The technician in the backseat started talking on a set of headphones, and as he did he e-mailed the blown-up pictures to Smith, who was observing the house where Colonel Jack Collins was.
As the cab holding Sarah turned away from the curb, heading toward Flamingo Road, a tan Plymouth pulled out of the pay parking lot across the street and quickly followed. The tail on the woman was on the move.
* * *
One minute later, parked only a block away from the house under surveillance, Mr. Smith looked at the photos that had been forwarded to him from his pawn shop team.
“Well, it seems we have confirmed that all of our eggs came from the same basket.” Smith smiled as he started to formulate a plan to finish what his team was paid to do.
“We may have just found our way into wherever this woman and Colonel Collins have been hidden away.”
“When do we move?” one of the men in the backseat of the car asked, eager to get moving toward a more action-filled night.
“I think when this little darling returns to her secret hideaway, she just may have company.”
The two men in the backseat exchanged looks just as the yellow cab pulled up in front of the tract home they were watching.
“Yes, indeed, it is a small world,” Smith said as he compared the photo on the laptop to that of the actual woman stepping out of the cab.
Smith closed the lid to the laptop and then watched as the small woman headed for the front door of the house.
“Inform our friend in Langley that we have a way in to this mysterious lair. And we should have the formula destroyed soon.” Smith was careful not to include the word recovered. He remembered the smoking corpse of Juan Guzman and what this material may have done to him. He knew he wouldn’t touch the stuff nor would any of his team.
As the call was made, Smith watched as the woman entered the house, and then he looked at the driver.
“Sound the alert for the assault team. We move at a moment’s notice,” Smith said as he turned back to the man on the phone in the backseat. “And ask for orders concerning American personnel at this location and the pawn shop.”
After a few moments, the man on the phone hung up and looked at the man who ran everything concerning the Black field teams.
“He says that the priority is the destruction of the formula. All trace of it is to be eliminated, and as far as collateral damage is concerned, he said you were supposed to be good enough to do this without killing. He suggests you do that. But elimination is authorized for self-defense … his words, Mr. Smith.” The man added the last part quickly when he saw the brief flash of anger in the dark eyes of his boss.
The man known as Smith shook his head in disgust.
“Sometimes the people we contract out to have the morals and patriotism of a pig.”
He reached into the glove compartment of the car, removed a handgun, and then pulled the magazine out and checked the loads. After reading the file on their main adversary, this Colonel Collins, he wanted to be ready for any surprises he may get from whatever the pawn shop was hiding.
“Okay, I want a flyover of the pawn shop. Get me thermal images of the personnel inside. Mark them expendables and number them for confirmation purposes after the raid.”
As the men followed his orders, Smith thought of the formula they were there for and the dangers that may exist in destroying it.
“Who in the hell would invent such a thing as Perdition’s Fire?”
7
VAUXHALL, LONDON, ENGLAND
OFFICE OF MI6
Sir John Kinlow listened as their man inside CIA headquarters in Langley, Hiram Vickers, explained the situation. The call was a conference session between a secure phone in Langley and three others in London — MI5, MI6, and the Defense Ministry.
“Are you saying that the formula actually still exists?” asked the defense minister.
“That’s what’s being reported,” Vickers answered from his Virginia location.
There was silence on the three connections in London. Vickers was actually thinking that the three men had severed the connection with him.
“This could be a bigger bloody mess than we first thought,” said the defense minister.
Sir John cleared his throat. “Mr. Vickers, you are indeed a kind and loyal friend to Her Majesty’s—”
“Gentlemen, let’s cut to the chase here,” Vickers said as he was starting to lose his patience with the British old guard. “We can destroy the Ambrose element, but there could be collateral damage to American personnel involved in carrying out this rather touchy mission.”
“Of course you can bill us for the agency’s services Mr. Vickers, and you may include the overtime,” the defense minister said.
There was silence on the other end of the line stretching across the sea to America.
“That was in very poor taste Joseph,” Sir John said, trying to calm the anger he felt through the phone connection.
“We’re talking about the elimination, no damn it, the cold-blooded killing of Americans on their own soil, upon the shores of an ally state? That’s what we’re discussing here Minister. This could mean a noose for all of us. Mostly, I dare say, for myself.”
“Mr. Vickers, how good is your field team?” the minister of defense asked.
“They’re the best. But one thing you gentlemen must realize. If you kill American citizens, or military personnel, in this quest, I will not answer for your crimes. If I am caught, gentlemen, you’ll swing on the rope right next to me. I want that understood.”
“Sir John, what say you?” the defense minister asked.
“I think this is all madness. But what choice did our ancestors leave us? I vote Mr. Vickers the power to destroy the Ambrose serum — at any cost.”
“I’m afraid we have no choice, Sir John. Mr. Vickers, please pass along instructions to your field element to destroy any and all British property in and around its current location.”
“Yes, sir, I will pass on the instructions. Now I will pass on the thoughts of my boss. This is an expensive proposition that you have thrown our way gentlemen. My superior believes it may be too costly, friends across the sea notwithstanding.”
