“You ask too many questions, Doctor.” He faced the front of the boat as it sped away from the Zenobia.
Marc wasn’t about to be dissuaded from learning what he needed to know, and he pulled off his own hood and respirator, the wind whipping through his hair as they picked up speed. “What’s so important about that broken vial?”
Daron looked at him, the expression on his tanned face one of annoyance. “Unfortunately it was lost at the time the virus was released. We wouldn’t want anyone to believe that what happened on the Zenobia was not the result of some natural transmission.” He gave a leering smile, adding, “But the two of you can rest assured, you’ll have a firsthand look at what causes the virus when we reach the compound.”
Which explained why the man had demanded that Lisette pretend to be ill. If she and Marc were found dead of the virus, wherever they happened to dump their bodies, who would question it? Their captors sure as hell weren’t going to let the two of them loose, not with the knowledge they held.
He glanced at the driver of the boat, who seemed intent on steering toward the shoreline, which from their position appeared to be nothing more than endless jungle. Both men were armed. The driver wore his gun holstered, while Daron held his pointed at Marc, probably determining that he was the greater threat. Marc glanced at Lisette in her hazmat suit, thinking no way could he or Lisette get to their Glocks.
It was time to even the odds.
He waited for Lisette to look at him. When she did, the fear in her eyes was replaced by determination as he massaged the web of his hand, then tilted his head toward the driver. She reached up, touched the corner of her right eye, then swept her finger back to her ear, rubbing the lobe. It was a signal they’d used before, a cue that she would follow his lead. Several minutes passed and they were nearing shore.
Marc presumed there were armed associates waiting for them, but a specific opportunity failed to present itself as Daron kept his gun pointed at Marc. Finally, though, Daron seemed to be growing tired, his arm lowering slightly with each jar of the boat. Not low enough, Marc thought, as they sped closer to land, where he was now able to discern specific vegetation. Time was running out. And then, finally, Daron dropped his arm, resting it on his thigh, the barrel aimed toward the bottom of the boat.
Now or never, Marc thought.
He dove across the seat, pushing Daron’s leg into the gun while grabbing the barrel, trying to keep it down.
From the corner of his eye, he saw the driver turn, reach for his own weapon. Lisette swung her face mask up into his jaw. The unexpected force knocked the man back into the steering column. The boat veered wildly, throwing Marc off balance. Daron pressed the gun to Marc’s chest, his finger on the trigger. If Marc’s grip on the slide failed, he was dead. He tried to twist the gun away, but the vessel bounced across the whitecaps. He and Daron fell to the bottom, still fighting for the weapon. He heard a shout, saw something large flying overboard.
Lisette . . .
He felt the slide of the gun slipping in his sweaty palm, felt it cutting his hand. He was going to die, and all he could think of was he had to save Lisette. And then he saw a flash of red hurtling toward his face as the boat jumped one last time, then crashed on the shore.
Chapter 37
December 11
Washington, D.C.
Carillo drove to the newspaper office, hoping to speak to Merideth Garrett, the reporter who’d written the article about the double agent. Though he’d identified himself, the receptionist at the desk told him that Ms. Garrett had been inundated with calls and wasn’t taking any. “Not even the FBI?” he asked.
“You name the alphabet agency, they’ve been here,” she said. “And reporters, too. She’s asked to be left alone. But if she changes her mind, I’ll put you in line.”
“Thanks,” he said, not leaving a card. He returned to his office at HQ and ran a full computer check on the reporter. Apparently this wasn’t the first big Washington scoop she’d run. Judging from past entries, she had a source pretty high up. Though he doubted she was going to come out and reveal it, when it came to someone’s life being on the line, in his mind, it was worth trying, and he intended to pay a visit to her during the evening when she got off work. Since he had plenty of time to kill, hours in fact, he pulled out that report on the recovered files from the shooter’s computer. After reading it again, he looked at the photo of the pattern on the murder weapon that Sydney had sent, then drove out to the history department at the University of Virginia to speak with Professor Denise Woods, who taught conspiracy theory as part of her coursework. They’d used her before on Fitzpatrick’s last case, and Carillo figured she might be able to clarify a few issues with the case for him. Granted it was a lengthy trip, but he liked her work. And her, if truth be told.
