“Please sit down, Ms. Ibori. I would like to apologize for your treatment in the last few weeks. I took up my post here only yesterday.” He paused and sipped from a teacup. “My predecessor passed away unexpectedly, and I intend to make a number of changes to this facility. You will have to excuse me for not meeting you yesterday, but I had to get my office in order first.” He waved one hand, indicating the interior furnishings. “Yankees simply have no taste. You have no idea what this room looked like before.”
Ossana wanted to ask if the room had really been refurnished in just one day, but she kept the completely irrelevant question to herself.
The man stood up and went to a computer terminal set into the right-hand wall of the office.
“Come here, please, Ms. Ibori. I have to show you something.”
Hesitantly, Ossana stood and went to the terminal. She saw that it, too, was equipped with a retinal scanner.
“Please keep your right eye in front of the scanner,” the man said, as if it were the most natural thing in the world.
Again, Ossana hesitated, but then did as bidden. A second later, the screen changed and a message in her native language, Afrikaans, appeared. She quickly read the message and a smile flashed on her face. The man had turned away to allow Ossana to read in private.
“I do not know who you are, but as an inmate you are clearly different from the rest of the scum here. Shortly before my appointment was confirmed, I discovered a sizeable sum of money in one of my offshore accounts. Along with the money was a request: to pass this information on to you.”
The man came across as simultaneously amiable and ruthless.
“Do not make the mistake of thinking you can exploit my goodwill because of this, however. You are a prisoner in the most secret and secure prison in the United States. I don’t care why you’re here. I don’t care who you are. And just so we are perfectly clear: it doesn’t matter how much money you or your friends throw at me, I always make my decisions with a view to my own advantage. Not yours.”
Ossana’s smile had vanished, but she now knew what she had to do. The man was vain, corrupt, venal, powerful and good-looking. She knew his type and she knew how to deal with them. Her next move came spontaneously, a gut feeling that surprised even herself. She had obviously been locked up for far too long, because she found herself succumbing to the man’s sexual allure. A quick hand movement was all it took—Ossana opened her prison overalls and a moment later was standing completely naked in front of the man. If he was surprised, he did not let it show. He moved his head to the right, his eyes to the sofa. Ossana understood. She turned around, mentally preparing to feel him enter her, but without warning, an open hand crashed into her face, splitting her lip. Staggered by the force of the blow, she fell. Her head cracked against the stone floor and she found herself gasping for air.
“That will not work with me. I had one task, to make sure you received a message. You’ve received it. From this moment on, you are once again an inmate. With no rights whatsoever.”
The door flew open and the guards entered. They pulled Ossana to her feet and snapped on the handcuffs and shackles again, leaving her overalls lying on the floor. They pushed Ossana naked into the corridor.
“Lead the prisoner through every floor,” the man said, and the guards grinned.
One thing had become clear to Ossana. She had to find her way back to herself. She had to recover her instincts, her strength, her determination, and her cold-bloodedness.
11
François Cloutard’s suite, Kulibin Park Hotel, Nizhny Novgorod
Hellen knocked on the door. “François! I need to talk to you.”
She knocked again, harder this time.
“Un moment,” she heard the Frenchman call from inside.
“It’s important, François.” Hellen was pounding on the door now.
She heard movement inside Cloutard’s suite, and a moment later he breathlessly opened the door.
“What is it, for heaven’s sake?” Cloutard croaked.
Hellen could barely hold back a smile. She had never seen the smug Frenchman like this. His hair stood on end; judging by the rings under his eyes, he’d hardly slept at all; his voice sounded as if he’d downed an entire bottle of his favorite cognac in one sitting; and even his mustache, usually so immaculate, stuck out in all directions.
Hellen pushed Cloutard back into the room and quickly closed the door. “We have to talk before we meet with Mother.”
Cloutard looked at her in confusion. “Is that not exactly what the meeting is for? So that we can get answers to any questions we still have?”
Cloutard looked as if he’d been run over by a Russian tank. He slumped wearily onto the couch in the living area and downed a glass of water like Lawrence of Arabia after trekking through the desert for days. “Merde! These headaches are going to kill me. It’s this abominable Russian vodka,” he murmured, but quickly recovered himself. “Say what you have to say and then let me get back to bed. I need time to recover.”
Hellen looked at him in amazement. He actually sounded surly, a far cry from the charming François Cloutard she otherwise knew. Even in their most dire predicaments, he’d always maintained his poise. She resolved to ignore his mood.
“Tom flew to London last night.”
Cloutard’s face did not change. He seemed not to have understood her words.
“Uh, excuse me? I think I did not hear you correctly. Tom is where?”
As the news sank in, his face turned pale and he looked anxiously over Hellen’s shoulder. In a few words, Hellen told him what had happened the previous evening in the bar.
“And what is he thinking? That Noah is going to wait until Mr. Wagner turns up in person in London? Ta mére is not going to be happy at all.” As he said this, he glanced again over Hellen’s shoulder in the direction of the bathroom door. Only now did Hellen recall that Cloutard had gone to dinner with her mother the night before. But he must have gotten drunk by himself—her mother hated losing her self-control; she was even more of a control freak than Hellen herself.
