Dead Wrong

by Richard Phillips

  On his left, Janet angled the Uzi’s muzzle up toward the driver’s side window. She reached out and held up a hand toward the slowing van, leaning her head out the window.

  The van rolled to a stop beside them. The driver spoke in heavily accented Spanish, his voice shrill with excitement.

  “We heard gunfire. What happened?”

  Janet replied in kind, her words rushed. “Another attack. Renaldo says The Ripper was hit. I have a badly wounded man in here who must get to the hospital immediately.”

  “Who is it?”

  Jack’s voice was low and sharp. “Now!”

  Their guns came up in unison as Jack leaned forward, aimed from the shoulder, and pulled the trigger. The first bullets out of Janet’s barrel killed the driver and the man in the passenger seat as Jack concentrated his fire on the back of the van, sweeping back and forth on full auto. In five seconds it was over; sixty-four rounds of 9mm Parabellum slugs had blown out all the windows and riddled the sides of the van with holes, some of which leaked blood from the dead men slumped against the interior.

  The driver’s foot came off the brake, and the van idled forward, left the road, and crashed into a tree. The flames started at a ruptured fuel line and quickly engulfed the vehicle, long orange tongues shooting out the windows, sending a cloud of black smoke up through the trees. A tire exploded with a loud bang, hurling burning pieces of rubber into the trees.

  Jack slid his seat up and forward. “Let’s go.”

  As Janet accelerated away from the scene, Jack again replaced the Uzi magazines, readying them to fire, even though he doubted they would be needed.

  As they approached Highway 4, Janet looked at Jack.

  “Where to?”

  “South and then east to Oruro. Do you know where Altmann was going with Tupac?”

  “No.”

  “To get the staff?”

  Janet spared him a sharp glance. “How do you know about that?”

  “You’re not the only one with contacts.”

  “It doesn’t do us any good. We can’t catch them.”

  “Maybe not. It doesn’t mean we can’t take it away from Altmann later, though.”

  “We?”

  Jack paused, rolling what he was about to say around on his tongue before he said it.

  “It seems I’m going to need your help after all. And before this is over, I think you’re going to need me too.”

  Jack watched her face as Janet kept her eyes fixed on the two-lane highway that stretched out before them. Whatever thoughts she might have had about his last statement she kept to herself.

  CHAPTER 77

  Levi Elias stared across the conference room table at Admiral Riles. His navy suit jacket bunched slightly at the shoulders as he leaned forward in his chair, resting his elbows on the table, his chin supported on his cupped fists. To the admiral’s right sat Dr. David Kurtz, the gray hair of the NSA’s chief computer scientist as wildly unkempt as ever, and Dr. Denise Jennings occupied the chair on the admiral’s left, her hair pulled back in a severe bun. They were two opposite bookends sharing the same concerned look.

  Admiral Riles’s voice held a note of disbelief. “You’re saying Conrad Altmann was playing us from the very beginning? And you believe he now has both the crown piece and the codes?”

  “Based on the message we just received from Janet Price, Altmann arrived at his Cochabamba estate this morning with a woman Janet had never seen before. Although we weren’t initially able to identify the woman, some additional information has just come to light.”

  Levi activated the view screen. “This is security checkpoint footage from BWI airport, recorded Saturday morning.”

  Levi clicked a button, and the video froze, showing a clear view of Dr. McCoy’s face as she placed her carry-on bag on the X-ray conveyor belt. Despite her newly black hair, the image left no doubt as to her identity.

  Turning his attention back to Riles, Levi continued to lay out the bad news. “Airline records indicate that she checked in with a passport under the name of Mary Davis on a flight connecting through Miami to La Paz. That flight arrived in Bolivia early this morning. I had our people check Dr. McCoy’s apartment. It shows evidence of a hasty departure.”

  Riles leaned back in his chair. “Do you mind telling me how Bones McCoy is connected to Conrad Altmann and how we missed it?”

