by K. J. Howe
“Well, um, it’s not, really. I got into a bit of a tussle at school. Thought it would be good to make myself scarce for a bit. This is my friend, Fatima Abboud.”
Father’s icy stare assessed her, his gaze taking in her hijab and her otherwise conventional clothes.
Fatima straightened in her seat, surprisingly comfortable in the face of Father’s intense scrutiny. “Very nice to meet you, Herr Dietrich. Johann is such a gentleman, he didn’t mention that the tussle happened because he was protecting me from some bullying students. You should be very proud of your son.”
“Sometimes he takes things a little too far.”
“It truly wasn’t his fault. This American boy, David Taddington, was quite aggressive.”
Uh-oh. She had just broken the cardinal rule: never criticize the great United States of America, those blessed consumers of the firearms that helped pay for this very meal. He braced himself for a tirade.
“Johann, may I speak to you privately for a moment?”
Even worse. The more controlled the manner, the angrier Father was.
“Please excuse me for a minute,” he said to Fatima.
“Absolutely, but don’t expect there to be any dessert left if you take too long.” Fatima laughed.
He inched out of his seat and followed his father to the lobby.
“Sorry I skipped out of school—” he began hopefully.
“She’s a pretty girl,” Vater said coldly, “but remember the tale of the Trojan horse.” He paused and glowered. “After you finish your lunch, I’m sure I won’t see you two together again. Ever.” The absolute frigidity in his voice chilled Johann to the core.
Father strode toward his table in a back corner of the restaurant, a spot that offered privacy for his arms deals—and perhaps the Freiheitswächter plans. Killing Arabs. Johann stumbled to the men’s room, losing his lunch in the first stall.
Chapter 16
Although Thea had reached out to Bassam several times after the RPG bluff had failed, she hadn’t heard a peep from the hijackers. Time slowed. With every hour that passed, the APU slowly chewed through their fuel reserves. Running the third engine was keeping them cool in the unrelenting Libyan heat and pressurizing the plane, protecting them from intrusion, but the harsh reality was that they could only hold out until the fuel was gone.
She had Laverdeen checking regularly for any movement or change outside, but the guards remained in their positions, alert but not aggressive. She sensed that Bassam wasn’t the top dog and they were waiting for someone to arrive before making a move. That was the most likely explanation for the lack of contact.
She’d asked three of the passengers, including Mike Dillman—who’d been surprisingly helpful—to search the plane for anything that could be useful. Weapons, food, first-aid supplies, cash, phones, flashlights, blankets. She’d tried her cell and satphone several times, but communication was at a standstill other than over the frequency being used by the hijackers.
Versace was still out cold, strapped into his seat. She took a closer look at his suit. Pure cashmere with the finest tailoring, the jacket alone must have cost him more than three grand. She rifled through his things and found an Italian passport in the name of Ciaro Borolo. Born in Sicily. Thirty-seven years old, with a photo that didn’t do him any favors.
She discovered a folded sheet of paper in his upper left pocket. The flight manifest. But no marks or indication of which passenger was of interest. Of course it couldn’t be that easy. He carried a pack of cigarettes, a wad of cash, and three credit cards in his name. Nothing else.
No answers from him, then, at least not until he woke up. She slipped his passport into her pants pocket and strode up the aisle. All the passengers had gathered in the first few rows. A couple of people were dozing, Matthias was working on his computer, and Karlsson was nervously flipping pages of the latest Lee Child novel. Too bad Reacher wasn’t there to help.
Or Rif.
By now, Rif, Hakan, and Papa would know that her plane was missing. They’d be working on tracking her flight path, but the transponders had been switched off early by Captain Rivers, so discovering the location of the plane would be close to impossible. There had been radio contact with Khartoum, but that was well before they landed. Maybe the Quantum team could tap into the military assets, use skin paint, a type of radar, to find them.
“Thea, how long do we have to wait?” Jabari yawned. Ayan had gone back to watching The Lion King on the small television screen.
She held his hand. “I’m not sure.” She had never lied to the boys and wasn’t about to start now. “It could be a long night. Why don’t you and Ayan curl up with some blankets and get some sleep?”
“Okay. I want to go to London.”
“Me too. Hopefully, soon.”
The last time she’d peered out the cockpit window, the sun had collided with the horizon, signaling an end to this tumultuous day. Desert darkness surrounded the plane, the men with AK-47s setting up a few spotlights to keep an eye on them.
The man on the aisle seat in the first row spoke up. “Can we talk?”
She remembered the fedora he’d worn. “Sure. Hammond, right? What’s on your mind?”
“I’m the chief administrator of the Herringford Trust, which has billions of dollars of equities and financial instruments at its disposal. I usually travel with a bodyguard, but mine became ill at the last minute, and I couldn’t wait for another one because I’m due to speak at the World Bank Conference.”
“Have you had any recent threats?”
“Usually several a day. Hence the round-the-clock security.”
And here she thought her profession was dicey. Why was he telling her this now?
Before she could press Hammond any further, raised voices and doors slamming outside on the tarmac grabbed her attention. On this deserted landing strip, it wasn’t just some passerby. She’d better head to the flight deck, see who had arrived.
