by Jack Bowie
“Mostly. We didn’t think you should be alone. Do you remember much of last night?”
Braxton thought back to the previous day. So much was a blur. He remembered escaping, driving with Francois to Geneva, and confronting Maddock. Then he went to the Mission. The children were there. They nearly captured him.
“The Marine grabbed me. Saved me from the children. They’re the ones that are doing the assassinations.”
“That’s what you said last night after we brought you inside. The children disappeared, of course. Quite a professional op.”
He was remembering. He had told Slattery the location of the farm. “Did you find them? Did you find Nod?”
“We found the farm. It had been purchased about four years ago by a James Watson.”
Braxton tried to focus. He should know that name.
“James Watson discovered DNA with Francis Crick,” Slattery explained. “Rockwell always did have a flair for the dramatic. Too bad we didn’t make the connection earlier.”
“What does Rockwell have to do with DNA?”
“Wilson was working with Rockwell. He was identifying children to kidnap based on a DNA profile.”
“That’s what Wilson was doing with the ChildSafe Data. Where did they get—”
“Not now. We need to focus on Rockwell. Interpol and the Geneva Police raided the property at dawn. The farmhouse was burned to the ground. As was the inside of some old Quonset hut on the property. Nobody was around. The forensics guys will do their thing but I don’t think there’s anything left.”
“They kept the children in the Quonset hut. Ran the place like a boot camp. Yelling at the kids and running all kind of exercises. Like the bicycle attack.”
Slattery nodded. “Thanks. I’ll pass that on. Is there anything else you remember?”
There had to be something more. Braxton thought back to when he was captured. He had awakened in the car. What had he heard?
“When they brought me to the farm, I heard someone say ‘See that Charlie is ready for the video. He’s the key.’ It was Rockwell. I thought maybe they were going to kill this Charlie. But now I’m not sure.”
Slattery rubbed his forehead. His eyes were surrounded by shadows. The spook looked more tired than Braxton had ever seen him. He doubted it was just from a long night.
Braxton recalled something else. Something that wouldn’t wait any longer. He had to find out. “Roger?”
“Yes?”
“Did you send me to Geneva to draw Rockwell out?”
Slattery was one of the best at hiding his emotions, but even Braxton could see the surprise on his face. “Who told you that? Rockwell?”
“Yes. Apparently, he knows you.”
“The man is a psychopath. I met him once when he was working at the CIA. We’ve been trying to find him for a week. I had no idea he was in Geneva.”
There was a knock on the door and a young, well-dressed man entered. “Roger, we need to talk.”
“Adam, this is Terry Jacobs,” Slattery said. “He works here at the Mission. I need to step out for a while. Do you need anything?”
“I’d kill for a hamburger and a Coke.”
Slattery smiled. “Maybe later, Adam. You rest now.”
* * *
Jacobs stopped at the nurse’s office, updated her on Braxton’s condition and passed on the meal request. She frowned and shook her head.
“Americans,” she whispered in a heavy French accent.
“What’s up, Terry?” Slattery asked when the two men were in a quiet section of the hallway.
“There was a message from Langley. They want you to call Assistant Director Markovsky.”
Slattery felt a cloud of dread. He glanced at his watch. It was four o’clock in the morning in D.C. What had happened now?
“Where can I get a secure line?” he asked.
They went to the Mission’s communications center where Slattery was given a private room and a secure line to Langley. It only took Markovsky five seconds to pick up.
“What’s happening, Peter?”
“We received a message from SCARECROW,” Markovsky replied. Slattery’s cloud became darker. SCARECROW was a member of Iranian President Salmani’s senior staff. He was the highest-placed operative the CIA had ever had in Iran. To receive a message from him directly was, to say the very least, unusual. “Simple and short: ‘President in coma. Prognosis unknown.’”
Salmani was in a coma? An icy spear ran down Slattery’s spine. It was what he had feared.
“What else do we know?”