“We have to come up with a story we can tell Mother. Something plausible to explain why Tom will only be joining us later.”
“You want to lie to your mother?” Cloutard asked doubtfully. “She is a walking lie detector! She will see through it in a second.”
Cloutard’s eyes were wide open now and he stood up nervously. He took Hellen by the arm and hustled her toward the door.
“If she finds out the truth, she’ll fire Tom before we’ve even got our first official assignment,” Hellen said.
“It is never a good thing for mothers and daughters to keep secrets from one another,” François said. “You should tell your mother the truth. And I am astounded that you let Tom run off to London so easily. The man has to set priorities in his life. We will never be a successful team like this.”
Cloutard was getting really wound up—Hellen could not remember seeing him so upset.
“I don’t know about you,” he continued, his eyes shut tight in exasperation, “but I need this job. Now go. Leave me alone. I need to freshen up.”
Hellen was almost out the door again when she heard a noise from the back of the suite. Suddenly she realized why Cloutard was so nervous. And now she was annoyed. She pushed Cloutard aside, strode to the bathroom, and threw open the door.
“You can come out, Mother,” she snapped, glaring angrily into Theresia’s eyes. She, too, had obviously had a hard night. The Russian tank had not stopped with Cloutard.
12
Atlas headquarters, ExCeL London conference center, England
“We are witnessing an unprecedented event that started here in London yesterday,” the CNN anchorman said. “It’s the biggest World Health Organization conference in history. Medical experts and researchers from more than two hundred countries have gathered here together with representatives from the health care and pharmaceutical industries. Hundreds of forums, seminars a
nd presentations have been planned. The conference highlight will undoubtedly be the meeting of the heads of the G20 states, here to ratify an historic agreement that aims to stabilize and expand health care around the world, a sorely needed initiative.”
Tom shut off the news and leaned back. He hadn’t seen Noah this time. Had he only imagined it? No, Hellen had recognized him, too. But he had to admit that a little doubt was beginning to creep into his mind. Was it really Noah he’d seen just a few hours ago? Yes, he was certain of it. And if Noah was here, it did not bode well. Everybody at the event was in danger.
The cockpit door opened and the pilot came back to him.
“Mr. Wagner, we have a problem. We were given clearance to land at London City Airport on our original flight plan, but we’ve just been rerouted to Bigging Hill. That’s about an hour’s drive south of London.”
“We don’t have time for that. There’s nothing you can do? Tell ’em we’re part of Atlas and have important info for the security of the conference.”
“We tried. No luck,” the pilot replied.
Tom thought for a moment. “How much time do we have?”
“We were supposed to land at London City in forty minutes,” said the pilot, with a quick glance at his Breitling watch. He turned and went back to the cockpit.
Tom reached for the cabin telephone, called Cobra headquarters and had them connect him with London. The phone rang three times before someone picked up, and for a moment Tom was at a loss for words. He knew the surly voice on the other end far too well. In his old job, it had been his constant companion, but Tom had hoped fervently that he’d never cross paths with his old boss again.
“Maierhofer speaking!”
“Hello?” Tom’s brain went blank for a second. “Yeah, hello, it’s Wagner.”
“Wagner?” Maierhofer sounded just as taken aback as Tom. A call from his former favorite troublemaker was probably the last thing he was expecting.
“Vahgner,” Maierhofer said, deliberately mispronouncing Tom’s name, as he always had. “What do you want?”
“What are you doing at Atlas HQ?” Tom asked in confusion. “Don’t tell me they . . .” Tom stopped himself, but it was too late. Someone had obviously promoted Maierhofer to head of Atlas, so it made perfect sense that he’d be calling the shots. “Congratulations,” Tom said, trying to salvage what he could, but if he knew Maierhofer, he was already too late.
“Wagner, what do you want? I don’t have all day.”
“Sure. Sorry. I’m in a plane on the way to London and we’ve just been redirected to Bigging Hill. We absolutely have to land at London City Airport. It’s life or death. I’ve got vital security information about the conference and there’s no time to lose.”
“What are you mixed up in this time?”
“Believe me, Captain, I wouldn’t ask if it wasn’t serious. Get me permission to land and I’ll explain everything face to face.”
For a moment there was silence on the other end. Then Maierhofer said, “Okay. You’ll get your clearance. But believe me, Wagner, if you’re wasting my time, I’ll bury you so deep not even your beloved chancellor will be able to dig you out.”
Tom smiled. I’ve got much more powerful friends these days, he thought.
“Thanks. I’m not. I’ll patch you through to the pilot. See you soon.”
Tom transferred the call to the cockpit and sat down again. He hadn’t even noticed that he’d been pacing up and down the cabin during the entire call.
