by Rick Jones
The Consortium way was not the use of experimental interrogation, meaning torture. But Mr. Spartan was also a man who had his limits and was, in the end, a human with follies. He reached out with his hand, grabbed Kristoffel by a hank of hair, and forced his head back. Kristoffel, in reaction, burst out with laughter that sounded maniacal, which angered Mr. Spartan. They were getting nowhere with this man.
Then Mr. Spartan held Kristoffel’s cellphone in front of his eyes. “We found this on your person,” he told him.
“Good for you.”
“Three calls came in—all encrypted—after you were disabled.” Mr. Spartan cocked his head slightly as if he was about to punch home his point. “Status calls that went unanswered, yes? Most likely prompting a dismissal code to erase the caller’s point of origin?”
“If you say so.”
“I do say so.” He released the man’s hair and fell back. “Tell me what I need to know, Kristoffel. And try to remember the honor you once had when you served as a member of the Korps Commandotroepen. Remember the man you used to be.”
Kristoffel stared at Mr. Spartan for a long moment before bursting into laughter. “Man,” he said, “you really need to work on your technique.” Then he started to mimic Mr. Spartan in a nasally twang. “Try to remember the honor you once had when you served as a member of the Korps Commandotroepen . . . Remember the man you used to be.” More laughter, his range heightening.
That was when Mr. Spartan reared back and fired off a direct blow to Kristoffel’s chin, the man’s head snapping back sharply, the hit rendering him unconscious.
“You laugh too much,” Mr. Spartan said through clenched teeth.
It was also the first time that Kimball Hayden witnessed the man’s loss of emotion.
Mr. Spartan handed the burner to Mr. Galileo. “Get everything on this unit to the Consortium tech team. I want them to locate the calls point of origin ASAP.”
Mr. Galileo took the phone and removed himself quickly from the room—something Kimball Hayden took from Galileo as not wanting to be around Mr. Spartan when he was in this rattled mood.
With his head resting against the back of the chair and his mouth agape to reveal bloodied rows of teeth, Kimball Hayden pointed to Kristoffel. “And what will happen to him?”
“The same as all people who refuse to listen to sound reasoning,” he answered. “He’ll be tossed inside of a black site never to see the light of day again.” Then he focused his full attention back to Hayden. “Now we wait for the others and go on from there.”
With that, Mr. Spartan turned and left the room, the man clearly heated.
CHAPTER THIRTY-NINE
Salt, if nothing else, appeared disheveled as he entered the security checkpoint to the cable-car lift. His clothes were dusty, which drew curious looks. And his hair, always neatly coiffed, was now in wild tangles. After passing through the advanced security system and accepting congenial nods from the armed guards, Salt found himself alone on a cable car that began its angled trajectory to the Deep Mountain facility. The car was hundreds of feet above the valley floor as it ascended to greater heights.
Salt held a hand in front of him and discovered that it trembled uncontrollably. Normally a disciplined man who could manage his emotions, he found it difficult to accept the fact that he had placed his family in jeopardy, the man believing that they would always be out of the reach of hostile factions. Tonight, however, he’d been proven wrong by the Consortium, who showed to him that nobody was beyond the scope from those who had the determination to hunt down a target. Lowering his hand, Salt realized that he was a ghost no longer.
My family, he thought. My wife. My children. If they had been stolen from his life, Salt knew that he would have nothing to live for and nothing left to lose.
Closing his eyes as the gondola rode along the stretch of cable to the Deep Mountain facility, Salt realized his vulnerability had made him feel less secure, less elite. Always the predator, he now felt like prey.
He looked at his hand once again. Since it trembled, he closed it into a tight fist. My family is safe. Now, it’s time to claw my way back to the top of the food chain. And I will do so by defeating those who have trespassed against me. I will seek those out within the Consortium—one by one, if necessary—and reclaim the scepter of rule.
He opened his fist to find his hand steady, the trembles gone.
