Pegasus Down: A Donovan Nash Thriller (Donovan Nash Thrillers)

by Philip Donlay

  “Here’s to none of us ever being alone,” Montero tipped her glass and finished her whiskey in a single swallow. “I think we should go over the high-resolution satellite images of where we believe the Learjet went down. Then I want to examine every possible escape route Lauren may have taken and every possible means we have of finding her.”

  CHAPTER NINE

  LAUREN FLINCHED, FRIGHTENED, as out of nowhere a high-intensity searchlight ripped through the darkness and lit up the tops of the trees. Afterimages danced on her retinas as she shook her head and blinked them away. Moments later the harsh beam of light returned. Squinting in the brightness, Lauren started to paddle toward the shore. She’d been swimming in a channel to travel quietly in the night, but now she was exposed. As her feet found purchase on the muddy bottom, she pushed forward and climbed out of the water.

  The searchlight continued its bizarre sweep above her, illuminating the forest, this time further away, and when it swung away from her, the ink-black night came crushing down once again.

  Lauren stood with her hands on her knees, her eyes adjusting from the high-intensity assault to what little light was being produced by the star-filled sky. She had no idea what time it was but most likely nearing first light. She felt like she’d been slogging through the wetlands for hours. Moving downstream, her progress was easier, though the unseen splashes around her were at first unnerving, though by now, Lauren only paid attention to the largest disruptions. She could feel the first signs of fatigue tapping her energy, and hunger gnawed at her insides. She pushed all of that away and studied her immediate surroundings. She was in an area of trees and brush, but across what looked like a dirt road, was a field. The trees were sparse, and she spotted something faint—a green light moving from right to left.

  Lauren kept her eyes on the light and put the binoculars to her eyes and realized at once that the right tube was dark, most likely filled with water, but the left side still worked, and she turned the thumbwheel until the green light in the distance jumped into focus. She panned each direction from the light, and when she contemplated the mystery of the searchlight and the rising and falling sounds of a large engine, she understood that she was looking at the wheelhouse of a tugboat.

  Hearing a vehicle off to her left, Lauren hurried down the embankment and hid out of sight. She drew the pistol from the waistband of her slacks and pressed against the riverbank. The headlights danced above her head, and she suppressed her alarm at being so close to danger. The vehicle powered past only feet from her head, and as it receded in the distance, a cloud of dust settled over her. She studied the sky to the east. It might be her imagination, but she thought she could detect the first hint of the coming day nibbling away at the darkness.

  Lauren debated going back into the dark water or staying on land. She chose land for the simple reason she’d have to hide as soon as daybreak drew closer. She pulled herself up the embankment and hurried across the road into the field. She made good time. The land was flat and dry, and the plants only came up to her knee. Lauren stopped and looked behind her. In the dim light of the stars she could see the trail her passing had left in the dry grass. She backtracked and then angled towards a row of trees to try to find some bare ground so her trail wouldn’t be so easy to follow.

  Lauren walked on in silence, acutely aware of any new sounds in the night air. She topped a small rise, and straight ahead, the glow she’d been chasing became distinct lights. Through the trees she spotted a cluster of buildings grouped together on the other side of the river. A town beckoned, the sight of civilization was a relief, but Lauren knew it also represented another level of danger. It seemed like an eternity, but she finally reached the edge of the trees for an unobstructed view.

  “Shit,” Lauren whispered in the silence as she knelt behind the last of the foliage.

  Lauren took in the sight downstream. Bathed in lights and spanning the half-mile wide river was a dam. Lauren still had the binoculars. She raised them and slowly panned the entire structure. On the far shore was a breakwater; on the other side was a set of locks for the barge traffic. There was a towering control center that would give the men up there a commanding view up and down the river. Lauren viewed the end of the dam and stopped. Two military trucks were parked grill to grill, acting as an effective gate to any traffic wanting to cross.

