“What do I do?” Lars returned.
“You’re a naval officer,” Nicole said.
He nodded. “Special Ops.” He began to unbutton his shirt. “We do covert operations,” he said. “A night like this gives you just enough light to see by without having to give your position away by using lights. If you have an inflatable or a kayak, you can move silently through channels that would stave in a deeper bottomed vessel.”
He rolled his shoulders as if they were tight. “Maybe it’s just because I’m used to thinking like an invader, or maybe it’s because I just found out about the chip, but I feel unusually apprehensive tonight.”
“What should we do?”
“Prepare. Lock up. Plan an escape route. Things we’ve already done. If we’re attacked, don’t wait for me. Take the boy and go into the tunnel. Promise me.” He didn’t touch her. His arms were held behind his back.
“You’re frightening me.”
“I won’t apologize. Fear is a useful thing when there is something to be afraid of. Anyone who attacks us is primarily after you and Matteo. Promise me at the first sign of danger, you’ll take him and head for the tunnel where they can’t find you.”
Nicole didn’t have to think. Matteo was her first priority. “I promise.”
CHAPTER THIRTY-FOUR
Lind Island
Lord Lindorm’s nephew and sword bearer, Oswain, looked up from the document he was translating for the Eldest. “Kian,” he said, “Ask the Eldest to come here.”
“You’re summoning the Eldest?” gasped Kian Lindorm.
“He will not want me to leave this to attend to him,” Oswain turned back to the screen and resumed his furious scribbling.
Switzerland
Christina, Duchess of Balaur, reread what she had translated and pressed a buzzer that summoned her husband.
Ivan Sarkany burst into her office with his shirt buttoned askew and his hair uncombed. “Is it the baby?” he asked in alarm.
She shook her head and handed him her notes. “If this isn’t a con, we have a major problem.”
Ivan scanned what she had written. “How certain are you of your translation?”
“My translation is just fine,” she assured him tartly. “It’s whether our informant is telling the truth. Just how likely is it that someone has conveniently betrayed the identity of Vladimir the Enforcer?”
But Ivan wasn’t listening to his wife, he was too busy speaking into his phone.
* * *
Tarakona Island
Roland Voros opened another email. It was just one of hundreds that had to be dealt with every morning. This one was different only because it had many levels of encryption. He redirected it to his decoding program and forgot about it. He focused on the string of decisions his business empire required today. He was almost ready to stop for breakfast, when his computer alarm screeched. He opened the decoding program where the screen glowed red.
It had to be a hoax. But if so, it was a convincing lie. His phone began to ring. The computer he used only for Guild business began chirping and humming and ringing. Emails from the executive streamed steadily into his inbox – each one more urgent than the next. Vladimir the Enforcer had been double-crossed.
Cyprus
Lord Spyridon’s finger hovered over the delete button. Some tingling of his dragon intuition made him hesitate. He double-checked the subject line and sender on the offending email and rotated his chair so it faced the credenza behind him. He opened drawers and retrieved the encrypted laptop.
He was about to connect with his email server when the Guild phone rang. He would have ignored any other summons, but this was the High Marshal. “Good afternoon, Your Excellency,” he answered. “How may the Archivist serve you?”
* * *
Loire-du-Bois
“I have men I can call on in America,” Lord Lindorm said. “In fact, Roland, they should be in the air right now.” Thorvald glanced at his watch. “I can recall them. But they should be landing in Curacao in two hours.”
Roland laughed. “What are their orders, sir?”
Thorvald beamed into his monitor. “They are to get to San Michaela ASAP. I have left the details to them.”
“Do the others know they are coming?”
For the first time, Thorvald Lindorm looked grave. “They have been notified. But they have not responded.”
Roland Voros raised his brows. “That is worrying.”
“It is indeed, High Marshal. But in light of the communication we all received yesterday, we must assume that San Michaela is no longer a safe haven. They may be under attack.”
