The bed brushed his calf. The shirt flew toward where he guessed the chair was. He yawned and reached for his shorts.
Pinpricks of light exploded across his field of vision. Hunt teetered upright for a moment. Then the grad student fell face forward.
∞
In her dark room, Quick leaned against the door and took several deep breaths. Sending Davies was a typical patronizing move by her bosses. But what pissed her off most was that she had let him get under her skin. After a final, long exhalation, she flipped the light switch.
First she saw the scattered papers.
Then the overturned luggage.
Finally her laptop case lying open and empty on the bed.
Quick spun, yanked the door, and rushed out into the corridor.
“Zach,” she shouted.
Down the hall, Davies stepped back from his half-open door. “Change your mind about that nightcap?”
“Dream on.” Quick pushed past him into his room. She hit the light switch. Jumbled papers and uprooted luggage also covered his bed and floor.
“What the hell?” Davies said, trailing Quick.
Sam Quick grabbed Zach Davies and dragged him toward the stairway. “Eric and Kalia.”
– 11 –
Tuesday, 10 July
London
Hampstead Heath was a perilous place after dark, mainly populated by seekers of anonymous assignations, illicit drugs, or easy targets for violent acts. But Utley turned off Millfield Lane and strolled into the park as serenely as if he were taking a noontime promenade.
Under only the light of the crescent moon, he smoothly navigated the curving pathways. To his left, the single-sex swimming ponds glimmered like silvery amoebas. While all around him, the long shadows of the trees and the bushes lay unmoving.
After rounding a final bend, he stopped, took his position on a wooden bench, and watched a path leading north. Several minutes later, a figure stepped from the trees bordering the walkway, into the dull sheen of the open range.
Watching the encroaching shadow, Utley felt no fear. He simply fingered the cool metal strapped to his ankle.
His hand remained locked on the grip of his Walther P99 until a light flashed three times from the shadow’s direction. Then his fingers shifted to the penlight fastened alongside the pistol. He withdrew the tiny lamp, aimed it, and flicked it on and off twice.
The shadow advanced, arrived at the bench, and sat beside Utley. The newcomer stared straight out into the night. “Greetings, friend. How can I be of assistance?”
“I need to call in all my markers.”
The man’s head turned slightly toward Utley before returning to the forward position.
“I have word that the cargo is finally in transit,” Utley continued.
“I see. What do you require?”
“A tail car and drivers. The package will leave Baku on a Il-76 scheduled to depart within the hour, with an anticipated arrival point of Jince in the Czech Republic.”
“I’ll activate an associate in Prague.”
“Good. And it goes without mention—you remember our arrangement?”
“Mum is the word, old friend.”
Utley nodded, not the slightest bit concerned. He knew the man and his associates would never betray him, or at the least, they would never betray his money. “And the news reports on the plutonium in London?”
“Nasty business, that.”
“Any word on the who or where?”
“Not yet,” the man said. “The reflexive assumption is non-state-aligned Islamic extremists are responsible. Queen and country are on highest alert.”
“Any reason to look beyond the customary players?”
“As one would expect, a cursory examination of the usual second-tier suspects—fringe IRA, leftist separatists, none of whom are likely actors in this play—is being made. The moles are rung, and the rugs shaken. But almost all assets are focused on the Londonistan elements. Actually, the plutonium event could work in your favor, all eyes this way and such.”
“Yes, rather a convenient distraction for all involved, I’d say.” Utley paused before going on, “As for the Czech delivery—once the plane lands, and your people are tailing it, off we go. No way back.”
“Indeed, off we go. No way back.”
A long silence passed before either spoke. Finally Utley said, “Thank you again for this, friend.”
“Think nothing of it.” The figure rose and, without a glance at Utley, returned to the darkness.
Utley remained seated for several minutes before he noticed a scratching noise, like that of fine-grit sandpaper caressing dry wood. He looked down and found his right thumb traveling back and forth over his index finger, rolling a nonexistent pill between the digits.
