Iceland: An International Thriller (The Flense Book 2)

by Saul Tanpepper

His phone buzzed again. He made a sour look and muttered something about the last bus. He pressed the phone against his ear. "This is Nordqvist. Hello? Hello?"

  Angel turned away, her attention drawn back to Duke. He had wandered into the far corner of the room and was leaning against the end of the bar. He still had his phone in his hand and was stabbing at the screen with his thumbs, as if playing a game.

  The other scientists milled about or sat and quietly chatted. They all seemed to know each other. Like Stefan, she was alone.

  "Goddamn it," Nordqvist cursed under his breath. Angel turned to see him pull his phone from his pocket yet again and mutter something about telemarketers.

  "Who is this?" he demanded. "Why do you keep calling?"

  Duke stepped away from the bar. He had a distant look on his face. He went over to the window and leaned over, as if trying to see around the corner.

  "Yes, she is," Nordqvist said, his voice cutting through the general conversation.

  She felt something touch her shoulder a moment later and she turned toward it. Stefan held his phone out to her, a puzzled look on his face.

  "It's for you," he said.

  Chapter Twenty Two

  "Who is it?" she asked him. "Is it Norstrom?"

  Stefan shook his head. "He refused to say. But he asked for you by name."

  She took the phone from him, frowning. It had to be him. No one else knew she was here, except for Padraig, and he was heavily sedated at the moment. "Allô? This is Angelique de l'Enfantine."

  "We didn't get a chance to finish our conversation earlier."

  The blood froze in her veins. It was the man who had answered Mahdi's phone that morning. But how did he get Nordqvist's number, unless . . . .

  She turned her gaze up at Stefan, but he seemed genuinely put off by the call.

  "I believe you have something of mine," the man said. "I would like it back."

  Angel pushed herself out of her chair, knocking the people standing behind her away. She grabbed Nordqvist's arm and began to pull him out of his seat. He was a big man, and much stronger than she, and he wouldn't budge. He just looked up at her with puzzlement on his face.

  "Are you there?"

  She pulled the phone away from her ear and stared at it, as if she expected it to turn into something horrible and attack her. The seconds ticked away on the timer. The man spoke again, his voice sounding thin and reedy through the phone's tiny speaker, asking if she could hear him.

  "Who are you?" she asked. "What have you done with Mahdi?"

  "You may call me . . . . Let's go with Kurtz. Mister Kurtz. I work for a company you know. Let's call it The Future."

  "That isn't your real name, is it?"

  "No. That would be rather silly of me to tell you, wouldn't you think? Not that it would mean anything to you. You don't know me, although I do know about you, young lady. Your interference has cost The Future dearly."

  "I don't know what you mean."

  "I'm speaking of Goh Li Xhia, of course. That fiasco set us back months. Why don't you put me on speaker so that you will all be able to hear what I have to say. So that you will all, collectively, be able to fully appreciate the gravity of this situation. I don't want there to be any misunderstandings. Misunderstandings lead to hurt feelings. Or worse."

  Numb with fear, she handed the phone back to Stefan, relaying the man's request to put him on speaker. Stefan tapped the screen and nodded at her, but he wouldn't relinquish the phone. "Okay, whoever this is, you're on speaker now," he announced. "What do you want?"

  "As I mentioned to Mademoiselle de l'Enfantine, my name is Kurtz. I work for a company we shall refer to as The Future. You have stolen something that belongs to me. Many somethings, to be more accurate. I want them all back, every single last one. In exchange, I'm willing to return something of value back to you. Every last little bit of him."

  "How did you get this number?" Stefan demanded.

  "Is this really how you want this conversation to go, Herr Nordqvist, wasting time on petty trivialities that don't advance your understanding of the situation?"

  "You don't get to make demands!"

  "If you really believe that, then you are truly dumber than I thought."

  Nordqvist's face turned red with rage. "How dare you!"

  "This isn't a game. Now, shut up and let Mademoiselle de l'Enfantine speak."

