by Judith Leon
“Teal is not on the plane, right?”
“I know absolutely that she boarded their private jet in Bogotá and the flight plan called for the trip to be nonstop. When I learn more, I’ll contact you.”
“I’ll be here. I’ll be checking my contacts who may have information about this kidnapping or about genetic engineering.”
“This changes everything. We thought we had her safe.” Allison’s voice held an edge of urgency.
Allison, who Lindsey had never known to be anything but amiable and polite, hung up without formalities, clearly, terribly worried. Lindsey didn’t just need information about who was involved and why, she now needed to find where Teal might be. Assuming Teal was still alive.
Well, put that thought right out of your mind, Lindsey Novak! You will operate on the assumption that Teal is alive.
She kept two separate files for her information contacts: legit and shady. She opened up the legit file on her hard drive and scanned names: media contacts, private investigators and professionals in a wide range of disciplines that mostly related to art, archeology or anthropology. But there was one contact in genetics. Beatrix Riegler in Geneva of World Care Watch-dogs International. WCWI exposed illegal traffickers in medical or scientific areas the way Amnesty International exposed tyrants who imprisoned people unjustly.
Lindsey combed through the file. Beatrix had sources for information about the sale of expired drugs sold on the black market. She monitored sales of untested drugs—like antiaging and cancer treatments. She dogged global traffickers of body organs for transplants and blocked sales to corporations or insurance companies of the medical files of private citizens. The latest scam Lindsey had discussed with Beatrix was the black market in stem cell lines stolen from legitimate laboratories. Unsuspecting buyers had no real way to know if the lines were contaminated.
The phrase human genomes grabbed Lindsey’s attention. WCWI monitored the ongoing DNA project in Maldovia, a massive database of human genomes second only to the original one set up in Iceland. Every citizen gave a sample of their DNA and answered an extensive questionnaire about their medical and psychological history. This information was matched to the surprisingly complete birth and death records kept in the country for nearly two hundred years. WCWI made sure that the data collected on the population wasn’t sold to anyone except licensed users/researchers—medical, genetic, or historical—and under strict conditions. If someone were seeking illegal information on genetics, WCWI might hear of it.
Lindsey checked the clock—it was not too late to call. No one beyond her contacts must know what she was searching for, and even then, this kind of information wasn’t something to be discussed via easily compromised phones or e-mails. For this she’d have to make contact in person.
Using her landline, she dialed the number. Beatrix had a sweet voice, and she answered at once with a cheery, “Beatrix hier.” The strains of Brahms played in the background mixed with sounds of laughter.
Lindsey’s German was much worse than Beatrix’s English. In English Lindsey explained that she needed to meet with Beatrix tomorrow.
“This is rather sudden, Lindsey.”
“It’s urgent.”
Lindsey heard a long sigh. Beatrix owed Lindsey, but knew she was going to be asked for information. After a moment’s silent pause, Beatrix said, “I’m swamped at work. What have you in mind?”
“I can take an early flight and meet you in the WCWI lobby at twelve-thirty.”
“A bit later, please, I have a lunch meeting. One o’clock.”
“I’ll be there.”
Satisfied, Lindsey hung up. This was the source most likely to pay off. She faxed a message to the charter company for the Learjets her father’s business leased, telling them she’d need a 7:30 a.m. flight for the four-and-a-half-hour trip. Then she made a tuna sandwich and returned to the computer, eating as she pored over the legit files.
After forty minutes, she closed the files, discouraged. From a baggie in the freezer, she retrieved the key to a locked jewelry box in a bathroom drawer. In the box, under some fake jewelry and the bottom lining, lay the flash drive with the file of all her contacts that were not so legitimate. Of course, most of them did have some legitimate cover, but it was their contact with the darker world that put them on this list.
She inserted the flash drive into the computer and starting at the top, analyzed each entry. Although her eyelids grew heavy and her eyes burned, she didn’t skip anyone.
The annoying ring of her landline phone shocked her awake. She lurched upright, her hand knocking her empty cup onto the Oriental carpet.
What time is it? The last time she remembered looking at the clock it had been eleven-thirty. It was now one-thirty in the morning.
