by Brett King
Rubin helped Cori ease onto the edge of the bed. “I can’t report on other patients due to confidentiality laws. I’m sorry.”
“Tell me about the car wreck.”
“You don’t remember?”
“Only bits and pieces. I was in an SUV with Shayna. Some men.”
“Your vehicle was hit from the side by one car. A second car struck yours as well, I believe. You must know important people. Someone insisted you be transported back here to the city.”
She thought of Angelilli, then sighed. “Don’t remember any of it.”
“That happens sometimes with closed head injuries. Anterograde amnesia. You blank on things. Dr. Spanos will give you a full report.”
Easing onto her pillow, Cori said, “I need to make a call. I don’t have a phone in my room.”
“Someone requested private care with security.” She frowned. “They don’t want you making phone calls just yet. That’s why they took your cell.”
Cori sighed. The CIA brought her here, so it was no surprise they were cutting her contact from the world.
“Don’t worry,” the nurse said. “I’ve seen this before a time or two. It’s a security precaution. They’ll let you make a call soon. Now, get your rest, dear.”
The sting of the concussing headache returned, but she grabbed the woman’s arm. “This is important. Please tell me if Shayna Brynstone is in this hospital.”
Susan Rubin looked down. “I shouldn’t say this.”
“I have to know,” Cori begged. “Tell me. Please.”
The nurse looked around. Her mouth tightened. “I was told that when paramedics arrived at the accident scene, you were the only survivor.”
Chapter 27
Barcelona, Spain
6:14 a.m.
Too bad John Brynstone wasn’t here. Edgar Wurm knew his old friend would be perfect for the job. On the other hand, Wurm had directed an operation like this one three years ago in London. It had been a success, winning him ownership, once again, of the Scintilla.
Wurm remembered his first trip to Barcelona. He had been twenty-three and traveling with a college buddy named Tony. They had stayed in a hotel off Las Ramblas, the “main drag,” as his friend had called it. They discovered a city bustling with crowds and chaos, alive with tourists and pickpockets. Their first night in the city, they went to see FC Barcelona play at Camp Nou. The scale of the stadium and the enthusiasm of the crowd heightened the experience. Wurm and his friend had met two women at the game. In a legendary moment of Wurm’s youth, they spent the next sun-drenched afternoon at Gaudí’s Park Güell, perched on a hill above Barcelona, gazing at the pristine ocean in the distance.
The next morning, he had awakened to find his friend missing. By noon, authorities arrived at the hotel to question Wurm. That’s when he learned that Tony had assassinated a politician outside the Sagrada Família church. Wurm had no idea that his college friend was a professional killer. Tony had slipped away without explanation. The two never saw each other again.
Tony had understood the value of mixing business with pleasure. Sadly, tonight was all business for Wurm.
He waited in a car not far from the Generalitat Palace. He watched on a monitor as his men infiltrated the Casa de la Ciutat, a fourteenth-century palace in the Gothic quarter in Sant Jaume Square. The place served as Barcelona’s city hall. He had watched as Banan and Chavez navigated through the reception room. They were in the cabinet office now, casting shadows on aged murals covering the walls. Three security guards had offered little resistance. His men seemed home free as they kicked in a door.
Wurm was surprised that the mayor of Barcelona was not in his office. Raimon Escolà was a notorious workaholic. From the little he knew about Escolà, the guy was a decent politician. He also had a notable fascination with antiquities.
His office was airy with an eclectic sense of decoration. Not far from his desk, Escolà had placed the Catalan flag and a painting reflecting his interest in surrealism. It made an odd mix with a tall museum-like glass cube nearby in which was displayed the uniform of a first-century Roman cavalry sergeant, including a tunic and sword belt. Although the military dress and the half helmet originated from slightly different eras—certainly not worn by the same soldier—the mayor had placed them together on exhibit. Escolà had been a military man himself and his mother had been born in Rome, perhaps explaining his decision to exhibit the Roman uniform. Whatever the reason, Wurm knew one thing as he watched the monitor: he wanted the helmet.
“Smash the glass,” he ordered into the two-way radio.
Dressed all in black, Banan swung a crowbar into the glass. A portion collapsed in brilliant fragments onto the floor. Not wasting time, the man reached inside for the helmet, then held it up for inspection on the small camera mounted on his eyeglasses.
“This what you wanted, sir?”
“Peel back the leather,” Wurm ordered.
Reaching inside the half helmet’s shell, Banan pulled back the leather covering. It revealed a constellation of tiny symbols on the inside. Wurm couldn’t decipher them at this distance. He had to get his hands on this artifact.
“Someone’s coming,” Chavez called.
Wurm cursed.
The lights came up and a young security guard raised his gun. Dark-haired with a thin moustache, he shouted something in Castilian Spanish. He wanted Wurm’s men to put down the helmet and raise their hands.
Even on the monitor, Wurm could see apprehension in the man’s eyes. The guard had discovered his unconscious buddies on the floor. He wasn’t used to this kind of action, and it showed in his trembling hand.
Before Wurm could give an order, Banan opened fire. Chavez joined in.
“What are you doing?” Wurm shouted.
His question went unanswered.