  The conversation had drawn the attention of the other scientists, who gathered around the table. All except for Duke, who seemed oblivious to what was happening. He was completely engrossed in his phone, his face twisted in concentration. Angel thought it might be a game. He seemed the type— asocial, awkward, a loner.

  "Mademoiselle de l'Enfantine?"

  "I am here," she said, her voice quivering.

  "Good. I suspect you know what I'm talking about and why I want them back."

  "The nanites."

  "See? You are so much smarter than your host," Kurtz said. There was an infuriating undertone to his voice, a mix of condescension and petulant amusement. "But we don't call them that. Negative connotations and all. People fear what they don't understand. We simply call them Product."

  She covered the phone with her other hand and said in a whisper, "It's about the refugees."

  "Yes, that is correct," Kurtz said.

  "Who the hell is this?" Nordqvist growled. "I demand that you tell me how you got this number!"

  "Oh, very well. I am loath to reward such stubbornness, but in the interest of time and in the spirit of collaboration, I will tell you. Your Mister Norstrom provided your contact information to me. In fact, he is what I am offering in exchange for the return of my test subjects."

  "What have you done with him?" Angel cried.

  "Oh, don't worry, young lady. He is not hurt. Not badly, anyway. In fact, most of his injuries were incurred while resisting capture, so we can't really be blamed for that. The two men he took out might not agree, but they are dead, so their opinion means less than nothing to me."

  "If you've hurt him—"

  "Nothing that shows. I mean, we were forced to resort to certain, less desirable, methods just to obtain Herr Nordqvist's phone number. I admit, I was rather flattered to learn Stefan had become involved. It's quite the affirmation, knowing your technology has gained the attention of such a notorious character as him. But I digress. Shall we discuss the terms of the exchange?"

  "You do not own the refugees. They are not yours to barter."

  "They are more mine than yours."

  "Angelique—" Stefan started to say, but she wasn't having any of it.

  "I want to know where is Norstrom? How do we know he is even alive?"

  "Check your screen."

  An image of Norstrom appeared, bruises on his face, a dirty cloth tied over his mouth, preventing him from speaking.

  "This is a live feed. As you can see, he is breathing."

  The video abruptly cut off.

  "That proves nothing! If you kill him or hurt him, you will never get what you are asking!"

  "Which is why I am giving you my word that he is alive, and you can always take me at my word. This you will soon know. But even if you still have doubts then, you will find, after the exchange has been made, that I have not broken my promise. All four hundred and thirty seven individuals for your Mister Norstrom, both parties safe and sound. And — shall we say — fully intact."

  "You keep him," Stefan shouted. "We'll keep ours. Fair trade."

  "What?" Angel cried. "Stefan, no!"

  He tapped a button on his phone, then his watch, making sure Kurtz really couldn't hear this time.

  "Angelique, Norstrom knows the risks. He wouldn't want us to do this. Trading one life for well over a hundred isn't worth the risk, neither to them nor to humanity."

  "Them? " she spat. "Humanity? You do not care about Humanity! You only care about yourself! You are so selfish!"

  His eyes narrowed. "Careful."

  A scene flashed through Angel's mind,
an old memory, and as soon as it came to her she realized she'd somehow managed to bury it deep during all the years since the incident it recalled. But now it was back, dredged up by the man's presence and his angry look and his stern voice.

  She was twelve, and the three of them were on the shore of Lac Léman in Switzerland— she, five-year-old Jacques, and their mother. Night had fallen, though the air was warm, the sky clear and filled with a million stars. The lights of the surrounding communities shimmered beautifully over the flawlessly smooth water, a wonder to see, magical. And she was in awe of the towering fountain of the Jet d'Eau. Even Jacques, who at that age preferred things that tended to creep and crawl, was impressed by it all.

