The group’s third member, the woman, wore nearly the same outfit, albeit with no jacket, and the white shirt gathered at the buttons overlying her chest, its line distorted by the ample flesh beneath. Her face was free of cover, and her dreadlocks were bundled into a regal headdress, bound with a golden silk scarf.
After exiting the plane, at the immigration counter, each member of the trio presented their American passports. Each time, the border-control officer glanced at the photo, looked up, and—seeing the expensive uniform of those who travel in the front of planes and the back of cars—immediately slammed down his stamp.
As their taxi merged onto the freeway, Amanda gazed out her window, still lost in the fog of transoceanic flight, staring but seeing little. She tried to make her mind work. But for some reason, as the cab crept toward Madrid, Amanda could not remember how it had all gotten this far.
∞
Nin Zanin sniffed the gritty mixture of exhaust and dust, smiled as if the air were sufficiently unhealthy for her tastes, and then climbed into the car’s rear compartment. Red heels stabbed a tiny Persian carpet serving as the floor mat. A whoosh of expelled air was followed by a gentle click, as the heavy door glided shut and latched.
The driver stepped away from the car. He glanced again at the small business jet parked nearby, at the ten-feet-long metallic cylinders affixed beneath each wing, one alongside each engine. He shrugged and hurried for his door.
Inside the sedan, Nin leaned back and closed her eyes. She was tired after the stopover in Prague and the two-hour weather delay before departure this morning. Hearing the driver slide behind the steering wheel, she barked directions without raising her head and then stabbed a button on the armrest; the smoked polycarbonate divider silently rose, sealing her off from the front compartment.
As the car began to move, her eyes flitted open and then narrowed. She grabbed the newspaper lying on the other seat. Her lips moved, as she read the headline.
“London plutonium mystery!” she snorted and pushed away the paper.
A mobile slipped from her purse. After a moment, she spoke, “I’ve landed … Yes, the shipment arrived safely at the warehouse … I should arrive at the office within the hour.” She smiled. “Yes, darling, looking forward to seeing you, too.” The phone beeped and then slipped back into her purse.
Nin glanced at the window. The car was threading through surface-street traffic. She checked the console display. The temperature reading was impressive even for Madrid in July. She looked again out the window, at the Spaniards walking, chatting, and laughing as if the day were as cool as Moscow in April. If this infernal heat does not drive them indoors, then we must turn up the flame.
– 23 –
Thursday, 12 July
Madrid
The tiny elevator jerked to a stop. Sam Quick stepped out, followed by Eric Hunt and Zach Davies. The trio looked around and then started down the hall. Near the corridor’s end, Quick looked at the men and then grabbed a doorknob.
Entering the office, Hunt whistled softly, while Quick and Davies moved in and quietly surveyed the unmanned reception area. Heavy furniture and massive oil paintings liberally adorned the space, and a large, colorful carpet comprised of geometric tribal patterns covered the floor.
Davies’s elbow nudged Quick’s side. The scientist looked where he was pointing, at the largest of the oil paintings. Surrounded by a thick gilt frame, a wolf crouched with its jaws latched onto the pale throat of a young maiden, with a falcon perched nearby, its eyes glinting, awaiting its turn at the fresh kill. Davies whispered, “The Falcon welcomes you to his lair.”
A side door opened; a woman marched out. Seeing the visitors, she paused. Then she recovered and asked in good English, without smiling, “May I help you?”
“Yes, I think you can,” Quick said, taking in the woman’s softly lush facial features and shiny black hair, and the short skirt, blazer, and heels, all the same bright red. Her gaze flicked to the legs. And given those calves, she definitely takes the stairs.
She smiled at the woman. “I’m Sam Quick, and these are my associates, Eric Hunt and Zach Davies. We’re investigating a boat that capsized off La Palma, in the Canary Islands—”
“Of course”—the woman relaxed—“the silly boat. You must be with the insurance company. I’m Solta Zanin, the managing director.”