He grimaced, forced his hand flat against his trousers, and wondered if he had been making the motion during the meeting’s entirety. He sighed.
Then Utley stood and rapidly walked toward the lights of London.
– 12 –
Tuesday, 10 July
Island of La Palma
Sam Quick and Zach Davies rushed down the stairs and sprinted along the second-floor corridor. Quick pointed. “Try Eric.” She ran a bit farther and then stopped at Kalia Slater’s partially open door, as Davies began pounding on Eric Hunt’s door.
“Kalia?” Quick entered the Hawaiian’s room and then immediately returned to the hall. “She’s gone.”
Davies pounded Hunt’s door again. “He’s not answering either—”
“Sam!” The faint shout originated from down the hall, beyond a turn in the corridor.
Quick took off, yelling over her shoulder, “Get help at the desk!”
The guests peeking from their rooms, attracted by the noise, shrank back as the American woman hurled past them. Quick traced the passage through the sharp right. Ahead, the hall ended at a large, open window.
Five more steps. She grabbed the sill and looked down. Below, a man was sliding down the fire-escape ladder. One of his arms clamped her laptop and the expedition’s sample case. And hanging around his neck, a camera swung wildly from the chaotic descent.
The restaurant paparazzo.
The man dropped and landed beside a small orange car. A second man, at the driver’s door, pointed up at Quick and jumped into the vehicle. Quick slipped out the window and leaped onto the fire escape, setting the metalwork singing.
The man dumped the stolen items and the camera through the car’s open passenger window. Quick dropped from the ladder. The tires squealed, and the door handle ripped from the man’s hand as the car sped off. The man immediately spun and sprinted.
Quick looked after the car. Her heart somersaulted. Pressed against the back window was Slater’s face.
She could never catch the car.
But she could capture a direct connection to it. Quick forced herself to turn away from Slater, channeling her rage into her arms and legs, as she began racing in the opposite direction.
Quick rounded out of the alley and saw the fleeing man push through a throng of people seventy feet ahead. She sprinted forward, watching the man veer down a side street toward the ocean.
She shoved between a pair of sunburned tourists, provoking a barrage of British-accented profanities, and then cut hard across a gaggle of teenage girls. The lead members halted per force, while the rear guard, noses to cellphones, smashed into their friends, tightly packing the girls like a box of squealing toothpicks.
Quick jagged onto the side street. Here, the crowd thinned, and the shops gave way to residential apartment buildings and low-rise hotels. She ran as fast as she could, swerving around a couple kissing in a dark stretch. The gap closed.
Ahead, the man burst through a rectangle yellowish light marking the lane’s junction with the more brightly lit shore-side promenade.
Seconds later, Quick reached the beachfront walkway.
Thirty feet away, the man jumped down the stone steps leading to the main pier.
Hitting the stairs, Quick heard startled protests from a cranking diesel engine. She tore down the dock.
Her target was running out of pier. Then he made a blind leap.
When she reached the dock’s end, all Quick could do was watch, as a speedboat carrying the man sent up a spray of wake and disappeared into a constellation of bobbing lights scattered across the dark harbor.
∞
“Ah, Dr. Quick, how very kind of you to join us this evening,” said Inspector Reyes. He extended an arm toward Hunt’s room, while his other hand continued rubbing his temple, which felt as if elephants were trampling it.
Quick pushed past Reyes and found a medic bent over Hunt, with Davies standing nearby.
“Is he OK? Did you see Kalia? She was taken in an orange compact car that shot from the alley onto the main square. We need to go after her,” she said, gulping air.
“I saw the car and Kalia from the hotel’s front steps,” Davies said. “Reyes and his officers are already searching for it. And they’ve alerted the air- and seaports, as well as the authorities on the neighboring islands. We’ll find her.”
A head rose from the bedcover. “Oh, hi Sam. What’s up?” Hunt blinked his eyes as if trying to focus. “I feel like I’ve been out drinking all night,” he said. “And hello, who’s this?”