  It had been a long, fun day. They'd spent it playing in the sun at the Baby-Plâge, and they were all tired yet eager to join up again with their father, who had attended a meeting of security software experts across the lake at Versoix. They were walking leisurely up the quay, hand-in-hand, to the ferry terminal to meet him, Jacques on one side of their mother, she on the other, when they heard a commotion on the beach below. A man was screaming at a group of boys, yelling at them that they were making too much noise, disturbing his peaceful afternoon. "Get the hell away from here!" he screamed.

  At the time, Angel had had very little interaction with her father's business associates, both his partners and his competitors, and so, having not yet met Stefan Nordqvist, she had no idea who the screamer was, only that he was an extremely rude American.

  It was only a few days later, at the final luncheon where her father was to deliver the address to close out the convention, that she formally met the man. At that event, she recognized him as the raging lunatic who had screamed at the boys on the beach.

  The strain on her mother's face during that luncheon made it clear she also remembered him. Jacques hadn't, but he'd been so young. And when Stefan picked up the little boy and tossed him playfully into the air like he weighed nothing at all, Jacques giggled and begged for him to do the same to Angel. But her mother drew the line there, much to Angel's relief.

  It had been Nordqvist who suggested to her father to rent one of the gambling boats for a final day of celebration. He had made it seem like it would be more than worth the expense, rubbing elbows with the cybersecurity technorati, when all that had happened was he'd taken advantage of the hospitality, gotten drunk, and used the opportunity to slip himself into the back pockets of the very people he'd promised to deliver to her father.

  That Stefan Nordqvist, the one she remembered now, expected to always have his way. He needed to be in control. He hated when things did not go his way.

  Just like now. He hadn't changed a bit.

  And yet, for some reason, her eyes drifted back to the bar, where she noticed for the first time that the bottles filling the shelves were all empty.

  That Stefan Nordqvist from years back had been a heavy drinker. This one did not appear to be so.

  People don't change, Angel.

  "I know what you plan to do with the nanites," she whispered, facing him again and ignoring the man on the phone. "It is the same thing you have always done with technology that you steal. It is what you did to my father! You are going to reverse engineer them and make them your own. Then you will sell it off piecemeal to whoever pays you the most."

  They stared at each other for several seconds. His face darkened with rage, and the veins bulging on his temples. Angel could feel her own face grow hot.

  "Is that what you think of me, Angelique?" he asked, painfully. "Because it's not true."

  "I know you can still hear me," Kurtz said. "Maybe I can't hear you, but that's okay. You just need to listen anyway. Here's the situation: Those people you have, I know what you plan to do with them. It's the same thing I might do if I were in your shoes, except you don't know something I do. You don't know you'll fail. You'll fail because we will stop you. You see, we simply cannot allow our work — which is not yet fully mature — to get out into the wild. We are willing to go to extreme measures to ensure that it does not. So, if you continue to try, then you will be responsible for the consequences. I doubt you want that on your conscience."

  "What's he talking about?" Stefan asked Angel. "What consequences?"

  "I tried to tell you before. They have a way of triggering a self-destruct mechanism. They would rather kill those people than let you have what is inside of them."

  He turned to Duke, who had finally realized he was missing something interesting and wandered over. "Doctor Catalan, how much blood do we have?"

  "It doesn't matter," Angel said, cutting him off. "That will be destroyed, too."

  "How?"

  She shook her head. "We don't know how. It is synchronized somehow."

  "But we don't have over four hundred people," one of the other scientists said. "He thinks we have them all, but we only have about a hundred or so."

  "I'm calling his bluff," Stefan said.

  "No, don't!" Angel cried in desperation.

  "If he doesn't know how many we have, then he doesn't know where we are. How is he going to do anything to us? No, Angel, this man doesn't control the situation. I do!"

  He activated the microphone and raised it to his face. "Sorry, Kurtz. No deal."

  "I was afraid you might say that."

  "You have a counter offer?"

  "No, instead I suggest you check in with them. Tell me how my people are doing."

  Angel jumped out of her chair and shoved her way through the group.

  "Angelique!" Stefan shouted. "Where are you going? Come back here!"

