The Lucifer Code

by Charles Brokaw

But even as he moved, Kristine shot a hand out and caught his ankle. Rather than landing gracefully, prepared to flee for his life, he crashed inelegantly to the ground onto his already bruised face. His breath left him in a rush, but he struggled to get to his feet again. The crowd was only a few yards away. He could…

  Kristine landed in front of him with the grace of an Olympic gymnast. She reached down and caught his hand in that excruciating grip again.

  ‘No,’ she said, addressing him like a dog about to chew on the furniture.

  Reluctantly, Lourds got up and followed her like a well-trained canine.

  The young woman and the man waved their weapons again and the crowd parted before them. Lourds struggled to keep pace with his captors. Running was awkward with his bruised body and his hand held in a death grip. Kristine seemed to be untouched by their adventures; she still moved like a dancer. Not Lourds. Every bone in his body ached and his face throbbed fiercely. They ran down the dirty alley. Shop doors thudded closed when the people inside saw them covered in blood and waving firearms.

  By the time they’d reached the midpoint of the alley helicopter rotors were screaming overhead. Kristine threw her body into Lourds’. He smashed against the wall just as the helicopter floated into view.

  ‘Get out of sight!’ Kristine yelled at the other man. She pressed her body against Lourds’ and held him against the wall. The experience wasn’t altogether unpleasant. His body reacted instantly to hers. He prayed she wouldn’t notice.

  She cursed. ‘What do you do? Mainline Viagra?’

  ‘Not hardly. I just like women,’ Lourds said. ‘However, I do wish that particular response of mine was a little more selective. I’d prefer someone less lethal and more sane.’

  ‘If I hadn’t kidnapped you, you would be dead by now.’

  ‘As opposed to dead later?’

  Her face hardened. ‘Not my problem. You’re just a job to me, Professor. I’m getting paid to deliver you, that’s all.’

  At that moment, a gunner aboard the helicopter opened fire. Large-calibre bullets ripped the other kidnapper to bloody rags and his body dropped to the ground.

  Kristine cursed, released Lourds and shoved him towards the other end of the alley. ‘Run!’

  Lourds did, holding his arms up over his head as though they might somehow protect him from bullets. He knew it was a wasted effort but he couldn’t seem to pull them down. The large-calibre rounds ripped holes in the walls and flagstones. Before he’d gone half a dozen strides, a sedan pulled into the mouth of the alley and sped toward him.

  Rescuers? he wondered. Or more killers?

  He really didn’t know.

  Central Intelligence Agency

  Langley, Virginia

  United States of America

  15 March 2010

  Anxiety shivered through Dawson as he watched the video from the web camera on the helicopter’s nose. Since the camera only showed what was in front of the aircraft, he didn’t know what targets the men aboard the helicopter were shooting at. Gunfire rattled in professional bursts.

  ‘Isn’t there another camera in the helicopter?’ Dawson asked irritably.

  ‘I’m trying to bring it online now, sir,’ one of the technicians said.

  The video coming from the helicopter’s nose swung wildly and almost made Dawson sick to his stomach. He crossed his arms, stood still, and forced himself to breathe to keep the vertigo at bay.

  The wallscreen split into two different views. The left side continued to show the whirling landscape of rooftops presented by the helicopter cam. The right side of the screen showed local police units driving through streets crowded with onlookers reluctant to give way.

  ‘Where’s this feed coming from?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘WNN News, sir,’ technician answered. ‘The World News Network had a live broadcast in the area. They were covering Brad and Angelina’s-’

  ‘Who’s the reporter on the ground there?’

  ‘Her name is Davina Wilson.’

  A small inset appeared on the wallscreen and showed a publicity headshot of a pretty African-American woman in her early twenties.

  ‘Find out everything you can about Davina Wilson,’ Dawson ordered.

  In the street, police officers ran to the wrecked SUV with weapons drawn. Dawson thought they looked well trained and professional. Several onlookers started shouting and pointing into the alley as if the police officers couldn’t see the helicopter hanging overhead for themselves. A group of officers split off and sprinted for the alley.

