The Red Pearl Effect (Sam Quick Adventure Book 1)

by Scott Corlett

  The applause broke his thought, and his mouth reflexively started moving, delivering his speech in the careful, gravelly Western tones that reassured his male supporters and that attracted his female voters, or so the polls said. The president spoke without hesitation, without even a glance at the prepared text on the teleprompter.

  Ten minutes later, after a brief round of questions from the journalists, President James followed the Spanish leader off the dais. The men crossed a rich expanse of golden carpet and then joined the other world leaders who were already gathered alongside a stone railing overlooking the reception hall of Madrid’s Palacio Real.

  President James smiled and shook hands with each leader in turn. With the German president, he bent forward and kissed her right cheek. Despite her makeup, he discerned a slight reddening of her cheeks. Good, he thought. Because we sure as hell need her rock solid on the Russians. The President continued along, finally reaching the last person in the lineup.

  James stared directly into the unblinking Russian eyes and firmly pumped the man’s unyielding hand with an intensity lacking in his greetings heretofore. The other leaders, still smiling widely, eyed the encounter with a mixture of envy and thanks. Each head of state present was acutely aware that the Americans remained the only counterweight to the Russian bear growling on Europe’s eastern flank. And although they all silently wished for the power wielded by Jasper James, they were equally glad for their freedom from having to lead the world’s only superpower.

  ∞

  Watching the proceedings unfold on the television screen, Gabriel inhaled deeply and then, after a twenty-second pause, released a grayish cloud, which swirled and somersaulted before him.

  He shook his head. “Nothing but walking corpses. Expansion of global trade and new economic opportunities and new world orders and vanishing borders. A bunch of blah, blah, bullshit. And what do any of them know about real life and the troubles that working men and women face? Not one thing, that’s what.” Ash fell to the sofa cushion. “Well, they’re about to learn a friggin’ thing or two about the hardships of the common man.”

  Beside him, Jacob slowly nodded, gazing at the screen with half-open eyes.

  Then the shot cut from the politicians to a crowd swaying behind metal barricades on a sidewalk opposite the Palacio Real. Signs bore pictograms of globes overlaid by red slashes; sticks beat drums; and hundreds of tanned, tattooed youth, with fists raised, chanted behind the barriers.

  Jacob exhaled, and the smoke joined the cloud hanging over the sofa. “Dude, I don’t think we’ll ever see her again.”

  “I told you to stop sweating it. I told them we would pick her up when it’s over.” Gabriel shrugged. “Besides, if she doesn’t return, she’ll be a hero for the cause, like the rest of our brothers and sisters—”

  A ringing cellphone interrupted. Gabriel grabbed it and, after checking the caller ID, stabbed a button. “Hey … Yeah, another bag A-double-SAP.” He raised a brow at his friend and pointed a thumb toward the ceiling.

  “Hell yeah … definitely, bring us a chick.”

  – 36 –

  Saturday, 14 July

  Prague

  The room was a glittering ice field studded with green hillocks. Everywhere, shiny metal instruments reflected the light from the overhead work lamps, while dull-green sheets draped irregular mounds on three of the chamber’s six exam tables. Amid all this, a young, uniformed police officer sat hunched on a stool positioned adjacent to one of the mounds.

  “I must ask, one more time—”

  Sam Quick held up her hand.

  Linzer sighed and signaled the patrolman, who jumped up and practically ran to the exit. Beside Linzer, Captain Svoboda watched the retreating officer, shaking his head, and then took a position alongside the table opposite Quick.

  Quick nodded. The green sheet peeled back; the scientist’s face remained smooth. After several moments’ consideration, she started examining the exposed corpse: first the jagged strands of white and red tissues marking the body’s neckline, then the severed wrists and ankles, and then the bronze flesh.

  As Quick walked the table end to end, Linzer closely watched her. If this horrific sight, which had beckoned the stomach contents of seasoned police detectives—and from the looks of Svoboda, threatened to do so again—affected Sam Quick, he could see no sign of it. Not only a beautiful woman and respected scientist, but also she’s hard as Czech granite.

