January 26, 2007, 1:24 a.m.
(1 day, 8 hours, 6 minutes until end of auction)
Autobahn A4
10 kilometres northeast of Château-Thierry, France
* * *
The BMW M5 sedan flew like an angry wraith along the highway toward Paris, its driver expertly controlling the machine while his mind focused elsewhere.
For a fleeting moment Frank McMillan had been pissed off when he realized Richards had escaped. But he quickly let that go and moved on. It only wasted energy to dwell on mistakes when the information he sought was now his.
Instead, Frank savored his memory of the encounter. As if in slow-motion replay, he could picture the very tip of the whip making its first contact with Jaime Richards’ skin. He remembered that instant, the involuntary flinch, the split second before that lovely scream, and her bare back bowed as every muscle constricted in a vain attempt to escape the source of pain.
Then came McMillan’s favorite moment, when the first drops of blood welled up in the open wound left by the whip. There was more blood to follow, but that first hint of red drew him in like a tiger to its prey.
Frank savored that memory, and the beast inside him roused at the thought of finishing the job he had begun in the tower.
But first, back to the mission at hand. Upon reaching the Autobahn, McMillan had kicked the BMW engine into “M Drive,” allowing him to make full use of the 500 hp engine. His heads-up display now read 250kph, and while he knew the auto could go even faster, he would look for a smoother spot in the road before opening it up completely. The French did not manage their highways with the same care as the Germans.
“Brutish” was how one reviewer had labeled this car. Brutish, maybe, but Frank wasn’t interested in style. Performance mattered. Performance, and the challenge of controlling a touchy gear system. In the right hands, this car had the power to leave any competitor in the dust. And his were the right hands.
“Tel Aviv,” the driver spoke to the voice-actuated Bluetooth phone system. In response, it dialed one of his CIA connections in Israel. The operative picked up the line on its second ring.
Without introduction, Frank went straight to the point: “Okay, tell me. Who’s selling the box?”
“A Bedouin tribal leader named al-Asim,” replied the agent speaking from his office in Tel Aviv. “They live out in Judea, south of Qumran. There’s a big wedding there in a few days.”
“I’ll need a cover. Have a concept for me by the time I call back from the airport in two hours.”
“Frank,” complained the agent. “You ask too much. I don’t have time for this! Look, I’m working a big project for my boss right now. He wouldn’t be happy if he knew the time I’ve already spent–”
“I will say this once, and once only.” The menace in McMillan’s voice was palpable. “I have not forgotten your screwup in New Orleans. One word from me and you’re out.” He could feel the agent squirm on the other end of the line. Frank knew he had him by the short hairs. “My cover. Two hours.”
“All right.”
Frank smiled at the note of defeated resignation in the man’s voice as he hung up.
Pathetic, and clueless. Don’t you know you’re only in the game as long as you are useful to me?
Frank McMillan had learned early in his career that the game was best played by gathering data, or, better, dirt, on all his associates. Peers, subordinates, superiors, no one was exempt. He had learned this the hard way when another agent had threatened to use one of his missteps against him. Of course he had to kill her, but he would always be grateful to her for introducing him to the game.
Now, after twenty-plus years, Frank’s collection of information was formidable. After the debacle with the Dagger of Ur a few years before, most station chiefs would have been fired. Instead, his knowledge of the darker past of several of his superiors enabled him to skate by, sliding to another assignment.
The nervous director forced to be the bearer of the news that McMillan was being transferred to Tunisia had asked oh, so politely that Frank just lay low for a while and let it all blow over. They would “get him back in the game” soon. Well, of course the man had reason to bend over backward to keep Frank happy. A picture, as they say…worth a thousand words.
McMillan had hated Tunisia, the isolation. But he had bided his time, and now he was back in the game, using all his resources once again.
He called up the number for his office assistant, whom he had woken fifteen minutes earlier to make flight arrangements.
“What do you have for me?”
“Sir, there’s a six-oh-five flight on Czech Air into Tel Aviv. You would arrive at eleven-thirty local.”
“Do they even have First Class on those flights?”
“I don’t know, but your next options don’t arrive until late afternoon. I’ll look into it if you want more comfortable arrangements.”
“No, book me on the early one, First Class if they have it.”
“Will we need to get your weapon on board?” Even though he asked nonchalantly, a positive answer from Frank would necessitate hours spent getting clearance.
“No, I want to go in under the radar. Just list me as a businessman. I’ll pick up firepower on the other end.”
“Anything else, sir?”
“That’s it for now. I’ll check back in after arriving at the airport.”
He switched off the phone and settled back to plan his next moves.
What to do about Richards? How best to control her in their next engagement?
Searching for some key to unlock the mystery of Jaime Richards, Frank replayed their encounter in the bell tower once again, this time with focus on her face and voice. And suddenly he remembered a moment of vulnerability, one he could exploit when he next had her in his grasp. He smiled a wicked smile as he flew down the highway toward Paris.
January 26, 2007, 1:44 a.m.
(1 day, 7 hours, 46 minutes until end of auction)
The A1, France
* * *
Shortly after the heady victory of supplying the information about what Frank knew and his airline plans out of Paris–Charles de Gaulle Airport, Jaime realized just how much trouble she was in.
