well. It will be as you proposed. Good luck.”

  The screen went blank.

  Griffith fell into the nearest chair. What had he just done? He’d played into the Protector’s hands. The old man had a beef with the board and Griffith had just given him a way out. He could turn to the others and say, “It was a contest by Roman rules. Amanow won.”

  The crafty old bastard had just made him sign his own death warrant.

  But he could be just as crafty as the Protector. Craftier. He couldn’t let a grand society like the Knights fall to these impure Muslims. For the sake of the white world, he had to succeed. It was up to him to find a way through the machinations of the Eurasian imposters.

  Pia Sabel was his ticket to taking over. If he could use his leverage to force her to open those doors, the board would see him as the logical choice to replace the dying old man. A smile crept across his face. It was a big “if,” but not impossible. Yes, he believed he knew how to make it work. But how long would it take? Sabel would open one door at a time. How long would the Protector live? Months? Weeks? Griffith would have to move quickly. He would have to light a fire under Sabel.

  But Sabel was no push-over. Winning her over would be like a woodsman felling a mighty oak. It would take a lot of work. She saw herself as an idol for young women, considered herself perfect in every way. A girl scout selling cookies. His research proved all that a lie. She had a dirty side like everyone else. Would she admit it? Or call him on his threat?

  His life depended on making her see things his way in the next half hour.

  He flipped the screen back to his notes. He had it down. He was confident of the win.

  He looked at his watch. No more time. He grabbed his coat and umbrella, told the hotel’s butler to order him a cab to White’s Club, and left.

  After careful scrutiny by the doorman, he was shown in and taken through the halls, upstairs to the Coffee Room. Sixty feet long and half that across, large windows brought in daylight on three sides. Intricately carved moldings trimmed the wood paneled walls. Portraits of members hung on every panel, the newest being two hundred years old. A few portraits dated to the club’s founding in 1693.

  Pia Sabel sat in a large leather chair, her back to the corner, a window allowing faint light to fall across her shoulder. Had she not been the only woman in the building, he wouldn’t have recognized her. She wore a tasteful, conservative dress one might expect to see on the Queen. Her shoes and purse were made of the same material. A pearl necklace glowed around her neck with a matching barrette and pair of earrings. Her hair was uncharacteristically coiffed into gentle waves. She looked more mature, reasonable, and approachable than when her sinewy muscles flexed under stretchy athletic wear.

  A man was seated facing her. When she spotted Griffith approaching, she waved.

  The man looked over his shoulder. Well past the hump of middle-age, he had a familiar face. Perhaps someone famous. The man rose and greeted Griffith with a brief smile that was quickly replaced by a suspicious squint. He turned back to Pia and said, “Don’t take this the wrong way, but allowing you in was a stretch at best. If we knew you were going to bring more Americans—”

  “Joe Griffith, this is James, Duke of … Kent, was it?” She smiled in a way that made the Duke wince. “Thank you for the chat.”

  “Kingston, ma’am. Duke of Kingston.” The Duke tightened his fists, worked his clenched jaw. He said, “Good evening then.” He tossed a nasty glare to a large Native American in a chair ten feet away, then turned and walked away.

  Pia directed Griffith to the man’s empty seat.

  Griffith took it. A server appeared at his elbow an instant later and leaned in wordlessly. Griffith looked at the man for a moment, expecting a menu or wine list.

  “He’ll have a gin and tonic,” Pia said. The server disappeared as silently as he’d arrived. “It’s the kind of place that makes anything you ask for, even if they have to fly someone to Zanzibar to get it. The only thing they don’t tolerate is hesitation.”

  “My kind of place,” Griffith smiled and leaned back.

  “You can have it.” She lifted her martini as a toast. “I don’t expect to last long. They had to take me. At the time of my father’s death they owed a stinking pile to Sabel Capital for an ill-advised renovation. They’ve been renegotiating terms ever since. Fuck ’em.
”

  His gin and tonic settled on a coaster next to him. He raised his glass to her and remembered a quote of hers from her soccer career. “The power players will set the pace.”