“Agreed. It was probably too late when we sent teams to neutralize the Russians,” said Roland. “But I have great hopes that Christina will be able to hit them harder than even the most accomplished of our warriors.”
“She is working on it. If the codes supplied by the informant are still current, she ought to be able to seize control of the Russian’s ill-gotten gains by the end of today.”
“Always supposing this does not turn out to be a gigantic hoax.” Lindorm smoothed his mustache.
“Always supposing. However, so far the information we have received has all been good. My Maoris found the orphanage in Thailand as we were told we would. They have taken custody of seventeen boys aged from a few months to eleven. The attendants do not seem to be aware that there was anything odd about their institution. They bought the story that the raid was being carried out by an international aid organization and opened their records. They had records for previously placed youngsters. Twenty-two in all.”
“So many?” asked Lindorm.
“That we know of. The orphanage didn’t find it odd that the children who found homes were all over ten. It looks as if Vladimir was retrieving the firelings before they hit puberty. When we were attacked in New Zealand, we wondered at the smallness of the dragons.” Roland shook his head.
“They were just teenagers. Cannon fodder. What kind of monster breeds his own disposable troops?” demanded Thorvald.
“The Countess Montenegro,” replied Voros. “If we are to believe that the Russian mafia is being run by Vadim’s mother!”
“Incredible,” Thorvald said. “That is the least believable thing of all. It is a vile accusation to make about a wonderful woman. The Countess Montenegro was a gracious lady and a loyal dragoness.”
“Was, sir?” Roland raised his eyebrows. “Whoever or whatever Vladimir is, they are very much alive.”
“The Countess died years ago,” Lindorm said. “Only Vadim remained of that line.”
“Everything else has checked out, sir. But I will investigate this with an open mind. And I will be in France ASAP.”
***
Tarakona Island
“Vancleve?” Roland spoke directly to his pilot. “I wish to be in Wellington by eleven this morning. I will need the company jet as soon as we land. File a direct route from Wellington to Paris. I will need transportation to Loire-du-Bois when we arrive.”
Kayla and Aidan were still at the breakfast table when he emerged from his office. “Good morning, sweetheart,” he said as he kissed his wife’s cheek. “I have bad news. I have to leave for France in an hour.”
Kayla Voros raised her brows. “What’s going on now? What’s more important than your family?” Her voice was tart.
“Emergency meeting of the Executive. We know where and who Vladimir the Enforcer is. I have to go. This is our chance to put an end to the campaign against our race.”
“Just like that.” Kayla didn’t hide her surprise. “I thought he was so deeply embedded and concealed that you couldn’t get so much as a sniff of his location.”
“She,” said Voros with satisfaction. “She’s been sold out. Someone in the organization has sent us chapter and verse. Her probable location. Everything.” Voros drank coffee and ate eggs. He rose. “Aidan, you be good for your Mamma, and you help her with your baby brother. I’ll be back as soon as I can.”
CHAPT
ER THIRTY-FIVE
Winston and George were patrolling the night skies above San Michaela. Their great black wings were spread in effortless flight as they circled the island. They made their slow circuits just below the clouds that covered the half-moon. Far below the Caribbean Sea was a clear, barely moving basin in which the reef and its inhabitants were dark shapes. The waves barely wet the beaches and pier where entry to the island was possible. All was peaceful beauty tonight, just as it had been on previous nights.
The flotilla of inflatables simply appeared, seemingly out of nowhere, in a semicircle that converged on the two access points.
Winston glanced across at his brother. At the same moment, they opened their throats and began to sing a war song. They were immediately joined in the air by two more black-winged Maori dragons who echoed their fearsome battle cries. Behind them came the smaller, bright blue dragon lord, Theo Lindorm, on iridescent blue wings.
The inflatables carried a small army of attackers. Winston sniffed the air. Bears, tigers and a whiff or two of ordinary human. The attackers were focused on navigating the rocks. Guttural whispers floated up to the dragons as one vessel after another came to grief in the formidable currents and sharp rocks that protected San Michaela. Two of the small crafts lost air and capsized. The men attempted to board the other vessels, but were repelled with oars and guns. They disappeared as the rip current sucked them beneath the waves.