Carillo knocked, then opened the office door. Professor Woods, a striking, petite blond dressed in a cream-colored turtleneck and dark slacks, was seated at her desk. Her look on seeing him was one of mild amusement, and he wasn’t sure if he should be offended. “Professor. Good to see you again.”
“A long way to drive just to visit. What brings the FBI to our hallowed halls this time?”
“I was hoping you might have some information on a symbol in history.”
“It doesn’t involve any of my students, does it?”
“Not this time. Since you’re one of the few experts on conspiracy theory that I know of, you were the only one I could think who might help. We’re drawing blanks here.”
“Then by all means . . .”
He crossed the small office and handed her the copy of the knife hilt sketch that Sydney had forwarded to him. “This was the pattern from an antique shipped to a museum in the Netherlands. The murder weapon.”
“I must admit,” she said, eyeing the photo, “your cases, at least what I’ve seen of them, are interesting. Anything in particular you’re looking for?”
“The Reader’s Digest version? On the one side we’ve got the guy who shot the senator. Ran a Web site on conspiracy theory, which goes into Atlantis, Nazis, aliens, the gamut. On the other side, I’ve got this knife and a guy who made a cryptic remark about it just before he died. ‘From Atlant.’ Me, I’m thinking that the shooter’s obsession with Atlantis might be connected to this dead guy’s last breath, telling them ‘from Atlant.’ As in from Atlantis. He also mentioned dropping something. But the other guys were thinking he was referring to the knife which was lost at the murder scene, and when they go looking for it, what they find instead is a vial with a suspected virus inside. You with me so far?”
“So far,” she said, looking intrigued.
“On the surface, neither case seems connected, except that a certain branch of the government that doesn’t exist on paper is involved with both. And they’re thinking that the pattern on this knife handle might help them pinpoint where the virus might have originated.” He tapped the photo of the sketch detailing the pattern. “One source thought these symbols were like the Greek letter psi, or the symbol used on virology packaging. In other words, I was hoping you might be able to provide some insight into a conspiracy, because right now, frankly, we’ve got nothing.”
“Your source is right,” Professor Woods told him, examining the sketch. “The pattern appears to be the Greek letter psi, repeated. There are a lot of possibilities, I’m afraid. The Web site and the symbol on the letter opener could be a reference to past attempts to connect the lost city of Atlantis to an alien race that perished when the island sank beneath the ocean. Atlant—assuming it is only a partial word—could refer to Atlantis, which still fits into the symbol on your knife hilt, since the Greek letter psi shares the characteristics of Poseidon’s trident. And, believe it or not, we can even throw in the Nazis for good measure.”
“No offense, Professor, but I’m not sure how you got from point A to point B here. The Nazis connected to Atlantis?�
�
She gave him a patient smile, saying, “The Nazis actually sent an expedition to Tibet, allegedly to find and therefore prove the existence of the Aryan/Atlantean roots of their so-called superior race.”
Carillo looked at the sketch of the knife hilt. “Discounting the Nazi angle, what sort of Atlantis conspiracies are out there?”
“A lot. What I can tell you is that according to some historians, if one looks hard enough, all roads lead not to Rome, but to Atlantis. There are quite a bit of cross-cultural references to historical and religious similarities that are attributed to the ancient Atlanteans, including the great flood that some attribute to Noah and his ark.”
She typed something into her computer, then pointed to the screen, showing photos of Egyptian pyramids and tombs. “Some believe that the Atlanteans were far more technologically advanced than anyone else from their time, as evidenced by the hieroglyphics found in certain ancient Egyptian ruins that resemble spaceships. Flying vehicles would have come in handy to view the vast array of ancient art visible only from the sky, such as that found in Peru, for instance.”
