Black Skies

by Leo J. Maloney

  Morgan could feel her hair on his face, bunched up and covered by the black hood. Up so close, he could even make out her scent, almost neutral, but with just a hint of—

  “Lily?” he asked. The hesitation was all she needed to kick him in the shin and swing her head back hard, hitting him in the cheek. That was going to leave a mark. His grasp slipped just enough for her to wrest herself free.

  She dashed out to the balcony, and Morgan ran after her. He followed her down the length of the balcony, past the three French doors to the other rooms of the suite.

  “Nowhere to go from here!” he yelled out.

  “Nowhere to go but up!” she answered, clambering with incredible, catlike speed onto the railing, then a cornice, then pulling herself up to the roof. She looked down at him, gloating. “Sorry love,” she said, “but Weinberg’s mine.” She disappeared into the darkness, taking the thumb drive with her. Goddamn it! He examined the walls, amazed—there was no foothold he could possibly use to follow her up.

  “She’s on the roof,” said Morgan.

  “Who’s she?” asked Shepard. “What?”

  “Lily Harper’s on the goddamn roof! I want Bishop and tactical on it! And check out where she’s staying. She drives a blue Aston Martin sports car. She’s got the thumb drive. Find her!”

  Morgan heard a loud crack. Through the door to the balcony, he saw that Fleischer had just broken down the door, and was standing at the doorway.

  “Scheisse,” whispered Morgan.

  Morgan looked at that mountain of a man. He didn’t like the odds of a fair fight against him, and he didn’t have a gun on him. He looked back, but the odds of not breaking his legs in the fall were even worse. Morgan ran forward, grabbed the poker that Lily had dropped and took a running swing at Fleischer. He was big and slow, and didn’t react fast enough. Morgan hit him square in the face. He doubled down and held his face in his hands, crying out in pain. Morgan ran right past him and out the door.

  He ran down the stairs, skipping steps at a time, straight to the lobby and then out the door.

  “Mr. Morgan,” said the valet as he approached, “Shall I get your car?”

  Morgan ran right past him, ignoring the question.

  “Shepard, I need someone to pick me up.”

  “Where are you?”

  “Running along the hotel.”

  “Bishop’s coming around with the tac team in the van,” he said. “I’ve got you on GPS. I’m sending him your way.”

  Morgan kept on running until a black van pulled up alongside him. The side door opened, and he saw Spartan and Diesel, from Zeta tactical, inside. He hopped into the van without its coming to a stop, and it kept right on moving with him inside. They closed the side door, and Morgan fell back against the seat, exhausted.

  “So what’s the status?” asked Spartan.

  “I lost it, and I got made. Total bust. Any sight of her?”

  “We were just about to spread out and make our search,” she said.

  “It’s too late,” said Morgan. “She’ll be gone by now. Let’s regroup.”

  “And then what?” asked Bishop from the front seat.

  “Then we find Lily Harper and get that thumb drive back. Did you hear, Shepard? Find out where she’s staying. Because if we don’t, we’ve lost the only thing we’ve got on Weinberg, and our only connection to the location of the Secretary.”

  Chapter 29

  June 8

  Monte Carlo

  “Have you got anything on Lily Harper?” asked Morgan, poking at his rib where she had whacked him with the iron poker.

  He was back at the temporary base of operations that they had set up in Monte Carlo. It was a two-story house, up the hill and far from the beach. Shepard was at his computer, as usual, and Morgan was pacing the room. Bishop and the tactical team were out looking for Lily Harper at the hotel where they had found out she had been registered. Morgan wasn’t hopeful that she’d be there.

  “Nothing,” said Shepard. “Nothing yet, anyway.”

  “You have a picture, can’t you use face recognition software to match it to an ID?” Morgan asked as he looked at his reflection in the mirror. He had an ugly black-and-blue bruise on his left cheek where she had head-butted him.

  “Yes, but it takes time to run a picture through every known database in international intelligence!” Shepard said.

  “All right, all right,” said Morgan, backing off.