“We checked with our other sources.” His voice had an uncharacteristic resignation. “Salmani was on a publicity photo-op at a Tehran hospital. He fainted and was taken to the emergency room. It’s been a blackout since then.”
Slattery closed his eyes. He didn’t even want to ask the question. “What part of the hospital was he visiting?”
“The children’s ward.”
“Shit.”
“Exactly. That’s three out of four signators. The Secret Service has been updated.” Markovsky’s voice became softer. “We need to be able to give them something new, Roger. Have you come up with anything in Geneva?”
Slattery suddenly realized Markovsky knew nothing about Braxton’s return. He hadn’t had the time. “Actually, yes, Peter. Things have moved so fast I haven’t had a chance to update you.” He proceeded to tell his boss about Braxton’s appearance at the Mission and subsequent rescue. “I was debriefing Braxton when I got your message. Rockwell is definitely responsible. He’s identified these kids using Omega, kidnapped them and trained them for the attacks. My guess is that he’s just a contractor. But now he’s back in the wind.”
Markovsky’s silence was frightening. “We need more, Roger. An invisible assassin does us no good. Especially one with ties to us. We have to find him or at least figure out where he is going to strike next.”
“Braxton said he heard Rockwell talk about someone named Charlie making a video. Any idea what that could be?”
“None. But see if your friend remembers anything else. Push him hard. He’s the best source we have at the moment. We have to solve this.”
* * *
Braxton was halfway through a heaping plate of scrambled eggs, pancakes and sausages when Slattery walked over to the cafeteria table and sat down. He didn’t believe how good real food tasted. The room was nearly empty and they had the table to themselves.
“I hear you and the nurse had a small misunderstanding,” Slattery began.
“She wanted to give me oatmeal!” Braxton replied. “Like I was some kind of invalid. I told her what I thought.”
“You didn’t need to pull a gun.”
Braxton smiled. He was feeling better. “I know. I’m sorry. I didn’t even remember I still had it. I gave it to the guards when they came.”
Slattery sat back and watched as his guest finished his meal.
Braxton was sopping up the last of the maple syrup when Slattery gave him the update.
“There’s been another assassination. The president of Iran. He’s in a coma.”
Braxton dropped his fork. “Jesus. The children?”
“Apparently. He had been in a children’s ward in a Tehran hospital, then collapsed. I’d guess some kind of poison.”
“Any connection to ‘Charlie’?”
“None we know of. But getting details out of Tehran is going to be difficult. And we don’t even know if Rockwell was talking about Iran.”
“You’re worried about the President.” It was a statement.
“Of course,” Slattery replied. “It completes the circle.”
Braxton pushed the tray away. “There’s something else.” Slattery slid forward in his chair. “When they brought me to Rockwell’s office there were maps all over the walls. Of the Middle East. That’s how I figured out he was responsible for the assassinations.” He paused. “There was another map open on Rockwell’s desk. I recognized it. It was of Edinburgh, Scotland.”
Chapter 33
Outside of Edinburgh, Scotland
Wednesday, 4:30 p.m.
Rockwell marched through the downstairs of the home with a practiced eye of a drill sergeant. He had purchased the aging bed-and-breakfast a few months before as a temporary base for the Edinburgh operation, not thinking it would need to replace his Geneva headquarters.
After packing up all the necessary documents and torching the farm’s buildings, his team had driven through the night to Edinburgh. They had four seemingly standard cargo vans, but the vehicles had been appropriately modified to accommodate the materiel necessary for their operations.
It had been a long trip, and one they had planned for, although not with the immediacy that had been required. The crossing on the Eurotunnel Shuttle had at least given them over an hour of much-needed rest.
“Is the squad settled?” he asked Penrose.
“Yes, sir. Some of the rooms are a bit crowded, but that won’t be a problem in the short term. We can make due.”
“I’m sure you will.” He stopped in a back room used as the office for the B&B. It was small, but serviceable for his purposes. “The loss of Samson and Lopez is unfortunate. Put out some feelers for replacements. I’ve already been contacted by potential new clients. Our capabilities have been recognized. We must be ready once this assignment is completed. And we’ll need another headquarters. Perhaps our friend in Germany has some suggestions.”