Assuming they were in a rental car, Frank would undoubtedly turn it in to the company from which it was rented. Thus he would be there, awaiting his paperwork, when the clerk on duty filled in the miles and checked the backseat and the trunk.
What do I do when they check the trunk at the rental car return? she texted.
Jaime had been riding in the trunk for an hour. Her muscles were cramped and protesting, the motor was loud, and the ride wasn’t exactly smooth. The blood on her back was scabbing, and she was fairly certain some of it had melded to the inside of the sweatshirt.
Still…there was a great satisfaction to the fact that Frank thought he’d won. He’d caught her and tortured her. He had no idea the roles had reversed and he’d become the prey.
If she could help, even in some small way, to make this into a world where the likes of Frank McMillan did not kill, capture, or torture people, she would rest easier at night. It was worth the risk. Even if they were getting to the danger point.
Jaime had spent the ride in the trunk refusing to let herself think about the evening. About how wonderful it had been, how much she needed a friend like Mark–and how it seemed like whenever she let her guard down something terrible happened.
Jaime, we’re following you. If he stops for petrol, we’ll bring you in. If he doesn’t, we’ll have someone there whenever, wherever he stops the car. Are you all right? How can we assist you once you’re safe?
Jaime sighed. Clothes. Shower. Bed, she typed.
You’ve got it, came the reply.
And I need Frank not to shoot me between now and then, she thought to herself, and tried to arrange herself more comfortably once again.
January 26, 2007, 2:36 a.m.
(1 day, 6 hours, 54 minutes until end of a
uction)
Paris–Charles de Gaulle Airport, France
* * *
The frightening thing was, Jaime couldn’t tell where Frank was going once he got to the airport. She knew Eden Operatives were able to track the car–because she had a permanent tracking device in her body and she was in the car–but also knew they didn’t want to be close enough that Frank would know they were following.
If he opened the trunk, she would have only a brief moment of surprise. If someone else opened the trunk–such as a car rental agent–she would have a few more valuable seconds to get out before Frank realized what happened. Then what would he do? Shoot her in full view of a rental car agent?
Although–she wouldn’t put it past him to shoot her and the rental car guy. Remorse didn’t seem built into Frank’s genes.
Worst case would be if somehow he didn’t go to the rental return, pulled into a deserted garage, found her somehow, shot her, and left her in the trunk to be discovered by the scent of her decomposing body. All right, the other Operatives would find her before she decomposed, but the fact that he would think he could get away with it was chilling.
She had to stop running worst-case scenarios in her mind. The best she could do was be ready to act, to use her moment of surprise.
Jaime knew when they entered the airport roadways because the GPS in her handheld showed her they did. At some point, Frank used his turn indicator and turned into a structure. Probably a parking garage. She didn’t know if rental car returns were inside a structure at Charles de Gaulle or not.
She worked to quietly get herself into a position where she could get out–without lying on her back. Every movement in that cramped space was difficult, especially since Frank had turned off the radio and she didn’t want him to hear anything.
Then he swerved into a sharp turn, as if pulling into a parking spot.
Jaime stopped breathing.
The engine was cut. Frank punched the front dashboard twice, as if for emphasis. Then he opened his door and stepped out. He hit the “all unlock” button, and the locks on the backseat popped up.
He opened the door to the backseat.
Jaime tried to breathe silently. Her handheld was in her purse, so no light could escape from the trunk between the seats.
Frank grabbed his bag. Jaime strained to hear him talk to someone. Finally he said, “Level H. Space Sixty-seven.”
The door slammed. The sound of his footfalls retreated.
He’d obviously given someone else the location of the car.
No sooner had she thought that than the trunk popped up. She sat up quickly, ready to hit someone’s solar plexus and jump out.
“Have you journeyed well?” asked the older man who looked down at her. He extended his hand.
“Exceedingly well,” she answered with untold relief, returning the Eden password. “Considering,” she couldn’t help but add.
A small car idled right behind him.
“Your driver’s headed for the terminal,” said the man as he opened the back door of the Eden car for Jaime and climbed back into the passenger seat. “Let’s be gone before someone picks up the Beemer.”
Jaime got just a fleeting look at the Frenchwoman driving the car before she lay down on her stomach on the floor of the car as they headed out of the garage.
January 26, 2007, 4:26 a.m.
(1 day, 5 hours, 4 minutes until end of auction)
Aéroport de Paris–Le Bourget
Le Bourget, France
* * *
Jaime thought they’d bring her to a safe house. In her mind, she’d pictured a charming old French house with a movable bookcase and a secret apartment, leftover from the days of the French underground. A hot shower. Croissants and fresh-squeezed juice. Hot tea, all on a table with a French country cloth.
But that was what she would henceforth think of as a “trunk fantasy”–something she created in her mind because she had too much time to do nothing but ride in someone’s trunk.
Where they did take her was an airplane hangar at Aéroport de Paris–Le Bourget, a general aviation airport eleven kilometers southwest of de Gaulle. The two Operatives who’d retrieved her had pulled up to the hangar, handed her a small suitcase, then handed her over and taken off. Two men in mechanic’s jumpsuits greeted her. The hangar itself was not heated and one of the men handed her a coat, but she didn’t dare put it on.