  She was blocked from crossing the main channel, unless she swam, and she wasn’t anxious to swim against the current above a large dam. She lowered the binoculars, and using the light from the dam, she began to carefully separate the now soaked sheets of the chart. She peeled the last section apart and found the sector of the map she needed and set aside the two grainy passport photographs. She quickly located the dam on the chart; it was near the town of Gabčíkova, in Slovakia. She scanned downstream until she found a small town on her side of the river. It was miles away. If she tried to go west, once she emerged from the forested wetlands, all she could discern on the chart was open farmland. She thought about the pictures, as well as the time that had elapsed since the plane crash. As far as she knew, she and Daniel’s faces were being broadcast on the Internet, television, even newspapers, and everyone in the entire region knew exactly what she looked like. She’d have to stay near the river, hidden, and keep moving downstream. Decision made, she studied the chart, this time with renewed purpose, committing it to memory.

  CHAPTER TEN

  “WAKE UP!” MONTERO whispered. “Donovan, wake up, you’re having a bad dream.”

  Donovan’s eyes flew open to find Montero hovering over him. In that last instant, before he was fully awake, he was slogging through a Slovakian swamp searching for Lauren. He kept finding body after body, each face he recognized—though none of them were his wife.

  “There’s coffee in the carafe, help yourself,” Montero said as she returned to her seat and slipped on her reading glasses.

  Donovan sat for a moment, letting his nightmare subside. He ran his hands through his hair and took in his surroundings. All the window shades were closed, making the cabin dark. In what little light there was, he found Michael still asleep in one of the forward chairs, a blanket pulled up under his chin. Montero was where he’d left her before he dropped off to sleep, sitting in a chair, her computer on the table in front of her. The coffee sat tantalizingly close on the credenza. He poured himself a cup.

  “Do you want to talk about it?” Montero said.

  “Not really.” Donovan blew into his cup to cool the coffee and then took a tentative sip.

  “How are you holding up?” Montero asked. “Should I be worried?”

  “I’m okay,” he answered, knowing full well he wasn’t even close to being okay. The bad dream was predictable. Earlier in the evening, as they had gone over the satellite imagery of where they thought the Learjet crashed, all Donovan could think about was how improbable it was that anyone had survived. Even if the pilot could see the water and tried to ditch, the odds were nearly impossible that anyone could walk away. If someone did survive, they’d have to escape the sinking airplane before they drowned, a task made even more difficult in moving water and further compounded if that person were injured. All he had to grasp onto was Calvin’s report about a single letter P trampled into the grass, which could be anything, something completely random, a trick of light, or just wishful thinking.

  Earlier, as he’d laid there trying to drift off to sleep, he’d been caught up in a loop of imagining a flight home without her. The thought of living without Lauren was crippling. They’d had to fight so hard to be together, and the reward for their perseverance was a stronger relationship, a more intense love than he’d ever thought possible. Then he pictured himself having to face Abigail, telling her that Mommy—at that point, Donovan felt his throat begin to tighten. The big surprise was that he’d slept at all.

  “The expression on your face is telling me something else,” Montero said softly. “It’s okay to be a little messed up. If you were fine, I’d be worried. I
’ve seen you operate under enough stress to buckle and crush most men, yet you get through. No, let me rephrase that, you somehow do more than get through, you prevail. One of these days you’ll have to teach me how you pull that off with such regularity.”

  “I think the scars on my body would seem to discount that theory. Did you get any sleep?” Donovan asked, anxious to change the subject. “When did you start wearing glasses?”

  “I slept a little, and I just got these, and I don’t want to hear anything about my advanced age,” Montero said as she finished typing. “I got to thinking about a few things. The guy Lauren went to rescue, Daniel Pope. It’s a fair assumption his daughter was threatened so he’d cooperate. With that in mind, I went ahead and instituted round-the-clock surveillance on Abigail and Lauren’s mother, as well as Michael’s family. It’ll be undetectable, but I’d always rather err on the side of caution.”

  “When you say undetectable, what exactly do you mean?”