  But she was already at the French doors, yanking them open and stepping out. She spun on her toes and began to run.

  She raced down the covered runway outside the barn, passing several doors, each of them labeled with an ornate plaque to designate their functionaries: VETERINARIAN, MANAGER, GROOMER. The same doors she'd seen inside from the interior breezeway, except now in reverse order. She knew that the medical treatment room office was across the hall from the door marked VETERINARIAN, on the other side of the building. It was where Padraig now rested.

  After the Groomer's wet room came the stalls. Finally, she reached the buses. The track's infield was just beyond.

  "Angelique!" Stefan bellowed from fifty meters behind her. "Stop!"

  This time she did, skidding on grass now slick with evening dew. She stopped, but not because he had ordered her to do so, but because of the shock that came from the scene before her.

  The migrants were scattered about over the field, some in tight groups, others alone, standing or sitting on the grass or on folding chairs. A gentle breeze blew across the land, ruffling the tents and the banners topping the poles of the stands. A few of the refugees moved about in apparent confusion, but they were very much in the minority. They tugged at the rest, begging them to wake up. Of the one hundred and twenty or so men, women, and children, all but a dozen had been turned into statues.

  Chapter Twenty Three

  Angel's skin crawled. The hair on her neck prickled. It was like a scene from a horror movie, like one of the science fiction shows David had been so fond of watching.

  Someone's phone vibrated. She could hear it, an urgent buzzing in an eerie, unnatural vacuum of sound. She could almost feel the vibrations in the air, like a rash on her skin.

  "What the hell is going on here?" Stefan demanded. "Why are they standing like that?"

  The remains of the picnic lay at the migrants' feet, fallen from numb hands, disposable plates and serviettes tumbling in the breeze.

  She spotted two people walking among them, both in white laboratory coats, snapping their fingers, waving their hands in front of their faces, shaking the refugees by the arm or shoulder and shouting. All to no avail.

  "Are they drugged or something?" Duke said, stepping beside them.

  Angel turned to him, then to Stefan. The rest of the technical team fanned out behind him. They all seemed equally puzzled.

  "It is him
," she said. "Kurtz. He did this."

  "Did what, exactly? Why aren't they moving?"

  "He has shut them down."

  "Excuse me?"

  It was exactly the same catatonic state she had witnessed take hold of Jamie in China. Aston had explained that it was mediated by the nanites, but it required a separate external signal, which had been generated by a device he called a resonance uncoupler. The signal could override a person's motor control, rendering them immobile and insensate.

  The effect went away once the signal was removed.

  "Look for a box about so big," she shouted at the rest of the group. She held out her hands to show them. "It is some kind of wireless transmitter. One of the refugees must have brought it with them!"

  Stefan grabbed her arm. "What are you talking about?" he demanded, the veins on his forehead throbbing. "Dammit! What the hell is going on here?"

  The scientists and doctors stood and gawped, unsure of how to respond to the bizarre scene. But not Stefan. He raged in a tight circle and demanded an explanation.

  "This is about Kurtz proving to us that he has control of them," Angel said. "He does not have to be here. He does not even need to know where we are. He is showing us he has access to them. If we do not do as he says, I think the next thing he will do is kill them."

  The phone buzzed again in Stefan's hand. He twitched, as if he was trying hard to resist answering it. "He won't. He's already tipped his hand. These people are too valuable to him."

  Angel shook her head. She had seen firsthand how little value the people working for this company placed on actual lives. They cared only for their own secrets, and were willing to do everything necessary to keep them.

  The phone buzzed again. This time he answered it, pulling it up to his ear. "Who the fuck are you? How are you doing this? I demand you end this right now!"

  Angel watched his face twist with emotion. He listened for a moment, then looked up and peered out over the field. Angel followed his gaze.

  A woman standing in a burka about fifty meters away suddenly lurched forward, uttering a small cry of surprise. She turned around to stare at the others around her, none of whom had moved. A frightened cry rose from her lips.