The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1)

by Scott Corlett

  “Then we go to plan B.” Quick jumped onto the toilet and crouched into one corner, while Hunt did the same in the opposite corner.

  “Which is?” Davies asked, as he sat on the front half of the seat.

  “Let me get back to you on that,” Quick said, scanning the tiny enclosure and finding no weapon more lethal than the half-used roll of toilet paper.

  On the dance floor, Solta Zanin moved toward the DJ booth. The driver headed for the men’s room. And Nin circled the central bar, her Bobcat unobtrusively palmed, as she slipped between the dancing patrons like a cougar through swaying grass.

  The driver entered the restroom’s outer chamber. Not finding the Americans, he marched into the adjacent toilet area. He eyed the closed stall doors, spit on the floor, and swore.

  His fist slammed against the first door, popping the lock. From inside the stall, angry shouts answered. Then the occupant, seeing the gun pointed at his face, threw up his hands and rushed out.

  The driver scowled, moved to the next door, and applied his fist again. He moved from door to door this way, in each case provoking furious outbursts that soon morphed into panicked flight.

  At the last door, he gave the panel an extra hard blow, slamming it into the person inside. But the door bounced back, opening no more than an inch.

  Inside the stall, Quick, Hunt, and Davies braced themselves for the next onslaught. They now faced no choice other than fighting; any cries for help would go unheard over the pounding music.

  The driver turned sidewise with his shoulder out and prepared rush forward.

  Then the bottle smashed into his head. The green glass shattered; beer ran down the man’s neck; bits of glass ricocheted off the tile wall.

  The driver slumped to the floor; his gun clattered free on the tile. The Americans scrambled out, climbing over the fallen man.

  Holding the broken-off neck of the beer bottle in one hand, and grinning at them, was the Spanish man who had vacated the stall. “Lucky for you, I take a long time washing my hands and see this not-so-friendly guy come looking for you. No wonder you want my stall so bad.”

  Quick grabbed the gun off the floor. “Thank you for your help. But unfortunately, he is the least of our trouble. Do you happen to know a back way out of this club?”

  The man turned and pointed at the restroom doorway. “Sí, por supuesto, follow me.” He looked back. “My name, by the way, is Jorge—Jorge Delgado.”

  The Americans ran after Delgado, out into the main dance area, as the start of a seventies disco song greeted their arrival.

  Delgado pointed at a black curtain hanging along a far wall. “Over there. Behind the curtain and then up the stairs.”

  They started slipping through the crowd. Hunt grabbed Quick’s arm and pointed. Twenty feet away, Nin was emerging from behind two tall German tourists. Her eyes immediately locked on the Americans. Her arm went up and pointed their way. Thirty feet to her right, bobbing among the dancers, Solta’s head jerked in their direction. The sisters nodded at each other and began moving.

  Hunt shouted, “They’re both heading our way, and Solta is blocking our route to the exit.”

  Quick clicked the gun’s safety off. But looking around, she figured the room was filled with hundreds of dancers. Any gunfight would surely hit bystanders.

  “Jorge, are you sure you know the back way out of here?” Quick shouted.

  “Sí, most definitely. I use the fire exit when I want to avoid my exes.”

  “Good,” Quick said, “because that’s exactly what we need—a fire exit.” Then she raised the gun, aimed high, and pulled the trigger.

  The sprinkler head exploded. Water shot straight down into the dancing crowd below. People shouted and began running. The human tide picked up the Zanin sisters and swept them along as if they were swimmers struggling against an inexorable rip current. While Sam Quick and the men ran behind the black curtain and up the stairs, as the disco beat played on.

  – 29 –

  Friday, 13 July

  Zaragoza, Spain

  They crushed against the wall like dried weeds rammed into stone. Amanda leaned back and shook her head from side to side, sweeping her dreadlocks over the wall in frustration and sighing loudly. “How much longer are we stuck in this sewer? I’m cold and hungry, and I have to pee.” Her nostrils contorted. “And what the hell is that awful smell?”

  “Will you just keep your mouth shut? It’ll take as long as it takes,” Gabriel said, from his seat on the concrete floor beside the woman. “No one can help that the bank f’d up the wire transfer.”