  Dawson cursed. If the gun-happy shooters aboard the helicopter didn’t kill Lourds, the local police might. At the very least, they would arrest him.

  That wouldn’t make the vice-president happy.

  ‘Get me that pilot,’ Dawson said.

  ‘Yes, sir.’

  Out of habit, Dawson shot his cuffs and adjusted his jacket. Sartorial elegance was his preference, the armour he wore among politicians. It also impressed the little people. The fact that the pilot would never see him didn’t matter. If Dawson was going to talk to the man, he was going to know that he looked his best.

  Another inset image, this one of the pilot, a man in his late thirties, showed up on the wallscreen. Close-cropped blonde hair stood out against his dark skin. His eyes were too close together and a long knife scar marred his left cheek.

  ‘What’s this man’s name?’ Dawson asked.

  ‘Metternich, sir. Johan Metternich. He’s a South African mercenary currently in Istanbul while assigned to a pharmaceutical corporation smuggling blood diamonds out of his native country.’

  ‘We’ve used him before?’

  ‘Yes, sir. Three times on other operations. The Brits and Chinese have used him as well. He’s been a solid asset. He doesn’t ask questions, doesn’t cause problems and hasn’t failed yet.’

  He’s also still alive. Dawson knew that was more telling than anything else in the mercenary’s resumé.

  ‘Okay, patch me through to him.’

  Almost immediately, the up close and personal hammering of the helicopter’s main rotor filled Dawson’s hearing. The bull-roar of the fully automatic weapon punctuated Dawson’s presence aboard the helicopter.

  ‘You’re risking our package.’ Dawson kept his voice calm.

  ‘Who is this?’ the South African asked.

  ‘I’m the man who cuts your cheques. If our package gets damaged in any way,’ Dawson threatened, ‘not only will you not get paid, but I’ll also put a bounty on your head. Do we understand each other?’

  Metternich growled curses. ‘We’re not going to hurt your package. He’s still alive and breathing.’

  The helicopter swung round so the nose cam pointed down into the alley. Lourds and the woman ran to the other end where a sedan glided to a quick stop.

  Dawson covered the microphone with a hand and looked at the technicians. ‘Who’s in that car?’

  ‘Checking, sir.’

  Another window opened up on the wallscreen, then zoomed in on the vehicle registration plate at the back of the sedan.

  ‘It’s registered in Istanbul.’

  ‘Then find out who it’s registered to.’ Dawson cursed vehemently and turned his attention back to the action.

  ‘Who’s in the car?’ Metternich demanded.

  ‘Doesn’t matter,’ Dawson said. ‘They’re in our way. I want our package.’

  ‘If they’re not part of the package, that makes it easier.’ Metternich raised his voice. ‘Take out the car.’

  On screen, Lourds halted as men boiled from the back of the sedan.

  Machine-gun fire opened up again as the helicopter canted to the right. The heavy-calibre rounds strafed the wall beside the sedan. Two of the men from the ground vehicle raised machine pistols and opened fire.

  ‘I’ve got access to the second camera now, sir.’

  ‘On screen.’ Dawson shifted his attention to the new image.

  The second camera, placed in the hel
icopter’s cargo area, offered a view forward. Metternich occupied the pilot’s seat. Two gunmen crowded the cargo door with heavy-calibre machineguns; they were firing.

  Dawson took a deep breath and let it out. He told himself that the op was going to play out just fine. But they hadn’t run one this hot in years. Whoever Lourds was, whatever he represented to the vice-president, he’d better be worth the risk they were all taking.

  Bullets from the men beside the sedan crashed through the helicopter’s Plexiglas shield. Metternich cursed ferociously and struggled to bring it under control. The aircraft swung out over the rooftops and the alley was obscured.

  ‘Get on the skids,’ Metternich ordered. ‘We’ll strafe them on a straight run.’

  The two gunmen moved out to either side of the cargo area and clambered out onto the skids. They hunkered down into position as Metternich piloted the helicopter round to approach the sedan once more.

  ‘I want that package,’ Dawson growled. ‘Unharmed.’

