“Is there nothing else you wish to tell me? No other reports? Nothing untoward that occurred during the test phase?” Lev was gratified to see the faint red that mottled his son’s forehead. Indeed, Roman would keep no secrets from him.
“There was one small mishap; an unexpected glitch at one of the test locations.”
“I am fully aware of the papers that were released with our—Gaia’s—mark on them. How did that occur?”
Roman’s throat constricted, quickly and then stopped as if stuck, then constricted again. Lev heard the friction in his son’s dry swallow. “I do not know. Varden first reported it to me; he managed to gather them up before they were noticed. Even pulled them out of the trash and destroyed them.”
Lev felt only a faint surprise that Roman did not ask how he knew of the problem. It was never prudent to rely on someone else for critical information; and much as he loved his son, Lev did not fully trust anyone, including his own flesh and blood. He’d learned the depth of betrayal from the one closest to him.
“And you did not intend to inform me of that occurrence? What right do you have to keep such information from me? It could have jeopardized our cause, Roman. You are not foolish enough to believe I would not want to know. And would not want you to locate and disable those responsible.”
“Varden collected all of the papers. No one gave them any attention; they were too busy pulling people out of the rubble to notice or care about the papers.”
“But if someone should recognize the mark of Gaia, Roman … .if someone should, then we will be in jeopardy. And that is not acceptable.”
“No, it is not. I should have told you, Father, but I hoped to spare you needless worry. Varden has assured me that no one has given any thought to the papers. He has been intimately involved in the rescue operations in order to ascertain what investigations are occurring.”
Lev stared at him for a long moment. “You will not withhold any information from me for any reason again. Regardless of its triviality. Do not forget, I am the one who speaks for Gaia. You and Varden—you do not.”
“Of course, father.”
“And when you have determined which of our people allowed such a thing to happen, you will handle it with the same finality with which you handled Israt Medivir.”
“Of course, father. Only last week, Igor Minofsky was punished when he called into question the direction I gave him. He wanted a greater sign that this was the perfect time. Stegnora believes Hedron may have been involved. His sons Bran and George have been missing from their homes in Madrid.”
Hedron was indeed becoming more belligerent and critical of Roman’s practices, and his leadership decisions. Lev suspected he would risk upheaval in the clan in order to remove Roman from his ruling position, despite the spiritual power still retained by Lev himself. Indeed, Hedron had proven his ability to commune with the spiritual world in a way that eluded Roman.
But Hedron was not of the Aleksandrov or Romanovna lines. Thus he could not be accepted as a leader.
“It is more than possible. I presume you will locate the two young men? Fridkov?”
“Of course, father. He arrived Stateside and has been reassigned to conduct his own investigation on the whereabouts of Hedron’s sons. And appropriate steps will be taken.”
“I would expect nothing less, Roman. Do not disappoint me again.”
-24-
July 9, 2007
Langley, Virginia
Gabe MacNeil was missing.
With a civilian.
Colin reached for a capsule of Prilosec; downed it with four slugs of coffee. Black. And strong enough to remove rust stains.
He had a feeling it wouldn’t help.
For twenty years, he’d walked the straight and narrow. Always following the rules. Always getting expenses approved before utilizing them. Always clearing investigations as needed. Always being completely forthcoming with his team.
Always justifying his work for the Agency.
And the one blasted time he didn’t, this had to happen.
With a civilian!
Bergstrom was going to have to do something. MacNeil’s satellite phone wasn’t working, and he’d heard nothing from him since he’d left Marquette yesterday afternoon.
He’d allowed his past and his personal prejudices to lead him and now he was going to have to face the consequences.
Damn. It had been a simple assignment: bring Victor Alexander to him so that he could find a way to hold him. Simple.
But, like the time he’d decided to install a new light in the dining room, what had seemed an elementary, straight-forward task had turned into an abominable mess.
He’d lied to his officer, withheld information, and misled him. Endangered a civilian. Utilized unauthorized Agency resources during a time when budget cuts required accounting for everything.
All because he saw the opportunity for revenge.
And now he was going to have to pay the piper, and hope it wouldn’t result in the loss of his job. Because if he lost that, he lost everything.
His attention bounced around his office, unsure where to focus. Onto the stack of files that needed to be dealt with.
Onto the laptop screen, which, behind its screen saver, held nearly a hundred emails.
Onto the minutes from, ironically, the budget meeting he’d attended yesterday.
And, finally, irrevocably, onto the old photo of his wife.
He flipped listlessly through a file while his mind worked. How could he get a team up to Northern Michigan to track down Gabe? Would Darrow agree to it?
Why the hell didn’t Gabe call?
He had a sat phone.