  It earned him a smile. “Joe, in your call you included something about the ‘perilous future of civilization.’ From what I can see, you’re the perilous future. You’ve bought struggling companies, soaked them with ridiculous fees, overburdened them with debt, taken out credit-default insurance, then forced them into bankruptcy, laying off hundreds of people.”

  He sipped his drink. It was perfect. He savored it while holding his anger in check. He said, “We’ve all done terrible things to keep the larger company afloat. Sabel Mortgages floundered out of existence in the Great Recession if I recall correctly. Closing it saved Sabel Industries—and sixty thousand jobs. Your father made a difficult choice, but the right one. Every time I walked away from a business that went sour, I told myself it was for a bigger cause. One I believed in. A business of grander scope that was worth the little sacrifices. Without that, we’re lost.”

  “Your pile of little sacrifices grows every day. If you—”

  “Sabel Capital transferred twenty-eight million dollars to a shell company controlled by Mikhail Yeschenko.” He regretted snapping it out so loudly. But he relished the shock on her face. It was time to press harder, make her listen. “No regard for US sanctions against a murderous oligarch, Pia? Do the regulators know about that early morning transaction in Luxembourg?”

  That shut her up. She might look cool and calm on the surface, but she hadn’t moved so much as an eyelash since he blurted out his intel. He knew his men were good. And now she knew it too.

  “You do cherish your threats,” she said. She picked up her martini and stared at him over the rim, then took a sip. “I came to hear you out. So speak.”

  “Your soccer career was all about the powerful proving themselves over the weak. The winners moved on in the championship and the losers went home. What was it you once said? ‘You can’t just beat a team. You have to leave a lasting impression so they never want to see you again.’”

  She sat still for a long time, then sipped. “Mia Hamm said that, but I get your point.”

  “You’re a dominating woman, if you don’t mind my saying so. You intimidate people and you don’t take time to worry about those who can’t keep up. I find that fascinating and admirable. You dominated the beautiful game, and now you dominate corporate America. You didn’t take on Space X in the field of rockets. It’s a crowded industry full of spectacular failures. Instead, you chose to dominate the field without competitors: satellites. Let someone else blow up a rocket. You put your product on top and make them pay for it if they don’t deliver. When they fail, you actually make more money. It’s brilliant.”

  “Thank you.” Her gray-green eyes remained locked on his.

  “You’ve done the same at Sabel Capital, Sabel Technologies, Security, and all the other companies.”

  She rolled her hand for him to move on. His research mentioned she didn’t care for brown-nosing.

  “I am inviting you to join an ancient order. Far older than White’s Club. In fact, it traces its heritage to the founding of Ancient Rome.” He paused, expecting her to make an inquiry. She gave him nothing. Those gray-green eyes never blinked. “The organization is headed by a man we call the Protector. His connections open international doors. At his suggestion, regulators end inquiries. From his office flow opportunities unbridled by the ever-changing sands that are our elected officials.”

  She leaned forward. “What’s wrong with elected officials?”

  “Imagine a business plan that allowed you to make investments without regard for whether the Tea Party or the Socialists were going to win the next election. Imagine how stable your company could be if the goal posts remained in one place.”

  She squinted. “But the people elect those officials. We simply have to adapt as the rules change.”

  “In the 1780s, before the US Constitution was written, the states were true democracies. The rabble voted into office whoever would promise to give them everything and take nothing. They taxed the wealthy and redistributed money to the poor. Businesses failed, jobs were lost, the economy was in ruins. That’s what forced the Founding Fathers—all white, wealthy landowners—to frame the Constitution. They didn’t form a democracy. They formed a plutocracy. And they did it for good reason.”

  Pia frowned. “That’s not right. They—”

  “Hear me out,” he said. “John Adams warned against the ‘tyranny of the majority.’ Alexander Hamilton said, ‘The people should have as little to do as may be about the Government.’ And, having seen the economic carnage around him, George Washington himself said they had allowed for ‘too good an opinion of human nature in forming our confederation.’ The Founders put in the electoral college and two senators from every state regardless of population to prevent mob rule. The Senate was modeled after Ancient Rome. Only the rich could join. They knew the country could only grow when people like you could invest without having it all torn down every other year.”

  Her eyes fell to her drink. He was close. He could feel it. He reminded himself to be careful. Don’t take too big a bite.

