The Liberty Covenant

by Jack Bowie

  “Nobody yet,” he whispered into Marino’s ear.

  The pair remained crouched together, waiting for the inevitable appearance of the lab workers.

  Suddenly Marino coughed, the sharp sound echoing through the lab.

  “What’s the matter?” Braxton barked hoarsely.

  “The chemicals. They’re making me sick. I think I’m going to throw up.”

  Her face had turned a chalky white. He had been able to ignore the smell of the reagents while they were walking around, but here, clinging tightly to a storage cabinet, the odor was unbearable. He could pick out the pungent smell of ether, and sickening rotten-eggs of sulfur dioxide. The combination was enough to make anyone ill. But if Marino lost it, there was no way they could avoid detection.

  He grabbed her by the shoulders and shook her as hard as he could. “Fight it! You can do it. You have to!”

  “Clack.” The lock on the door.

  He put his arm around Marino and pulled her tight as they pressed against the wall. Her shaking frightened him almost as much as the researchers. What if she fainted? How would he get her out?

  He heard the door open and then two men talking. They were speaking in a guttural, foreign language. He didn’t understand a word. The voices grew louder as they approached the lab door.

  “What are they saying?” he whispered.

  “Shush!” she replied, holding her finger to her lips.

  The voices passed the door and continued down the corridor.

  “What did they say?” Braxton repeated.

  “Oh, nothing important.” Marino managed a faint smile. Beads of sweat collected along her jawline. “Just something about his date last night. He had a really good time.”

  “Jesus Christ,” Braxton muttered.

  They heard muffled conversation for a few more minutes.

  “What now?” he asked.

  “They’re talking about checking some cultures. I think they’re going into the other part of the lab.”

  There was a hissing sound followed by silence. Braxton stuck his head up to see what was happening.

  “Where are they?” Marino asked.

  “They’re gone. They must be in the isolation area.”

  “Then let’s get out of here before they come back!”

  He led her back to the doorway and peeked around the jamb. The hall was empty.

  “Time to go,” he said.

  They opened the security door as silently as they could and escaped into the security foyer.

  Two minutes later, the elevator door opened back at the lobby level. Braxton put a finger to his lips and peered around the door to check on the security guard. He was still watching the television, but it was directly in the line of sight of their elevator.

  Braxton fished in his pocket, pulled out a kwartje coin, and tossed it past the guard’s desk toward the door. When it struck the marble floor, the guard turned, and Braxton yanked Marino out of the elevator and pulled her to the bank of doors on the opposite side, safely hidden from the eyes of the security guard.

  “Are you okay?” he finally asked as he pressed the elevator call button.

  “I think so. Where are we going now?”

  “Nowhere. We’re going out. Very calm and very normal.”

  The elevator annunciator rang, Braxton counted to five, and the pair stepped out into the lobby.

  “Miss Marino,” the guard said seeing them approach. “Have trouble finding your briefcase?”

  She looked in horror at Braxton, then turned back to the guard, her winning smile firmly in place.

  “Sure did. I guess I must have left it somewhere else. But to tell you the truth, I stopped in the lab to show my friend some demos and we got caught up playing Renegade Raider. He wouldn’t let me leave until he showed me how he could get to the third level. Isn’t that just like a man? You won’t tell anyone will you?”

  The guard looked at her sternly then let a slight smirk appear. “Okay, we’ll keep it just between us.”

  “Thanks,” Marino replied. “You have a good night.”

  “I’ll try, Miss Marino. You too.”

  She signed them out and they walked slowly back to the parking lot. Aside from a slight wobble in her normally athletic stride, it was impossible to tell anything was wrong.

  Until she collapsed like a rag doll in his arms.

  Chapter 38

  Amsterdam, The Netherlands

  Thursday, 11:30 a.m.

  Braxton leaned back in his chair, looked over the railing and watched as sunlight sparkled off the ripples in the canal. The warm and brilliant Amsterdam morning was just the therapy he needed after a disturbing, restless, and all too short night.