The grad student attempted to rise up on his elbows, briefly fighting the pressure of the paramedic’s hand against his chest, before surrendering and lying back, grinning at the Spanish man.
Her jaw muscle relaxed a hair, as Quick heard that Hunt’s cognitive abilities remained roughly intact. But her brow wrinkled when a lightening bolt beside the medic’s hand caught her eye. The tattoo, approximately two-inches long, was inked on Hunt’s left pec.
Quick looked at Davies, who shrugged at the tat. Then he said, “Eric’s head took a good hit. The blow dazed him, but he never fully lost consciousness. The paramedics will transport him to the clinic for an exam and overnight observation. They say a few pain relievers and a night’s rest—”
“Good to hear. But that still leaves one of my interns in grave danger,” Quick cut in.
Knuckles rapped the room door. “Before we discuss Ms. Slater’s whereabouts, may I first ask where you spent the previous fifteen minutes, Dr. Quick?”
“I did what your team has thus far failed to accomplish: I chased down the first lead in this investigation. Literally.”
Quick looked hard at Reyes. “Inspector, do you know a large speedboat whose name begins LAND—?”
– 13 –
Tuesday, 10 July
Baku, Republic of Azerbaijan
The two men leaned back on their heels. The straps securing the wooden crate snapped taut. The taller man released his binding, nodded at the adjacent crates, and said in Russian, “Let’s check them all one more time.”
The other man snorted. “Relax. We’ve already checked them twice. They’re all fine. What do you think is in them? Delicate artwork? Eggs? Nyet. Too heavy. Probably unbreakable—”
“Excuse me?” a voice said in heavily accented Russian.
The Russians turned around; each man’s hand slide behind his back onto the grip of the Makarov 9-mm pistol wedged under his waistband.
Standing before them was a disheveled man wearing a fan T-shirt emblazoned with the logo of the Azerbaijani national soccer team.
“You have a cigarette to spare?”
The Russians glanced at each other. Then the taller man nodded, and his hand parted from his Makarov and moved for his shirt pocket. The second Russian remained frozen, his hand on his pistol grip, while the taller Russian slipped a cigarette from his pack and handed it to the man.
As the man put the cigarette between his lips, the shorter Russian pointed at the opposite end of the cavernous cargo hold, where the other passengers sat. “Now get out of here.”
The man nodded thanks to the taller Russian, then scowled at the shorter man and turned away.
When the man was out of earshot, the taller Russian sighed. “Now, let’s check the straps one more time.”
At the hold’s far end, the man sat down and muttered, “Russian pigs and their precious cargo.” Then he lit the cigarette and inhaled deeply.
Several minutes later, as the man crushed the smoldering cigarette butt on the metal floor, the Ilyushin’s engines roared. At their end of the hold, the Russians hurriedly yanked a last set of straps and then took seats next to the crates.
The decrepit Il-76, a Soviet Cold War behemoth, started to move. The plane slowly gathered speed. Finally the worn tires released the crumbling pavement.
The plane shuddered and swayed, as it struggled to gain altitude. The dozen or so other passengers squeezed their eyes tightly shut, with their lips moving in an inaudible mix of prayers and curses.
But the stares of the Russians and their Makarovs remained unwavering, locked on the crates, as the Il-76 dipped hard and then hung for a long moment, unsure whether to soar or sink.
Then the plane resumed its climb, lumbering northwest from Baku, toward the Caucasus Mountains and Europe beyond.
– 14 –
Wednesday, 11 July
Island of La Palma
A sheet of paper slid across Inspector Reyes’s desktop. “This morning, we received this fax,” he said, looking slowly from Sam Quick to Eric Hunt to Zach Davies.
“‘Americans, get out,’” Quick read aloud. “Pithy.”
“Not such bad news,” Reyes shrugged, desperately wanting to take another dose of aspirin for his head, despite the ulcer now also clawing at the lining of his stomach. “They’ve reached out; they want something. Perhaps we can hope to soon receive a ransom demand.”