“I’m pretty sure we can discount the space angle, too. What I want to know is if this dead guy’s reference about from Atlant could really be Atlantis?”
“Sure. The question is, Atlantis the lost city, or evidence of the inhabitants?”
“I’d have to go with the lost city. The kid who dug up this info seems to think Atlantis was really only a reference name, maybe based on rumored location.” Carillo saw a world map on the wall. “You happen to have a theory that might narrow down where to find it?”
“The locations are as numerous and as varied as the number of legends told. Anywhere from the Arctic to the Antarctic. The most popular theory is somewhere in the midst of the Atlantic, causing many to believe the ocean was named after the lost city.”
Carillo studied the map and the Atlantic’s vast area. “Forget popular, and let’s shoot for logical.”
“According to the Greek philosopher Plato, Poseidon brought two springs of water to Atlantis. One hot, one cold. A hot spring is usually caused by geothermal activity, which supports the theory that an earthquake or volcanic activity destroyed Atlantis. If so, then it would place it somewhere along the tectonic plates of the Atlantic, or locations where there is known underwater volcanic activity. Anywhere from Iceland to the Bahamas, all the way down to the African continent.”
“Any chance you can narrow it down even further?”
“From everything I’ve ever read, my favorite location is here.” She tapped the map in the Caribbean basin, then ran her finger in a circle that encompassed Cuba, Haiti, and Jamaica.
The very area where ATLAS was searching for the missing AUV.
Chapter 38
December 11
ATLAS Headquarters
Washington, D.C.
Tex walked into the director’s office, where McNiel sat at his desk, his fingers pressed to his temples. He looked up, saw Tex, and said, “Tell me you have some good news?”
“Some. We picked up the vial from Griffin’s contact in Winterswijk. It’s on its way to Germany for testing. Griffin was long gone by the time our agents got there. And I got a call from the captain of the Desdemona. They found the missing AUV on the ocean floor in the general vicinity of where the students saw the freighter. They’re recovering it now. The big news? Carillo called. He just left Professor Woods’s office.”
“Woods?”
“She teaches conspiracy theory as part of her coursework at UVA. She’s a good source when you’re looking for the obscure. Carillo and Fitzpatrick used her for information on that Vatican operation last month.”
“And this has what to do with our case?”
“The coincidence of location.” Tex briefed him on what Carillo had learned.
McNiel sat there in silence for several seconds when he’d finished, staring at the pin map on the wall showing the location where the college students had first sighted the pirated freighter, as well as its final location where Marc and Lisette were currently assisting the WHO doctors to determine the crew’s cause of death. “Atlantis? What are the chances . . .”
“Exactly. And according to Carillo, it gets even more skewed if you start linking this whole conspiracy to the death investigation on the senator.”
“You’ve lost me.”
“The suspected shooter’s obsession with aliens from Atlantis. He ran a Web site called Above Atlantis NWO. As in New World Order.”
“Please tell me you’re kidding. I thought this was a case of simple hacking into the wrong server.”
Tex nodded at McNiel’s computer. “It gets even better, if you want to look it up. Especially when you start reading his crap on viruses and the coming end of the world if they find Atlantis.”
McNiel typed something on his keyboard, then focused on the computer screen. “It looks like every other conspiracy Web site. Oddly fascinating if you’re into that stuff. But there’s not enough to go on here.”
“Unless you add in Griffin’s angle. Faas’s dying statement. From Atlant. Carillo thinks he was about to say Atlantis, and that it was Faas’s attempt to let us know this virus he’d hidden in the snow was connected to the murders of those students off the coast of the Cayman Islands.”
“Connected, how?”
“By location. The professor puts Atlantis right about in that same area where the missing AUV was found, which isn’t too far from where the students were killed.”
McNiel looked back at the pin map. “Call Marc to let him know. Coincidence or not, this virus connection has me worried.”
Tex called. It went straight to voice mail. “Either Marc’s phone is off or he’s out of range.”