  “We were supposed to be out of here, like, eight hours ago.” Amanda’s voice lowered to a whisper, “I tell you, they get the money, and then they off us right here and now.”

  Jacob leaned forward on Amanda’s other side. “Dude, I’m beginning to wonder if she’s right.”

  Gabriel looked at his companions. “Both of you—”

  The door crashed open, and the trio collectively jumped. Two men entered, both similar in appearance: dark-haired, unshaven, and wearing military fatigues. And their micro UZIs were pointed directly at the seated threesome.

  For several moments, the only sounds were the soft whoosh of cold air spewing from the ventilation grates and the accelerating pounding of three young hearts drowning in adrenaline.

  One of the new arrivals nodded. “Our bank on Guernsey finally received your funds.” The muzzles swept down to the floor. “Although I had worried that your check would bounce, some of our men were most hopeful: they were relishing the prospect of some target practice.”

  The men laughed. Then the speaker’s gaze locked on Gabriel. “Perhaps you are ready to receive your purchase?”

  The gunmen turned and walked from the room. The Americans looked at each other and jumped up, their feet burning as if plunged into icy water, as blood returned to their lower limbs. Gabriel and Jacob hurried after the gunmen, followed by Amanda, who moved more slowly.

  In the main warehouse, under the humming mercury lights, the gunmen led the trio toward the rented BMW, which was parked beside the bay door.

  A large suitcase sat alongside the vehicle like any other bag awaiting stowage before a trip. The case was clad in a silvery, brushed metal and was a rolling bag, with wheels attached to one corner, and a folding handle affixed opposite; at an airport baggage carousel, it would be perfectly at home with the other high-end luggage.

  Gabriel ran forward and knelt beside the suitcase. His cheek melded with the brushed metal, and his hands caressed the case’s rounded edges. After a moment, he looked up. The metal shell reflected the overhead light, casting his upturned face a bluish hue. He said only two words: “Thank you.”

  Amanda watched all this unfold as if in a dream. She had almost wanted it to be a setup. But it was real. Too real.

  “Mind if I open it and take a look?” Gabriel asked.

  The lead gunman shrugged and grinned. “Just don’t touch anything inside.”

  Gabriel gently turned the suitcase on its side and then grabbed the two latches. The twin snaps echoed. Gabriel slowly lifted the lid. Then he sat back on his heels, silent.

  Jacob whistled, while Amanda leaned forward and looked over the blond man’s shoulder. To one side of the open suitcase lay a small control panel with a three-by-three matrix of unmarked buttons and a blank digital readout. And beside it, surrounded by foam padding, rest a large black cylinder. Amanda squinted, trying to read the writing on the canister. She gave up after making out that the text was Russian.

  Then she grabbed the Gabriel’s shoulder. “What the hell is that?” She pointed at a yellow-and-black trefoil symbol affixed below the print. “Is that thing radioactive? What the fucking hell? That wasn’t the plan. You said a conventional bomb. We were just gonna shake things up. Send the swine a little warning. Right, Gabe?”

  Gabriel remained transfixed, staring down into the suitcase.

  “Gabe, damn it, answer me.” Amanda pulled and t
wisted, practically ripping his T-shirt over his head. “What is that thing?”

  Gabriel’s gaze finally broke; he stood up and faced her. “Nothing is ever going to change if we think small, Amanda. The world can’t go on the way it is. Someone’s got to put a stop to the shit. It’s all up to us. We’re in control now.”

  Amanda looked at Jacob. “What is he talking about?” The heavyset man merely looked at the floor. She turned back to Gabriel. “Is this some sort of dirty bomb or what?”

  He shook his head. “Think big, Amanda. Ultimate big.”

  Her dreadlocks whipped back and forth. “Are you telling me this suitcase is some kind of full-on nuclear bomb? Gabe, is that what you’re telling me? Is it?”

  The blond man smiled. “Bingo, Amanda.”