  “The subjects won’t be aware they’re being protected. With no visible deterrent, it also allows any threat to reveal itself. Then, of course, be eliminated.”

  “Thank you.” Donovan was both relieved and mortified at the thought that once again, his five-year-old daughter needed armed protection. “What else have you been doing?”

  “Looking into things,” Montero replied. “Daniel Pope. Have you ever met him?”

  “Yeah, several times, brilliant guy. I like him. He’s a part of Lauren’s history. They dated when they were at MIT which isn’t a big deal. I can’t change Lauren’s past any more than I can change my past. Why does any of this matter?”

  “It probably doesn’t. I’m just being nosey, but I do want to know what to expect from you if he somehow survived.”

  “I don’t dislike the guy, unless he’s got some kind of hidden agenda. If the reason he asked for her was based strictly on a trust issue, I understand. However, if he has something else in mind, then he and I might have a little problem.”

  Montero handed her laptop across the aisle to Donovan. “This is a file from a contact who works at Interpol. It’s not Archangel’s actual file; he’s not part of any active investigation, and hasn’t been seen for almost eighteen months. This is more of a summary, you probably know most, if not all, of the contents. It was more for me than you, but I need to know what you can add. I think you should read it before Michael wakes up.”

  Donovan took a long swallow from his cup. He needed more caffeine to keep up with Montero. He glanced forward at Michael, who was still asleep, and began to scan what Montero’s contact had sent. She was right; he knew most of what was said.

  Kristof Szanto, aka Archangel, is a fifty-four-year-old of Hungarian descent. He was born in London into a wealthy family, and twenty-seven years ago, upon the death of his father, inherited Szanto Petroleum. Within a year, he sold his business to a European subsidiary of Huntington Oil and began to spend his fortune. Two years later, his money nearly gone, he was arrested on charges of weapons smuggling, but walked, as all of the witnesses recanted earlier testimony. He was never arrested again, but in a criminal career that spanned nearly twenty-five years, he’s been a suspect in weapons smuggling, political corruption, election tampering, and in that time has eliminated or merged with several other criminal syndicates in Eastern Europe. It is suspected that virtually every level of weapons dealing in four continents passes through Archangel.

  His current whereabouts are unknown, but his criminal enterprises are thriving, leading some to believe he’s deceased, or been quietly pushed aside, and someone new is in charge. Interpol has no new leads in locating him. He is reported to have several homes in Europe, an apartment in downtown Budapest, plus an estate in rural Hungary, as well as a flat in London. A chalet thought to be owned by Archangel in Innsbruck, as well as the country home outside of Budapest, were recently renovated and modernized. There is speculation that these properties may go on the market, further substantiating the rumors of Archangel’s passing.

  “The part about his homes strikes me as strange,” Donovan said as he handed Montero her computer. “I remember the chalet outside of Innsbruck. We’d stay there sometimes when we came to visit in the winter. He bought a flat in Chelsea, but he also loved Treviso, Italy, and Nice in the South of France. Hell, he could have a dozen homes that aren’t even on this list.”

  Donovan heard the engines change pitch and felt the Gulfstream begin its initial descent. Michael opened his eyes and threw off his blanket.

  “What time is it here?” Donovan needed to set his watch.

  “It’s a little after five o’clock in the morning,” Montero replied.

  Donovan said good morning to Michael as his friend trundled past them, mumbling something about zombies and jet lag, as he headed for the lavatory.

  “Is he going to be okay?” Montero asked.

  “He’s not a morning person,” Donovan said. “He’ll improve with coffee.”

  “I have rooms for all three of us at a hotel near the airport. I thought we could all shower and perhaps have breakfast. My thought is to let Michael stay at the airport and meet Trevor when he arrives. Maybe by then we’ll have a clue to where we’re headed next.”

  “Do you have a theory about Kristof?”

  “I always have a theory,” Montero said. “But at this point it’s too disjointed to even talk about. Ask me later today.”

  “What are you and I doing once we land?”

  “We’re going to meet with Klaus Mikos, the interior designer who did the design work on Kristof’s country house in Hungary.”