She snatched up the phone receiver. Allison was again at the other end. “I know it’s very early for you,” Allison said. “I apologize.”
“No problem, Allison.”
“We have new information. Do you know Samantha St. John?”
“Athena alum?”
“Yes. She works for the CIA. Sam’s been on this mess from the beginning. She accessed CIA satellite intel tracking the plane carrying Teal. The plane lost altitude and three people parachuted from it well before landing in Britain.”
Lindsey sucked in a sharp breath. She saw herself only a day ago terrified as she stood at the open door of the plane with Marko holding her. Her heart went out to Teal. The poor girl, young and frightened and forced to leap from a plane.
“Obviously,” Allison continued, “one of the three had to be Teal. They were likely picked up in the ocean south of Ireland. Authorities are searching, Lindsey, but you need to put this information into your calculations. I didn’t want to wait until morning.”
“I agree. I want to be in the loop at all times.”
They hung up, but Lindsey was too awake now to go back to sleep. She returned to her list of possible sources. Ten names. Ten chances to find Teal, each less promising than the one before it. Her references were geared for art, not human trafficking. Beatrix just had to come through.
She went to the bedroom closet. To each of her contacts, she presented different but appropriate personas. For Beatrix it would be tailored and professional. And it was cold in Geneva. She started sorting through her outfits.
With her strategy in place, she set the alarm for 5:45. She needed to be at Novak Sicurezza Internazionale by seven in the morning to explain to K-bar, who was always at work before anyone else, that she needed a couple of days off.
Novak Sicurezza Internazionale, or NSI, occupied the two top floors of a lovingly renovated four-story building four winding blocks from the Uffizi Gallery. Views from K-bar’s fourth-floor office were of the Ponte Vecchio, the river Arno, and the city’s red-tile roofline. Other NSI offices looked onto the Campanile di Giotto in the Piazza Duomo.
Her father allowed her to kiss his cheek. He smelled of expensive cologne—like nutmeg—and was dressed, as always, in an impeccable Italian suit, this one a charcoal gray that complemented the white streaks in his dark-red hair. His eyes, like hers, were also gray. She only resembled her mother, Lindsey often thought, in personality: artistic, empathetic and enthusiastic, not the natural daredevil that K-bar was. Loretta Novak had been a textbook illustrator. She’d died in an auto accident seven years ago, when Lindsey was twenty-one. The shocking loss had made Lindsey’s relationship with her father even more complicated. And the emptiness still sometimes felt unbearable.
“So you are back safely and soundly from Naples,” he grumbled.
“And with the recovered Artemisia on its way by special courier to its rightful owners.”
K-bar dropped into the brown Italian leather swivel chair behind his desk and leaned back, making the leather creak. K-bar Novak was engraved on his gold nameplate. His employees might be surprised to know his name was Anton, but they all knew the story of how a young Special Forces commander with a few too many beers in his belly had c
hased a man out of a house of prostitution wielding his KA-BAR knife. Big-screen hero, her father. When she was young, she’d called him both “Daddy” and “K-bar,” but the latter had stuck at some point.
“So. To what do I owe the honor of your appearance this early on a Monday morning?” he asked.
“I need to take a couple of days off.”
“More art business? You know, I was counting on you to bring in the Berlin telecom account. They’ll need advice and staffing for all their operations in Guatemala and Honduras. I don’t have anyone as persuasive as you, Lindsey.”
“Damiano can handle it.”
Her father said nothing. She loved working for NSI and knew K-bar expected that one day she would take over the entire security business. But for now, he also accepted that she had another passion and never interfered when she asked for time off. She would let him think it was another art recovery deal. He had no idea she took on operations for Athena or served now and then as a courier for the U.S. government.
“Okay. But keep me informed. By the way, how did Savin work out?”
“Marko’s very…take-charge. But it all ended well. I actually went skydiving with him yesterday.”
K-bar’s eyebrows shot up. “Marko, huh? He’s a good man on assignment, Linds. I’ve never employed better. But skydiving with him? I never can figure why women can’t see when a man is just on the make.”