  “While the Senate is hardly representative,” she said. “I don’t see anything wrong with democracy. America has had some bumps along the way, but we’ve survived and prospered.”

  “The future is not the past,” he said. “With the population growing and the economy expanding, the complexity becomes exponentially more difficult to control. Volatile presidents and the ever-changing face of Congress fail to lead at critical moments. It takes a strong leader and a government under control to make things happen when crises occur. You can’t sit around debating wars, pandemics, trade deals. Events move too quickly. In our class, our village of the wealthy, we need to look out for each other. We need to protect each other from the rabble who would tax us into poverty. With an unbridled democracy, that’s exactly what will happen.”

  She swirled her drink and squinted. As best he could tell, she understood that part. She sipped and made no further argument. When she looked up, she had an expectant face, ready to hear more.

  “You bear a tremendous responsibility,” he said. He enjoyed another taste of his gin and tonic, letting her wait for it. “All those employees expect you to navigate thousands of regulations in hundreds of countries and make it all work. It’s a deadly balancing act. At any moment, some politician wielding a ‘wealth tax’ or a new regulation could knock you over.” He relished the drink again. “The Protector is building a network of like-minded power-players who set the pace in business as you once set it on the field.”

  He leaned back and waited for her to say something. To her credit, she thought it over before she spoke.

  “I open plenty of doors on my own.” She sipped and inhaled. “What power are you referring to?”

  “You’ve opened doors with money. Real power isn’t something you buy. It radiates from one person to another. When the President of the European Union gives you a medal, all of Europe bows to you, and Airbus buys jet engines from Sabel. When the President of China introduces you to his finance minister, Sabel Capital is the power player. These are the doors the Protector can open.”

  She pursed her lips and stared him down. “That’s all very nice, but what specifically are you talking about?”

  “That little deal with Yeschenko? The inspectors can be called off by breakfast tomorrow. Or they can raise red flags in Washington. That little problem of Sabel Technologies’ spyware on the Italian Prime Minister’s phone? Apology accepted by lunch. Or—a complaint filed with the Secretary of State. Pia, I can deliver the power you need to vanquish your enemies. I can make them fear your approach in the halls of power the way players once feared you running up the sidelines.”

  “This is what the Knights of Mithras are all about?” she asked.

  Her knowledge surprised him for a mome
nt. It shouldn’t have. She had done her research, too. He said, “Ours is a simple cause, we quietly advocate—”

  “You’re the fucking Salvation Army. Get to the point.”

  “The Knights can do many things that you need doing. There are requirements for joining and certain fees for operations and introductions. All of which are well worth your while. You will do well to join our village of important people. But initiation is not monetary.”

  She nodded and tucked her purse close to her body. She tightened her ankles beneath the chair, leaned forward, and said, “What do you want?”

  “Well.” He sipped his drink and cherished her anxious expression. In the end, he’d felled her like a young sapling. “How can you prove your value to me?”

  CHAPTER 48

  It was dusk by the time we joined Danny and the Brotherhood of Claritas on a trail high above Obermoos, Austria. After we got free of the Polizei, a feeling of imminent victory crept through me. I could sense Mr. Baldy within my grasp. I had no reason to trust Zafar, but I felt good about him anyway. He felt real. And that could lead me to bring the dangerous bastard to justice before he killed a world leader.

  The Stone was one thing, but when Zafar confirmed the tunnel’s existence, I figured Mr. Baldy had a plan to kill a VIP—if not several. I didn’t know how his concept worked, but one didn’t dig a tunnel months in advance without a plan for going big.

  I laid out the four ice-climbing kits I’d scrounged up in Garmisch. The Brothers had done an excellent job of canvassing a mile of cliff face for the tunnel debris. What they learned from hiking all afternoon was that the Knights had done a good job of hiding the tunnel. They didn’t just dump dirt and rock out from the top. They carried it down and scattered it.

  To their credit, the Brothers plotted out the extent of the Knights’ tracks along the mountainside and narrowed the possibilities to a cliff on the north side of the ridge leading from the peak down to a thousand-foot rock wall. That made searching for Zafar’s signal marginally easier.