by mike Evans
“There is no ‘safe haven’ from these people.”
Winters grabbed the phone from Sophia. “Maria Anne—you tell me where you are and you tell me now,” he demanded.
It took him a moment to realize that the gurgling sound on the phone was Maria’s. “Oh, Daddy,” she said. “You haven’t called me that since I was . . . ten.”
“Where are you?” he insisted.
“I hitchhiked as far as Cartagena.”
“You are only four hours from us, Maria,” Sophia said. “Are you in a protected area?”
“I’m down on Los Nietos Beach. I can just keep walking.”
Winters tried not to dwell on the fact that she was wandering on an isolated beach alone at eight o’clock at night. “Okay,” he said. “Stay in that vicinity as long as you can. When the driver gets to Cartagena he’ll call and tell you where to meet him.”
“What about you?” she said. “Dad, you don’t know what these people are capable of.”
“Oh, yeah, I do,” Winters said. “But handling the bad guys is what I do. You remember that?”
“I remember that,” she said.
“How much juice do you have left on your phone?”
“Fifty percent.”
“Turn it off for the next three-and-a-half hours. That way we know the driver can get through to you.”
Sophia spoke up. “If you don’t hear from him by midnight, go to the lighthouse and wait there.”
“I’ll see you in about eight hours,” Winters said. “Don’t be late or you’re grounded,” he teased.
“Oh, please, yes,” she replied. “Somebody ground me.”
When Maria hung up, Winters turned to the window that looked down over the now-darkened village. “She hitchhiked four hundred miles.”
“Yes, she did,” Sophia said. She slid her arm around his waist. “She is your child, after all.”
Tejada stared through the one-way glass that gave him hidden access to activity in the Security Operations Center below. Through a reflection in the window, he saw an image of Molina standing behind him.
“I can’t understand Farsoun’s inability to capture Agent Winters,” he said with disgust. “He was an incompetent idiot.”
“Farsoun has been eliminated,” Molina assured.
“But Winters hasn’t. And now you have been unable to bring his daughter to me. I do not understand that either. I should have gone after her myself.”
“She had help from her father,” Molina replied. “She had to, or she never would have escaped from that apartment.”
“You have to fix this,” Tejada said with contempt.
“I have a plan in place.”
Tejada nodded toward the large video screens that occupied the wall of the op center. A bevy of analysts stared up at the larger-than-life pictures he was seeing—one of the Conte woman, petite but poised. One of Maria, caught by Molina’s camera as she exited a restaurant with her thick hair tossed by the sea breeze and her brown eyes intelligent and shimmering. And a the third of the fortyish man he’d seen in the previous photos—the man who was aging well despite a peppering of gray in his hair.
“This is your plan?” Tejada asked. “Another manhunt?”
“An expanded one,” Molina said.
Tejada heard the resentment in his voice. “Go ahead,” he said. “Explain it to me.”
“We have been creating a plausible version of the facts to support our search effort.”
Tejada shrugged. “Mere notice that we at Catalonia need to apprehend suspects should be enough to motivate the Barcelona police.”
“We need cooperation at higher levels of government, perhaps even internationally before we’re through, and they are going to require an explanation.”
“And what is that ‘explanation’?”
Molina went to the door and put his hand on the knob. “You are about to see. This is why I asked you to come here.”
Tejada nodded, still watching only Molina’s reflection in the glass. Molina seemed to be waiting for more and when nothing came, he jerked open the door and disappeared. Tejada knew he had angered him, but he no longer cared. He wanted this done, or he would suffer Abaddon’s wrath.
Below, Molina moved among the analysts bent over their laptops to take his place at a microphone on the main operator’s console. The microphone was for Tejada’s benefit. Molina’s unamplified voice could be heard for several city blocks if necessary. Without preamble, he launched into the “explanation.”
“Yesterday morning, Maria Winters, the woman you see here, tried to murder Señor Tejada in his home.”
Tejada couldn’t hear the gasps from the staff but he could see the expressions on their faces. Under other circumstances, he would have found it laughable.
“Apparently she was aided in that effort by her father, John Winters, the man pictured here,” he said, gesturing to a screen on the wall. “Winters is a United States Secret Service agent. He is armed and well trained. It is not clear whether the plot to kill Señor Tejada was his, hers, or both, or whether the Secret Service itself is involved. As for Sophia Conte—the other woman pictured here—she is John Winters’ partner and do not be deceived by her size. She has proven herself dangerous on more than one occasion.”
Molina glanced around the room as if he would shoot on sight anyone who wasn’t paying attention. Apparently satisfied, he went on. “What is certain is that Maria Winters did attempt to kill our CEO and her father helped her escape.”
Tejada sniffed. That last part was clearly an attempt to relieve Molina of responsibility for her escape. Somehow it seemed like more of a lie than the rest of the fabrication.
“Fortunately, Señor Tejada was not injured, but we know Maria and her father will not stop until they’ve succeeded. They must be apprehended.”
