17
Rive Droite beach, Ètang de Thau Lagoon, Meze, France
Isaac Hagen dug his toes into the warm sand, enjoying his pastis rouge. He did not particularly like the French, but he had trouble resisting the anise cocktail. The area did not offer the best of French culinary delights, nor would anyone compare the Ètang de Thau lagoon to the Cote d’Azur. But Hagen loved the region nonetheless, for one reason: he could relax and no one would get on his nerves. So he kept coming back. Traditionally, the people who lived on the Ètang de Thau lagoon earned their living from fishing, and brought in a little money with salt production. Since the mid 20th century, oyster farming had also played an important role. There was some tourism, certainly, but it had never really taken hold. Hagen didn’t mind that at all—it was one of the reasons he loved the region so much. He could sleep easily and didn’t have to spend his days worrying about waking up with a pistol pointed at his head. He could drive his car without having to check it first for bombs, and he would not run into anyone from his decidedly sordid past. The region was simply too run-down for that. It wasn’t the kind of place you’d expect to find a high-strung Briton like Hagen.
Hagen had given up active service in the SAS years before. These days he was a freelancer, as he liked to call it. “Mercenary” and “contract killer” were such uncultivated terms for the work he did, a métier he’d elevated almost to an art form.
“Another pastis, Monsieur?” asked the waiter at the only decent bar Hagen had found along this godforsaken beach.
Hagen nodded. He put a fifty-euro bill on the bar.
“Keep ’em coming until that runs out,” he said, gazing thoughtfully out over the lagoon. “And leave a good tip for yourself, too.”
Only a few boats bobbed out on the water. The waterfront promenade was almost empty, though it wasn’t unusually hot for the time of year. Hagen was enjoying his time here. He’d get decently drunk on pastis before nightfall, then stroll into town, have dinner at one of the fish restaurants, where the food was unbelievably plentiful, good and cheap. Then he’d take a cab to the neighboring town of Marseillan and go in search of Giselle, who would make him forget whatever was on his mind with a mixture of tenderness and ferocity, as she always did. Hagen was so lost in his daydream that he did not notice the old man with the three-day beard, Persol sunglasses, and crumpled straw hat who sat down on his left at the bar.
“I’ll have what he’s having,” the man said in French, pointing to Hagen’s drink. Then he, too, turned and gazed out over the lagoon.
“You have to take care of something for me, Hagen.”
The sentence struck Hagen like a punch in the face. He almost turned and looked at the man, leaning against the bar just a few feet away, but he was professional enough not to. It took him a heartbeat to regain his composure. They sat in silence while the bartender brought the old man’s pastis. After a while, the old man reached into a dirty linen bag that he’d been carrying on his shoulder. He laid an envelope on the counter and pushed it a few inches in Hagen’s direction, just far enough for Hagen to be able to see it out of the corner of his eye. The old man finished his pastis, stood up and signaled the barkeeper.
“The drink’s on him.”
Hagen could only assume that the old man had pointed in his direction, because he had not taken his gaze off the waters of the lagoon. He straightened up slowly, leaned a little to the left, and collected the envelope. He wouldn‘t be getting drunk that night after all, nor would he be eating well or forgetting his troubles with Giselle. He was on duty.
18
U.S. Embassy, London
The two uniformed Marines posted on either side of the U.S. Embassy driveway stopped the black SUV. They checked the passengers’ IDs and one of the men rolled an inspection mirror beneath the car, checking for bombs. Out the window, Tom peered up at the architectural monstrosity, which looked more like a Borg cube from Star Trek than an embassy building. Appropriate, he thought. The often blind loyalty of Americans to God and country reminded him a little of the hive-mind behavior of the Borg.
The car rolled down the ramp into the basement garage and stopped in front of the underground entrance. The agent in the passenger seat jumped out and opened Tom’s door, and Tom climbed out of the SUV and followed him. Once they were past the ultra-modern security terminal, they rode the elevator up. The agent led Tom into a plain waiting room.