  ‘We’re going to get it for you,’ Metternich said. ‘Just shut up and let us do our job.’

  Dawson covered the microphone and made a mental note that Metternich was going to get a bullet instead of payment for this one. His insolence, never mind his proximity to the vice-president’s pet project, rendered him expendable. Dawson took satisfaction in that.

  As the helicopter swung back into the alley, Dawson spotted two marked police cars speeding up from the other end. A sinking sensation formed in the pit of his stomach.

  One of the men stopped firing, yelled hoarsely, and pointed at the back of the sedan. One of the new arrivals pulled a rocket launcher from the vehicle’s trunk. He settled it over his shoulder and aimed even as Metternich tried to pull up from the attack run.

  The helicopter filled with flames and the cameras went offline.

  4

  Off Istanbul Cd

  Yesilkoy District

  Istanbul, Turkey

  15 March 2010

  Stunned, Lourds watched the helicopter go to pieces in the sky above the alley. Flaming wreckage flew in all directions. Some of it dropped onto the rooftops, but a lot of it fell into the alley. The cacophony of explosions and their echoes rolled through the confined space and physically battered him.

  Still on his feet, but only because he hadn’t thought to throw himself to the ground, Lourds ran his hands over his body. As far as he could tell, he was still in one piece. But he didn’t think he was in a good position to know for sure.

  By the sedan, the man with the rocket launcher calmly reloaded his weapon. Sirens shrilled behind Lourds. When he turned to look back, he spotted two police cars on the other side of the flaming debris. The wreckage blocked them from approaching.

  Lourds turned and fled back toward the policeman. He raised his hands and shouted, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’

  The doors on the police car opened and two officers squatted down behind them with guns drawn.

  Lourds repeated his entreaty in two different languages and was on his third when Kristine tackled him. Her arms encircled his knees and he plummeted forward just as the police opened fire. The bullets passed overhead within inches.

  Kristine slithered up his body and settled on top of him in a prone position.

  ‘You’re going to get yourself killed,’ Kristine shouted into his ear. ‘You must have some kind of death wish.’

  She slapped the back of his head.

  The man with the rocket launcher fired again. This time the round streaked for the police car. The police officers had just enough time to abandon their positions before the explosive slammed into the vehicle. The car flew up from the ground and flipped over backwards. As the vehicle lay rocking like an overturned turtle, flames wreathed it.

  Rubber shrilled behind Lourds as the sedan navigated the alley and skidded to a stop beside him. Kristine rolled off and grabbed him under one arm while one of the men grabbed him under the other.

  ‘This is the professor?’ the man asked.

  ‘Yes,’ Kristine answered.

  Together, they unceremoniously shoved him into the sedan’s rear seat. Thinking quickly, Lourds grabbed the door handle, yanked, and tried to escape. Another man filled the door and batted Lourds back into the car with a hard elbow to the head. Lourds’ hat fell into the alley as he toppled back dazed against the seat. The man stooped long enough to get the hat and push it into Lourds’ face, then sat down beside him and slammed the door.

  Kristine crowded in on Lourds’ other side. The two other men slid into the front seat beside the driver.

  ‘Go! Go!’ the man in the passenger seat roared, and slapped the dash impatiently.

  The driver pressed his foot heavily on the accelerator and they shot out of the alley into the street. They skidded wildly for a moment, losing traction across the pavement, then the driver regained control.

  Lourds glanced through the back window and hoped to see a police car there. He didn’t know how he was going to explain his current predicament, but having to explain it rather than survive it had to be an improvement.

  A sharp pain bit into the inside of his right thigh. When he looked down, he saw the man beside him had stabbed a hypodermic into his leg. He grabbed for it but the man was already pushing the plunger. More pain invaded Lourds’ leg, along with a cool sensation that quickly spread.

  ‘What is that?’ Kristine asked.

  ‘Something to knock him out.’ The man withdrew the hypodermic. ‘From what we’ve seen, he is nothing but trouble.’

  Lourds wanted to object. None of this had been his fault, but a warm lassitude drifted through him and he found he couldn’t quite gather his thoughts.