“Yes, that’s exactly right—we’re with the insurance company,” Quick said, as Hunt and Davies nodded in agreement.
Solta shrugged. “The island police informed us of the loss. Undoubtedly, the accident was the result of some joyriding children who found more of a thrill than they bargained for.” Her brow rose. “But Ms. Quick, why are Americans—you are American, no?”
Quick nodded.
“Why are Americans working for a British insurance company on a claim against a pleasure craft that capsized in Spanish waters?”
“That’s globalization for you. No borders remain, we simply go where they pay us most.”
Solta sighed extravagantly. “Now even the Americans must leave their homeland to find good-paying work.” She shrugged again. “So, what can I tell you about LANDFALL?”
“Perhaps you could first explain why your firm keeps a speedboat in the Canary Islands?” Hunt asked.
“That’s simple, we use LANDFALL for entertaining visiting executives and governmental officials who might be helpful to us.”
“And what sort of help might your company need?” Davies asked.
Solta’s lip curled slightly. “I’m afraid that is proprietary information.”
“Was the boat ever used for oil or gas exploration?” Hunt asked.
“Certainly not. LANDFALL was in no way equipped for that.”
A lie. But let it pass. Quick instead asked, “Is Mr. Sokolóv aware of the vessel’s loss?” She watched the woman’s eyes widen and then swiftly narrow.
“Mr. Sokolóv? This, I cannot say. I informed Moscow and assume that they, in turn, told Mr. Sokolóv.”
“And has Mr. Sokolóv used the craft recently?” Hunt asked.
“I’m afraid that I fail to see this question’s relevance. Nor, in any case, am I at liberty to discuss Mr. Sokolóv’s schedule.” Solta looked at her watch. “Speaking of schedules, I expect a scheduled visitor at any moment. Now, may I answer any further questions before I must return to my work?”
“Just one more. Who named LANDFALL?” Quick asked.
Solta’s lips gathered again. Several seconds passed. Then she said, “Why, Mr. Sokolóv, of course. He names all the company’s vessels, large and small.” Her arm rose toward the entry door. “If additional questions arise, please call before you visit, and I shall happily arrange a mutually convenient appointment.”
Moments later, Solta Zanin picked up a handset. When the Americans unloaded from the elevator at the lobby, the ringing of a mobile phone greeted them. And as they crossed the checkerboard tile, each could but help stare at a gorgeous woman entering from the street, whose bright red nails clasped a mobile to her ear, and whose eyes briefly widened and flitted their way.
Outside, as soon as the door shut had behind them, Sam Quick turned to the men. “Did you see what I saw? Solta Zanin and that woman were identical other than a large beauty mark high on the new arrival’s cheek. Twins.”
– 24 –
Thursday, 12 July
Madrid
Six city blocks away, only Utley noticed. But the couple standing a few paintings from him spent more time assessing the Prado’s collection of visitors than surveying the surrounding masterworks of art. Probably not American, he figured, Canadian possibly, but definitely an advanced recon team.
He slowed and pretended to examine a Velázquez that he had always thought overrated, while he watched the couple re-sweep the room. Several minutes later, he saw the pair nod at each other and then step into an adjacent gallery.
Utley followed the couple into the next chamber and then stopped before a five-century-old wo
od panel. Now, this was a painting. Out of the corner of his eye, he caught the couple join hands and then leisurely head toward the main stairway. My, aren’t they putting on quite the show. But, he thought, at least they’re moving on before my visitor arrives.
His gaze returned to the medieval panel; the sounds of the surrounding low conversation faded from his consciousness.
“Cave Cave Deus Videt,” he murmured aloud. Yes, he thought, beware indeed. From the painting’s center, a monocular eye—with the accession of the Christ figure reflected in the pupil, and the phrase “Beware, Beware, God is Watching” inscribed in Latin on the iris—stared out at him.
