Marseilles Airport.
Painter directed the feed to zoom down onto a certain gate. The image jittered, then smoothly swelled. A small plane appeared, a Citation X. It sat near the gate, door open. Painter leaned forward, obscuring the view from the technician.
Was he too late?
Movement pixilated. One figure, then another stepped into view. They hurried down the stairs. Painter didn’t need to magnify their faces.
Monsignor Verona and Kat Bryant.
Painter waited. Maybe the manifest had been false. Maybe they all were aboard.
The screen shuddered with a wave of blocky pixels.
“Bad weather coming in,” the technician said.
Painter stared. No other passengers left the jet. Kat and the monsignor vanished through the gate. With a worried frown, Painter waved for the feed to be cut. He thanked the technician and stepped away.
Where the hell was Gray?
1:04 A.M.
GENEVA, SWITZERLAND
GRAY SAT in the first-class cabin of the EgyptAir jet. He had to give the Dragon Court credit. They didn’t spare expense. He glanced around the small cabin. Eight seats. Six passengers. One or more were probably spies for the Court, keeping an eye on him.
It didn’t matter. He was cooperating fully…for now.
He had picked up his plane tickets and false ID from a bus locker, then proceeded to the airport. The four-hour flight was interminable. He ate the gourmet meal, drank two glasses of red wine, watched some movie with Julia Roberts, even power-napped for forty-two minutes.
He turned to the window. The gold key shifted against his chest. It rested on a chain around his neck. His body heat had warmed the metal, but it still hung heavy and cold. Two people’s lives weighted it down. He pictured Monk, easy mannered, sharp-eyed, bighearted. And Rachel. A mix of steel and silk, intriguing and complicated. But the woman’s last call haunted him, so full of pain and panic. He ached to the marrow, knowing she had been captured under his watch.
Gray stared out the window as the jet made a steep approach, necessary for landing in the city nestled among the towering Alps.
The lights of Geneva glittered. Moonlight silvered the peaks and lake.
The plane swept over a section of the Rhône River that split the city. Landing gear engaged with a whine. Moments later they were touching down at the Geneva International Airport.
They taxied to their gate, and Gray waited for the cabin to empty before gathering up his one carefully packed bag. He hoped he had everything he would need. Slinging his bag over his shoulder, he headed out.
As he exited the first-class cabin, he searched for any sign of danger.
And one other. His traveling companion.
She had been in the coach seats. She wore a blonde wig, a conservative navy blue business suit, and heavy black eyeglasses. She carried herself with a subdued demeanor, her left arm in a sling, half hidden under her jacket. The disguise would not pass close inspection. But no one was expecting her.
Seichan was dead to the world.
She exited ahead of him without a glance.
Gray followed a few passengers behind her. Once in the terminal, he queued up for customs, showed his false papers, had them stamped, and was on his way. He hadn’t checked any baggage.
He strode out to the well-lit street, which was still crowded. Late travelers scurried for cars and taxies. He had no idea what was expected of him from here. He had to wait for some contact from Raoul. He shifted closer to the taxi line.
Seichan had vanished, but Gray sensed she was near.
He had needed an ally. Cut off from Washington, from his own teammates, he had made a pact with the devil. He had freed her with his hacksaw after exacting a promise from her. They would work together. In return for her freedom, she would help Gray free Rachel. Afterward, they would part ways. All debts forgiven, past and present.
She had agreed.
As he treated and bandaged her wound, she had looked on him most oddly, stripped to the waist, breasts bared, unabashed. She studied him like a curiosity, a strange bug, with an intensity of focus. She said little, exhausted, perhaps in slight shock. But she recovered smoothly, a lioness slowly waking, cunning and amusement lighting her eyes.
Gray knew that her cooperation was less out of obligation than fury at Raoul. Cooperation suited her immediate need. She had been left for dead, a slow agonizing end. She wanted to make Raoul pay. Whatever contract had been agreed upon between the Court and the Guild was over for her. All that was left was vengeance.
But was that all?