The guard managed a shot, but it missed wide, hitting near the fireplace. Banan and Chavez each fired with a suppressor. As their bullets found him, the guard jerked violently, his leg twisting in the air before he hit the floor.
“You didn’t kill the other guards,” Wurm said. “Why did you take out that guy?”
“Sorry, boss,” Banan offered.
“Bring me the helmet. Now.”
Wurm ripped off the headset and tossed it on the seat. He watched them sprint down the stairs leading out of the Casa de la Ciutat. He shook his head.
In its time centuries back, the Roman helmet had seen its share of bloodshed. Some things never changed.
Cori Cassidy was reeling. She curled her hospital pillow, stained with tears, and buried her head. A great cry poured out in a rush of desperation and sadness. The crushing grief ached more than she could imagine, almost more than she could bear. She hated it, the terrible balance of her survival leveraged against the death of a child. Poor Shay. It wasn’t fair.
And John. Without Kaylyn and Shayna, he was alone now.
Did he even know? Where was John Brynstone during this tragedy?
She pulled up from the pillow when she heard the door open. She hoped to see her brother, but instead a man in a white lab coat rushed into her hospital room. A blink or two later, she recognized the guy as her doctor.
He studied her face. “What’s the matter?”
She wiped a tear. “I lost Shayna.”
He didn’t seem interested in her loss. Instead, Dr. Spanos placed a brown paper sack on the floor beside her bed. Without speaking, he leaned in and removed her IV.
“I have something important to tell you, Cori.”
“Is it about—”
“Be quiet and listen carefully,” he whispered, looking back at the door. “This is urgent. You must do everything I say. Do not panic.”
Cori paled as a haunting thought found her, one where her condition might be more serious than she had imagined. The nurse had mentioned a second surgery. Was
it risky?
“Am I going to be okay?” she asked.
“Not unless we act quickly.”
Dr. Spanos grabbed the paper sack. He balanced it on the bed and reached inside. Removing her gray sweatpants and a new T-shirt, he passed her the clothes.
“Your shirt was bloodied, so we threw it away. I found another. Get dressed.”
Cori scrunched up her face. “You’re discharging me?”
He didn’t answer. He reached in the sack again and brought out green scrubs with her pink and gray running shoes. “Wear the scrubs over your clothes.”
“I don’t get it.” She stared at the folded clothing on the bed. “Why should I wear scrubs?”
“Put them on.” A steely coldness came over his eyes. “Now. Hurry.”
He turned his back on her, the shoes dangling from his fingers.
She flipped away the covers and eased onto the floor, the cold tile biting her toes. She untied the hospital gown, revealing the curve of her hip above pink silk panties. Watching him from behind, Cori pulled on the sweatpants. She stripped away the thin cotton gown and tossed it on the bed. She covered a bare breast with her arm as she glanced at the surgical bandages embracing her shoulder.
“As soon as you dress, you must leave here,” Spanos said, his back still turned. “Do you understand? Disguise yourself as a doctor and try to get to the street. Get away from this building.”
Cori didn’t speak until she’d pulled on her purple shirt. This whole conversation was bewildering.
“Wait. What? I was in a car wreck,” she said. “Is it okay for me to leave? The nurse said I needed another surgery.”
“She lied about the surgery. Everyone has lied to you.” Spanos looked at the floor. “I agreed to this because of the money, but it’s not ethical. I don’t know why you are here, but I can’t go on with this charade.”
She tilted her head. “You’re not a doctor?”
“I am a doctor.”
She gave a blank look, rubbing her forehead. Was she drinking in another hallucination?
“I still feel groggy,” she confessed. “Guess it’s from the surgery.”
“You didn’t have surgery.”
“But you—”
“We lied to you,” he snapped. “You didn’t have a torn rotator cuff or nerve damage or anything else they might have told you. Check your body later. You won’t find sutures under your bandages. You’re groggy because we medicated you with a powerful hypnotic drug.”
“You drugged me?” she asked, pulling the green medical top over her T-shirt. “Why would you do that if I didn’t have surgery?”
“Because we were ordered to do so.” Spanos rubbed his temple. “I should have never agreed to it.”
“Are you with the CIA?”
He turned. His face darkened with shock. “The CIA?”
She pulled baggy scrubs over her sweatpants. “CIA agents were with me in the accident.”
He handed her the shoes. Her socks were rolled inside. Trancelike, she moved to the bed and pulled them on. Why had the doctor and the nurse lied about the surgery?
Spanos studied her. “The American intelligence officers. Do you know their names?”
“One. A guy named Stephen Angelilli. The other agents call him Scarecrow, but he called himself Angelilli when we met years ago.”
“He was in the accident?”
She shook her head. “He wasn’t with us.”
“So, he is alive?”
“I think so.”
As she tied her left shoe, the hospital door opened. Turning at the sound, Spanos whispered, “Hurry, Cori. Get in the bed.”
She scurried onto the mattress. A nurse came into the hospital room. Susan Rubin. Spanos stepped forward, blocking her view of the bed.
Trying to be subtle, Cori eased the hospital sheets over her body to hide the scrubs and her shoes. She dragged the blanket to her chest, but didn’t want to be too dramatic while covering her body.