Utley mouthed the words circling the eye: “Accidia … Gula … Avaritia … Invidia … Ira … Superbia.” He paused on the final one: “Luxuria.”
His gaze moved to the painting’s tiny scene of torture and ruin representing hell. Before long, this is where I’ll call home … And if I have any say in the matter, Sergei Sokolóv will welcome me warmly.
“So old chap, which one was your downfall?” a voice said from over Utley’s left shoulder.
Utley maintained his gaze on the Bosch. “You don’t reach my age without having landed at least once on each of these sins. Of course, I’ve spent more time on some than on others.”
“Quite so.” The voice continued in a volume and tone suggesting a discussion of artistic merits, “I assume you’ve noticed that company is in the house?”
“Yes, no doubt tidying up in advance of the International Capital Forum reception that’s scheduled here for Sunday night,” Utley said.
“Yes, which is also why I’m here in Madrid in person: I’m on the PM’s detail.”
“And the shipment?”
“It remains housed at an industrial warehouse located in some forsaken city north of here called Zaragoza. Our assets are in place, watching and waiting.
“Excellent. Any progress on the London incident?” Utley asked.
“Suspicions are high that London will suffer a follow-up to the 7/7 bombings of 2005, with a dirty bomb this time; plutonium spread about London and whatnot. You could read the relief on the PM’s face when we left British airspace. Though the order that he gave his wife to remain behind in London—too much uncertainty about security in Madrid, he told her—might also have factored into his levity.”
Utley chuckled.
“I assume the Zaragoza shipment is heading this way? Anything too hot to handle?”
“Who can say?” Utley responded evenly. Not telling his longtime ally about the totality of the danger was now just another betrayal bobbing in the wake of Utley’s life. But, staring back into the painting’s all-seeing eye, Utley vowed that this infidelity—unlike those past—would bring no harm to its victim. “Anything else?”
“No.”
“If—”
“Of course.”
Utley was alone again before the painting. He pulled his hand from his pocket, and his trembling fingers approached the oil, stopping an inch from the wooden panel. Then he jumped, and the gallery sounds grew loud in his ears.
As he hurried away, his cheeks glowed bright red, and his fingertip burned in shame from its tremor-induced contact with the scene of hell.
– 25 –
Thursday, 12 July
Madrid
The evening was hot, and people chatting and drinking filled many of the chairs scattered about the plaza. A fountain sprayed arcing lines of water into the fading sky. Nearby, jugglers tossed wooden pins and twirled large hoops around their undulating, gold-painted torsos.
In a quieter corner of the square, away from the fountain, Sam Quick raised her espresso cup. “Here’s to being one step closer to finding Kalia.” Then she downed the dark liquid.
Zach Davies’s brow wrinkled. “Maybe I missed something.”
“Haven’t you realized that Sam Quick is always two steps ahead?” Eric Hunt turned to Quick. “So yeah, what exactly did we learn today beyond those twins having pricey decorating tastes?”
“Let’s start with Solta Zanin,” Quick said, “and her lie about LANDFALL being equipped for exploration. Contrary to what Officer Alonso assumed when Eric and I visited LANDFALL, the craft’s sonar was most certainly not used for hunting sunken vessels. No, whoever piloted LANDFALL looked much deeper into the earth. And to me, a simple ranch girl from New Mexico, that sounds like exploration. The question is what were they looking for around La Palma.”
She pulled out her cellphone. “And I know just the person to answer that query.”
After several rings, a voice crackled from the speaker, “Sam? Honey, what the hell is going on? Harley’s been running around the base as if his jockstrap were two sizes too small—”
“Molly, listen, I have you on speakerphone.” Quick introduced Hunt and Davies and then briefly relayed the previous days’ events, ending with a description of the boat’s sonar and the visit to the Madrid offices of the craft’s owner.
“Sam, any reason—”
“Not at this time, Molly,” Quick cut in, still unready to discuss ALCHEMY in front of either Hunt or Davies. “But we need to know is what those folks were searching for around La Palma with LANDFALL’s sonar. Oil? Natural gas?”