Gray remembered her eyes upon him and her dark curiosity. But he also remembered Painter’s earlier warning about her. It must have been plain on his face.
“Yes, I am going to betray you,” Seichan had said plainly as she pulled on her shirt. “But only after this is over. You will attempt the same. We both know this. Mutual distrust. Is there a better form of honesty?”
Gray’s sat-phone finally rang. He freed it from his bag. “Commander Pierce,” he said tersely.
“Welcome to Switzerland,” Raoul said. “There are train tickets waiting for you at the city-center terminal, under your false name, headed to Lausanne. It leaves in thirty-five minutes. You’ll be on it.”
“What about my teammate?” Gray said.
“As arranged, he’s on his way to the hospital in Geneva. You’ll have confirmation by the time you board the train.”
Gray headed to the taxis. “Lieutenant Verona?” he asked.
“The woman is being well accommodated. For now. Don’t miss your train.”
The line went dead.
Gray climbed into a taxi. He didn’t bother searching for Seichan. He had piggybacked a chip on his phone, tied to her cell phone. She had overheard the conversation. He trusted her skill to keep up with him.
“Central train station,” he told the driver.
With a curt nod, the cabby sailed out into traffic and headed toward downtown Geneva. Gray sank back into his seat. Seichan had been right. Upon learning of his summons to Switzerland, she had told him where she suspected Rachel was being kept. Some castle up in the Savoy Alps.
After ten minutes, the taxi swept alongside the lake. Out in the water, a giant fountain sprayed more than a hundred yards into the air. The famous Jet d’Eau. It was lit up by lamps, a fairy-tale sight. Some festival was under way near the piers.
Gray heard an echo of singing and laughter.
It sounded like it was coming from another world.
In another couple of minutes, the taxi offloaded him in front of the train terminal. He crossed to the ticket counter, gave his false name, and showed his papers. He was given tickets to the lakeside city of Lausanne.
He strode toward his gate, keeping a wary watch for anyone nearby. He saw no sign of Seichan. A worry nagged. What if she simply took off? What if she double-crossed him to Raoul? Gray drove down such worries. He had made a choice. It was a calculated risk.
His phone rang again.
He pulled it free and adjusted the antenna.
“Commander Pierce,” he said.
“Two minutes to satisfy yourself.” Raoul again. A click and hiss of a transfer sounded. The next voice was more distant, echoing a bit, but familiar.
“Commander?”
“I’m here, Monk. Where are you?” Gray was sure the conversation was being eavesdropped on by more than just Seichan. He had to be careful.
“They dumped me at some hospital with this cell phone. Told me to expect your call. I’m in the emergency room. Doctors are all speaking goddamn French.”
“You’re in Geneva,” Gray said. “How are you doing?”
A long pause.
“I know about your hand,” Gray said.
“Goddamn bastards,” Monk said with an edge of fury. “They had a doctor on board their ship. Drugged me, IVs, sutured my…my stump. The docs here want X-rays and such, but they seem satisfied with the other doctor’s umm…handiwork, so to speak.”
“Rachel?”
Pain intensified his words. “I haven’t seen her since they drugged me. I have no idea where she’s at. But…but, Gray…”
“What?”
“You have to get her away from them.”
“I’m working on that. But what about you? Are you safe?”
“Seem to be,” he said. “I was told to keep my mouth shut. That I’ve done, playing dumb. The doctors, though, have called the local police. Security is posted.”
“For now, do as they ordered you,” Gray said. “I’ll get you out of there as soon as I can.”
“Gray,” Monk said, voice strained. Gray recognized his tone. He wanted to communicate something, but he also knew the others were eavesdropping. “They…they let me go.”
The connection fritzed again. Raoul came back on the line.
“Time’s up. As you can see, we honor our word. If you want the woman freed, you’ll bring the key.”
“Understood. What then?”
“I’ll have a car waiting for you at the Lausanne station.”
“No,” Gray said. “I won’t put myself into your custody until I know Rachel is safe. When I arrive in Lausanne, I want confirmation that she is alive. Then we’ll make arrangements.”