But Bergstrom knew that Gabe would have called if he could have.
Which meant that he was in trouble.
That assumption was a light at the end of the tunnel of his own making. Because if Gabe was in trouble, that meant there was trouble to be had. And if there was trouble, it would justify his actions.
Before he could stew on it any longer, his desk phone rang. “Bergstrom here.”
The voice that came through sounded far away and tinny. At first, his heart leapt. Gabe? But no.
“This is Director Colin Bergstrom?” came the precise, clipped voice that Colin recognized as someone who’d learned English as a second or other language. He spoke his first name “Cole-in.”
“Speaking. Who is calling?”
“This is Inspector Hamid al-Jubeir of the GDI in Riyadh, Saudi Arabia.” The way this introduction came through, smoothly with only a minor hesitation over the names and titles, told Colin that the words were written in front of the speaker.
“Yes? How may I help you?”
“I am involved in an investigation related to the murder of a wealthy oil producer here in Riyadh. The man who killed him left a calling card with a black drawing on it. A symbol.”
“Yes?”
“Through the Interpol database, I found that you have been investigating such a symbol in relation to some activity in the United States. Yours is the only identifier I could find for this drawing. I hoped you might have some information that could help me.”
“Indeed. Indeed!” Perhaps the sun would shine. “Can you fax me a copy of the symbol? Do you have any other information?”
“The assistant of the man who was killed met the suspected murderer. I have a composite drawing of that man. Would that be of interest to you? And have you anything to share with me?”
“Yes, to both. Perhaps you can email them to me?” At the very least, Colin would run the photo of the murderer through the database in Langley, unless by some odd break of fortune he recognized it as Victor Alexander. Identifying another Skaladeska; indeed, one who was a suspect in murder, would immediately support his questionable investigation. And then he could put more resources to track down Gabe.
Colin gave Hamid his email address, and while the investigator was preparing the attachments, Bergstrom gave him a sketchy outline of who the
Skaladeskas were. “At this time, we haven’t any reason to believe they are a danger to anyone; however, with this new development—and if it is indeed a Skaladeska who is suspected in the murder of Israt Medivir,” he had to look at his notes to make sure he had the name right, “it will give support our decision to continue monitoring those people.”
Perhaps, perhaps his personal feelings had not been skewed too far from professional after all.
His instincts had never been wrong yet.
-25-
July 9, 2007
Somewhere in Canada
Marina looked at the Mirage sitting on the end of the runway. She’d flown one twice, and although it was bigger than the SR-22 with which she had logged more than 1000 hours, it had more than a few advantages over that. It could fly higher and carry more weight, to name a few.
And they wanted her to fly it?
Her kidnappers wanted her to fly a plane.
Why?
Marina didn’t remember the question coming out of her mouth, but she must have spoken it, because her captor replied, “You have the skill, and I am most certain you will do your best to ensure that we have a safe trip. I will be watching you very closely.”
Ah yes. The very same tactic employed by bank robbers and other felons: have the hostage drive the car while they keep a gun on him. It provides for fewer distractions and better security, from the felon’s point of view.
“Where are we going? Do you have a flight plan?”
“You will find all you need inside.”
By now, they had reached the plane. A shadow moved inside the little craft, shifting into the shape of a man, who yawned and stretched before he opened the plane door. It opened toward the ground to display built-in steps.
“Is he your guard dog?” Marina asked, and suddenly she thought of Boris. The canine would be frantic when he returned to the motel room to find her gone. The sense of struggle in the air would be evident to him and he would know she’d left under duress.
“Inside.” She felt a jab at the base of her back and it brought her back to the matter at hand. Boris would be fine. She, on the other hand, was going to be in a bit of a mess for the foreseeable future.
Glancing back at MacNeil, Marina gave a little smile and was rewarded with a wry expression in return. They were in this together, and they hadn’t been hurt or killed yet, he seemed to say. Onward and upward.
Literally.
Inside the Mirage, she slid into one of the pilot seats and began reviewing the flight plan, which had been on the small console between the two seats. Someone knew what they were doing.
The plan was a visual one, which meant that it was not filed with Air Traffic Control and she would not be relying on instruments during flight. They would also be flying at a lower altitude than the Mirage was capable of; a precaution, she assumed, on the part of whoever had planned it, because if they flew at a high enough altitude, say, over 18,000 feet, they’d have to file the plan with ATC. Which meant that they’d get a four-digit Squawk code; something she could potentially use to alert ATC that they were being hijacked or kidnapped. So using a code to notify the ATC wasn’t going to work. She’d have to think of something else.