The attackers glanced up at the skies, but the night was dark. They could hear the fearsome battle cries of the Maoris, but against the cloud cover the airborne dragons were imperceptible. Winston signaled the others with whistles. Fire would thin the numbers of inflatables that made it onto the island. The dragons began to execute the maneuvers they had planned and practiced. The shrieks of the attackers joined the mighty song of the Maoris.
* * *
The brassy calls woke Lars. This was followed by the electronic beeping that more formally signaled attack. He sprang out of bed. He had not realized that the Maoris’ war songs would stir his blood and demand that he join them. But his role was different. He was not to go into battle but coordinate the others. After he had ensured the safety of his mate and son.
Nicole was already sitting up in bed. Her dark curls were tumbled with sleep and bed sport. “What is it?”
“We’re under attack. Get dressed. Make sure you have shoes.” Lars finished cramming his legs into pants and grabbed his loafers and a shirt as he stalked toward the connecting door. “I’ll get Matteo. You meet us in the kitchen.”
The pulsing alarm was still loud and urgent. Lars silenced it with his phone. Matteo was already siting up. He was sleepy but awake. “Get dressed,” Lars said. “It’s time to go below.”
“Tell me again why I am hiding,” Nicole hissed as the three of them stood anxiously waiting for the hatch to the wine cellar to open.
Lars damned the slowness of the pneumatics. The counter had moved as swiftly as he could push it, but the staircase was taking forever to emerge. He calmed his breathing. “Matteo needs his mother and a bodyguard. You are both. You cannot be tracked below.” The staircase snapped into place. He kissed her once. “Do what your mom tells you,” he said to the fireling.
The boy’s arms came around his legs in a last, fierce hug. And then they were descending the stairs. Lars secured the island over the trapdoor and turned to the surveillance system. Even through the walls and windows, he could hear the loud, brassy song of the Maoris. Their cries seemed to come from every direction.
The song was at once bloodcurdling and compelling. It called Lars to action with his brothers. He longed to obey its potent summons. But tonight that was not his role. He could only hope the singing sounded as harrowing and disorienting to the enemy as it did to him – without the comfort of knowing the Maoris were allies.
The ferocious melody was interrupted by the sound of gunfire and screams. Lars desperately wanted to be flying with his cousin and his comrades, but his assigned duty was to act as information officer. He had been checking his laptop as he walked towards the study. There he was able to monitor the entire array of CCTV footage on big screens. This was no time to fiddle with tablets or laptops. He sat down and focused. Where sensors detected the enemy, he relayed the intel.
Down by the dock, dozens of inflatables could be seen making a slow and hesitant approach. As first one and then another was sunk by the rocks concealed in the water, the small vessels changed course in an attempt to avoid that fate. Overhead the Maori dragons created the additional hazard of fire.
The small patch of beach where the tunnel opened was undisturbed. The twin arcs of the Zodiacs were ragged now that their ranks had been thinned. The inflatables had been scattered as they fought the rip currents, the rocks shielding the channels, and the flaming breath of the defending dragons.
The cameras showed drowning men ignored or worse by their supposed comrades. The men in the boats were taking pot shots at their own rather than at the dragons overhead. What was wrong with this picture? Surely there must be a method to this apparent madness? Lars scanned the images coming from the cameras aimed at the skies. What they needed was radar. Or sonar. If he had intended to attack the island, he would have staged just such a distraction so that a submersible could execute the real raid.
His intuition was now unrelentingly alerting him. Long training made his thoughts orderly. Mission One was securing Nicole and Matt. Whatever the source of the attack, they were safe enough where they were. Mission Two was to keep Nicole and Matteo’s escape route open. Mission Three was to prevent death or injury to their side. If the assault came on the beaches, the Maoris and Theo were as safe airborne as anywhere and well able to defend themselves. Safeguarding Nicole’s escape route was his clear priority.