  He stepped out onto the balcony, looking at the breathtaking beauty of the Monte Carlo sunrise. A longing crept up from the back of his mind to be here with his wife, Jenny. He pictured what it would be like to be there without responsibilities, an actual vacation—

  Some movement below caught the corner of his eye, and he turned his head down to look. It was a blue compact Aston Martin, driving down the road.

  Lily Harper.

  “Is the car fueled up?” Morgan asked Shepard.

  “What?” asked Shepard.

  “The car,” said Morgan. “The Chevelle. Is it fueled up?”

  “Yeah, we had it ready for Weinberg to turn on the engine and test it out.”

  “Good. Where are the keys?”

  “They’re in the garage, hung up on a hook,” said Shepard. “What—”

  “No time!” said Morgan. “Send Bishop and the rest after me!”

  Morgan ran downstairs and burst into the garage. He took the keys and pushed the button to open the garage door. He then got behind the wheel of the car. He turned the ignition, and the car came to life.

  It was sacrilege, he knew. The car was mint condition. There was no other car like it. He looked down at the odometer, which read only one mile, as the garage door rolled open. Simply driving it would ruin it, let alone the kind of driving that Morgan tended to do. It was physically uncomfortable for him to do this. But the mission was more important. It was the most important, more than any car. Even a two-million-dollar, one-of-a-kind car. He took a deep breath.

  Morgan tore out of the garage. The driveway was practically nonexistent, and he drove right out onto the road. Harper was on a different street, over and down, and with the glimpse he had caught, he formed a mental map. He maneuvered and turned right, then a second right to follow her. She’d be ahead of him now, but he had a hunch that she’d be getting out of town at that very moment, and there was one way out from where they were.

  Morgan picked up speed, but was still not going fast enough to attract attention from the police. In under a minute, he was within sight of the Aston Martin. He coasted the car, letting it slow down to keep a fair distance from her.

  She picked up speed. Damn, Morgan thought. He figured he’d be able to follow her for longer before she caught on. She was good. She’d had training, that much was obvious. And he supposed the racing stripes on the Chevelle didn’t exactly help.

  Harper sped on down the avenue, forcing cars off the narrow road. She was driving a small sports car with excellent steering, while Morgan’s vehicle was broader and heavier, made for the open American road and not narrow European streets. Morgan had to swerve left and right to keep up, dodging compact European cars and leaving angry, honking drivers in his wake. To his right was a short cliff, and Morgan knew that going off of it would mean serious injury, possibly death. He pressed on.

  Up ahead, Harper turned into the highway, which was not much wider than the avenue they had been on, but gave them a bit more room to maneuver. He stepped on the gas, leaning on the horn so that other drivers would get out of the way. She was putting a lot of distance between them. He had to speed up, or he was going to lose her, and the very thing that he’d come to Monte Carlo to retrieve.

  Ahead he saw a sharp, upward-inclined curve. Morgan knew that if he slowed down here, he’d lose her. Let’s go then, you bastard. He floored the accelerator, going for a drift, and the car roared. He turned, but the tires didn’t hold. The car spun out, the world becoming a blur until he felt the impact with a boulder on the passenger’s
side, just in time to see Harper’s Aston Martin disappearing in the distance.

  Morgan blinked twice. He felt woozy. He blinked again, and had the impression he had blacked out, not knowing how much time had passed. Seconds? Minutes? Though the car was still, the world still seemed to be spinning.

  “Shepard?” he said. Had he put in the communicator or had he left it? He couldn’t remember. “Shepard? Come in.” He tried to feel for it in his ear, but the task seemed to be beyond him.

  He tried to open the door, but it took several pushes before he could get it open. He staggered out of the car, but his knees buckled and he fell to the ground.

  Morgan turned on his back, and looked up to see a man looking down on him. His vision was blurry, so it took a moment for the face to resolve into that of Anse Fleischer. The world darkened as the enormous German picked him up. Morgan was dragged into a navy blue BMW sedan. Morgan lost consciousness just as the door shut out all the light from the outside.