An overeager analyst spoke up. “The police have been alerted, as have all airport and rail security personnel—”
“Listen to me.” Molina didn’t raise his voice but the menacing tone was clear. “We have resources here at Catalonia that the government does not have. Apply those resources and find these people. I don’t care how you do it. Just do it.”
Heads bent back to the computers and fingers flew across the keyboards. As the analysts went to work, Molina looked up at Tejada through the window and gave him a nod.
Tejada tapped the glass and watched Molina march from the op center. When he entered the room again, he had lost all control of his anger. “I should have killed her the minute I discovered who her father was,” he ranted. “Then you—and I—would not be in this position.” He stepped to the window and inserted himself between Tejada and the glass. “I may do it yet.”
“You will not. If you find the girl you will bring her to me—unharmed.”
The corner of Molina’s lip curled up. “Are those Lord Abaddon’s orders?”
Tejada tried to keep his emotions in check but the smile on Molina’s face told him he had failed. “Go,” Tejada snapped. “And do not come back until Winters is dead and I have the journal in my hands.”
Molina didn’t wait for further dismissal. He stalked toward the door, jerked it open, and slammed it closed behind him as he left.
Tejada stood at the window, lost in thought. Molina was right. The orders he’d given were not Abaddon’s. They were his own, and if he wanted to survive this ordeal, he needed to renew his vow to the Master and get back to the plan. Seeing Maria had been a serious mistake, one he had known he was making from the moment he first spoke to her. And now they were both in trouble. He hoped she’d understood his warning to her and that she would get away as quickly as possible. At the same time, he was desperate for her to be returned to him. But if she was, could he bring himself to do what life in the Brotherhood required, or would he turn his back on everything they offered and join her for a life on the run?
The darkest hour, Winters decided, really was the one just before dawn. Since the instant Maria had called to say she was safel
y in the backseat of the car Sophia had sent for her, he had sat in a chair in front of the window, never taking his eyes off the street below. Sophia had begged him to get some sleep and she had eventually dozed on the couch. But he’d kept the vigil, praying for the sunrise. As the clock inched toward four he rose from the chair and paced, the questions deepening with every step.
How did Maria get so involved with Emilio Tejada? What happened that he was now threatening her life? She’d said something about Tejada wanting the journal. He was obviously behind the attempts to take it from them, but why the intrigue? Why murder? Why not just ask for it?
Could it actually be a coincidence that his daughter was working for a man who had some reason to keep him from having the Columbus papers? What were the chances?
And how did all of this tie in with Ben and the Russian situation? Or did it?
The only thing Winters knew for sure was that his feisty, stubborn, fearless daughter was terrified and not just for herself, but for him. He’d seen what Tejada could do. Brother José was one example. The attack in Jerusalem was another. But Maria didn’t know about either of those and yet she said, “You don’t know what these people are capable of.” She must have seen as much if not worse, which would account for the tremor in her voice—something he hadn’t heard since she was very young.
The only other thing Winters knew for sure was that he had to protect her. He had to get his head out of his own issues and make sure she wasn’t touched. It wasn’t about him anymore. Or Christopher Columbus.
Headlights flashed against a white wall below, then two shafts shot through the darkness. In the distance he saw the car making its way up the winding road. Winters was out the door before it even reached the driveway and before it came to a complete stop the back door swung open—and then his daughter was in his arms.
“I love you, Daddy,” Maria sobbed, her face against his chest.
“And I love you,” he replied.
Left to his own devices, Winters would have conducted a full interrogation the moment he got Maria into the house, but Sophia took over at that point—in the seamless way that no longer surprised Winters at all. She drew a bath for Maria, then prepared breakfast and had them all gathered at a table in a nook off the living room by the time the sun crested the mountains to the east. As they sat together, enjoying the food and each other’s company, Winters found it hard to comprehend how he was going to function without Sophia at his side.
After a bath and breakfast, Maria began to open up and the more she talked about Tejada and the situation with Catalonia, the more Winters realized what he would have to do.
Maria appeared to be leaving out nothing as she presented them with what she’d experienced since Winters last saw her after his mother’s funeral. As she talked, the flash came back into her eyes and her voice lost that ten-year-old’s frightened tremor.
Only once did he blurt out, “You realize you could have been killed, don’t you?” That was when Maria showed them a picture she’d taken in a bar where she knew Molina was meeting someone.
“This is one of the men who attacked us in Jerusalem,” he said, pointing to the photograph.
“Molina must have sent him to do that.” Maria shook her head. “He was probably setting it up right there, with me barely six feet away.”
Winters opened his mouth to speak but Sophia said, “That is disconcerting, yes?”
“Beyond.” Maria leaned forward. “I’m thinking about the conversation Tejada and Molina had, the one I heard in my apartment. They referred to a man named Farsoun and they said his attack on you was unsuccessful.”
“Thank the Lord,” Sophia murmured.
“Is he just somebody Tejada hired?”
“There’s only one way to find out,” Winters said. “Ask him.”
The terror sprang to Maria’s eyes again. “Dad—”
“Relax, kiddo.” He fished his phone from his pocket. “I know people. And after I talk to Donleavy . . .” He let the name hang in the air until Maria’s eyes met his.