Lindsey took a deep breath to keep from blushing. “It’s not a problem. Really.”
“Easy to say. Marko is a typical Italian male. New woman every month. Then when it doesn’t work out for one reason or another, he’s off again. Women are attracted to Marko Savin like barflies to beer.”
She laughed but felt even luckier that she hadn’t gone to bed with Marko. On some level, she’d sensed what K-bar was saying. “I agree that a woman would have to be nuts to get involved with him. Don’t worry. I just considered it a chance to do something exciting that I’d never done before.”
“You liked the skydiving?” He gave her a challenging look. It was always a question, always a test for him.
“Fabulous,” she said, her voice firm.
“Sure you’d like it. Nothing after the AthenaAcademy would be too much. I’ve always been glad your mother and I sent you. It made you tough. You’ve always managed affairs of the heart just fine.”
“Right. I’m a ‘no tears’ kind of woman.” She was skilled at walking away from anything sticky. Distancing herself. She was good at that.
He frowned and leaned forward, arms on the desk. “You sure this is just an art thing you’re doing, Linds?”
She laughed. “If I told you what it was about, I’d hafta kill ya.”
She stood, wanting to kiss him on the cheek again, but knowing the gesture would only make him uncomfortable, she left.
Chapter 7
L indsey resisted the urge to tell the cabdriver once more how urgently she needed to be on time for a meeting at the Place des Nations. Beatrix expected her in five minutes, but they were stuck in traffic on Geneva’s Pont du Mont Blanc. The cabbie couldn’t change that miserable fact.
At 8:00 a.m., a half hour later than planned, she’d hurried aboard the private jet in Florence. In Geneva, she spent another fifteen precious minutes connecting with a taxi. It was now 12:55. If she didn’t make it on time, Beatrix could use that as an excuse to avoid seeing her.
A young girl’s life shouldn’t depend on making transportation connections, Lindsey thought as the taxi burned fuel going nowhere fast.
The bridge spanned the southern tip of Lake Geneva where the lake flowed into the RhoneRiver. A thick layer of ice created by winds gusting off the lake covered benches on the quay on the north shore in white. The famous Jet d’Eau geyser was, of course, turned off for the winter. Everything seemed pewter-colored, the buildings, the lake, the sky, the peaks of the Savoy Alps beyond Geneva. Despite the warmth of the cab and her black Cossack-style coat and boots, Lindsey shivered. The gray, cold day mirrored her mood.
Her cell phone rang. Beatrix. Lindsey explained the traffic mess and added, “I’ll be no more than ten minutes late if I have to get out and run.”
“You still wouldn’t make it. But I was calling because I must cancel. My lunch appointment is lasting longer than anticipated.”
Lindsey clutched the telephone, her pulse accelerating. Remain calm. “Just tell me where you are, and I’ll meet you there afterward. I only need a few minutes, Beatrix.”
“Do you realize that I could be fired just for being seen with you, if your line of work were discovered?”
Beatrix was overreacting. Probably. “I’ll wait till your lunch meeting is over and—”
“No, Lindsey, I’m sorry. It’s just impossible. I have to prepare for an—”
“Beatrix, when you hear how important this is—”
“Dear girl, I have all the high-priority crises I can handle, thank you very—”
“R-JUV-8.”
The connection between them fell silent. Last year, Lindsey, in a dicey contact, had stumbled onto a shipment of an antiaging serum claiming to be chock-full of human growth hormone but being instead a mix of herbal derivatives and an illegal new, and very dangerous, stimulant. She’d involved Beatrix, who then received credit for the confiscation of six million dollars’worth of the product. Beatrix owed Lindsey a favor or three. Since Lindsey worked outside of legal channels, Beatrix was extremely nervous about dealing with Lindsey.
“Are you there, Beatrix?”
Beatrix sighed. She gave Lindsey an address in the Paquis district, one of the few interesting areas in this city, which was, for such an international population, pizzazz-challenged. Behind practical gray stone walls, powerful people met and conducted world affairs. World Council of Churches. World Intellectual Property Organization. Eurovision. All those banks. Virtually every major NGO, and, of course, the diplomats. Geneva was unofficially the world capital of bureaucracies. “We can meet there. No one I know eats there and I can return to work quickly.”