Thanks to Maierhofer, the plane could now land at their original destination. Tom was glad to see the Atlas group’s influence seemed to have increased in the last couple of years. At the start, they’d been no more than an informal amalgamation of thirty-eight separate special police units, one of which was Tom’s old antiterrorism unit from Austria, Cobra. Thanks to Tom’s efforts in Barcelona, the group’s standing had improved considerably, and they’d been responsible for security at events of this magnitude across Europe ever since.
The Gulfstream jet touched down on time at London City Airport. The convention center was situated directly beside the airport, but a car was already waiting to pick Tom up—Maierhofer was leaving nothing to chance; he probably didn’t want Tom running around the premises without a chaperone. The driver’s face looked familiar to Tom, but for the life of him he could not put a name to it. His relationship with his fellow officers had always been rather cool. Tom was the lone wolf, had never been a team player. The only one he’d ever got on well with was the one he’d considered his best friend for years, Noah Pollock. But Noah had gone to the dark side.
After the short drive from the airport, Tom jumped out of the car and headed straight for the enormous semi-trailer that housed the Atlas mobile command center, a monstrous black beast equipped with the latest computer gear, surveillance equipment and communications. Tom jerked the door open without knocking, and, to the astonishment of everyone inside, walked straight up to Maierhofer and threw his arms around him.
“Thank you,” he said. “You don’t know how grateful I am.”
Maierhofer pushed Tom off and glared at him. “What’s got into you, Wagner? Come on, man, spit it out. What’s so important?”
“First, my name’s ‘Wagner,’ not ‘Vahgner.’ It’s pronounced in English, ‘a’ as in apple.” Tom inhaled deeply and went on when Maierhofer did no more than roll his eyes. “Noah Pollock,” he said.
Suddenly, absolute silence fell. Everyone in the trailer held their breath. The tapping of keys instantly ceased.
“Noah Pollock. Your old best buddy, the one on the FBI’s most-wanted list? That Noah Pollock?”
“Yeah. He’s here.”
“What do you mean, here? Here in London?”
“Yes. Here at the conference.”
Tom quickly told Maierhofer about the anonymous phone call in Russia and the CNN report where he’d seen Noah.
“You’re sure?”
“One hundred percent.”
“And why do you think he’s here?”
Tom grinned sheepishly. “This is where it gets complicated. I don’t know.” Tom could see Maierhofer’s frustration growing. “Yet,” he quickly added. “I was hoping you could help me get my hands on him, and then we’d simply ask him.” Tom smiled and shrugged. “Because if he’s here, AF is also here and that can only mean that people are probably going to get hurt.”
“So this is a gut feeling, so to speak,” said Maierhofer sarcastically. “Wagner, do you seriously think I’m going to start a manhunt in the middle of the biggest WHO conference in history because you’ve got indigestion? If that’s all you’ve got, Mr. Vaaaaahhgner, then—”
“Well, actually, you’re not going to believe this, but . . .” Tom smiled meekly “Noah can walk again,” he added.
“Wagner, get out of my sight,” Maierhofer snarled and pointed at the door. The key tapping and murmurs instantly picked up where they’d left of.
Maierhofer pointed to the young officer who’d picked Tom up earlier and who’d been standing silently in a corner the entire time.
“Markus or Mark or whatever your name is, drive Mr. Wagner back to the airport and make sure he gets on a plane.”
Tom did not try again to persuade his ex-boss to help him. He’d gotten what he wanted. He turned around and left the truck, a smile on his lips.
13
Premier High School, Texarkana, border of Texas and Arkansas, USA
He looked down and moved the scissors toward the red ribbon, opening them as if were about to slice through it, but then paused and looked up. And just then a storm of camera flashes went off. He smiled at the cameras like he always did and forced himself to look worldly-wise, as if he’d just co-signed a peace treaty between Israel and the Palestinians. Unfortunately, all he was doing was dedicating yet another gymnasium in yet another school somewhere in the boondocks, sponsored by one of the few Texans who actually supported the Democrats and who had therefore injected a sizeable
amount of money into the president’s election campaign. As vice president of the United States, it fell to him to attend dubious events like this.
When George Samson had asked him if he’d be available to serve as vice president, James J. Pitcock had been flattered. As a former Marine and Gulf War veteran, he’d risen rapidly through the ranks of the Democratic party to be one of the youngest congressmen in the United States. He had never dreamed that he would advance as rapidly as he had. Nor had he imagined that the job of vice president would be so unspectacular, so boring and—at times—even humiliating.
Yet here he was again, shaking hundreds of hands, kissing babies, making small talk with third-rate politicians and mayors who all had a fistful of excellent tips for the president. So far, he could not name one thing he had done in his job that had really made a difference. But he was resolved to see out his term. He was a Marine, and he’d taken more than one oath on the flag of the United States to do everything in his power for his country and its citizens. And if that meant cutting yet another red ribbon, that was fine with him. His time would come. His values and views would be heard. The right moment to prove his competence and political talent would come his way. But he would not wait forever.
“Mr. Vice President, Miss Sorenson on the line.”
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 4