  There was something terribly wrong at Vision One. He had spent the better part of the morning sitting at a table in the café trying to put all the discoveries into some kind of context. Why was there a hidden biologics laboratory under the Vision One facility? Lawson must have known it was there. Why else would he have kept the access code? But did it have anything to do with his death? And how did Sydney Marino fit into the puzzle?

  Why did there always have to be so many more questions than answers? He glanced at his watch and decided it was time to get back to the conference. He had to keep up his cover. A wave brought the surly waiter to the table with his check. The man had been scowling for the past hour, undoubtedly offended that the American had spent over two hours at his table ordering only a black coffee and plain croissant.

  Braxton shoved a few bills under his plate and headed back up Damstraat toward the hotel. He had nearly reached the courtyard when he heard a voice calling his name.

  “Mr. Braxton!”

  He turned and saw Tak Yang waving from beside one of the front columns. What was the Chinese scientist doing? He was the one that had all the concerns about propriety. Braxton hesitated, but couldn’t very well ignore the greeting in the midst of the other conference attendees, so he walked over to his colleague.

  “Dr. Yang,” he began, bowing slightly. “How good to see you again.”

  “Mr. Braxton. Please excuse my rudeness, but I am returning to Beijing this afternoon and wanted to be sure to thank you for your review of my manuscript.”

  Manuscript? What manuscript? “Why, uh, yes, of course. It was my pleasure.”

  “There were a few questions I had on your comments, however.” Yang extracted a sheaf of papers from his leather satchel and held them up. “Perhaps you could explain them to me? I’m sure it is my poor understanding of your language.”

  “My comments? Well, certainly.” Braxton took the offered papers from the scientist’s hands.

  “Excellent. I would be most grateful. I promise not to take too much of your very valuable time. Perhaps we could walk while we chat? It is such a beautiful day and I have a very long flight ahead of me.”

  Yang led Braxton across the Dam. They turned left on Nieuwezijds and continued behind the Palace.

  “Okay, doctor. What is this really about?” Braxton said once they were out of earshot of the crowd.

  “Thank you for playing along, Mr. Braxton. I thought of something last night and have been looking for you at the conference all morning.”

  “Ah, I had a meeting,” he replied quickly. “Is this something about your brother?”

  “Yes. It was something he said in his last letter. I hadn’t considered it carefully until after our conversation. He said he was angry with someone at work.”

  “Angry? Did he get into a fight with someone?”

  A look of shock appeared on Yang’s face. “No. Of course not. My brother would never get into a physical disagreement. He was angry about this person’s behavior. He felt he was misrepresenting his work. This is something that would have troubled him very much.”

  “Well, that behavior is not particularly uncommon in the NSA, or anywhere in government for that matter. Who was it?”

  “He didn’t say. But it must have been someone he worked with closel
y. He said . . .”

  An elderly couple approached them on the path and Braxton stepped to his left, away from Yang, to avoid hitting them. It saved his life.

  Frighteningly familiar explosions erupted around him. Something hit him hard, spinning him around and dropping him onto the brick walkway. He vaguely heard the roar of a car’s engine, and then the explosions stopped, replaced by a cacophony of screams. He managed to open his eyes and saw three bodies lying on the path next to him. Then he felt a burning stake in his shoulder and the world faded into darkness.

  * * *

  Braxton fidgeted on the examining table. Waiting. It was like every other encounter he had ever had with a health care organization. Instants of impersonal imposition sandwiched between eras of inattention. There had to be a consulting opportunity here.

  His last moments with Yang were still a blur. There were shots, then screams; people falling all around him. Other people had picked him up and put him in some kind of vehicle, probably an ambulance, and brought him here. People in white ripping his clothes, strapping him to machines.

  When his head had finally cleared, he had asked someone where he was.

  “There was a shooting,” the face had said with a thick Dutch accent. “You’re at Central Hospital in Amsterdam.”

  “My friend, Dr. Yang?” he had asked.