In a game between life and death, he knew he would become a hunter like no other. He would elevate himself to be the black panther in darkness; the chameleon who evolves with the background, the man truly unseen; and he would use these skills to kill those whom he considered to have overstepped their boundaries.
He thought of Mr. DaVinci.
Mr. Plato.
Mr. Donatello.
Mr. Archimedes.
Mr. Michelangelo.
Mr. Galileo.
And, of course, Mr. Spartan.
This, he knew, was simply the tip of the proverbial iceberg; a list of names from a rival organization who sought to manage certain outcomes.
What he didn’t know about was the wildcard factor here, which was a man by the name of Kimball Hayden.
Salt’s hand remained steady.
When the cable car reached its destiny of the Deep Mountain platform, the doors to the vehicle opened wide. When mountain air swept into the gondola, a biting wind chilled its way to the marrow of his bones almost instantly. Getting off and entering the lavish lobby, Salt passed through all the security protocol systems and made his way to the lower levels via the lift.
The first place he went to, while heavily laden with dust, was Elias Caspari’s office and its million-dollar view. When Elias Caspari saw him enter, the man fell back into his seat without revealing any notion of surprise, and said, “I see that you’ve had a run-in with the Consortium.”
Salt, without invitation, took a seat before Caspari’s desk.
CHAPTER FORTY
After Mr. Galileo transferred the data from Kristoffel’s burner into the BGAN system, the Consortium team in Germany immediately began the decrypting and retracing process. After the software program broke the data down to probable positions within Lucerne, they were able to determine the precise coordinates not by the pinging method of cellphone towers, but by pinging satellites. Since the decrypted ciphers were specific to a geospatial satellite system, they were able to home onto the point of origin through triangulation, which happened to be a mountaintop corporation called AI Dynamic. According to the registries, it was a major industry that was involved with the research and development of artificial intelligence within the computer industry.
After the Consortium Tech Machine tapped into the satellite system, they were able to bring up an aerial view of the mountaintop establishment. It was isolated and difficult to reach, with the only means of approach either by cable-car or by chopper. The south side of the mountain was a sheer barrier, straight up, nothing but a thousand-foot wall of rock and ice.
Once the data was obtained, it was summarily sent to Mr. Spartan at the Lucerne safehouse, who was surprised that the scrambled material had been decrypted so quickly.
After reviewing the attached documents regarding the history of AI Dynamic, which appeared to be legitimate, even with shareholders and stocks, Mr. Spartan then examined the photos. Though the facility had a helipad, the chief means of transportation appeared to be by cable car. There was no doubt that the access facility to the cable-car platform was manned by high-end security. And to reach it by chopper was also out of the question, too invasive without covert capabilities.
Mr. Spartan, after reviewing the photos, nodded. It was completely isolated and a perfect location to conduct trials and research without interruption if the licenses and registrations to AI Dynamic remained current. He then went over the tax documents of the organization but found no red flags or indications of fraud, since AI Dynamic had paid their taxes annually with no audits.
Now he was beginning to doubt the Consortium’s findings, believing that technology had failed them on this one.
Delving deeper into AI Dynamic’s payroll, he discovered that the CEO and the company’s top linemen were legit as well, which further bolstered his doubts.
After printing off aerial photos of the mountaintop stronghold, Mr. Spartan closed the system and made his way to the weapons depository. Once there, he dressed in black military attire, donned a Kevlar vest, and equipped himself with a suppressed Glock and holster. Then from the depository, Mr. Spartan made his way to the lower chambers of the safehouse.
At the end of a long corridor that smelled of must and mildew, Mr. Spartan came to a large door created from thick planks of oak that was pieced together by black metal bands and rivets, the door itself having a medieval touch to it.
Drawing back on the two-foot long deadbolt, Mr. Spartan opened the door to a dank room that was filled with the scents of urine and feces. Tethered to a bed against the opposite wall lay Alix Kristoffel.