  “Are you crazy? Do you know how many people will be killed? Do you, Gabe?” Getting no response, she turned to Jacob, who was still looking away. “What about you?” She shook her head. “This wasn’t the plan. We were supposed to just scare them! My fucking brother lives in Madrid. No, you can’t do this. I won’t let you.”

  Gabriel frowned. “I’m sorry to hear you say that, Amanda. I really am.”

  Five minutes later, the bay door clattered closed. The BMW crawled across the parking lot and then slowly entered the cul-de-sac. Several lots away, in the silver Peugeot sedan, the driver returned the binoculars to his eyes. “The blond man is behind the wheel as before. The heavyset kid is sitting on the front passenger seat, lighting a joint.”

  He handed the binoculars to his companion. “But where is the woman with the dreadlocks?”

  – 30 –

  Friday, 13 July

  Madrid

  “What do you mean they didn’t find anything worthy of further investigation, Inspector?”

  Eric Hunt jumped up and leaned over the desk. The words, “Only the Stupid are Happy,” printed across his shirtfront nearly brushed the speakerphone. “Didn’t they see the crazy Russian flag with the double-headed eagle? Or the portrait of Sergei Sokolóv and his concubine tricked out like a tsar and tsarina?”

  “Mr. Hunt, I am afraid those items point to nothing more nefarious than poor taste. I assure you my Madrid colleagues, although perhaps not as efficient as my Tazacorte team, thoroughly searched the premises. And they found nothing relating to Ms. Slater’s disappearance.” The speakerphone gurgled with the sounds of liquid being gulped.

  “What about Solta Zanin?” Zach Davies asked.

  “We can find no addresses or financial associations for a woman of such name in Madrid. And we ran an Interpol check and found, as you say, zilch.”

  Behind Davies, Hunt started typing on a laptop lying on a nearby table, where he had been futilely working since dawn on decrypting the copied files.

  “Inspector, last night, we were chased at gunpoint by Solta Zanin, her twin sister, and their associate—none of whom were of African descent, torpedoing your drug-smuggling theory,” Davies replied, his tone now straining the outer bounds of diplomatic suitability.

  “But, Mr. Davies, we have absolutely no evidence of any connection between these people and Kalia Slater. In fact, they may well have chased you precisely because you broke into their offices, a crime, I don’t need to remind you. But in any case, the Madrid police found no man unconscious in any restroom, no women in red running around with guns. Until they are located and questioned, I’m afraid we must assume they were simply pursuing those who had invaded their offices.”

  Sam Quick turned from the window, where she had stood silently so far during the call, watching Madrid stumble on through another day’s impossible heat. “Thank you, Inspector. If any new information turns up, you’ll let us know as soon as possible, won’t you?”

  A sigh came from the speakerphone. “Of course, Dr. Quick, if any leads develop in regards to Ms. Slater, you’ll be the first to know.”

  Quick nodded, and Davies pressed a button; the phone went quiet.

  No need, Quick thought, to discuss the unspoken on the call: Still no ransom demand. Time was running out for Kalia.

  Hunt watched a long look pass between Quick and Davies. He cleared his throat. “You might want to check this out.”

  “You cracked the files?” Quick asked, as she and Davies hurried behind Hunt and the laptop. Overlapping dialog boxes tiled the screen. And lines of numbers and text filled each little window.

  “Not exactly,” Hunt said.

  “What are we looking at?” Quick asked.

  “The Sokolóv computer networks are heavily protected. But the company directory is publically accessible via their main website. So I wrote a script—a simple computer program—that attempts to log on to the network using the employee names as the IDs.”

  “But what about the password?” Davies asked.

  “Oh, that was the easy part. My script didn’t even make it halfway through the directory before I found a Sokolóv employee using the universal password.”

  “Which is?” Davies asked.

  Hunt grinned. “‘Password.’ We are now logged into Sokolóv’s main network under the account of a midlevel financial analyst who has access to the company’s administrative servers—financials, inventories, facilities, etc.”

  “So, we’re going to audit Sokolóv?” Davies asked.

  “Nyet. I’m guessing where Eric is going is”—Quick leaned forward—“travel charges.” Her finger tapped the screen, on the words Madrid/Falcon, which were printed beside yesterday’s date. Her finger slid along the line entry to a string of numbers and then to an amount in rubles.