“Don’t press your hand,” Raoul growled. “I’d hate to have to chop it off, like your friend’s. We’ll continue this conversation when you’re here.”
The connection ended.
Gray lowered the phone. So Raoul was in Lausanne.
He waited for the train. It was the last train heading out. The deck was sparsely crowded. He studied his fellow travelers. No sign of Seichan. Were any spies for the Court here?
Finally the train arrived, clattering up the track. It glided to a stop with a piercing sigh of air. Gray climbed into the middle car, then hurriedly moved between cars toward the rear, hoping to shake any tail.
In the gap between the last two cars, Seichan waited.
She did not acknowledge him, except to hand him a long leather duster. She turned and shouldered out an emergency exit that opened on the opposite side of the track, away from the deck.
He followed, dropping down. He tugged on the jacket and pulled up the collar.
Seichan hurried across another track and up onto a neighboring deck. They left the station, and Gray found himself at the edge of a parking lot.
A BMW motorcycle, black and yellow, stood a step away.
“Climb on,” Seichan said. “You’ll have to drive. My shoulder…” She had abandoned the sling to ride here from the rental office, but it was another fifty miles to Lausanne.
Gray hopped in front, kicking back the tail of his jacket. The bike was still warm.
She climbed behind him and put her good arm around his waist.
Gray gunned the engine. He had already memorized the roads from here to Lausanne. He raced out of the parking lot and throttled up once out on the street. He zipped toward the highway that led out of Geneva and into the mountains.
His headlights speared ahead.
He chased the light, faster and faster, winds whipping his jacket edge. Seichan leaned tighter against him, arm around him, hand under his jacket. Fingers clutched his belt.
He resisted the urge to force her arm away. Wise or not, he had made this bed. He blasted up the narrow highway. They needed to reach Lausanne a half hour ahead of the train. Would it be enough time?
As he wound up into the heights that bordered the lake, Gray’s mind drifted back to his conversation with Monk. What had Monk been trying to tell him? They let me go. That was plain enough. But what had Monk been implying?
He considered his earlier assessment, back in Egypt. He had known the Court would let Monk go. The release was done to ensure and lure Gray’s cooperation. And Raoul still had Rachel as a bargaining chip.
They let me go.
Was there more to his release? The Court was ruthless. They were not known to give away potential assets. They had used Monk’s torture to ply Rachel into talking. Would they give up such an asset so readily? Monk was right. Not unless the Court had an even better hold on Rachel.
But what?
2:02 A.M.
LAUSANNE, SWITZERLAND
RACHEL SAT in her cell, numb and exhausted.
Any time she closed her eyes, she again relived the horror. She saw the ax swinging down. Monk’s body jerking up. His chopped hand flopping across the deck like a landed fish. Blood spraying.
Alberto had yelled at Raoul for his action—not for his brutality, but because he wanted the man still alive. Raoul had waved away his concern. A tourniquet had been applied. Alberto had Raoul’s men drag Monk down to the ship’s galley.
Later, she had been informed by one of the Guild women that he still lived. Two hours later, the hydrofoil had sailed up to an island in the Mediterranean. They were transferred to a small private jet.
Rachel had spotted Monk, groggy, his severed wrist bandaged to the elbow, strapped to a stretcher. She was then locked in a back compartment. Alone. No windows. Over the course of another five hours, they landed twice. She was finally let out.
Monk was gone.
Raoul had blindfolded and gagged her. She was transferred from plane to truck. Another half hour of twisty driving and they arrived at their final destination. She heard the wheels bumping over wooden planks. A bridge. The truck braked to a stop.
Dragged out, she heard a cacophony of growling and barking, loud, angry, large. A kennel of some sort.
She was led by the elbow through an opening and down steps. A door closed behind her, shutting off the barking. She smelled cold stone and dampness. She had also felt the pressure elevation as the truck drove up here.
Mountains.
Finally she was shoved forward and tripped over a sill. She landed hard on hands and knees.
Raoul grabbed her rear with both hands and laughed. “Already begging for it.”