“Very good. I’ll initiate contact today. Would you like me to curtail exercises? For security reasons? The authorities must be aware we are in the area.”
Rockwell sat down in a squeaky desk chair. “No,” he replied sharply. “I don’t care whether Slattery and the Secret Service fools think we’re here or not. We will not fail. Has the video been delivered?”
“Yes, sir. It came out quite well. I’m sure it will have the desired result.”
“Excellent.” Rockwell knew his plan was perfect. There was no way anyone would figure it out. Use of Charlie’s background had never been part of the original plan, but when the detail had been discovered in one of Rockwell’s mandated checks earlier in the year, he had recognized the value. He had never relied on luck for his success but he never overlooked an occasional fortuitous coincidence either.
Still, he burned with rage at Braxton’s escape. The damn consultant was as clever as his history suggested. Rockwell should have chained him up in the first place. Or just cut him to pieces. He would not make that mistake again.
This time both the consultant and the CIA lackey were going to pay dearly.
“William. The escape of Slattery’s rabbit was an error. It cost us our home. I will not tolerate any further setbacks. See that the men understand that.”
“I think your response made that very clear, Colonel. Everyone understands the importance of vigilance.”
“Very well. Continue the exercises tomorrow. Perhaps we can use them to draw out our enemies. Have the men ready.”
* * *
When Braxton had related his recollection of the map of Edinburgh, Slattery had said he needed to make some calls and had vanished. Before Braxton had even digested his breakfast, the agent had reappeared and dragged him into a waiting Mission SUV. Inside was a well-stocked overnight bag. Apparently, the Mission also had its own department store.
The vehicle had then stopped at Slattery’s hotel to pick up the agent’s bags and rushed to Geneva’s Cointrin Airport for a flight to Edinburgh.
It had been a thoroughly uncomfortable and turbulent turboprop trip—Braxton had been reminded of his flight in the L-100J—in which not a word had been exchanged.
On arrival, Slattery spirited them through passport control without so much as a glance from the Scottish authorities. They were picked up by a government Range Rover where, finally in a secure location, Slattery explained the reason for their rushed departure.
He began by describing Rockwell’s history with the CIA and the “Langley Profile” that Wilson had applied to the ChildSafe data to identify targets. He then explained how these children had been abducted and apparently brainwashed at Nod to assist Rockwell in his assassination assignments. Braxton sat, unbelieving, as this remarkable set of events was disclosed.
Slattery confessed that there had always been a fear that the assassinations were tied to the Nobel Peace Prize announcement, but it was Braxton’s revelation that had confirmed the timing. There was now no doubt that the President of the United States was the next target and the G20 Summit would be the site of the assassination attempt.
Arrangements had been made for the two men to work with the local security forces to identify the threat. When Braxton asked why not with the Secret Service, Slattery scowled and muttered something like “they don’t think they need any help.”
After a short ride, the driver stopped in front of a massive Gothic building that looked like a cross between a nineteenth-century town hall and a sanitarium for the mentally ill. Rising from the center of the building was a watchtower complete with a huge illuminated clock.
Slattery exited the vehicle and proceeded inside, a turn of events that Braxton found unsettling.
If the exterior of the building was from the eighteen-hundreds, the inside was pure twenty-first century. Braxton walked into a painfully-bright interior filled with ceramic-tiled floors, geometric-patterned walls, and modernistic furniture that looked much too uncomfortable to sit in.
Slattery checked them both in and announced he had more meetings to attend. He told Braxton to meet him downstairs at seven o’clock the next morning.
Braxton’s stomach promptly growled, gaining the attention of the comely lass at the reception desk, so he chose to head for the restaurant. He was seated in a small booth, whose bench was surprisingly comfortable.
It was here that he learned he was staying at the Malmaison Hotel in Leith, a town just north of Edinburgh on the Firth of Forth.