“Please take a seat, sir. It may take a little while, but the president will see you soon,” said the Secret Service agent, his face impassive. He closed the door, positioned himself in front of it, and gazed into space. The agent’s cool, military rigor amused Tom a little. He went to the window and looked out. The Stars and Stripes fluttered atop an enormous flagpole in the embassy garden.
Tom’s thoughts drifted and he gleefully recalled Maierhofer’s face when he’d come face to face with the Secret Service agent less than an hour before.
“Sir, the president would like a word with Mr. Wagner. I’m here to accompany him to the U.S. Embassy.”
At first, Maierhofer had tried to object, but the uncompromising and exceptionally direct agent had nipped his dissent in the bud. Finally, Maierhofer admitted defeat and had personally unlocked Tom’s handcuffs.
“I still have a bone to pick with you, Vaaaahhgner. When the Americans are done with you, you’re mine. I don’t care what friends you have, what you did today will not be swept under the carpet.”
“Put it on my tab,” Tom had said, slamming the door in Maierhofer’s face.
President George William Samson emerged from his office and nodded to the agent, who replied with an almost imperceptible head movement, then turned and left the room. Samson shook Tom’s hand and asked him to come into his office.
“Have a seat. Thank you for coming,” Samson said, waving toward one of the two sofas in the room. Tom sat down and Samson took a seat on the sofa opposite.
“Thank you, Mr. President. Your call came at just the right time. What can I do for you?”
Tom’s eyes swept the room. It wasn’t the Oval Office, but it was definitely the office of the U.S. president: flags stood behind the desk and the presidential seal was embossed on the carpet between the two sofas.
“Yes. I hear you were responsible for some confusion in the hotel.”
Tom told the president everything that had happened since the anonymous phone call in Russia.
“ . . . and now I’m here. Just another typical Tuesday morning.”
“I see. So Noah Pollock is in London,” Samson said thoughtfully. “But I don’t think AF is planning to attack the conference. The NSA and the CIA haven’t picked up anything in that direction. AF is careful, but we would have heard something. I suspect it’s about this.” Samson handed Tom the file that he’d received from his chief of staff. “What the NSA overheard here is no less unsettling, I’m afraid.”
Tom opened the file, and the first thing he saw was the photograph of Sienna Wilson.
“I know her. She was at the conference. She was trying to warn everyone about some kind of biohazard. She got herself arrested, but Maierhofer let her go. I think he was more interested in me.”
“That biological danger is what this is all about. We believe Dr. Wilson extracted a substance from a plant she brought back from Central America, a substance that can easily be weaponized.”
“You’re probably right that Noah and AF are after that. How can I help?”
“I’d like you—unofficially, of course—to obtain this substance and all of the documentation that goes with it for us, before it falls into AF’s hands, and to destroy all evidence on site. I can’t officially approve any black ops on British soil, you know.” He paused for a moment. “I couldn’t even have gone to your uncle with this request. But you are not a U.S. citizen. If anything should go wrong, God forbid, our already rocky relations with the U.K. won’t suffer any further damage.”
“Plausible deniability,” Tom said.
&nb
sp; Samson nodded. “You’ve got it. I assume, of course, that the job will go smoothly. A contact will take over afterward, and your part’s done. And if you can sort out our little problem with Noah Pollock while you’re at it, all the better."
“Of course, Mr. President.”
“The lab complex is about 270 miles southwest of London. It’s part of something called the Genesis Program. The details are in the file. We’ve already found a car and equipment for you through a middleman, so you can get started right away.”
“Thank you, Mr. President. I won’t let you down.” Tom stood up, shook hands with Samson and turned to leave.
“Rupert will bring you to your car.”
The door opened and the Secret Service man who had escorted Tom this far entered the office.
“Mr. President,” he said in greeting, then turned to Tom. “If you would follow me, please.”
“And Tom . . .” Samson said.
Tom stopped and looked back.
“Good luck.”