The taller gentleman brought her back to an office, which was heated. He nodded back to where there seemed to be a small apartment and took her back inside.
The term “apartment” was too generous. There was a bathroom with a shower, and an outer room with a cot, a table, a hot plate, and a small refrigerator.
He went into the bathroom and turned on the shower, indicating it might take a minute to get hot.
The other man brought her a steaming cup of coffee. Then they each shook her hand, gave a small nod, and left.
Jaime opened the small duffel bag she’d been given. Obviously, no one had time to go shopping in the middle of the night. They had raided some poor woman’s closet to get Jaime a few things to wear. The pants were black and tight and the blouse was white and frilly, with a scoop neck.
Jaime didn’t know whether to laugh or cry. She was injured; she was exhausted; she had hoped for softer surroundings. She didn’t do frilly and she hated coffee.
On the other hand, Frank hadn’t killed her.
She was going to let that one win the day.
She went back into the bathroom, into the shower, which was now running warm, heading for hot. She turned down the water pressure so it wouldn’t break any scabbing that was starting on her back.
Jaime stepped into the stall and only then let the silent tears run down her face. Could it be true? She didn’t want to believe Mark had done that to her–but if he hadn’t, how had Frank known that they’d nearly had lunch in Laret but had seemingly spontaneously changed their minds and come to France? Why had neither Mark nor Derrick come to her aid? And who did Frank threaten to hurt to get Mark to agree? What did Frank say? “Something Shepard obviously values more than he values you.” Or did he say someone?
How can I do this? How can I choose to live in a world in which someone I trusted with every fiber of my being handed me over to Frank McMillan?
She used the trick Yani had taught her and gave herself three minutes to do nothing but mourn for her friendship with Mark. Then she washed her hair, enjoying the warm water running down her face and the front of her body. She turned around gingerly to try to wash away the spilled blood from her back, without breaking open the wounds.
What happens next? she wondered. She needed someone to help her bandage her back. Surely there were medical Operatives who could help? This was nowhere near as urgent as the medical crisis she’d had with Yani, but there had been help in that situation, albeit remotely, right away.
She smiled, imagining going home to her rented house in Hochspeyer and turning up at nearby Landstuhl and trying to explain how a chaplain had been whipped while on leave. “I fell off my bike,” wouldn’t quite cut it. She sort of wished Jenkins could be there, just so she could show him that the life of a chaplain could offer a few surprises. She hated that he thought he had her pegged.
On the other hand, Jenkins’ most likely response could be wishing he’d been there to help Frank with the whip. So never mind.
Jaime had a feeling there would be at least a debriefing from the Frank interlude, and that someone else would be coming to this “safe hangar” to talk to her.
She just didn’t have any idea what the person would say.
January 26, 2007, 5:26 a.m.
(1 day, 5 hours, 4 minutes until end of auction)
Judean wilderness west of the Dead Sea
Israel
* * *
The two Arabian horses, one white and one black, galloped through the inky darkness of the desert dawn. They knew their footing, as this was a path they’d often run, with these same
two riders–the boy on the black and the girl on the white. They wore no saddles, only tasseled bridles.
Safia clung to the mane of Pasha, her horse, as he flew over the sand. She controlled him not with a bit but with the will of the partnership that ran from her shoulders through the hooves of her horse. To Safia this was, without question, the definition of perfect happiness. The wind in her hair, the strength and speed of Pasha beneath her, her cousin Tarif riding beside her.
Tarif’s older brother was the horse master. He was a strapping young man with a ready smile and a gentle strength to which all the horses responded. He’d first put Tarif on a horse–the gentlest one, with a lead, of course–when he was barely able to walk. By the time he was nine or ten, Tarif was an accomplished rider.
Safia had been only four when she’d followed Tarif as he had left camp and gone to the horses. When she saw what he was doing, she had forgotten her manners and her shyness and had presented herself to the brothers, pleading to be allowed to ride. Even as a little girl, she knew the boys would be in trouble–especially Suleiman–if he let her. But she wanted it so badly, and she had believed that since her heart was pure and her desire was so intense somehow it would be possible.
They had let her ride.
Suleiman stood guard while Tarif had put her on the gentlest horse, as his brother had once done for him.
Riding that mare had been everything Safia had thought it would be, and more. Riding became an unbreakable bond that she and Tarif shared. She thought of him as the only one in her life who understood her passion–who even knew she had passion. He had not only taught her to ride; he had taught her to track as well. Things that only boys were supposed to know.
During times like these, when they secretly rode to greet the dawn, the pounding of the horses’ hooves gave rhythm to the pounding of her blood, and gave her the wonderful knowledge that real joy was possible–and the terrible assurance that all of it would soon be taken from her forever: the nomadic lifestyle, the ability to be with Tarif, the freedom of the horses. It was all going to disappear. Their way of life was going to disappear. They would be relocated to a piece of land no one else wanted and given slabs of concrete on which to build shanties.
Treasure of Eden Page 14