  “As we’ve experienced before, background checks aren’t as complete as we would like to think. I’ve asked Dr. Jennings to initiate a high-priority correlative search to see if she can identify any links.”

  Admiral Riles turned to Dr. Jennings. “And?”

  “And I’ve got Big John looking into it. So far he hasn’t come up with anything.”

  “It.”

  “Pardon me, sir?”

  “Not ‘he.’ It hasn’t come up with anything. Big John is a neural network, not a person.”

  Levi felt the weight of Admiral Riles’s gaze shift back to him. “Where is Altmann now?”

  “We don’t know, sir. He flew out of Cochabamba with Tupac Inti on one of three helicopters headed west. We know he didn’t go back to La Paz.”

  “Then how did Janet contact us? Isn’t she with him?”

  The news wasn’t getting any better, and Levi didn’t enjoy being the messenger. But he earned his paycheck by giving his boss his best estimate of what was really happening, and it wasn’t his nature to dodge the tough facts.

  “No, sir. Altmann locked her in a cell before he left Cochabamba. She doesn’t know where he was headed.”

  “Then how did she contact us?”

  “Jack Gregory busted her out. Together they fought their way out of the compound.”

  “She’s still with Gregory?”

  “Right now they’re holed up together in Oruro, awaiting instructions.”

  Levi didn’t expect an emotional outburst from Admiral Riles, and he didn’t get one. But the admiral’s icy stare clearly communicated his mood.

  “Is Jack Gregory on board with us for this?”

  “Janet says he is.”

  “What do you think?”

  Levi paused. He’d been debating this very thing since he’d read Janet’s message. The Ripper had aided Janet six months ago. But after that operation he’d walked away despite Admiral Riles’s offer to let him lead the NSA’s top-secret cleanup team, of which Janet was a key member. At the time, Levi had been glad that Gregory had walked away. But that didn’t mean they couldn’t use him right now.

  Levi looked up from his study of his hands. “I think Gregory has his own agenda, but Janet’s going to need his help if she’s going to have a shot at repairing the damage that’s already been done.”

  The admiral stood up, and the others at the conference table echoed his movement.

  “Fine. We know that Tupac Inti is taking Altmann to the staff. Figure out where, and get Janet and Jack moving to intercept them.”

  At the door, the admiral turned back to face them.

  “The one thing Conrad Altmann couldn’t possibly do in all of this was break the codes on the Sun Staff. So how the hell did he con us into doing it for him? Find out! We’re the damn NSA, for God’s sake.”

  CHAPTER 78

  They’d been on the ground for five hours. In the lead, Tupac reveled in the feel of the high mountains of the Yungas beneath his feet and the fragrant smell of the thick vegetation as the aroma of the cloud forest filled his lungs. His leg muscles ached with exertion, and that too felt wonderful. Now he had the Nazis on his turf, and with any luck at all he would be the only member of his present party to walk back out of the deep canyon.

  Here in these steep, densely wooded canyons, just miles from the North Yungas Road, helicopters were useless, as were vehicles of any type. In this rugged country, even mules and donkeys had great difficulty getting around. And where Tupac was leading Conrad Altmann, the dark-haired woman, and the thirty armed men who accompanied them, foot travel was the only option.

 
He glanced at the woman. At just over five feet, she was slender. If she hadn’t worn such a severe countenance, she would have been quite pretty. Besides Tupac, she was the only unarmed member of the party, unless you counted her six-foot-long walking stick as a weapon.

  Uncuffed, Tupac had a ten-foot-length of rope tied around his waist to keep him from escaping, the other end secured to the big man Altmann called Dolf. The Nazis needn’t have bothered. Tupac had no intention of escaping, not until he took the backpack containing the golden orb from Altmann’s dead body.

  Tupac paused at the edge of a fifty-foot drop, searching for good footing to cross a spot where the trail had been washed out by water that cascaded down the verdant cliffs high above. Here in the cloud forest, man-made roads and trails didn’t last long if left untended. And this trail had been untended for quite some time. At the base of a tree that leaned into the slope on his right, a broken branch reached out, offering the false security of a compromised handhold. Ignoring it, Tupac ducked under, pushed his way through dense brush, and again picked up faint traces of the narrow trail.