  Quick returned to the corpse’s wrists and then again to its ankles, looking at the skin chewed by binds. Then she stepped back and took in the entire body. The skin coloration was roughly the same golden brown as Kalia’s. And Linzer’s right, both the height and weight were approximately correct. From the moment of receiving Inspector Reyes’s call, she had suspected the sad truth.

  But Quick had to be sure.

  She turned to Linzer. “I need to see the back of her left shoulder.”

  On the opposite side of the exam table, Linzer nodded and grabbed a pair of industrial-weight gloves from a tray. The rubber snapped around his forearms. He reached over the corpse and curled his fingers beneath the left shoulder and torso. He pulled, and the headless corpse lifted its shoulder as if turning to offer a bed companion a day’s final kiss.

  Svoboda averted his gaze. But from the corner of his eye, he watched Quick bend and peer into the space that had opened between the metal table and the dead flesh.

  Quick needed to see the jumping dolphin, the small tattoo that she had admired earlier in the week, on the beach in Tazacorte when the team had rinsed off after the long day of setting up equipment at La Garganta del Diablo.

  Staring at the corpse’s shoulder, Sam Quick realized she was right.

  A mix of emotions rushed her: sadness for the young woman who had suffered such deadly insult; rage toward the brutal people who had committed this terrible crime; and most of all, the thrill of knowing that only one reason could cause someone to attempt such horrific deception. Kalia Slater must still be alive.

  ∞

  2200 miles away, Kalia Slater had no idea whether it was day or night. She felt as if she had slept for twenty-four hours. But I might have only had an hour of hard sleep. She sighed. In either case, nothing here would give any hint.

  Slater lifted her head and inspected the small chamber again. Although lacking temporal orientation, she had an excellent idea of her general location. Yes, this is all too familiar: the red walls, the hulking timbers, and the warm, dead air. Slater knew she was in the Devil’s Throat. Handcuffed to a metal cot in a small, suffocating room.

  Her jaw set tighter and tighter, as she recalled Manuelo explaining how La Garganta del Diablo extended for miles, on myriad levels, like the underground farm of giant-sized ants. No one really knew, he had said, how far or how deep the shafts traveled, because whole sections of the mine had already been long abandoned by the time of the 1949 eruption and the mine’s closure. I could be anywhere in the mountain.

  She shook her head. But I must keep trying. A smile broke across her face as if she were greeting a longtime friend. “Hi, my name is Kalia. And my mother, father, and family are very worried about me. Can you help me call them? Do you have a little girl? What’s her name?”

  The man simply stared at her, from his chair ten feet away.

  “My name is Kalia,” she repeated. “What is yours?”

  The man sighed, shut his eyes, and lowered his head.

  After several more attempts at conversation, Slater dropped her head back down to the cot’s rough canvas. She had tried engaging him and the other guards who rotated through the chamber, each bid earning the same result: silence.

  She shook her arms in frustration, clattering her handcuffs against the cot’s aluminum frame; the man’s chin shot from his chest. His lips curled into a leer, revealing two incomplete rows of jagged, brown-webbed teeth. Slater continued fighting the binds, watching the guard’s grip tighten on the Micro UZI lying on his lap.

  “
You can shove your gun straight—”

  A barrage of guttural language cut off Slater and wiped away the gunman’s grin. A second man marched into the chamber. After a brief exchange with the seated guard, which was incomprehensible to Slater, the new arrival pointed toward the entryway. The seated man said something else, in a harsher tone. Then he stood, shoved the pistol-sized UZI at the new arrival, and stomped from the room.

  The new man settled onto the chair, with the gun on his lap. He stared at Slater through the glassy eyes of a spider surveying prey struggling against its web.

  And Kalia Slater, like any captured creature, began plotting her escape.

  – 37 –

  Saturday, 14 July

  Madrid

  Utley pulled open the door to his room. The valet waiting outside tilted his head, and the words “Good evening, sir” rolled expansively from his mouth.

  Utley nodded in reply, and the young Spaniard moved for the two pieces of luggage waiting by the door.

  When they reached the lobby, the valet held back, as Utley first settled his bill, then handed an envelope with the usual tip to the concierge, and finally, for just a moment, stared up into the lobby’s majestic dome.