“Try Lisette.”
Tex did, with the same result.
“I don’t like it,” McNiel said. “I spoke to Marc this morning. Unless someone started up that freighter and moved it out of range, there shouldn’t be any communication problems.” He walked over to the desk and found the number for the lead contact from WHO for the freighter investigation, and called it. “We’re trying to reach Dr. Perrault and her partner . . .” McNiel listened, thanked the man, then hung up the phone. “Marc and Lisette were seen leaving on a boat headed toward the coast after Lisette took ill.”
“Leaving? With whom?” Tex asked, taking a seat in the chair opposite McNiel’s desk.
“A doctor. Assuming he was a doctor,” McNiel said, looking up at a map on the wall. A red pin indicated the last location of the freighter, just off the coast of Brazil.
Tex eyed the map. “At least Marc has experience in the Amazon. He worked that operation out there about two years ago when they were searching for the Network’s compound.”
“That’s what I don’t like. The proximity of this compound we’ve never been able to find, along with this phantom virus-laden freighter.”
“And now two missing agents.”
McNiel took a frustrated breath. “Marc and Lisette are highly experienced. I have a hard time believing that someone could just walk on that ship and take them off without some planning.”
“Who knew they were out there?”
“Everyone at that security task force meeting.”
They exchanged glances, and McNiel swore.
“I think we can move a suspected leak to definite,” Tex said.
“But from where? Every director in that room could be taking the information back to his office with the best of intentions. The leak could be anywhere.”
“It’s supposed to be eyes-only. What about Thorndike? He’s still angry over me and Griffin leaving CIA.”
McNiel tapped his fingers in his desktop, as though contemplating the thought of Thorndike being involved in espionage. “I can’t see him going to that extreme. Even so, we can’t trust our information is private. A
s of this moment, ATLAS is going into a full-scale covert action operation.”
“Is that any different from what we were doing?”
“Let’s just say I won’t be announcing our further activities to the security task force. I now have two missing agents. And that doesn’t count the mess that started with Griffin. My guess? Someone in this government is compromising the safety of my agents. I want them brought down,” he said, his voice taking on an icy calm. “Do I make myself clear?”
“Very.”
In other words, Tex had just been given a green light to do whatever it took to get McNiel his answers. Even if it meant running a black op on his own government.
And the first person he intended to recruit was Griffin.
Chapter 39
December 11
Amazon, coast of Brazil
Marc opened his eyes, finding Daron unmoving, his face crushed. The gun had flown from Marc’s hand on impact, and he looked around for it, saw it several feet away next to a red and white fire extinguisher, blood smeared across the surface.
He started to scramble for it.
“There’s no one else here.”
Marc froze at the sound of Lisette’s voice. He turned, shielded his eyes from the sun to see her standing over him. “You’re okay?”
“Who do you think hit the bastard with the fire extinguisher?” she said, reaching down to help him to his feet. “You looked like you could use some assistance.”
“The driver?”
She pointed out to sea. “I think he’s history.”
“Guess I owe you one.” Marc looked offshore, saw the man floating facedown, then turned back to Lisette. “Are you hurt?”
“A few bruises. You?”
“Fine,” he said, kneeling next to Daron, feeling for his pulse. There was none. He stood.
“Now what?” Lisette asked. “We have no cell phone signal. I checked.”
Marc scanned the area. There was nothing but jungle on either side of them as far as the eye could see, and behind them, endless ocean. The Zenobia was no longer in sight. There was no beach to speak of. The ocean water lapped into the tree line, creating a swamp at the edge of the jungle. “They must have a compound around here,” he said, going up to look at all the boat’s gauges. The sun beat down on them and he could feel the sweat dripping off his back. “Couldn’t be too far. There isn’t much gas.” He was about to hop out of the boat to see if they could push it back in the water, when he saw the crack in the hull and the water seeping in near the front of the boat. “Looks like we’re walking.”
The Dark Hour Page 18