Mr. Spartan, who stepped into the feeble light that had been cast from a single bulb, said, “Mr. Kristoffel, before I leave, I believe that you’d be interested in knowing your fate, yes?”
Kristoffel remained silent.
At this, Mr. Spartan moved into Kristoffel’s peripheral vision, even though the man lying on the bed continued to stare ceilingward. But Mr. Spartan’s plan was for Kristoffel to see the battle attire he was wearing, and hopefully to drum up curiosity.
“You’ve been branded as a terrorist,” Mr. Spartan continued. “Therefore, you’ll be sent to a black site in the United States. Once there, you will have no rights other than those given by the captors.” He took another step closer, this time drawing a wandering eye from Kristoffel, who appraised Mr. Spartan inquisitively.
“Your life from here on in will have no meaning,” added Mr. Spartan. “All you will do is exist until the day you die. And believe me when I say that there’s no use in hanging out for hope. There is none. Not for you . . . And not for those who pretend to find refuge upon that mountainside stronghold you call AI Dynamic.” Mr. Spartan had tossed out the bait, a juicy tender. All he had to do now was to reel Kristoffel in. And, if necessary, by the inches.
Kristoffel finally sat up in bed. His left eye had swollen shut and his face remained a mash. His wrists were bound by metal cuffs, with the chain links moored to a plate against the brick wall. Nevertheless, he offered a one-sided smile and said, “Look at you all dressed up with no place to go.”
“Oh, I have a place to go all right,” Mr. Spartan told him. “Lucky thing for you, however, is that your life has already been mapped out. Those on the mountainside who believe they’re too isolated to be reachable will soon find themselves incorrect on that assessment.”
“You think so, huh?”
There, a mistake from Kristoffel of not denying Mr. Spartan’s lead. But not exactly an admission, either.
Mr. Spartan then held one of the aerial photos for Kristoffel to view. It was an overhead shot of the facility and its helipad. “Late tonight,” he said, “we’ll move against the fortress by way of helicopter. Teams will repel onto the landing, breach the facility, and take back what you stole from us. In the interim of doing so, and once we have the Eye of Moses, all of those you know will be terminated. You will be the last of your kind.” Mr. Spartan rolled the photo into a scroll and held it like a baton.
“I ain’t going to be the last of nothing,” Kristoffel told him. “You don’t think they’ll see you coming?” Then he chortled. “They’ll blow your choppers right out of the air before you get within a mile of them.”
Finally, an indirect admission. Something Kristoffel’s pride failed to observe.
“Even if you did happen to breach the facility, you’d be welcomed accordingly by the Shadow Klan. Problem is, I wish I was there to see it all go down.”
Mr. Spartan had all his doubts completely erased. Kristoffel had taken the bait and had run with it, the marlin whom Mr. Spartan had landed in the end. Though Alix Kristoffel did not come right out and give a voluntary statement, he did acknowledge circuitously that AI Dynamic was a cover name for Elias Caspari’s true establishment: that of constructing weapons of mass destruction for black-market sales.
But Mr. Spartan needed more. He needed that 100% certainty.
“The Consortium is aware of the capabilities of the Shadow Klan, which we witnessed in Croatia. From that incident, we were able to learn from our mistakes. And believe me when I say this.” Mr. Spartan took a step closer to Kristoffel, who tried to pin him with a one-eyed stare of disdain. “After tonight, the Shadow Klan will be no more. You will be taken to a black site where you will live with nothing more than the memories of those lost in battle up there on that mountain.”
Kristoffel fought against his chains, trying his best to rip the mooring from the stone wall. And as he spoke, he did so with spit flying from his mouth in all directions, his anger paramount. “You stand in front of me all cocky and arrogant thinking you’re just going to march right in that stronghold without so much as a fight? Seriously? Well let me tell you something.” The angry hostage leaned forward as far as he could on the cot and said, “Even if you manage your way onto the landing, Caspari will be waiting for you . . . believe me. And it won’t be pretty for you or your team.” He then looked at the scrolled picture in Mr. Spartan’s hand and added, “So, you might as well take that photo and shove it up your ass since it’ll do you no good, whatsoever.” Kristoffel then eased back until his back was flush against the wall. Then as a parting shot, he said, “Have a good fight . . . and an even better death.” Then he laid back down on the cot with his one eye staring ceilingward.