  Hunt’s finger pinned a matching numeric string listed in another dialog box, beside a line item starting Prague/Falcon. “Someone used the same corporate account yesterday at a small airport outside Madrid for something called the Falcon, and the night before in Prague, again for the Falcon.”

  Hunt pointed at a third dialog box. “And according to this asset list, the Falcon is a Sokolóv corporate jet, an Embraer Legacy 600.”

  Davies whistled. “That’s a nice ride. In one of those babies, you can hop from New York to Geneva without stopping, flying at nearly the speed of sound.”

  “And”—Hunt tapped a fourth dialog box—“according to Sokolóv property records, in Prague, the only facility owned by the company is at this address. And”—Hunt fingered a fifth window—“the same day, a company credit card paid for a restaurant meal one block from that address, a credit card assigned to one,” he pointed at the last bit of text: “Nin Zanin.”

  Sam Quick clamped the men’s shoulders. “The same Nin Zanin who must be the twin sister to Solta Zanin and the faux-noble subject of that vainglorious portrait in the company office. Nice work, Eric.” She reached for the phone. “It’s time to call Florida.”

  – 31 –

  Friday, 13 July

  Zaragoza, Spain

  She wished she could vomit. The acrid stench of her stomach juices would be a welcomed change from the putrid odor that had filled her nose since fucking Gabriel and Jacob had stowed the suitcase in the BMW’s trunk and tore from the warehouse as fast as they could. Leaving her with the gunmen. Who had hooded, bound, and locked her in a room.

  Then the first noise sounded in what seemed like hours: the clunk of a turning lock, followed by the whoosh of an opening door, and finally the snap of a tight electrical switch changing positions. Light pricked the fabric covering her face.

  Amanda sat up. Blood reentered the bony points where the concrete had bore her weight, picking at her like icy spikes. Heavy shoes slapped the floor. Hands pulled on her upper arms, roughly hauling her up into a standing position.

  She stood as best she could on the single pole of her bound legs, while the fingers remained digging into her underarms’ soft flesh. Near her feet, a snap sounded; the ring of pressure around her ankles was gone. The hood flew upward, caught for a moment on her dreadlocks, and then broke free of her head.

  She blinked several times and then looked from side to side, first
at the men gripping her arms, then around the room.

  Contrary to her assumption, this room was not the office where she had waited with Gabriel and Jacob for the suitcase’s delivery. Her gaze locked; if she had recently taken any food or liquid, her earlier wish to purge would have been fulfilled. Instead just the sounds of her dry heaves mingled with wet laughter from the men at her sides.

  After a moment, she recovered enough to open her eyes again. The two corpses were piled against a far wall. But the glistening lake of blood and other bodily liquids stopped only a few feet shy of where she had lain.

  They pushed her forward; she was certain her body would join the heap. But they instead steered her through the doorway, into the main warehouse, and she nearly fainted with relief as she gulped clear air.

  They pointed at a cargo truck with its rear door open, parked near the rolling bay door.

  Her body tensed rock-tight. She shook her head. “No! That’s not the fucking deal. My friends are coming back to pick me up after it’s done. Right here at this warehouse. I’m not going anywhere. Forget it.” She tried collapsing down onto the concrete floor.

  The men looked at each other and laughed. Then the lead man smiled at her. “Come back to get you? Now why would they do that? So, you can rat them out? Your friend Gabriel didn’t ask that we hold onto you; he asked that we dispose of you. No one, I’m afraid, is ever coming to get you.” Then their hands dug in under her arms, squeezing deep into the soft flesh.

  “No! That’s not true. Let me go!” She twisted and curled with all her might. “Let me go!”

  The men just keep laughing, dragging her writhing body across the concrete. At the truck, rough arms slid under her thighs and tossed her up onto the cargo bed.

  “You can’t fucking do this! You motherfuckers. Let me go!”

  The men jumped up after her. Their arms looped under hers and dragged her along the metal bed as if she were a sack of potatoes. They shoved her against something hard.