Her partner looked flustered. “I mean, you having worked with Sword 23 and all.”
“Oh. Well. Not anymore.” Were they going to put it on her stupid tombstone? She could envision it: Here lies some lucky woman who once worked with Sword 23.
“Obviously not,” Eddie said, his humor returning, “If you’re stuck here with me!”
“And glad to be! It sounds as if it will be catastrophic for the world economy if Woodbury is able to succeed. Do we have any intelligence on which currency he’s going after?”
“An educated guess, following the markets, would be the American dollar.”
“But he’s American!”
“I don’t think this is about patriotism. I think it’s about a handful of people becoming very, very rich.”
“And millions of the rest of us becoming very, very poor.”
“So, let’s stop this guy. Why don’t you go ahead and get dressed, too?” he said, and he pulled on the jacket that completed his well-cut designer tux. “If you’re awake enough, it’d be good to get downstairs to screen the arrivals. If by any chance our man Woodbury turns up in person, I think it’s worth the risk to bug him.”
“I can help you with that,” Jaime said.
“Oh, and–I took the liberty of adding some wardrobe to your collection,” said Eddie. As she looked at him with raised eyebrows, he’d said, “I’m the one who picked up your stuff in Hochspeyer. No offense, but anything that can stay in a duffel for three months without wrinkling isn’t exactly haute couture. See you down.”
Sure enough, Jaime had found a selection of stylish day and evening wear in her size hanging in the closet of the next room.
As she changed and tried to figure out something to do with her hair, the constant references to her working with Sword 23–Yani–kept coming back to her. He was a legend, even to people from Eden. And gardeners were not easily impressed. What would they think if they knew she was the woman for whom he gave up being a Sword? The woman for whom he became a lowly Operative for whom emotional attachments were allowed–and then she’d opted out of their relationship? She sighed. Everyone still called him Sword 23. Apparently the title was like that of President of the United States–even after you vacated the position, you kept the title out of respect.
So what would they do if they found out she was the one who made Sword 23 not a Sword anymore and then she dumped him?
Tar and feathers? Run out of town on a rail? If only they knew.
Twenty minutes later, she and Andrea had taken up their spots in the lobby, Jaime in a black cocktail dress with spaghetti straps, accented by a diamond brooch with matching earrings.
What a difference a day makes! she couldn’t help think.
Sitting with Andrea for ten minutes, Jaime had learned more about key players at the conference than she would have discovered in months of personal research. With each name mentioned by Andrea, a picture and bio would appear on the screen of Jaime’s handheld, often with cartoons and graffiti added by the unseen Op 1. Jaime had quickly discovered that her Operative partner for this mission was brilliant with anything electronic. However, since very few projects challenged him, he tended to let off steam with practical jokes.
Oblivious to Eddie’s antics, Andrea continued in her role as teacher, talking about the G8, debt relief for Africa, and other topics related to the hotel guests who passed by.
Jaime took a sip of her drink and turned to look through the coffered windows that offered a view of the lobby. At that moment, some sort of buzz electrified the air itself, as photographers from all corners of the room began to converge near the front doors. Others in the lobby stood up out of curiosity, to see what was causing the stir.
Jaime looked at Andrea, who gave a slight shrug. She glanced at her handheld, where Eddie had messaged; Probably one of the celebs. She turned it to Andrea, who read the text and nodded.
Jaime looked down to see that Eddie had added; Or Donald Trump. She rolled her eyes.
January 24, 2007, 11:49 p.m.
(2 days, 9 hours, 41 minutes until end of auction)
Steigenberger Hotel Belvédère lounge
Davos, Switzerland
* * *
Andrea watched the continued frenzy as the door at the front of the hotel opened automatically and another line of paparazzi backed in. They were followed by a couple of private security men, then a four-man entourage, currently in their Sunday best.