The pier and the wide beach down from it were known access points. They appeared on public maps. Only the channels that permitted shallow-bottomed vessels to travel safely were something of a secret. They were part of no official map, but over the years a large number of sailors had learned of them. Could the Russians have suborned this information? Perhaps. Did they know about the secret stretch where the tunnel emerged?
If Lars had been commanding an invasion of San Michaela, he would have assumed that if the Lindorms could land boats on the island, there had to be a channel and landing point. He would have sent small submersibles to scout around the island until they found access to the shore. Using submersibles would have been risky. And expensive. But perhaps the Russians did not care how much money they threw at recovering Nicole and Matteo.
His intuition was humming louder now. His mind fought with his overwhelming desire to take dragon and defend his mate. But he could protect her better by focusing on the cameras that covered the shoreline.
Outside, the blaring of the Maoris increased in volume and lowered in pitch until it was a physical assault on heart and mind. It energized Lars. He hoped it terrified the enemy. He scanned each screen in turn and spotted what he should have seen from the first. On the south shore where the reef served as a double-walled defense against any approach, there was a gap. It was invisible to him as it appeared on no footage. But he conjured an image from his memory.
No cameras had been placed there as it should be a deadly barrier to a man. But it might well be passable in a small submersible that had foreknowledge of the narrow channel and the luck of the devil. If no rogue waves or tidal surge threw the vessel onto the rocks, a big cat might be able to leap up and over the steep and jagged wall of rock to make the smooth and sandy beach beyond. And the Russians seemed well-supplied with tigers.
Lars could see that the sea was calm tonight. This was where the danger would come from. Could an incursion from that quarter be seen from the air? He picked up his phone and began to speak into it in code. He was no longer troubled by thoughts of Nicole and Matteo. He had thrust his worry for their safety into a watertight compartment while his brain dealt with what he could influence.
Better by
far to concentrate on what he knew best: the pattern of water, ripples and foam that indicated a breaching sub. He methodically scanned the periphery of the island, while another portion of his attention went over all he knew of the attacks on Tarakona and Isle Balaur. Just how potent was the Cloak of Invisibility? Could it be used to conceal an invading force?
The surface of the Caribbean Sea was barely ruffled by the wind. The moon was concealed behind the clouds which were growing heavier. This was the calm before the storm. He flicked to the cameras that scanned the sky. The massive black Maori dragons still patrolled the air. Their daunting song still filled the night with potent threat. Far out to sea, Lars saw the first lightning bolts strike.
He returned his eyes to the film of the tunnel entrance. Here the sea was forced by the powerful rip currents into a whirlpool that foamed and crashed against the rocks. And that maelstrom was no fixed peril. A shift in the sea might double its size or shrink it in minutes. Tonight, there was only the narrowest stretch of calm water in which a vessel could land or launch, whether it was a submerged or surface craft.
No moonlight reflected off the sea. The clouds glowed dark gray as the lightning flashed in the upper atmosphere. Lars could just make out the spray as the ocean crashed and then subsided against the rocks flinging water forty feet high.
Underneath the singing of the Maoris rumbled the deeper tones of thunder. The storm was growing closer. Lars paused to check his weapon and he almost missed it. The sea developed a long, pale oval of smoother water. It moved slowly toward the island in a serpentine path he guessed was dictated by the currents. It might have been a whale or dolphin. But he was betting it was a two-man sub, just small enough to penetrate the narrow channel. And even so, it might yet come to grief.
The oval patch of calmer water meandered past the tunnel entrance and drifted toward the landing beach. Lars brought up that screen and enlarged it. He barked into his phone and hoped the system was working properly. That was the trouble with electronics – too damned many places it could fail. Particularly in a storm. The patch of pale water crept close to shore and then moved off again as if skittish. And then the water rippled and parted and water poured off a twelve-foot submersible.
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