  Behind him, the sound of rolling rock was followed by yells and curses as one of Altmann’s men almost fell from the ledge.

  A tug on the rope brought Tupac to a halt. He turned to face Altmann, who stepped up by Dolf.

  “How much longer until we get there?”

  Tupac looked up at the mountains that rose on both sides of the narrow canyon, pretending to search for landmarks. What he really wanted to see was some sign of the Quechua fighters who should be awaiting his arrival. But if they were out there, his trained eyes failed to spot them. Odd. He felt worry’s sharp knife edge nick the corner of his mind.

  “An hour. Maybe two, if your men continue having trouble keeping up.”

  “You’ll go at the pace I want you to.”

  “So do you want me to wait, or should I keep moving?”

  Altmann’s blue eyes flashed, but his anger did not make its way into his voice.

  “Keep moving forward until I tell you to stop.”

  Tupac turned and pushed his way through the undergrowth and vines that sought to obscure the path. Ahead, the trail descended, widening until two could walk abreast. Although Tupac only felt a slight breeze, dark clouds slid along the opposite side of the canyon, the curtain-like undulating ridge lines appearing and disappearing as the gray vapors scudded past. It was mid-afternoon, but the high clouds overhead and that drifting, smoke-like fog made it feel much later.

  Tupac tilted his head up to sniff the air. For a moment he’d smelled it, the fetid odor of a dead animal wafting away on the damp breeze. One of the moving clouds crawled along the steep hillside toward him, extending misty fingers that brushed Tupac’s skin, dropping the temperature noticeably. Again he caught the smell, much stronger this time. But it wasn’t an animal corpse that he smelled. It had that unique stink of gases released from a human body that was just beginning to decompose.

  Tupac slowed, pushing aside a branch that blocked his view of the treeless stretch where a rockslide had carved a path through the trees. This was the spot where it was supposed to happen. Tupac could sense what no white man could, and this was his plan. So why the hell was he feeling so wrong about it?

  Once again the wind changed direction, coming from behind him now, carrying that horrible smell away with it.

  “What’s wrong?”

  So intently had he been focused on the slide zone ahead that Altmann’s voice surprised him. Tupac considered his response and decided to go with the truth.

  “I smelled something.”

  Altmann’s laugh did nothing to alleviate his growing concern.

  “Quit stalling.”

  Tupac nodded and stepped out onto the slide. Ahead, fifty meters of jumbled rock and shale separated him from the next tree line. Stepping from boulder to boulder, he weaved up and down on the steep slope, avoiding stones that threatened to slip and slide under his weight. Three-quarters of the way across, he glanced back.

  All thirty-two Nazis were now out in the open, moving slowly and carefully to avoid triggering a fresh rockslide. Any second now a dozen machine guns should open up, firing from covered and concealed positions on both sides of the slide area, cutting down everyone but Tupac. Basilio, the best marksman of all of the Quechua men, would take out Altmann with a head shot, taking great care not to damage the orb the Nazi leader carried. Tupac had been very specific about that part of the plan, knowing that Conrad Altmann would never trust anyone but himself to carry the orb.

  By the time Tupac was ten meters from the trees, his worry had turned to fear. Why hadn’t the shooting started? Where were his men?

  Then he saw the body, sprawled face first across the trunk of a fallen tree. The man’s face was turned toward Tupac, his forehead obliterated by the bullet’s exit wound. But the prominent nose and staring eyes left no doubt as to the man’s identity. It was Basilio.

  Tupac stopped, fighting down the retching impulse that flooded the back of his throat with burning bile. From the state of the partially eaten body, it had lain here for at least two days.

  “A friend of yours?” Conrad Altmann’s voice carried the sneer that curled his lips.

  The fear Tupac felt drained away, leaving only sorrow in its wake. The signs were clear. His oldest and most trusted companion lay dead before him, shot in the back of the head by someone he had put his faith in. Now the meaning behind the lack of gunfire became clear. There would be other bodies scattered nearby.