  Chapter 30

  June 8

  Monte Carlo

  Dan Morgan woke up facing the wall in a suite he did not recognize in a hotel that was, judging by its decor, most definitely in Monte Carlo. The red-and-gold wallpaper told him that it was not the Oiseau. Oddly, the patterns seemed to be moving. His arms and legs were bound with strong packing tape to a heavy upholstered chair, made of hardwood and thus impossible to take apart if he wanted to make a quick escape. Bad. He looked to his right to see the room door, and then to his left to find Weinberg sitting back on an armchair that matched the wallpaper, drinking a gin and tonic out of a tall glass. Worse.

  Morgan felt thick meaty hands grab his chair, and he thought he might lose his lunch as the man—it could only be Anse Fleischer—swiveled the chair so that Morgan was facing Weinberg.

  “You seemed to have crashed my car, Mr. Morgan,” he said, taking a sip from his drink. “I’m afraid I must ask you for your insurance information. And—oh, yes, you broke into my room and stole something from me.”

  Weinberg took a cigarette from a golden cigarette case and set it aflame it with a matching lighter. “I don’t smoke, did you know that? Not usually.” He took a deep, needy drag from his cigarette. “Except when I am very, very angry.”

  He made a waving signal with his hand. Anse Fleischer appeared from behind Morgan and stood in front of him, the massive German’s abdomen taking up Morgan’s entire field of vision. Morgan didn’t literally see it coming, but he was expecting the backhanded slap delivered across the face. His cheek stung, especially where the stroke had caught the bone. He looked up at Fleischer’s face, towering above him. There was a nasty cut running from his left cheek to his nose from where Morgan has struck him with the poker.

  “Oh, good,” said Morgan. “We’re practically matching. Maybe we can sing together later.” Weinberg gestured, and Fleischer hit him again.

  “Mr. Morgan, perhaps you should sing now, alone,” said Weinberg. “Was there anyone else working with you?”

  Morgan spat blood on the carpet at Weinberg’s feet.

  “Of course you did not act alone,” he said. “This was not a job for just one man. The question now is, who do you work for, Mr. Morgan?”

  “I’m self-employed, actually,” said Morgan. “The hours are great, but they really hose you with the tax—” Thwack. Fleischer’s hand fell heavily again.

  Morgan heard the room door swing open behind him. “Shall I bother to say ‘I told you so,’ Gunther?” came Lena Weinberg’s cold, haughty voice from behind Morgan.

  “Indeed you did, little sister,” said Weinberg. “I should listen to you more often.”

  “That’s what I keep saying, but do you listen?” she said humorlessly.

  Weinberg sipped his drink with affected nonchalance, but Morgan saw that his grip on the glass was leaving him white-knuckled, and he had sucked down his cigarette with urgent rage. Weinberg was angry, angry enough to be very dangerous in the short term. Morgan looked around the room. The tycoon was sitting in front of wide bay windows. Morgan could see nothing but sky from his vantage point. But that meant that they were probably still facing the sea, still on the bluff, and thus not far from the Oiseau Hotel.

  “I had a feeling,” said Lena, walking around Morgan’s chair to crouch in front of him, “that you were up to something. I just wasn’t sure what. At first, I thought you were simply a con man, here to cheat Gunther out of money. God knows, there have been plenty of those vultures circling my family fortune ever since we were children. But I did not know about you, not for sure. So I asked to the croupier, with a very generous tip, for him to reveal your cards. And what did you think we found?”

  “That card dealers at the Palatine are incorruptible?”

  Weinberg leaned forward met Morgan’s eyes straight on. “What sort of a man folds a winning hand of two million dollars?” he growled. “That is my question, Mr. Morgan. I might, perhaps, on a whim. But you are not me, Mr. Morgan. Two million is not a fun night out for you, it is the difference between retiring tomorrow and having to work into your eighties so that you can have a roof over your head. So when does a man like you fold on two million dollars?”

  “When he wants something other than money,” said Morgan.

  “When he’s not paying the bills,” said Weinberg. “Which leads me to ask you again, Mr. Morgan, who do you work for?”