“I’m sorry, doctor,” the woman said. “What are you doing here?”
He looked back and forced a smile. “Checking on my patient. Ms. Cassidy was asking about her surgery.”
Rubin peered around him. “Why is Ms. Cassidy wearing scrubs?”
The doctor swallowed, fumbling for an answer. “She was about to take a walk.”
The nurse looked suspicious. “She’s dressed up like a surgeon so she could go for a walk?”
“Her clothes were bloodied from the accident.”
The woman noticed the hospital garment draped on the bed. “What’s wrong with her gown?”
“She didn’t—”
“Stay here,” the nurse interrupted, her voice sounding icy. “I’m calling security.”
“You shouldn’t have told me that,” Spanos said.
He tackled the woman from behind. He looped one arm around her neck, forcing her chin into the crook of his arm. At the same time, he shoved her head forward, thrusting her neck deeper into his flexed arm. Rubin’s face turned a brilliant red. The nurse kicked and struggled, trying to break free from his grip.
What the hell is happening?
Cori jumped off the bed. The woman’s eyes closed as she collapsed in the doctor’s arms.
“Oh, God. Did you kill her?”
“Only a choke hold. We can’t trust her.”
Spanos carried the nurse to the bed. He rolled Susan Rubin onto the mattress, then reached into his white coat and brought out a syringe. He uncapped it and pulled up her sleeve, then injected the needle into her bare arm. Cori watched it all in bleary surprise and bewilderment. He turned Rubin on her side and raised the sheet over her head, leaving her mouth uncovered so she could breathe.
“We must hurry,” Spanos said in an agitated voice. “Let’s get you out of here.”
Glancing back at the woman on the bed, Cori followed him out the door. It was all so baffling.
Dressed in green scrubs, Cori walked down the hallway with Dr. Spanos. He glanced back once or twice as they approached an elevator. None of this made sense. They passed room after room in the corridor. She didn’t dare peek inside. The doctor had ordered her to walk straight ahead without arousing suspicion.
She didn’t want to risk someone overhearing. In a low voice, she asked, “Why can’t we trust the nurse?”
“Can’t tell you.” He punched the Down button.
“Why am I here? Who told you to lie to me?”
“I don’t know them or their plans. All I know is, they wanted to keep you drugged and for you to think you had surgery after the accident.”
She turned at the sound of a soft ping as the elevator doors slid open. Spanos grabbed her hand and stepped inside, pulling her into the car. He released his grip and punched the button for the first floor. Cori looked up, seeing the number three illuminated inside a metal strip.
The doctor stepped outside the elevator, leaving her. He turned to watch her. She stiffened with panic and reached for the doors to prevent them from closing.
“Wait,” she said. “You’re not coming with me?”
“I must cover for you. The park is not far from here. Hide there if you can. I’ll try to meet you.”
She knew the Mount Sinai Hospital was located on the eastern border of Central Park. Still, she didn’t want to leave him.
“Good luck, Cori.”
He stripped her fingers from the door. She released it and watched him turn, his white coat flapping as he rushed down the hallway. The doors closed.
A sinking feeling churned inside her stomach. Cori huddled against the back wall. A hundred thoughts roared inside her mind. Could she trust the doctor? Why was this happening?
The elevator car shuddered. She glanced up at the metal strip above the door. The number two brightened above the door as the elevator rumbl
ed to a halt. Spanos wanted her to get out at the first floor. She hadn’t expected the elevator to stop here. Who was on the other side of that door?
Her throat tightened. She could feel the tension rising in her muscles, waiting to see what happened next. Cori watched helplessly as the elevator doors began to slide apart.
Chapter 28
New York City
4:01 a.m.
“We have progress to report,” Stephen Angelilli said into the phone as he adjusted the knot in his tie. “Sorry for the early-morning call.”
“It’s what I requested,” Vice President Starr answered.
Down the hall from his office, Angelilli was taking a conference call with Starr and Director McKibbon. The vice president had requested an update from the CIA’s Directorate of Intelligence about the men who had abducted Shayna Brynstone.
“Here’s what we know from our DI analysts,” Angelilli said. “We’re looking at an organization that began in the late 1990s, started by ten European crime lords from ten different countries. We call it the Shadow Chapter.”
“Why that name?” Starr asked.
“INTERPOL gave the name to the organization after evidence was lacking and no leads came from a major drug-trafficking case. They were unable to link any connection to any one person or any other crime ring.”
“That’s correct, sir,” Director McKibbon added. “This was the first time INTERPOL encountered anything of the sort, so they came up with the name the Shadow Chapter to describe the organization behind the criminal activity. Basically, more blanks were drawn from this case than ever before. It was a shadow chapter in INTERPOL’s history, so to speak.”
“From what I’m told, the organization has adopted the name, though I can’t confirm that,” Angelilli said. “What I can tell you is that currently, the Chapter boasts over a thousand members. As far as we can determine, it is broken into local groups assigned by the ten organizers. Only members who are known and deeply trusted by the ten are allowed to lead a group. Trust is a must.”
“Tell me about their members,” the vice president said.