It turned out Eddie’s guess was correct. After the entourage, a handsome young man, six feet at least, came striding inside. Thick black hair with a natural wave swept his collar. Andrea could see rather than hear the reporters yelling questions, photographers coaxing, “Shepard, over here! Look to your right!” Andrea herself immediately recognized the rock icon who answered the cacophony calmly, with some polite, “I’m tired, pleased to talk with you tomorrow” brush-off, and disappeared down a hallway as hotel staffers stepped up to prevent the reporters and photographers from following.
The older woman couldn’t help but notice that this particular celebrity had caught even Jaime’s attention. But when the younger woman saw Andrea looking at her, she smiled and looked away. “Guess Eddie called it,” Jaime said. “Are you familiar with his theories?”
“Yes.” Andrea smiled. “He’s an unlikely message bearer, but the discussion he’s bringing to the table deserves hearing out. For so long, discussions of economics have centered on wealth accumulation without regard to sustainability–of the planet, of communities, of human happiness. I know he’s made himself an expert on many of these issues, but I’d like more specifics and more information. I’m always leery of someone who uses his popularity to get a place at the table.”
“Add to watch list?” Jaime said.
“If for no other reason than that he’s not only younger but considerably better looking than the others on the list!”
Jaime laughed at the unexpected answer, and then continued with what Andrea might have described as a small, private smile, tapping her stylus in response to the unnecessary wealth of materials, including “hunk” photos, that Eddie was providing of Shepard on Jaime’s screen. She shook her head and rolled her eyes.
Andrea returned to the business at hand, pointing out two Chinese power brokers arguing in a corner.
“The one on the left,” she said, “is Yin Zhen Su. The other is Ran Li. Yin is a newcomer, on the top ten list of movers in the Chinese financial world, made his money in information technologies.”
Jaime looked up from her data screen to observe the two men in the flesh. “But what’s with the other guy? He looks put out.”
“Ran represents old money,” replied Andrea with a bit of a sneer. “He is from a dynasty that is China’s equivalent to the Rockefellers. His family stuck it out after the establishment of the People’s Republic of China and made themselves billions under Mao. He is very conservative and has no respect for ‘new money’ like Yin.”
“Okay, so no respect, but should we add him to the watch list?”
“Definitely. He’s cutthroat in his business dealings, and holds a grudge against the West based upon major losses by his family holdings in Hong Kong.”
While they were studying Ran Li, two men walked past. The first was a tall, handsome Spaniard, with dark hair and eyes and a bronze complexion, wearing a flashy silk suit. The other man could be categorized as “mousy,” short, with a high forehead, overly large ears, beady eyes, and very bushy eyebrows. While everyone else seemed to have loosened their ties and jackets after a long day, his traditional black wool suit with white starched shirt and maroon tie was still totally buttoned, totally in place. As he passed, he gave a very slight, almost imperceptible nod in the direction of Ran Li, who returned the nod.
Andrea surprised Jaime by grasping her arm.
“That’s him,” Andrea said.
“Him?” Jaime responded.
She was quivering. “Jameson Aldrich Woodbury. The man who’s convening this dangerous
meeting.”
January 24, 2007, 11:49 p.m.
(2 days, 9 hours, 41 minutes until end of auction)
Highway 28
Davos, Switzerland
* * *
Frank McMillan glared at the young man in the Swiss Army uniform who respectfully handed back his passport and Agency identification. He shouldn’t be hard on the soldier, he knew. After all, he was the one standing outside in the snow. But he was rank and file, a foot soldier, and Frank had an inborn contempt for him, as such.
The snow was letting up as Frank headed into Davos. He’d heard rumors that next year’s World Economic Forum would move to a different location, in part because the Swiss Army was tired of the expense and hassle of guarding the world’s economic leaders.
More than anyone else, Frank and his compatriots on the Terrorism Task Force knew that half the people in Davos this night were Forum participants and the other half were there to watch the first half. Whether Swiss Army, private security, terrorists, or members of the worldwide intelligence community, it was like convening a big game of “I Spy.”