  “How do you know this interior designer?”

  “I don’t. He was featured in a magazine and he mentioned the property. He’s famous and he lives in Vienna. We’ll start with him. Someone was giving the orders for all of those renovations.”

  Karen came back to the cabin with fresh coffee and an assortment of pastries. She folded the blankets and opened the window shades in preparation for landing. As she was finishing, Michael emerged from the lavatory. He’d shaved, changed his shirt, and his hair was combed. He took a cup of coffee and a Danish from the tray and plopped down in the seat across from Montero.

  “You look like you slept,” Montero remarked. “How do you feel?”

  “Not bad,” Michael yawned. “Has there been any news about Lauren? Anything that gives us a better idea of what we’re going to do first?”

  “We were just talking about that,” Donovan said. “Nothing new, but we’ve decided we’re going to split up. Montero has some friends at Interpol we’re going to go meet. I want you to stay at the airport. Montero made us room reservations at one of the local hotels. I need you to wait for Trevor to arrive with the helicopter. Check it out, brief him on everything we know so far.”

  “Sounds good,” Michael said, turning to make sure Karen was out of earshot. “I was thinking about guns, what are we doing about Customs?”

  “There won’t be any,” Montero said. “We’re being pre-cleared through customs and immigration, courtesy of William and the State Department. Speaking of customs, I have a nine-millimeter Glock and two extra clips of ammo for you. I’ll transfer it to you once we’re off the airport grounds. Is that satisfactory?”

  “Yeah, I’m familiar with the Glock.” Michael said.

  “Good,” Montero continued. “Now, here’s the drill. If you draw your weapon, it’s because you’re going to use it on someone who is about to harm you. A weapon is not a conversation starter. Do not use your weapon to warn your adversary. If you pull it out, use it to kill. Fire your weapon until the threat is neutralized, and then leave the scene immediately. Either William VanGelder or I will handle things from there. Understand?”

  “Yes,” Michael said.

  Montero turned to face Donovan. “I have a forty-caliber Sig for you. Same briefing as Michael, except I know you’ll do what you want regardless of what I say. Just be careful, both of you.”

  “There is one more bit o
f news I need to share with the two of you. My contact at Interpol passed along an unverified report channeled through an informant in Poland. It’s possible that a clean-up team has arrived in the vicinity of where we believe the Learjet went down.”

  “Are you telling me the CIA sent in someone to get rid of the evidence?” Donovan asked. “They can’t be troubled to send a rescue team, they send in cleaners?”

  “It’s more than likely not the CIA directly. If anything, it’s a subcontractor. It’s also an unsubstantiated rumor. I needed to bring it up because it’s how things work in the real world. We could run into these guys,” Montero continued. “What I’m telling you, is we have no friends once we land. View everyone as an adversary until proven otherwise. I’m sure Lauren was briefed, and is well aware of the situation, and we need to be equally prepared. Word of our arrival is going to spread fast, so we need to be ready.”

  “How far will the powers that be go to stop us?” Donovan asked Montero. “When I was on the phone with Reggie, he offered his services. Should I have taken him up on his suggestion?”

  “To answer your first question, I’m going to assume they’ll do whatever they deem necessary to cover their asses. The closer we get to causing problems in their world, the more pressure they’ll apply. As for Reggie, the more people there are, the more complicated everything gets. I say let’s leave Reggie and his former Special Forces chaps out of the equation right now. It’s my hope the three of us will be able to do this quick and dirty, and be gone before anyone knows exactly what we’ve done.”

  “Is your Interpol connection reliable?” Michael asked.

  “Very. She owes me her life,” Montero said. “When I was with the Bureau, I found out she was passing classified Interpol information to her boyfriend, who was connected to a real jerk of a drug dealer. I could have turned her in, and the drug dealer probably would have had her killed to keep her from testifying. Let’s say she was most cooperative in helping me bring down her boyfriend and the entire drug ring. She’s been very helpful ever since.”