Malmaison? Was he really staying at the “sick house”?
Under a continuous barrage of questions, Lorna, his very friendly Scottish waitress, proudly explained that Leith dated from the twelfth century, serving as the primary port for Edinburgh as it grew from a small Scottish outpost to the capital of Scotland. During the nineteenth century, the city had been a leader in wine and whiskey storage, soap and shipbuilding.
Unfortunately, the town, and especially the docks area, had fallen into steep decline in the twentieth century. It wasn’t until the past twenty years, when Edinburgh had initiated multiple programs of urban renewal, that Leith had regained at least some of its past glory. It was again home to young urban artists and professionals who frequented the new pubs, boutiques and hotels, the Malmaison among them, along the waterfront.
Lorna also validated Braxton’s initial impression of the hotel. It had begun its life in the nineteenth century as the Seamen’s Mission, a home for injured and retired Scottish sailors.
An hour later he was sated from a delicious ten ounce Angus steak with creamy garlic mashed potatoes and thick, tangy brown gravy. He put the bill on his room, leaving a generous tip, and trudged up the stairs to his room.
It had been a very long, and very stressful, day.
Chapter 34
Malmaison Hotel, Leith, Scotland
Thursday, 6:00 a.m.
Braxton awoke at six o’clock, took a long hot shower, then dressed in the pair of gray wool slacks, blue oxford shirt and wool pullover sweater he found in his bag. It felt good to be in a fresh set of clothes. He had slept pretty well, waking only when he turned over. The Mission nurse had done her best to bandage his bruised ribs, but the pain wasn’t going to disappear quickly. He finally grabbed his coat and met Slattery in the lobby.
Another government Range Rover was waiting which drove them no more than five minutes away to a derelict section of the Leith waterfront. It looked like an abandoned marine warehouse area left over from the days of the city’s seafaring grandeur.
As they approached
, however, the seemingly uninhabited area showed definite signs of life, from the heavily-armed guards at the entrance gate to the regular flow of vehicles, including armored personnel carriers, between the run-down warehouses.
The car was quickly cleared for entrance and it wove through the access ways before stopping in front of a large building faced with crumbling brick. Standing at the door to the building, looking quite out of place, was an elegantly-dressed English gentleman. He was dressed in a bespoke pin-stripe suit, crisp white shirt and striped-rep tie. His silver hair was combed neatly back but his weathered, square-jawed face betrayed a life that had not been lived behind a London desk.
Braxton and Slattery exited the vehicle and stopped at the door.
“Roger,” the man said, embracing Slattery with a bear hug. “I wish I could say that it’s a pleasure to see you again, but the circumstances dictate otherwise. Is this our civilian escapee?”
Slattery escaped from the hug and nodded. “Robert. It is good to see you again. Let me introduce Adam Braxton. Adam is the consultant I described to you.” He turned to Braxton. “Adam, this is Robert Brooks, an old friend from MI5. Robert is heading up security for all of the Summit. He has graciously offered to let us squat on his territory while we try to locate Rockwell.”
“Hardly the magnanimous offer Roger suggests, Mr. Braxton,” Brooks added. “Having an attempt on the life of America’s president on British soil would not be conducive to my continued employment. Come, let me show you around.”
Brooks led them into the building and down a central hallway. Braxton was instantly assaulted with the smells of the old structure: musty aromas of neglect, the pungent odor of burnt engine oil and the stink of salt and dead fish. It reminded him of walking along the aged wharfs of Boston harbor.
“We commandeered this old warehouse area as our security headquarters,” Brooks explained. “It has reasonable physical security and keeps us close to the venues of the Summit without being too obvious.”
They passed room after room filled with people huddled over reports and gigantic maps. “Each of the activities of the Summit has a dedicated team responsible for the security of the event. They must coordinate with the individual members’ security organizations of course, like the Secret Service, but overall responsibility lies with the teams. I meet with the team leaders regularly to assess threats and evaluate existing procedures.