Reyes passed a second sheet to Quick. “As you see from this report, the slug recovered from poor Manuelo Alcanzar is nine millimeters. Moreover, its metallic composition is consistent with Russian manufacture.” The inspector swallowed. “And in this part of the world, Russian guns are held in African hands.”
Seeing Quick’s look, Reyes continued, “During the Cold War, to buy allegiance, the Soviets flooded Africa with their surplus weaponry and munitions. The bullet’s provenance, along with Ms. Slater’s report of the assailants speaking in, as I suggested, a North African dialect strongly supports my theory that African drug traffickers are to blame for the attack on your expedition and Ms. Slater’s subsequent abduction.”
“And the speedboat, Inspector?” Hunt asked. As the medic had predicted, the grad student had been released from the Tazacorte clinic early this morning, no worse for wear after the prior night’s attack, other than an egg-shaped bump behind one ear and his own dull headache.
“We are still searching for the vessel at sea. And my men are combing registration records looking for a craft whose name begins LAND. Unfortunately, with only the partial name to go on, this process is taking longer than we would like.” Reyes sighed. “I, for one, shall be surprised if we find such a boat registered at all. Or if we do, I expect the vessel will be of either Moroccan or Western Saharan origin, the two African nations with the easiest sea access to La Palma.”
Quick stared at the window behind Reyes, at a band of the tattooed-and-pierced youths from the previous night, who were passing outside, heading in the direction of the beach. “And what about Manuelo’s condition, Inspector?”
“According to his doctor’s report this morning, I am glad to say that Manuelo Alcanzar continues to improve, albeit he remains heavily sedated,” Reyes replied, relieved to switch to a less contentious topic. “I plan to visit—”
“¡Inspector! ¡Inspector!”
The band of steel encircling Reyes’s head tightened yet again, and he barely caught himself before he moaned aloud.
An officer ran in. “¡Un barco se ha encontrado, quilla-para arriba flotante, cerca Fuencaliente de la Palma!”
“A boat was found floating keel-up near Fuencaliente de la Palma,” Davies translated. The Americans glanced at each other, as the officer added,
“¡El nombre del barco es LANDFALL!”
Reyes and the man spoke in rapid-fire Spanish. Then he slumped back into his chair. His glasses landed on a stack of papers. And he rubbed his temples. “I’m afraid the boat offers no sign of survivors or any information regarding Ms. Slater.
“Where the boat was found, Fuencaliente—literally in your language, the hot spring—is located on La Palma’s southern tip. The currents there are very powerful and sweep directly into the open Atlantic, toward America. The Guardia Civil del Mar is towing the vessel to a beach near the village of Las Indias.”
“Hot spring, did you say?” Quick asked. “Because I could really use a good soak.” She looked at Hunt. “Care to join me?”
Reyes’s brow wrinkled and then smoothed. “Of course, Dr. Quick, by all means go and look for yourself. And while you inspect the vessel, my team will search the registration records for the boat’s owner.”
Reyes snapped his fingers, and the officer scurried from the room. “But please be very careful. On that part of La Palma, the roads are quite narrow and tortuous. And they are frequently blocked by sheep herds traveling to and from the shore.” He pulled a blank piece of paper from the pile covering his desk and grabbed a pen.
“Sheep are ocean swimmers?” Hunt asked.
Reyes smiled. “No, Mr. Hunt. Rather both livestock and wild animals visit the water’s edge to lick ocean salt from shoreline rocks.” He held out the map.
Quick grabbed it, already heading for the door, with Hunt and Davies right behind. They so rapidly crossed the station’s main room that none of them noticed the officer who had visited La Garganta del Diablo and had warned Kalia Slater. And who was now tracking their movements with the precision of a laser guidance system.
Outside, Quick turned to Davies. “Reyes will take forever finding LANDFALL’s owners—”
“So you want our embassy assets to check out the boat,” Davies cut in.
The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1) Page 5