Marina wondered if it was either of these gentlemen, or if someone else had prepared their route. If they hadn’t prepared the flight plan, that could mean neither of them were skilled pilots. Which left some room for her to get creative.
Marina turned her mind from questions she couldn’t answer, and focused on refamiliarizing herself with the plane, which was a 2004 model and the newest, most feature-laden aircraft she’d ever flown. Despite the fact that they were being kidnapped, it was going to be a rush to fly it. The flight plan indicated that they were going to be flying at about 14,500, and heading northeast of James Bay.
She checked all the gauges and controls on the digital screen, confirmed that it was fueled, and finally settled in her seat.
“Where exactly are we going? I need to know if I’m going to fly this thing.”
“Our final destination is near the Arctic Circle.”
“The Arctic Circle? That’s going to take at least two days!” she said incredulously, looking at the man who had taken the seat next to her. “We’re going to have to stop to refuel at least … three times. And—”
“We will not fly so far. You will follow the plan and land where you are directed.”
“What, are we taking dog sleds from there? And don’t you think we’re going to be a little cold?” Marina asked, gesturing to her bare arms. At least the plane had the comforts of heat, as well as a pressurized cabin.
He shoved a heavy hooded coat at her, but replied in annoyance, “Your duty is to fly this plane. Your questions will be answered at the appropriate time. You have no choice but to cooperate.”
She didn’t, did she?
Marina set her jaw and draped the coat over the chair behind her back. She found a pair of warm gloves in one pocket, and a hat in the other. At least she wouldn’t freeze when they landed.
At least, right away.
Her mind raced as she settled back in her seat. As the CIA had learned, she didn’t embrace bald orders without a fight, or without considering all the alternatives.
Based on the way her so-called co-pilot was looking at the array of controls, she wagered she knew more about the plane than her companions. He appeared to be trying to hide his fascination and awe of the dash that was crammed full of dials, gauges, and buttons.
She had more than a hunch that he knew next to nothing about flying. So they’d see whether she had a choice to cooperate or not.
* * *
Marina chose the time to make her move carefully.
They’d been in-flight for well over an hour, having reached their altitude. The sun had begun to rise, and they were just below the clouds so she could see the terrain below: vast, empty, no mountains or hills in sight. Very few signs of civilization; no large cities. Some small towns, but nothing to worry about.
They were near Elsas, Ontario.
Removing her hands from the yoke, under the guise of a stretch—which was not all that difficult to fake, considering the only sleep she’d had was when she was out cold in the back of the truck—Marina craned her neck to look toward the rest of the cabin. It was laid out just like a six-seat limo, with four seats facing each other in the back.
MacNeil was sitting in the facing seat to her right, with Bran directly in back of Marina’s seat, which made it easy for her to catch MacNeil’s eye without Bran noticing. It was a swift-moving, sliding glance, but their gazes snagged. She made sure hers was full of meaning.
As she settled back in her seat, Marina heard MacNeil cough. It was the first time he’d done so, and she knew that was his response that he’d read her signal. Good. She might have to drag him off the plane, but at least he wouldn’t be panicked.
Of course, she didn’t expect that a guy like MacNeil would panic about much anyway.
She allowed the Mirage to fly along for another fifteen or twenty minutes before slipping it out of auto-pilot and putting her plan into motion.
A quick in-drawn breath was enough to catch the attention of George, the previously-unnamed kidnapper who sat next to her. But Marina knew well enough not to over-play. Just that in-drawn breath, and an adjustment to an instrument that looked like she’d had to react quickly … and then nothing. Studied casualness.
She felt George’s eyes on her. He’d turned toward her, but said nothing. She could tell he wondered … and she took care to tighten her mouth and add a little frown between her brows.
A few more minutes, and she changed her facial expression as she stabbed quickly at a different instrument and at the same time banked the plane quickly to the left, then righted it, all so quickly that it appeared she was correcting the sudden swoop and not causing it.
“What is it?” George asked.
“Nothing. I thought … I am not as familiar with this plane, and I thought for a
minute there was a problem with the vacuum pump.” She made her words light, but kept that little tension in the top of her forehead. “There’s no—“
She did it again while George was distracted by her speech: pitched the plane downward and then leveled it off quickly, causing her captor to fly forward, then back into his seat. She tried to keep the smile from edging the corners of her mouth at the expression on his face.
Marina had learned to fly aerobatics, and preferred that kind of thrill to any roller coaster Cedar Point might ever conceive. She was fully aware, having experienced it herself, that motion sickness was common among aerobatic pilots in training. In fact, it was so common and fairly expected that when Air Force pilots trained, they were not allowed to clean up if they vomited. Nor were they relieved of duty.
Colleen Gleason Page 16