“I couldn’t get in touch with you,” Maria said. “I tried—”
“I know.” Winters smiled. “You did the right thing. He’s the one I have a problem with. Planting bugs?”
“If I hadn’t listened in on those conversations,” Maria defended, “I wouldn’t have known Molina was coming after us. I wouldn’t have been able to warn you.”
“The conversation you heard was in English, yes?” Sophia asked.
Maria nodded. “I think Tejada wanted me to hear it, but I don’t understand why.”
“That is easy, Maria,” Sophia said. Winters watched her eyes soften. “He was warning you.”
“Why would he do that?” Winters said.
Maria didn’t answer. She didn’t have to.
Tejada hadn’t slept in forty-eight hours and his head buzzed as Molina entered his office. If Molina noticed the shadow of stubble or the bags beneath his eyes, he showed no sign of it. He launched straight into what he’d apparently come for. “We have tracked the woman as far as Cartagena.”
Tejada’s pulse quickened but he said, “Which woman?”
“Your woman.”
Tejada chose not to take the bait. “How?”
“We tapped in to law enforcement surveillance cameras. We found video of her getting into a produce delivery truck behind Mercado de La Boqueria. By the time we located the driver she was no longer with him, but he told us where he left her.”
“You paid him,” Tejada said.
Molina smirked. “He paid. In a manner of speaking.”
“Must every piece of information come from your fists?” Tejada held up his palm to stop the protest he knew was coming. “Go on,” he insisted. “Where is she now?”
“My people are going over what surveillance video there is near Los Nietos Beach. That is where she was last seen. There are only glimpses here and there, but we will locate her.”
“That is all you have?”
“For now.”
This was the moment when Molina always waited for Tejada’s dismissal—a kind of blessing from the leader of the Brotherhood and a tacit act of fealty in return from Molina, but he turned now without hesitation and strode to the door. His arrogant posture . . . his innuendo . . . the smirk . . . the nonchalant use of violence as the first response.
“Wait,” Tejada called.
Molina took a few more steps before he stopped, and even then he only looked at Tejada over his shoulder.
“See that the plane is ready to leave in an hour. I am going to Cartagena.”
Molina’s eyes took on a knowing gleam. “Whatever you say.”
As he went once more for the door, Tejada understood why Molina applied his fists to the people he regarded with contempt. His own were clenched at his sides.
Just then, an all-too-familiar voice whined from the doorway.
“The door was open,” Philippe Prevost said.
Tejada waved him in and motioned to the chair in front of his desk. Prevost did as directed and flopped into a chair. His cheeks had grown gaunt since the last time they talked and he looked as tired as Tejada felt.
“I have done everything I can do,” Prevost began.
“Not a reassuring way to start the conversation,” Tejada said.
“Well,” Prevost sighed. “It’s not all bad news. There is some good.”
“No need to be defensive,” Tejada said, wearily. “Tell me.”
“The measure in the US Congress to increase their government’s borrowing limit has failed.”
“It did not just fail,” Tejada said, his voice crisp. “It collapsed—and that is precisely what we wanted. The federal government can no longer finance its operations through borrowed money.” Tejada felt himself warming to the subject. It was good to fix his mind on something besides Maria.
“Japan is already in chaos,” Prevost continued.
“And I have instructed our traders to get out of the Japanese market so
it will continue to fall. What about China?”
“I told Peng to sell some of their US paper in Paris this morning, quickly. China will support any measures to move control of the world’s transactions away from the United States.” Prevost smiled. “Peng could hardly contain his excitement. China will support our global currency.”
“And Germany?”
“Their leaders have met with the European Union. All are in.”
Tejada had a questioning look. “Then why have you come to me looking like death, Philippe?”
“The Russians,” he sighed.
“I thought you had a meeting with Koslov.”
“I did.” Prevost shifted in the chair. The whining, Tejada knew, was about to commence. “I cannot trust him, Emilio. He says Russia is preparing to revalue its oil reserves from dollars to euros, but I hesitated to tell him the EU supports us because I am not certain he is telling me the truth. Koslov says everyone is overreacting to the American situation—that the markets will right themselves when the US makes its first debt payment next week. I explained to him that the US won’t be able to meet all of its commitments without credit, but he went on about its three trillion dollars in revenue, its army, etcetera. And we know about their credit-card-fraud operations in the US. They don’t want any more eyebrows raised about that.” Prevost’s voice fairly screeched. “Even when I told him the dollar has already lost half its value and is still dropping, he was not convinced—”
Tejada cut him off. “Bottom line, Philippe.”
Prevost’s miserable gaze fell to the floor. “Koslov said no to our one-currency plan. I did everything I could—”
“Enough,” Tejada snarled. The room fell silent and he stared across the desk at his nephew.
After a few minutes, Prevost finally said, “So what is next?”
“We give it another day of trading,” Tejada replied. “Let the dollar drop further. Then you go back to Koslov.”
Prevost looked as if he would rather be shot, but Tejada’s withering glare was enough to make him do anything. Finally, he mumbled his agreement to the meeting and skittered from the office.