“Mr. Vickers, you are stammering like a reluctant stickup man stumbling over his holdup note. Can we get to the extortion part of this passion play, please?” the defense minister asked.
“Very well, I’ll do that Minister. Our price is 100 million pounds. That’s the cost of doing business so close to home. There you have it gentlemen. I can assure you that the funds are appropriate for the action to be taken. There will also be a compensation package for any American killed in the operation. This will of course be supplied by Her Majesty’s government for services rendered, even if we are the one killing these poor souls. This will cost you five hundred thousand pounds for each one of these unfortunates who, after all, are citizens we here at Langley are under oath to protect.”
“How very moving, Mr. Vickers, extortion brought on by patriotism.”
“Yes, that is a nice touch. You can never imagine the better feelings restored to those who order the deaths of others when they know the victim’s family will have their needs met. After all, we are not barbarians here in the West, are we gentlemen?”
“Extortion is a light term where you are concerned, Mr. Vickers. I’m sure there is something other than British pounds that we can come to terms with. I am sure—”
Sir John heard the connection end. He slammed down his finger on his own disconnect button and then angrily stood.
“This is bloody well out of control,” Sir John said as he turned to face his open window and the rainy early morning of Vauxhall. They are actually going to kill American personnel over a formula that turns men into raging, cunning animals, he thought as he placed a hand through his gray hair.
As he looked out of the window into the gray and diffused morning light, he knew that Jack the Ripper would raise his ugly head one more time, and now it was he and t
he other ministers who would have to cover up once more the mistakes of the past.
CIA HEADQUARTERS
LANGLEY, VIRGINIA
Lynn Simpson yawned as she signed off on a report confirming the death of Juan Guzman. Earlier she had spoken to her mother, informing her of Jack’s decision to leave the service. She had been taken aback as much as Lynn herself had been when informed by Carl Everett from whatever location he was holed up in out in the desert. She had tried several times to call Jack on his cell phone, but had no luck in reaching him.
She heard the knock on her door. She looked up and saw her assistant standing there.
“I have the report on that trace test that was run earlier by Hiram Vickers?”
“Did we dig up the test subject’s name?”
“No, but we do have the results of the target’s route and the final destination where Mr. Vickers’s tracer test was terminated.”
Lynn folded her hands in front of her and smiled. “Well, I’m all ears. Where did the test terminate?”
The woman looked at the report and then placed it in front of Simpson.
“The test terminated at 1267 Flamingo Road, Las Vegas, Nevada. The home of an elderly woman who owns the house free and clear,” the assistant said as she looked down at her notes so Lynn wouldn’t have to bother with the official report. “Her name is Alice Hamilton.”
Lynn lost the smile as the name rang a bell for some reason. She looked down at the folder in front of her and then waved the assistant into her office. “Close the door,” she ordered.
Lynn quickly perused the one-page trace report. “I don’t see a list of calls coming in or out of this residence, by either landline or cell.”
“Oh, it’s right here,” the woman said as she opened a second folder and slid it across the desk.
Lynn’s eyes scanned the report of listed numbers and then moved down to the unlisted phone numbers. Her eyes saw one that looked familiar, almost as familiar as the name listed as the home’s owner. She read the numbers aloud. “702-545-9012?” Her face lost all of its color as she pulled out her own cell phone and hit her contacts list. As she ran down her list of names and their phone numbers she immediately saw two that made her catch her breath. The first was 702-546-1190, Sarah McIntire. The next name and phone number made her far more frightened than the first: 702-545-9012—Jack.
Lynn Simpson, the sister of Jack Collins, stood from her desk so suddenly she made her assistant jump. Lynn headed for the door.
“What is it?”
“I have someone I have to talk to, and he better have a good reason for tracking a government employee on my turf without informing me.”
Lynn, with folder in hand, left the office and headed straight to the bank of elevators on her way to see a man that was attempting to run an operation behind her back and in her territory.
That man was Hiram Vickers.
EVENT GROUP COMPLEX,
NELLIS AFB, NEVADA
The Event Group personnel from CDC watched from behind the sealed glass window as the robotic arm eased the old and clouded jar onto the stainless-steel table. As the articulated claw released the glass, the technician operating the Honda Corporation’s latest robotic human-assist device took a deep breath. Colonel Bannister placed his hand on the back of the air force sergeant, impressed by how he handled the unknown substance with the advanced robotic arm. He was also impressed by the facilities Niles had managed to finagle out of the federal budget — indeed, times had changed since the colonel, his daughter, and the others had been an official part of the Group’s roster. Their equipment was on par with anything they had in Atlanta, and in some cases surpassed it. The main reason for this he noted to the rest of his team, was the computer-assisted actions of everything within the complex. He understood that the system was called Europa, and he had never seen anything like it. It was far superior in computing power to the old system they used to have when he led the Infectious Disease Department at the Group.