“We’ll talk more later.”
Chapter 17
Johann slumped on a couch in a corner of the cellar, trying to maintain a low profile among the gathered Freiheitswächter. After being caught with Fatima at the restaurant, he’d walked her home, taking the long route to eke out every minute he could with her. An overwhelming sadness filled him. He’d finally found someone he could talk to, and now he’d been discovered and ordered to have no further contact with this magical girl.
He missed Mutti so much. She would have understood his feelings, his need for love and acceptance. And what would she have made of the Freiheitswächter?
As he looked around the room at the hard men his father had gathered around himself, he wished he could be playing on his Xbox, texting Fatima, even doing homework. Anything would be better than being here. Why did he have to care so much about Vater’s opinion?
Father held a laser pointer over a world map, the red dot dashing around Europe as he pointed to different refugee camps. “We’ll target these locations, among others.”
Johann had recently watched a documentary about the camps and how abysmal the conditions were. The reporter had said that the Idomeni camp in Greece mirrored the Second World War horrors of Dachau. Those poor people were suffering enough hardship; was it really necessary to attack them with a bioweapon? He’d also done some research since last night—the weaponized plague could infect hundreds of thousands, maybe even millions.
His father continued the presentation, the other men leaning forward, fixated on every word. If Father hadn’t been talking about death and destruction, Johann would have been proud of his commanding presence. But here they were planning on slaughtering thousands of people. Innocents. People who simply had the bad luck to be born with a certain genotype.
“The pathogen will be infused via the camp showers and will be undetectable until the incubation period is over. In three days, the spread of the disease will be unstoppable.”
A buzzing sound overwhelmed him, the world tilting at a strange angle. He pla
ced his hands on his ears, trying to block out the noise that no one else seemed to notice. It slowly faded away. Johann wondered if this was another weird symptom of his Marfan syndrome. But maybe it was just shock at the obvious parallel to the Holocaust. Showers? His father was talking about genocide so casually, as if he was ordering groceries from the local supermarket.
“When the first symptoms appear, the initial deaths will be blamed on the unhygienic conditions, allowing the plague to spread. Surviving Arabs across Europe, not just the ones in refugee camps, will start a mass exodus. We’ll reclaim our land.”
“What if the men are caught installing the aerosols?” a bearded man asked.
“This is war, gentleman. Soldiers take risks.”
Johann’s hands shook. Should he go to the local police, share his father’s plan, somehow stop him? But who would believe him? Father held such influence in Salzburg; he was a pillar of the community, untouchable.
And what would happen if they did believe him and his father went to jail? Johann couldn’t bear the thought of losing his only remaining family.
Chapter 18
Thea peeked out the cockpit window. Thirty minutes had passed since two Land Cruisers had arrived on the strip. She’d snuck glimpses outside, but it was difficult to get a clear view of anything with the darkening skies. A few floodlights peppered the area, confirming that armed men still surrounded the plane. Her guess: the boss had arrived, and Bassam and his men were being reprimanded for failing to control the situation.
“I’m checking on the passengers. Keep an eye out for any changes,” she told Laverdeen.
Dark smudges shadowed the copilot’s gray eyes. Captain Rivers was asleep, still tied to his seat. “You think anyone heard us on Guard?”
“One can hope.” But it was doubtful. Over a million square kilometers of sand surrounded them in the Libyan Desert, and the bone-dry wasteland wasn’t exactly a popular flight destination. Some areas in this part of the world hadn’t seen rain in more than a decade.
“The APU can keep the plane pressurized for up to seventy-two hours, but it depends on how much jet fuel there is. After that . . .”
“Every minute we hold them off buys the authorities and my team time to find us.” Thea tucked her hair behind her ears.
“You’re surprisingly calm.”
She smiled. “We both know panic only brings disaster.”
“Yeah, well, it’s lucky for us that you work as a hostage negotiator,” Laverdeen said.
“Maybe, but I’m not usually held captive at the same time I’m trying to negotiate a release.” She scanned the instruments for the millionth time, just for something to do.
“I woke up this morning thinking it’d be another run-of-the-mill flight, and I actually said to myself, ‘I hope something exciting happens today.’”
“Be careful what you wish for.”
He gave her a wry grin. “I’m glad you’re here.”
“I’m not.” She smiled and headed into the cabin.
Ayan and Jabari sat on either side of Ocean. Somehow they’d talked her into playing Go Fish, and Thea could be wrong, but it looked as if the mysterious woman might be enjoying herself. She was grateful the kids were distracted.
Karlsson beckoned to her from his seat. She strode over to him.
“Come to the back,” he whispered.
She followed, wondering, What now?
“Can I trust you?”
Not a good start. “That’s for you to decide.” Trying to sway others mostly worked against you. People liked to think they made their own decisions, but universally they wanted to share whatever was on their minds.
“I’m former MI6.” His face twitched.
Yet he hadn’t spoken up when she’d asked if anyone had security experience. “Specializing in?” She studied his features—quite average, allowing him to blend in, like most spooks.