  “I’m sorry,” was the only reply.

  Apparently he had suffered no serious injuries. They had taken his clothes, attended to what he assumed was a superficial bullet wound in his right shoulder, and left him in the examining room to freeze to death. Outside the room he saw his physician, a Dr. Magdar, speaking with two other men in dark suits. Maybe one of them would get him some clothes.

  He hopped off the table and walked toward the door. Immediately Magdar rushed into the room, followed by his visitors.

  “Mr. Braxton, please, you must sit down and rest. You have been through a very traumatic situation,” said the dark-skinned physician in more heavily accented English.

  “I feel fine, Doctor. I would like to get my clothes and get out of here.”

  “Yes. I understand. But I’m afraid the clothes you were wearing are quite unusable at this point. I will try to get something for you. Until then, Mr. Klaber would like to speak with you.”

  Magdar turned and left the room. The taller of the two men took a step forward and bowed stiffly. He was slim, about five feet ten, and dressed in a stylish double-breasted pin-stripe suit. Braxton couldn’t decide if he was a cop or a diplomat.

  “Mr. Braxton. I am Detective Hans Klaber from the Amsterdam police. This is my colleague, Detective Geffen.” The shorter, plumper man nodded. “I would like to ask you a few questions if you are able.”

  Braxton had no desire to speak with any cop at this point, but he was sure he would never get out of here if he didn’t.

  “Of course, Detective Klaber. I’ll tell you whatever I know.”

  “You are aware that Dr. Yang was killed?”

  “Yes.”

  “You must understand this is a very delicate situation, Mr. Braxton. An incident of this type is upsetting under any circumstances, but to have it involve foreign visitors . . . . We must do everything we can to identify the perpetrators.”

  Okay, Klaber, get on with it. And where are those clothes?

  “You were friends with Dr. Yang?”

  “Not really. I only met him this week. He was doing some interesting work in cryptography. We spoke a few times during the conference.”

  “You were not at the conference this morning.” A statement. How would Klaber know that?

  “I had some work to do,” Braxton replied. “Why is that relevant?”

  “When did you meet Dr. Yang?” Klaber continued.

  “Today? We spoke outside the hotel. He was leaving this afternoon and wanted to talk with me about a paper he was writing. It was a nice day and we decided to go for a walk.”

  “Whose idea was the walk?”

  “Dr. Yang’s.”

  “I see. Did he talk about anything other than this paper?”

  “No.” What was Klaber getting at? “Why do you ask?”

  “Did he speak anything about his country? Was he happy there?”

  “Dr. Yang spoke only of our work. Nothing else.”

  “Do you have any idea who might want to harm him?”

  “As I said, Mr. Klaber, the only thing I know about Dr. Yang is his work in cryptography. I have no idea who might want to hurt him.”

  “Do you have many friends in China, Mr. Braxton?”

  “I don’t have any, Detective Klaber. I told you, Dr. Yang was simply a colleague.”

  “Yes. Of course. Did you get a look at any of the assassins?”

  “No. I’m sorry. All I remember is being hit and then screams. I must have blacked out.”

  “How unfortunate.” Klaber’s eyes scanned the examining room, then stopped at Braxton’s left shoulder.

  “That’s quite a scar you have on your shoulder, Mr. Braxton. Some kind of accident?”

  How much did Klaber know about his past? It wasn’t exactly a secret. But it had nothing to do with Yang.

  “Yes, a hunting accident. Nothing serious, thankfully.”

  “I see. Was this . . . ” Braxton heard a beep. Geffen reached into his pocket and opened a cell phone. He spoke a few words into the device then handed it to Klaber.

  “Yes. Yes, sir. Of course, sir.” Klaber’s face turned to stone and he handed the cell phone to Braxton. “Someone would like to speak with you.”

  Braxton frowned and took the phone from the policeman. Who could be calling him here?

  “Yes?”

  A familiar voice came through the speaker. “Braxton. This is Mr. Smith. Can you talk?”