  The old man wished that daylight still lived. The dome’s colored panes were like a beautiful woman, he thought, always best under the sun’s warm gaze. He nodded goodbye to it for what, he was nearly certain, would be the last time.

  He sighed and slipped his trembling hand into a pocket; the valet’s smile breeched its widest, as a hundred-euro note passed into the Spanish palm.

  At the hotel’s entrance, a liveried doorman opened the silver Peugeot sedan’s front passenger door. Utley climbed in, while the valet deposited his bags in the trunk. The car door thumped shut.

  Wordlessly, the driver slid the transmission into gear, and the sedan pulled away from the hotel and then turned onto the Paseo del Prado. Utley craned his head to watch, as if mesmerized, the museum glide by, its up-lit stones glowing like unpolished gold.

  After several blocks, the aura died in the car’s rear window. And Utley spoke for the first time since entering the vehicle, “Status, please.”

  “The two men are still holed up in the apartment, presently entertaining a woman whom we assume is a prostitute,” the driver replied, glancing at his passenger.

  “Just one?” Utley chuckled, as he absently smoothed the front of his linen shirt. “How very economical of them to share. Any visitors other than the woman?”

  “Only the Spanish youth—the presumed drug courier—who previously visited them.”

  “And the package?”

  “The suitcase remains in the BMW’s trunk, in the building’s garage, with our men watching at all times as ordered.” The driver glanced at Utley again. “However, we may have a problem.”

  “Oh? Pray tell.”

  Utley sat silently as the driver explained.

  When the driver finished, Utley merely nodded and turned toward his window.

  “Should we take action?” the driver asked.

  “No. It sounds like this problem may sort itself out. Let’s monitor the situation,” Utley replied, still staring out the window. Then he fell into silence, and the only sounds in the car were the soft rush of chilled air and the muffled bleats of impatient autos.

  The driver shifted his eyes, glancing between the road ahead and the hands fighting atop Utley’s lap. The suitcase’s contents were never mentioned. But he could guess. He hoped the old man was up to the task.

  As he watched Utley’s left hand lose its battle to calm the trembling right, a million taillights flashed red, and he slammed the brakes just in time.

  – 38 –

  Saturday, 14 July

  Prague

  Sam Quick jumped out of the shower and crossed the Italian tiles, dripping water as she ran. She grabbed the buzzing cellphone lying on the vanity.

  “Yes?”

  “Sweetie, are you all right?”

  “Molly.” Quick pushed the speakerphone button, set down the mobile, and snatched a towel from a nearby stack. She raised her voice and began drying herself. “I just spent the afternoon admiring an example of Czech craftsmanship that won’t ever make the tour books. Any luck with the computer files?”

  “I don’t know exactly what these folks have to hide. But it must be something mucho major. My boys”—Quick pictured the young computer techs at NRLI who were always ready to perform a favor in exchange for either a smile from Quick or a promise from Matson to abstain, if only temporarily, from patting their rears—“needed every last one of their terabytes to break the encoding. And even then, they apparently had to hijack a couple hundred thousand Canadian home computers to help with the processing, or some such no-no that gets them all hot and bothered.”

  Matson went on, “The way I pushed donuts and those silly energy drinks to keep them moving at full speed, I felt like a crack dealer. And then Harley came sniffing around the computer lab—I swear that man always could tell when I was up to something—”

  “Molly …”

  “Anyway, Sam, I told Harley I was undertaking a study of the effects of substrata composition on urban petroleum seepage rates, which seemed to satisfy him for the moment—”

  “The files, Molly, the files …”

  “Right, well, the thing is, Sam, I can’t for the life of me understand why this data was so heavily encrypted. Unless those folks plan to drill for oil beneath downtown Madrid, these files are as worthless as ice skates in Miami. The files contain nothing more than subterranean infrastructure maps of the Spanish capital: underground utility passages, subway routes, and sewer tunnels, some dating back to the Roman era.”

  “Nothing regarding La Palma or any seabed exploration around the island? The boat? Or Kalia Slater?”

  “Not a thing, I’m afraid, hon. It was all just a tour of underground Madrid.” Matson tried to adopt a hopeful tone, “Any further information there?”