“Counterterrorism. I’ve been retired for six years, but I still have secrets locked in here.” He pointed to his temple.
“Any in particular that might be worth all this?” She waved a hand.
“I’d be better equipped to reply to that question if I knew who we are dealing with. I have many, many enemies.”
“Fair enough.” The paranoia was obvious—but was he also nuts?
Laverdeen’s voice carried down the aisle. “Thea, someone’s asking for you on the radio.”
She turned to Karlsson. “I’ve got to take this. But why don’t we talk more about any African or Middle Eastern operations you may have been a part of when I’m done.”
Chapter 19
In the middle of the night, Johann snuck downstairs to the cellar wearing pajamas, his bare feet cold on the stone slabs, his vision blurry. Yet another reminder of his illness, which occasionally affected the connective tissue in his eyes. Why can’t I just be normal? He stopped for a moment and blinked a few times to get his eyes to cooperate, not wanting to trip in the gloom.
His father was out late at a meeting, and the butler, housekeeper, and chef had left for the evening. He was all alone in the castle that had once been a sanctuary and now was a house of horrors, full of dreadful secrets.
His cell buzzed in his hand.
You still awake?
Fatima. He’d have to find a way to distance himself from her, if not for his sake, then for hers. But he couldn’t deny the happiness he felt when her name popped up on the screen. What was she doing up so late?
Yes.
Can we meet tomorrow morning? I think someone is watching my house.
He should tell her no, but he couldn’t. He felt responsible: his poor judgment in taking her to his father’s favorite restaurant might easily have resulted in this surveillance. Given what he’d learned over the past few days, nothing would surprise him. If he wanted to meet her, and he did, he’d have to be careful. School was the only safe place. Father would never remove him from the great American educational establishment, no matter who his classmates were.
7 a.m. By the shed behind the school. Now get some rest.
She sent a heart emoji. He smiled broadly and couldn’t resist sending one back.
He really needed to talk to someone he could trust about this whole mess. Where was Uncle Karl? He sent him another text, asking him to call ASAP.
The basement was eerily quiet. He slipped the phone back into his pajamas pocket and approached the wall that Father had opened last night. He had no idea when Vater would return, so he had to work quickly. The lever was hidden behind an old book, and he had no problem remembering the code his father had typed in. Fingers shaky, he pressed the keys in sequence.
Nothing happened.
Had Father changed the security code?
He punched them in again.
A creak, and the wall shifted.
After a quick look around, he entered the dim tunnel, hurrying toward the secret area below the greenhouse. The lab. His hands felt clammy, cold. The image of Omar Kaleb’s blood-covered corpse flashed in his mind. Would the terrorist’s body still be there? He planned on taking photos if it was.
Unsure what he could do to prevent the planned attack on the refugee camp, he figured collecting tangible evidence would be a solid first step. But fear mixed with love for his father made him hesitate. He’d never defied Father before, not in any real way, and now he was on the brink of a massive betrayal. He shuddered to think what would happen if he were caught.
He hurried along the dark tunnel until he finally reached the wall masking the lab. Once again, he keyed in the code and held his breath.
The door shifted open. He stepped inside, turned the lights on, and braced himself for the horrors inside. But the lab was empty. The same yellow suits hung on the walls, the stainless-steel surfaces gleamed, and the glass partition that had been sprayed with Kaleb’s vomit and blood was spotless. He stood in the middle of the room, searching for any sign of what had happened last night.
No trace of the Arab man, no trace of his mu
rder.
Johann shook his head, blinked, and looked again.
Nothing.
He almost wondered if he’d imagined the whole horrific incident.
But that was wishful thinking.
He edged toward the locked area through which Falco had entered the hot zone. His palm pressed the large red button. A whooshing sound emerged as the vacuum unsealed. The door opened. Johann stepped inside, searching the floor for spots of blood, anything. But the lab was pristine, sterile. Someone must have spent the entire day cleaning.
Two doors loomed at the other end of the chamber. He glanced at his watch and hurried forward to explore. The first room was an office. Three computers perched on a white melamine table. He searched for papers, information, anything that might offer proof of what his father had planned. But the table’s surface was clean, uncluttered.
He sat down in front of the first computer and switched it on. Father might monitor their use, but given their remote location, maybe he hadn’t bothered to install spyware the way he had in the laptop Johann used for school. But Johann was much better versed in computers than his father, so he’d been able to block the reporting function on his laptop, allowing him to surf the net as he pleased without being monitored. A secret rebellion that gave him mild satisfaction.
He found a map with all the refugee camps marked on it, including the population of each site. The ones with lower populations had an X marked across them. Father probably felt there were too few people to contaminate. Disgust filled him.
Next, he discovered a live sonar map. Weird. One of the blinking lights was right on top of their home. He scanned some of the other files on the computer. Most of the documents looked like lab tests and other scientific stuff. Nothing helpful. For now, he’d leave the computers alone, see what was in the next room. He headed for the door—a heavy steel one—and opened it. A blast of cold air. He stepped inside, goose bumps rippling down his arms. He switched on the lights.