  Then the waiting darkness claimed him.

  Zola

  800 F Street

  Washington, D.C.

  United States of America

  15 March 2010

  Dawson grabbed his briefcase, slid out of his Dodge Charger, and tossed the keys to the young female valet.

  ‘Good evening, sir.’ The valet caught the keys one-handed and held the door for him.

  ‘Somewhere close.’ He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. ‘I may be leaving quickly.’

  ‘Of course, sir.’

  The International Spy Museum and the Spy City Café sat adjacent to Zola in the Le Droit Building. The vice-president had chosen to meet him there for a late dinner. The refurbished restaurant was a favourite of the man’s, but wasn’t one that the Agency often used. Dawson thought it amusing that the vice-president wanted to meet his private spy there.

  The Le Droit Building was old, a hangover from past glories in the nation’s capital, but it had been recently remodelled and shone like a jewel. Zola was one of the district’s chic places to eat and had private dining rooms.

  The maître d’ greeted Dawson when he stepped into the foyer. ‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’

  ‘I’ll be joining someone,’ Dawson replied.

  One of the vice-president’s security people stepped forward. Dawson didn’t remember the man’s name. They all tended to look alike: young, tough and emotionless. The earwig in his ear gave him an other-worldly appearance. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the device, but Dawson was acutely aware of it.

  ‘He’s with us,’ the security man said.

  The maître d’ smiled. ‘Of course.’

  ‘Good evening, Special Agent Dawson.’ The security man nodded to the CIA SAC.

  ‘Good evening.’ Dawson shot his cuffs. ‘Is he already here?’

  ‘Yes, sir. He’s in the same dining room. Do you know the way?’

  Dawson said he did and started off at once. Anxiety knotted his stomach as he strode through the red and black décor. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps.

  Two security guards stood outside the private dining area. Like the first, both wore black suits and earwigs.

  ‘Good evening, Special Agent Dawson,’ the older of the two said.

  ‘Good evening, Special
Agent Reeves.’ Dawson remembered this man’s name easily. The vice-president never went anywhere without him. Without being asked, Dawson gave his briefcase to the younger of the two agents.

  Reeves made no apology for their quick search of the briefcase’s contents. The vice-president was adamant about his personal security. All the briefcase contained was Dawson’s encrypted notebook computer and a satellite phone keyed to it.

  The younger agent handed Dawson’s briefcase back. ‘Here you go, sir. Everything looks in order.’

  Dawson accepted the case, then Reeves knocked on the door.

  ‘Yes?’ the vice-president called.

  ‘Special Agent Dawson is here, sir.’

  ‘Good,’ the vice-president said. ‘Show him in.’

  Elliott Webster, former senator from New Hampshire and party whip and now vice-president of the United States of America, stood at one end of the intimate dining table. He was an inch over six feet tall and maybe twenty pounds overweight but it looked good on him. He was in his late forties but easily looked twenty years younger due to the strong jawline and the dark blond hair that had refused to grey. His cerulean blue eyes invited friendship and promised trustworthiness within a nano-second of being turned on someone. Many men instinctively trusted him and many women wanted to coddle him. No matter how imposing the setting in which Dawson saw Webster, the vice-president seemed to fill the room. The man oozed charisma.

  He’d grown up in a small town in New Hampshire and started his own software company when he was sixteen. By the time he was in college at Harvard, majoring in business, he’d created two dot-com search engines that had boosted him into millionaire status. At about the same time, he’d become interested in politics because the oil shortage of the 1970s had impacted his business.

  In an interview with Barbara Walters, Webster had admitted that his initial interest in politics had stemmed from corporate affairs.

  ‘You just can’t do business in this day and age without knowing something about the national and international political climate,’ Webster had said. A lot of businessmen had followed his example.

  Webster hadn’t pawned off the responsibility to lobbyists, though. He’d dug into the legislation himself. As he’d learned how to negotiate those murky waters and become even more successful, a groundswell of grass roots support had sprung up to put him in office as a New Hampshire senator. He’d graciously turned down the offer.