  “Davies should be on a call right now with the embassy, to see if the intel folks have captured any chatter regarding the abduction of an American. And against my better judgment, I’ve sent Eric to check out a Sokolóv facility here in Prague. He suggested going solo; but given it’s a brothel, I could hardly argue, much less get pass the door.”

  Matson chuckled. “Perhaps the young man wants to pursue some personal investigations during his visit to the red light district.”

  A soft chime sounded from the other room. “Molly, I gotta run. Keep me posted if you find anything else.”

  “Ciao, sweetie.”

  Quick dumped the towel and grabbed a robe hanging on the door. Crossing the main room, Quick slipped it on and gathered it at the waist. She put an eye to the peephole and found Zach Davies standing outside. She stepped back, checking that the V formed by the robe revealed no more than she wanted.

  Then Sam Quick grabbed the doorknob.

  ∞

  “I hope I haven’t caught you at an inconvenient time.”

  The speaker wore a short, red skirt and a matching blouse. The beauty mark high on her right cheek complemented her silken dark hair. And her Beretta Bobcat drilled into the slot between Zach Davies’s seventh and eighth ribs.

  Quick held open the door, looking out at the visitors. “Think nothing of it, Ms. Zanin … Ms. Nin Zanin, is it not?”

  “You’ve done your homework—”

  “They don’t call her Sam Quick for nothing,” Davies interjected in wry tone.

  The woman smiled. “Surely they do not. And yes, Dr. Quick, my name is Nin Zanin. But just ‘Nin’ will suffice.”

  Keeping her gun jammed into Davies’s side, Nin nodded over her shoulder, at a man stationed directly behind her. “I believe you have already meet my colleague.”

  “Indeed.” Quick looked at the man. “I hope your head is feeling better after your night out in Madrid.”

  The man just stared her; Quick shrugged and nodded at Nin’s gun. “That’s a handsome Bere
tta. The scrimshaw—that’s a whalebone grip, is it not?—is indeed a classy touch.” She glanced at the man, who was also holding a weapon. “Albeit not as powerful as your colleague’s polymer-framed CZ 100, your Bobcat is certainly luckier: you have seven shots to his thirteen, if I recall correctly.”

  Nin’s brow rose. “Though I’d love to chat more about our firearms and their capacities for killing”—she looked past Quick—“would you mind terribly inviting us in first?”

  Quick stepped aside and raised her arm. “By all means, please do.” She looked into Nin’s eyes. “But shouldn’t we wait for Mr. Sokolóv, or will he join us as the evening is in progress?”

  “Unfortunately, Sergei cannot be with us tonight—affairs require his attention in Moscow.” Nin’s teeth flashed. “You are probably also wondering where the spritely Mr. Hunt is.”

  Quick shrugged.

  “Mr. Hunt is a naughty boy, I am afraid,” Nin went on. “We found his room empty. But then Mr. Hunt looks like a young man who easily makes new friends.” The teeth flashed again. “Not to worry, we’ll meet up with Mr. Hunt later—I am certain of it.”

  The Bobcat turned its attention to Quick. “Now, really, Dr. Quick, I must insist, after you.”

  Quick turned and walked into the room, with Davies and Nin at her back, followed by the man. The door clicked shut behind them. The Bobcat pointed at the sofa; Quick and Davies took seats, side by side, on the couch.

  “What a lovely suite, Dr. Quick,” Nin said, inspecting the large room. “But rather extravagant on a scientist’s salary, is it not?” She shook her head. “Oh that’s right, our research said that you come from a wealthy cattle family—which also explains your knowledge of firearms—from someplace dreadful like Texas.”

  “New Mexico, actually. But let’s not sully the conversation with talk of familial means.” Quick’s eyes sparked. “Now, where the hell is Kalia Slater?”

  “Of course, New Mexico, an enchanting land, I think they say.” Nin sighed. “As for Ms. Slater, by now you know the one place where she is not—the Prague Morgue. Counterfeiting a passport is such a trifling matter in this age of … what is it called? … high-resolution printing? You should see what we do with hundred-dollar bills and fifty-euro notes.”