The menu outside indicated that the steamy restaurant, Bistro Eidelweiss, offered typical Swiss and French food. The tiny lobby was crowded. Lindsey immediately spotted Beatrix’s brown chignon and on her way to Beatrix’s table she passed hot fondues and soups, onion tarts, crepes with all kinds of fillings. Her stomach growled. All she’d eaten on the jet was a health bar topped off with coffee.
By the time an obviously overworked waiter signaled he’d soon be there to take Lindsey’s order, Beatrix had already listened to Lindsey’s story about the possibility of trafficking in genetically modified human embryos. She checked her BlackBerry, then shook her head.
“Whatever it is, it’s monstrous,” Beatrix said. “I’m sorry I avoided you. I’ll help. We’ll just have to work around your…fascinating connections—even if it means I lose my job.” Her blue eyes sparkled with what looked like determination. “Kestonians are looking to develop human supersoldiers. Their new dictator, Vlados Zelasko, is a nut. The idea is outrageous and impossible. We log the movements and actions of Kestonians wherever they turn up. I can provide you with the names of all the labs we’re watching, but that’s all I have that could be relevant.”
Human supersoldiers. Extra strong. Extra fast. Superhuman eyesight and hearing. Human weapons. Exactly the kind of thing that would bring a huge black-market price. And maybe no longer an impossible idea at all. “That’s exactly what I’m after—”
“Oh, my God!” Beatrix blurted out as she hid her face with her purse.
“What?” Lindsey said.
“The man that just came in, he works with me.”
“Shall I—”
“Just leave, okay?”
Lindsey reached across the table and squeezed Beatrix’s arm. “Done. You take care. And thank you.”
No specific leads. No crepes. No fondue. She rose and made her way back to her coat and hat, her stomach demanding that she eat a mountain of pasta very soon.
C
hapter 8
H is name was Iacapo Donato, but Lindsey called him Jake. Known publicly as a highly respectable antiquities dealer, his various and nefarious ties extended far beyond the world of thousand-year-old kraters, coins, or marble busts—things that were occasionally reasons for Lindsey to contact him about underground rumblings. Jake had also helped her father find the son of a billionaire Moroccan, kidnapped despite her father’s security team. Jake had learned of a shipment of illegals from Morocco into France. The smugglers of cheap labor also had the boy. NSI had successfully returned the boy to his family.
It was quite possible that Jake may have heard of something involving a kidnapping, maybe even specifically about the high-profile kidnapping of two American girls from Phoenix, Arizona. Checking AA.org, Lindsey saw that Shannon Connor, a former Athena Force student with no love for her alma mater, had also been on international broadcasts of BBC and CNN, continuing her negative spotlight on the AthenaAcademy.
When Lindsey had called Jake from the jet to make sure he’d be at his private club in Florence tonight, he’d invited her instead to his villa for the evening. “I’ll be showing off my latest acquisitions—and more,” he said in his affected British accent. “Wear that marvelous jade gown.”
So. Formal attire instead of cocktail. The dress was actually sage-green, but definitely the sexiest thing she’d ever owned. Stretch satin and nearly backless, its modest neckline set off a faux emerald necklace while the daring cut of the sides displayed more of her breasts than an unescorted woman in Italy should reveal. The floor-length sheath was slit only to midthigh level, but the back plunge and clinging fabric made underwear impossible.
Dress and heels. Nothing else, except necklace and earrings and her fluffy hunter-green mohair shawl.
Jake’s villa lay sixteen kilometers from Florence. She pushed her Alfa Spider above the speed limit through the village of Malmantile, which had grown around an old Tuscan fortification on the road to Pisa. The villa, perched on the side of a shallow canyon, had been added onto a centuries-old square tower. Five stories tall, its crenellated top had been roofed and glassed in. The four-story front section and the three-story wings featured romantic balconies and rows of narrow arches. The place was architecturally stunning and filled with pricey antiques—all watched over by Jake’s staff and all for sale.