Mr. Spartan, having all doubts rested, exited the chamber, and made his way topside to the safehouse. Now that he had confirmed what the Consortium believed to be the point-of-origin for the source calls from Alix Kristoffel, Mr. Spartan had plans to make.
Storming this castle was not going to be easy. Kristoffel had stated that the facility had the means to knock a chopper from the sky for up to a mile away, no doubt from a cannon of some type. That left the cable-car platform, which most likely had their failsafe protocols and alert systems. And neither proved desirable to Mr. Spartan as a means of approach.
Reaching the central area of the safehouse where everyone congregated, many were surprised to see Mr. Spartan donned in the attire of engagement.
Placing the photo on the table and spreading it flat, Mr. Spartan relayed the conversation he’d had with Alix Kristoffel. The mountainside fortress was perfectly situated against the approach of any and all hostiles. The helipad was off limits, as was the tactic by breaching the facility using the cable car.
“So that leaves us with nothing,” said Mr. Archimedes. “They’re impervious to assault.”
“Not totally,” said Mr. Spartan. “There’s another way.”
Mr. Plato looked at the photo and didn’t see a possible way. “No,” he said. “It’s just not there. A frontal breach is impossible.”
“Exactly,” Mr. Spartan replied. “A frontal breach is impossible. But there is another approach. Something they may not be looking at.”
Kimball Hayden slid the photo so that he had a clear view. The mountain fortress did appear impervious except for one point: the straight climb to the mountaintop from the mountain’s south face.
He looked at Mr. Spartan. “You’ve got to be kidding,” he said.
“No. I’m not.”
“You expect me to climb—what, a thousand feet before we reach topside.”
“That’s exactly what I expect.”
“I’ve done some climbing, but never to this scale of difficulty.”
“We have the tools, Kimball. You’ll be fine. All I ask is that you keep your mind on the prize, which is the Eye of Moses.”
Kimball Hayden locked eyes with Mr. Spartan for a long moment before they eventua
lly gravitated to the photo. A thousand feet of climbing a sheer wall of stone and ice, he thought. This was going to be a long night.
Then he thought of Shari—could see her smiling face. If she were in his position, would she see this as an adventure? An unnecessary risk? Perhaps his swan-song performance?
Then from Kimball, he said: “Then we’ve no other choice . . . We climb.”
CHAPTER FORTY-ONE
“They’re closing in,” Salt said to Caspari. “In fact, they were at my residence holding my family at gunpoint.”
“And your family?”
“They’re fine.”
Elias Caspari studied Salt for a moment before saying, “They seek the prize of the Eye of Moses. And most likely the crucible belonging to Nostradamus. The treasures they seek are unattainable. So, when they do come, my friend, and they will try, remember our agreement about sending the Consortium a message.”
Salt nodded. What Caspari was referring to was to kill off the team and line them up in a neat row, side by side, a show of corpses to send over the internet to let Mr. da Vinci know who held the true power. It was also a command that had never left Salt since he relished the thought of doing so. Now that his family had been at the wrong end of a gun, he became obsessed with the idea.
Elias Caspari stood and went to the window. Darkness was falling. “There are only two ways to reach this precipice,” he said, as he stood before this panoramic view. “Security at the cable-car platform has been alerted. They’re heavily armed and highly skilled, so we’re covered on that front. The second means of access is by chopper. Should they try to maneuver from an overhead position, my men will take them down with canons. Everyone is standing ready for the Consortium team’s arrival.” He turned to face a dust-laden Salt; whose clothes appeared chalky from the drywall after he smashed through the wall in his house to manage his escape. Then he returned to his desk.