As their team took a deep breath, the air force sergeant eased his hand off of the control yoke and flexed his fingers.
“Now, this is the tricky part,” the sergeant said as he looked over toward Virginia Pollock who stood slightly away from the CDC team as she watched the procedure. “I will hold the container in place with robot assist arm number two, but the Europa-operated arm, number one, will slice into the beeswax seal holding the rubber cork in place. Only the correct pressure of blade against wax can sever it without damaging the cork — something only Europa can gauge correctly. It’s far beyond the scope of human touch to consider trying.”
“Yes, keep the genie in the bottle and us in control,” Gloria said as she watched the procedure.
As they watched, the arm controlled by the sergeant took a firm hold on the center of the glass jar as Europa manipulated the second arm into position. Attached to the three-fingered claw was what looked like a shortened scalpel. As the stainless-steel device eased into the wax, Europa started measuring the exact thickness of the old and dried beeswax by the use of a laser that measured the density of the wax before the blade struck it. As the scalpel sank into the hardened organic matter, the team watched as its thickness was measured by the distance it traveled through the wax. As the arm started to rotate and start its run around the rim of the jar, the team saw the numbers start to vary as it spun around the seal.
“Actually, I am surprised at the almost exact nature of the placement of the beeswax. It’s almost the same thickness all the way around the cork,” Colonel Bannister said as the cut around the wax was completed and Europa eased the wax seal free of the jar. Everyone took a breath as the wax came free without shaking the material inside.
The sergeant then started operating a third robotic arm. He brought it down and used it as an assist to the first. It grabbed hold of the jar at center mass to stabilize the container as Europa, this time minus the scalpel, moved across the top of the now brownish-looking, cracked, and old rubber stopper. As the team examined the rubber cork on the large monitor, they saw in intricate detail that the rubber was brown with age and cracked throughout, creating another possible escape route for the highly unstable serum.
“Even with the wax seal, that rubber would not have lasted another ten years. If this formula is as powerful as the witness testimony described, there could have been a disaster in Mexico as these seals failed one by one and the serum found its way into the groundwater or, worse, the Rio Grande,” Professor Franks, the eldest of the CDC people, said as he examined the close-up view of the container.
The air force tech brought his microphone closer to his mouth. “Europa, you may insert the tube at this time.”
Without answering the command, Europa started to slide the articulated arm closer to the top of the cork. Attached to the claw this time was a ten-inch-long tube, only 2.8 centimeters in diameter. This was something the CDC people had worked with many times. The small stainless-steel tube was worth just short of a million dollars and was a piece of engineering genius. It was actually a large syringe and had opening and closing valves at each end of the tube. Once inserted, the computer would have definite control of any flow of fluid from the container, but what was more important, it could also be used to pump high-octane fuel into the container for destruction purposes if the seal failed at any time. Again the Event Group under the Nevada desert had equipment that the CDC only heard about a few years ago.
Colonel Bannister looked over at Virginia Pollock. “Doctor, just how in the hell does Niles come up with equipment others of us can only dream about?”
Virginia smiled and shook her head only slightly. She nodded toward the glass wall as Europa inserted the tube and then removed the arm. “Dr. Compton is hard to argue with when he states that this department needs something, and most people are smart enough to know that if Niles wants it, the country needs it. He’s never, ever frivolous with the taxpayer dollar.”
“Okay ladies and gentlemen. You are now in control of t
he sample. We can now safely insert your probes without exposing the substance to the air.”
Colonel Bannister just shook his head as Virginia kept her smile on her face.
“Okay, let’s get to work,” Bannister said as the air force tech stood and moved away.
The secret of Perdition’s Fire was about to be revealed.
* * *
Pete Golding sat in the chair inside of the clean room as the robotic arms behind the glass enclosure started placing program after program into the giant Cray computer system. Thus far Pete and Europa had examined almost every report ever filed by the United States Army concerning the punitive raids into Mexico from 1899 to 1917. They had not come across the name Lawrence Ambrose in any of those reports. They had only the documents they had uncovered concerning the ownership of Perdition Hacienda in 1917, and that in and of itself gave them nothing but the fact that Ambrose had really existed. The technicians involved in digging through the old Event Group material recovered after the Patton raid still had not come across any journals or chemical traces of the compound. He looked closer at a picture sent up from the vault area of several small brown bottles that still contained liquid of some unknown variety. Because of the clear color it was suspected that this substance could not be Perdition’s Fire. It was sent up to the infectious disease area nonetheless for safekeeping.
Pete shook his head just as Niles Compton walked into the room. He received an immediate dirty look from Pete. Then he remembered to place the cover over his head in case any hair fell from his balding scalp. Compton gave Pete a return dirty look.
“How come you didn’t freak out when Jack refused to wear the clean-room garb?”
Pete returned his eyes to Europa as she worked behind the glass. “Because Mr. Director, I was terrified of the colonel because he could kill me with that same dirty look,” he turned and faced Niles as he sat in the chair next to Pete’s, “whereas I am not afraid of you doing the same.”
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