  Morgan turned to Fleischer. “I’ll give you one million dollars cash to turn on them and help me escape,” he said. “You know I’m good for it.” Fleischer walked to him, towering above him. In a flash, Morgan felt the sting of the man’s hand against his cheek. Weinberg laughed.

  “Anse has been with our family since he was born,” he said, “as his father was before him. This is not a loyalty that can be bought, Mr. Morgan.”

  “No, just cultivated,” said Morgan. “Instilled in the family dog.”

  Fleischer moved to strike Morgan, but Weinberg stayed him by raising his hand. “He is merely trying to anger you, now that he has found that he cannot turn you. Keep your calm. And remember that you will have the opportunity to kill him after we are done questioning him.”

  “Well, that puts you in a weak bargaining position, doesn’t it?” said Morgan. “Letting on that you’re going to kill me.”

  “He speaks of death without fear,” said Lena. “I can tell.” She leaned in close to him so that he could almost smell her breath. There was nothing seductive about her proximity, only menace. “You have been acquainted with death, haven’t you, Mr. Morgan?”

  “I will not suffer those who cross me to live,” said Weinberg, lighting a second cigarette. “But believe me, Mr. Morgan, there are things worse than death. I have not told Anse how to kill you. If you cooperate, perhaps I will give him specific instructions to make it quick and painless. If not . . .” He drew deeply on the cigarette. “Anse does like to get creative in his killing, don’t you, Anse? It is a trait we like to encourage.”

  “No way I can bargain for my life then?” asked Morgan. “After all, I might have something you want.”

  Weinberg raised his left eyebrow. “And what would that be?”

  “I can tell you everything about who sent me. The people who are after you. It won’t stop with me, you know.”

  “Who is it?” Weinberg demanded.

  “Not unless you let me go,” said Morgan.

  “Your life is not necessary to get me what I want,” said Weinberg. “There is nothing Anse can’t torture out of you.”

  This wouldn’t have been the first time Morgan had been on the rack, and he knew he could hold up, at least for a couple of days. But he’d known of stronger men than him that had broken under continual, sustained torture. The important thing was not to get spooked. If he could keep thinking and talking, he could delay his death long enough to plan his escape.

  “That might work,” said Morgan. “Of course, as soon as my people figure out that I’ve been captured, they’re going to start covering their tracks.
Soon, any trail I can lay out for you is going to have gone cold.” Morgan leaned forward as far as his restraints permitted him. “And even if you can get everything out of me eventually, I can guarantee you that you won’t be able to get it all out of me quickly.” He sat back, in a relaxed position. “I can tell you what you want to know, but only if you let me go.”

  Weinberg looked at his sister, then back at Morgan. “And I suppose just my promising to release you is not going to be enough?”

  “No, not really,” said Morgan.

  “Okay,” said Weinberg. “Tell me what you have—give me some idea of the information you can offer me—and I will tell you whether it is worth your life.”

  “Just kill him and be done with it!” insisted Lena.

  “Let him speak,” said Weinberg.

  “I guess I can do that, if Eva Braun here gives me a chance,” said Morgan, shooting a glance at Lena. She was smart. Smarter than Gunther, even. He wondered if she was the true brains behind the company. “I happen to work for a competitor—no, I will not tell you which. I’m a contractor, ex-US intelligence. My specialty is industrial espionage. I will not tell you any more than that until I have some manner of guarantee that I will be let go.”

  “Telling me who your boss is will not be sufficient for that,” said Weinberg. “I know I have enemies who would like to steal my secrets, to discredit me, and even to have me killed. The information you are attempting to entice me with is nothing to me. Do better.”

  “Okay,” said Morgan. Just keep talking until something sticks. “I can give you data—information that I have gathered already, and what others like me have gathered.”

  “Are you suggesting that you’re going to tell me about myself, and that will save you?” Weinberg smiled. “I thought that you were better than that.”

  “It’s not only that,” he said. “You’ll know what they know. And there’s other data, about other companies—things that I can guarantee will be valuable to you. You would be able to strike back and deal a crippling blow to my employers. It would, at the very least, set our industrial espionage program back months.”