“More likely, minerals or metals of some kind. Let’s start with the macro picture”—Matson’s voice gathered as the geologist warmed to the topic—“La Palma, like its sister islands, started life as an undersea volcano that eventually grew high enough to break the ocean’s surface.
“Volcanic lava, or magma as it’s called when still within the earth, is laced with metals such as zinc, silver, and gold. Hence La Palma’s rich zinc deposits and La Garganta del Diablo mine, which supplied the metal to Europe … that is until the eruption of 1949 and the Big Slip.”
“Big Slip?” asked a deep voice, causing Matson to wonder about Davies’s appearance.
“That’s right, the Big Slip was the showstopper of the ’49 eruption, when a seven-mile-long fault line ripped open along the island’s ridgeline, and kicked off a colossal landslide—”
“All this was due to seismic activity?” Hunt asked.
“The eruption’s associated earthquakes were only part of the equation,” Matson explained. “More important was the composition of the island’s rock: Much of La Palma’s stone is very porous. And this rock soaks up the abundant winter rains, turning the mountain into a wet sponge. And in June 1949, the sponge was wringing wet.”
“Uh-oh,” Hunt said.
“Uh-oh indeed,” Matson replied. “During early 1949, in the buildup to the eruption, two-thousand-degree magma rose up from the magma chamber lying under the island into the mountain. The rising magma heated the trapped rainwater. And most liquids, water being one, expand when heated. Thermal hydraulic expansion on a massive scale cleaved that mountain just about right in half.” Matson paused. “Then the actual eruption hit.”
“And?” Hunt and Davies asked simultaneously.
“The mother of all landslides ensued. La Palma’s western half—half the whole damn island—broke free and began collapsing into the ocean,” Matson answered. “In the shoreside villages, the docks sunk under the waves. Water rushed in. Buildings collapsed. People ran for their lives.”
“And then?” Hunt and Davies prodded.
“Then it just stopped; the rock locked in place.” Matson sighed. “And we should be real thankful it did: because if that mountain had completely collapsed, then the landslide would have displaced so much ocean water that the resultant tsunami would have obliterated nearly the entire Atlantic coastline.”
The geologist chuckled. “Of course, that was just a temporary reprieve: someday—fifty or five hundred or five thousand years from now—the volcano will blow her nose hard enough to knock that picturesque hunk of island into the Atlantic, and then it’s bye-bye birdie for us here Florida and all along the eastern seaboard.”
“Molly, the sonar—,” Quick cut in.
“Righto, getting back to what
they used that boat’s sonar to search for, my money is on gold or diamonds. Due both to the direct deposition of ejected volcanic material and to landslide debris, the island’s surrounding seabed is volcanic in origin and therefore likely contains significant mineral and metal deposits.”
Quick picked up the phone. “Thanks for the info. I hate to run, Molly, but I need to get these men out on the town.”
“Anytime, sweetie. You take care. Ciao.”
Quick disconnected the call and looked at the men. “So we can say LANDFALL served as something more than the company toy. And to Eric’s point about the expensive decorating taste: the pieces filling their reception area were the real deal—the Dutch oils, an exquisite tribal rug, and the nineteenth-century furniture lifted straight from the Hermitage. An easy couple mil’ adorned that room.”
“We figured that Sergei Sokolóv used the firm to funnel money away from the Russian tax authorities—the furnishings are likely just another place to quietly park his assets,” Davies said.
“The furnishings themselves don’t interest me,” Quick explained. “No, what the high-value décor tells us is that a very sophisticated security system likely protects those offices.”
She looked at Hunt. “Any ideas about how we might handle that issue?”
In response, the grad student simply grinned and nodded, without looking up from his smartphone, which he was already furiously typing on. While beside him, Zach Davies’s brow wrinkled anew.
The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1) Page 8