And that didn’t even count the damn protesters, who caused the most damage and got the most press. The Swiss Army was supposed to turn back protesters–people protesting globalization were rumored to have the biggest presence this year–and let them go wreak havoc in Geneva instead. Since there was only one road into town from the north and one to the south and one train station, it was a manageable situation.
But, instead of tailing terrorists or economists or businessmen or politicians, or even his fellow spies, Frank was following an Army chaplain.
An Army chaplain who very possibly held the key to wealth and riches far beyond anything dreamed of by the billionaires at the conference. The ultimate treasure that was Eden.
Go figure.
He’d tried to capture this woman once, four years earlier.
This time, he vowed she would not get away.
January 24, 2007, 11:57 p.m.
(2 days, 9 hours, 33 minutes until end of auction)
Steigenberger Hotel Belvédère lounge
Davos, Switzerland
* * *
“Jam-e-son Al-drich Wood-bu-ry.” Andrea was speaking more to herself than to Jaime, as she pronounced every syllable of his name separately. “He’s grandnephew of Nelson Aldrich and CEO of a consortium of American banks.”
Seeing this man in person was more disturbing than she had imagined it would be. Her thoughts raced back to a time almost a century before, when she was a much younger woman, and in mortal peril.
It had been November 1910 when a barefoot Andrea raced through the plantation oaks surrounding the Club House mansion on Jekyll Island, Georgia. Behind her, a cacophony of male voices were crying out.
“Stop her, someone!”
“Who is it?”
“It’s one of the chambermaids. The white-haired one.”
“Don’t let her escape!”
She had been discovered, eavesdropping from the balcony of the Club House turret room. That damn eclipse! It had drawn the men out to the yard and into perfect position to see her spying from above.
Trapped! All she could do was flee. Andrea had dropped down onto the Club House roof and run into the night. She was heading for the resort’s dock in hopes of finding a boat, any boat, she could borrow for her escape.
The young woman was thankful on behalf of her bare feet that there was virtually no underbrush. The darkness caused by the eclipsed moon made it a challenge to negotiate the trees, but her eyesight was excellent, and in spite of occasionally running into hanging moss, she managed to keep her pace and avoid any major collisions.
She could hear someone behind her but didn’t dare even glance to see if he was gaining ground.
Mustn’t get caught…
Upon reaching the riverbank, she found she had miscalculated and was farther downstream from the dock than expected. Dodging driftwood, grimacing as her feet pounded pebbles and shells, she headed upstream along the bank. Her lungs were protesting from the effort. She was in good shape, but she was not prepared for this.
Finally, the full length of the pier loomed out of the darkness. Her heart fell. No boats. Not a kayak or canoe or rowboat. Nothing!
Andrea looked back to see a tall man, with starched white shirt and suspenders and, most important, a shotgun, clear the trees where she had emerged moments before.
Without hesitation, she stepped on the dock and ran out toward the water, knowing there was no place to go but–
“Stop or I’ll shoot,” she heard from somewhere behind her.
Andrea did not miss a stride but continued her sprint full speed toward the end of the pier and dove as far out into the water as her momentum would take her. Muffled behind her was the blast of a shotgun. She felt searing pain as she kicked down beneath the surface.
So cold. So dark.
These were her last thoughts before the water engulfed her and she drifted away.
January 24, 2007, 11:59 p.m.
(2 days, 9 hours, 31 minutes until end of auction)
Steigenberger Hotel Belvédère lounge
Davos, Switzerland
* * *
So he was here. Jaime didn’t as much as glance his way, but her body was tensed, ready for action.
“Eddie says it’s likely Woodbury’s organizing the secret meeting.”
“I’m ninety-nine percent certain he is. His presence here certainly isn’t for anything but his own gain. Woodbury never comes to these meetings, has absolutely no interest in creating an even playing field where those with the power and influence use that power to help others. He is a financial power broker who wants to influence international currency flow.