  Braxton looked at the policemen, then turned and walked to a far corner. “I guess so. But they’re still in the room.”

  “Don’t worry about that. We won’t get into any details.”

  “How did you find me?”

  “The assassination of a Chinese scientist doesn’t exactly go unnoticed. I was concerned about you and did some checking.”

  Braxton was sure that his own well-being was fairly far from the agent’s focus, but he was glad someone knew where he was.

  “Well, I’m okay. Just a flesh wound and a few cuts.”

  “Great, Adam. We’re very relieved. Did you get a chance to have that conversation?”

  This is what he really wanted. “Yes. But I’m not sure it will be much help.”

  “That’s for us to decide. When are you coming back?”

  “I don’t know. I hadn’t thought about it.” What time was it? He felt like he had been here for hours. It must be at least dinnertime, his stomach was starting to growl. No point in rushing now. “Probably tomorrow.”

  “That’s fine. Let’s meet at your office on Saturday. Say about noon?”

  “Okay. Noon at my office. Oh, by the way, do you know our friend in Maryland’s supervisor?”

  “You mean Yang?”

  “Yes.”

  “Yeah, I do. Why?”

  “That will give us something to talk about. I won’t have any more trouble here will I?”

  “No. I’ll take care of everything. Let me talk to Klaber.”

  Braxton walked back toward the cops and handed Klaber the phone. As the detective spoke, his face tightened and his tone again became deferential.

  Dr. Madgar suddenly appeared at the door. He was carrying a stack of clothes. “Mr. Braxton, we have been able to find something for you to wear. I hope they will fit satisfactorily.”

  Geffen took the bundle from the doctor and handed it to Braxton. He set it down on the table and separated the contents. Flannel shirt, size medium. Jeans, waist 44. Penny loafers, size 43. He wasn’t an expert on European sizes, but they seemed about right.

  “This looks fine, doctor,” he replied. “Thank you.”

  As Braxton started dressing, Klaber flipped the phone closed
and handed it back to Geffen. He didn’t look pleased.

  “For a simple consultant you have very powerful friends, Mr. Braxton. The original call was from our Minister of Defense. I have been asked to provide you our full assistance. Is there anything else you would like to tell us?”

  “No. I’ve told you everything I know. Do you have any idea who would want to kill Dr. Yang?”

  “There are many possibilities: terrorists hoping to create an international situation, Chinese expatriates, common street criminals. You can be sure we will investigate all the possibilities.”

  “Thank you, Detective,” Braxton said sincerely. “Dr. Yang was a brilliant scientist. I hope you find out who wanted him dead.”

  Braxton had nearly finished buttoning the shirt when he heard Klaber say, “If he was their target.”

  “What?”

  “Well, you were walking with Dr. Yang.”

  Chapter 39

  Tyler, Georgia

  Thursday, 10:00 a.m.

  Wicks paced the porch of the farmhouse waiting for his friend to arrive. He felt like shit. It had taken most of the night to clean up the mess. Now he had to start damage control.

  The familiar blue Dodge van pulled up to the house and the driver stepped out.

  “What the hell are you doing calling me out here at ten in the morning?” O’Grady yelled, slamming the van’s door.

  “I told you. We’ve got to talk. Come on in.” He led O’Grady into the kitchen and headed for the refrigerator. “What do ya want?”

  O’Grady waved his hand away. “I want to know what’s going on! Elizabeth’s been callin’ me all night. Asking about Macon. Where the hell is he?”

  “He’s gone,” Wicks said flatly taking a swig of his beer.

  “What do you mean he’s gone? Where’d he go without telling his family?”

  “Stop your goddamn whining, Sean. He’s dead! Okay? We gotta figure out what to do to or we’re gonna be next.”

  O’Grady grabbed for the table. “Dead! How? What happened?”

  “It was Gary. He found out Macon was the one that let the Fed in.” Wicks figured a lie was safer for everyone.

  “And he just killed him? How do you know?”