Rachel leapt away and crashed her shoulder into something solid. Her soggy gag and hood were pulled off. Rubbing her shoulder, she stared around the small stone cell. Again no windows. Her sense of time was beginning to slip. The only furniture in the cell was a steel cot. A thin mattress rolled up on one end. A pillow rested on top. No sheets.
The cell had no bars. One wall was a solid sheet of glass, except for a rubber-sealed door and fist-sized ventilation holes. But even the holes had tiny lids that could be swung over the openings, for soundproofing or a way to slowly suffocate the prisoner.
She had been left down here for over an hour.
Not even any guards. Though she did hear voices down the hall, probably posted at the stairwell.
A commotion sounded. She lifted her face and stood. She heard Raoul’s coarse voice, orders barked. She backed from the glass wall. Her clothes had been returned to her on the boat, but she had no weapons.
Raoul appeared, flanked by two men.
He did not look happy.
“Get her out of there,” he spat.
A key opened the door. She was dragged out.
“This way,” Raoul said. He led her down the hallway.
She spotted other cells, some sealed like hers, others open and stacked with wine bottles.
Raoul marched her to the stairs and up to a dark moonlit courtyard. Stone walls towered on all sides. An archway, sealed by a portcullis, led out to a narrow bridge that spanned a gorge.
She was in a castle.
A row of trucks lined the wall nearest the gateway.
Along a neighboring wall, a long row of twenty chain-link cages stretched. Low grumbles rose from that corner. Large shadows shifted, muscular, powerful.
Raoul must have noted her attention. “Perro de Presa Canario,” he said with a note of savage pride. “Fighting dogs, an ancestral line from the 1800s. Perfection of breeding. Pure pit fighter. All muscle, jaws, and teeth.”
Rachel wondered if he was also desc
ribing himself.
Raoul led her away from the gate and toward the central keep. Two tiers of stairs led up to a thick oak door. It was brightly lit by sconces, almost inviting. But they didn’t go that way. A side door led to a level beneath the stairs.
Using a touchpad, he unlocked the lower door.
As the door swung open, Rachel caught a whiff of antiseptic and something darker, more fetid. She was forced into a square room, brightly lit with fluorescent bulbs. Stone walls, linoleum floor. A single guard stood before the one door that led away.
Raoul crossed and opened it.
Beyond stretched a long, sterile hallway. A series of rooms opened off it. She glanced into a few as she was marched down the passage. Stainless-steel cages filled one. Banks of computers tied to rows of plates occupied another. Electromagnets, she guessed, used to experiment with the m-state compounds. A third chamber held a single steel table, shaped in a rough X. Leather straps indicated that the table was meant to hold a man or woman spread-eagled. A surgical lamp hung above it.
The sight chilled her to the bone.
Another six rooms stretched beyond. She had seen enough and was happy to stop alongside a door on the opposite wall.
Raoul knocked and pushed inside.
Rachel was surprised by the contrast. It was like stepping into the turn-of-the-century parlor of a distinguished Royal Society scholar. The room here was all polished mahogany and walnut. Underfoot spread a thick Turkish rug patterned in crimson and emerald.
Bookshelves and display cabinets lined all the walls, filled with neatly arranged texts. Behind glass, she noted first-edition copies of Principia by Sir Isaac Newton, and beside it, Darwin’s Origin of Species. There was also an illuminated Egyptian manuscript spread open in one case. Rachel wondered if it was the one that had been stolen from the Cairo museum, the forged text with the encrypted stanzas that had started this whole murderous adventure.
Everywhere she looked there was artwork. Etruscan and Roman statuary decorated the shelves, including a two-foot-tall Persian horse, the head broken off, a masterpiece stolen from Iran a decade ago, supposedly representing Alexander the Great’s famous horse, Bucephalus. Paintings stood above cabinets. She knew one was a Rembrandt, another a Raphael.
But resting in the center of the room was a massive carved mahogany desk. It rested near a stacked-stone, floor-to-ceiling fireplace. Small flames flickered in the hearth.
Map of Bones: A Sigma Force Novel Page 35