“Lately, he’s been a publicly vocal advocate for continuing the dollar as the only viable choice for global currency reserve, yet private e-mail traffic between Woodbury and Ran implies a different agenda.”
“So who’s the hot-looking Spaniard with him? He is Spanish, right? His accent sounds Castilian.”
“That’s interesting,” said Andrea as she followed the man with her eyes, never moving her head. He and his companion took possession of two nearby chairs and a glass coffee table by a large stone fireplace. They seemed to be having a friendly but energetic debate.
“I’ll have you know,” Andrea pretended to chide Jaime, “that very impressive and dignified man is the financial advisor to the prime minister of Spain.”
“Hmm, so probably a little out of my league.”
“Give me five minutes,” came Eddie’s voice in her ear, “and I’ll hack his phone number for you off the Internet.”
“Op 1, thanks, but forget setting me up.” Jaime spoke to her invisible partner. “What I really need is a diversion so I can access Woodbury unnoticed.”
“One diversion coming up!”
Jaime breathed slowly, calming her nerves as she palmed the communication disk she hoped to plant on J. Aldrich Woodbury. She stared through the window into the lobby, noting a large mural behind the reservation desk.
“I wonder who that man is whose face is so prominent on the mural?” She hadn’t realized she had said this out loud when someone beside her in the black pants and vest of a Belvédère waiter spoke.
“It’s Ernst Ludwig Kirchner, a famous German expressionist artist who lived here in Davos for many years.” The waiter’s English was heavily accented but very understandable.
Jaime looked up to say “vielen Dank” to the man, and found the impish smile of her partner, Eddie. He winked, and asked, “Do you ladies need anything else to drink?”
“Nein, danke, we’re fine,” answered Andrea as Jaime recovered from her surprise.
“Then, I’ll just see if the fire needs tending.”
Eddie slipped over to the hearth and set aside the grate. Then he picked up a log waiting to be added to the fire and threw it on top, a little too forcefully. Sparks began to fly as one of the burning logs came spurting out, rolli
ng onto the floor. The two men who were seated by the fireplace scrambled over their padded chairs, frantically brushing off flying embers and hustling to avoid getting caught by the glowing log. As they stumbled away from the danger, calling the waiter an oaf and an idiot, Jaime slipped up behind them and with one slick move slipped the disk under Woodbury’s collar.
She returned quickly to her seat and picked up her drink.
“I’m impressed,” said Andrea. “Did they teach you how to pick pockets at Mountaintop, too?”
Mountaintop was the Operative training center inside Eden. Jaime blushed, and looked back over toward the fireplace to see Eddie sweeping up the mess and apologizing profusely to the two men who had regained their seats. But she noticed Woodbury wasn’t looking at the waiter at all. His gaze was directed in her direction.
Have I been made? Does he know what I just did?
But he wasn’t looking at Jaime. His eyes seemed locked on Andrea, and he had a very puzzled look.
Jaime stared down into her drink as if it were missing a slice of lime.
“Andrea, is there any reason Woodbury should know you? Are there pictures of you in any of your textbooks?”
“None. But there might be something else. My hair.”
Now she had Jaime’s interest piqued.
“Your hair?”
“You see, my hair has been this color since I was a teenager.”
“And…?”
“Well, I am embarrassed to admit this, but the reason I failed to complete my first mission was I was discovered. Caught snooping, and recognized due to my unique hair color.”
“Still, why would he…?” Jaime suddenly had a very weird idea. “Hey, you said he was grandnephew to Nelson Aldrich. Suppose they passed down the legend of the mysterious white-haired woman who died in the river. Maybe he thinks you’re a ghost!” She chuckled.
“Or an omen…” Andrea was very serious.
“Well, before he decides to come over and see if you’re spectral or real, let’s get going. We’ve done what we needed to do.”
Treasure of Eden Page 7