  Tupac turned his gaze on Conrad Altmann, noting that Dolf stood ready to intercept him should Tupac give in to his desire to leap forward and snap Altmann’s neck.

  A noise in the brush to his right redirected Tupac’s eyes deeper into the trees. Five native men stepped forward, their assault rifles held in a relaxed posture, barrels pointed toward the ground. Tupac knew each and every one of them. His hands clenched so tightly that both sets of knuckles cracked, but before he could move, Tupac felt the rope around his waist pull tight.

  Again Conrad Altmann spoke. “Most people have a price. It’s only a matter of negotiation.”

  Finally words formed on Tupac’s tongue. “If you already owned these people, why did you need me to lead you here?”

  “I didn’t. But I dearly wanted to see that look on your face. Even though your friends can show me to the cave, they have been unable to find the staff’s hiding place within it. And only you can take me to the altar.”

  Tupac looked into the Nazi’s face, noting the pleasure in those blue eyes. Tupac considered his remaining options. He could take a suicidal leap as he led them toward the staff. But that would merely delay the inevitable. With enough manpower, Altmann would find it and, eventually, the Altar of the Gods. That would mean that everything Tupac had endured had been for nothing, that his loyal friends had sacrificed their lives in vain.

  The decision made itself. He would take Altmann to the staff, would escort him to the altar. It was the worst-case contingency for which Tupac had prepared.

  CHAPTER 79

  Jack sat on the couch in their hotel suite, cleaning weapons and watching Janet Alexandra Price. Upon arriving in Oruro, Janet had procured a new laptop and the dye that had returned her hair to its natural brunette color. Having also ditched the blue contact lenses, she focused her gaze on the laptop while she waited for her hair to dry.

  It was unusual for a field operative to have a degree in computer science. When the CIA had recruited her from the University of Maryland, they had planned to train her as an analyst. But her trainers had soon realized that keeping the two-time NCAA women’s triathlon champion behind a desk wasn’t feasible.

  Jack knew that Admiral Riles had stolen her from the CIA to join a top-secret team he had created to augment the NSA’s electronic intelligence collection mechanisms. So Janet had left a budding career as a CIA agent, adopting an NSA-provided cover that she’d found religion and would be doing international missionary work.


  Jack chuckled at the thought. Right.

  Janet looked up from her laptop and arched an eyebrow at him.

  “What?”

  “Nothing. Just thinking about old times.”

  She shook her head. “And Baikonur struck you as funny?”

  “Not Baikonur.” He decided to change the subject. “Any word from the NSA on Altmann’s location?”

  “Not yet. Apparently he’s not in any of Bolivia’s ten largest cities, and he hasn’t left the country. Admiral Riles has retargeted a number of national collection assets to try to track him down.”

  “Aren’t you worried about your communications being intercepted?”

  “Not really. It’s a new laptop that I personally wiped and then downloaded and installed some of the NSA’s latest tools on. Except for standard WiFi, it’s not emitting any extraneous radio frequency signals.”

  “I did that in Santa Cruz, and you found me,” said Jack.

  “The stuff you were using was dated.”

  “You gave it to me six months ago.”

  “Like I said, dated.”

  Janet pushed her chair back from the small table and turned to look at him.

  “I need you to tell me how you found out about the Incan Sun Staff and what you learned.”

  Jack finished wiping down his H&K P30S and slid it back into his holster.

  “Share and share alike?”

  This time Janet hesitated, her brown eyes studying his face.

  “Okay. You first.”

  Jack stood up, walked over to his kitbag, grabbed the journal pages from an inside pocket, and set them on the table beside the laptop.

  “I took that from Altmann’s study in Cochabamba.”

  Janet glanced at the title on the cover page. “So this is what used to fill the empty binder.”

  “An extract from Pizarro’s journal. It mentions the Sun Staff prominently.”

  “But what prompted you to take this in the first place?”