19
Plaza in front of the Albertina Museum, Vienna, Austria
There had been a time when Hellen would have given her eye teeth for a job at the Albertina.
The museum was named for Albert Casimir of Saxony, Duke of Teschen and son-in-law of Empress Maria Theresia. Founded in 1776, it was considered one of the world’s great art collections. For more than fifty years, Albert had exploited a network of art dealers and auction houses across Europe, amassing fourteen thousand drawings and two hundred thousand old master prints. Many of the pieces—including Michelangelo’s male nudes, Dürer’s “Young Hare” and Rubens’s portraits of children—were among the most famous works in the history of art. The Albertina collection was so massive that the custodians, like those at the Vatican, had catalogued only a fraction of what they had. No one really knew what treasures lay slumbering in the depths of the various ultra-modern high-bay warehouses and deep storage facilities.
“Do you feel it?” Cloutard asked as they rode up the escalator, passed the Albrecht fountain, and entered the museum. “We have been so intimately involved with long-lost artifacts and treasures of late that a museum like this has lost most of its appeal.”
Hellen was still a little put out with François, but she smiled and nodded. It did not feel like very long ago at all that she had curated her first exhibition at the Museum of Fine Arts, just a few hundred yards from the Albertina. That was also where she first met Tom. Everything had started with the Habsburgs’ Stone of Destiny, the Florentine diamond. Since then, she had felt as if she were riding on a rollercoaster through history. And now here she was, doing it again.
“I know what you mean. Dürer’s ‘Young Hare’ has got nothing on El Dorado,” she said with a laugh as they approached the ticket counter. To the woman at the desk, she said, “My name is Hellen de Mey and this is François Cloutard. We’re here on behalf of Blue Shield and UNESCO and we’d like to speak with Director Richter, please.”
“Richter is the director here now?” Cloutard asked. “Wasn’t he also your boss at the Museum of Fine Arts?”
“He certainly was. And the Florentine affair gave his career a big boost. Now he’s running both places,” Hellen replied.
The woman at the counter, meanwhile, had picked up the phone to announce Hellen’s arrival.
“Have you thought about how we will get access to the documents? Officially we do not even know they exist,” said Cloutard.
“Simple. Before he left for London, Tom called the chancellor and the chancellor assured him that he would take care of it. The documents are probably already prepared and waiting for us.”
Cloutard had no time to respond, because Director Richter’s assistant appeared just then in the foyer to escort them to his office. When they arrived, she opened the door and ushered them inside. When Director Richter saw Hellen and her companion, however, his face was a stony mask, and Hellen knew immediately that he was not happy to see them at all.
“Good morning, Ms. de Mey. To what do I owe the honor?” Richter asked, his tone as cold as the look in his eyes. Hellen could see which way the wind was blowing. Cloutard, too, knew that something was going on.
“The chancellor must have told you we were coming? It’s about the newly discovered documents concerning the Spanish line of the Habsburgs. On behalf of Blue Shield, we would like very much to examine them.”
Director Richter removed his glasses and placed them carefully on his desk. He stood up and went to the window, which offered an impressive view of the Vienna State Opera. “Yes,” he said. “The chancellor informed me you would be coming,” he said, his back to them as he gazed out the window.
Hellen exhaled. False alarm.
“And I told the chancellor that we are not at UNESCO’s beck and call here. I don’t know what makes you think we have found any new documents at all.”
Hellen swallowed. Director Richter was still not particularly well disposed toward her. He had been promoted following the Florentine diamond affair, but most of the credit had gone to Hellen and the Museum of Fine Art. Hellen had given dozens of interviews and received even more job offers from all over the world, which had infuriated Director Richter at the time. Clearly, he still hadn’t gotten over it.
“Director . . .” Hellen began, but her voice faltered. She had no idea what to say. The director’s temper did not improve.
“The audacity you display is the very height of impertinence,” Richter continued. “Presumably, these documents have been under hidden away here for centuries. We are in the process of analyzing them ourselves, under the tightest security. Most importantly, the documents must be handled with extreme care. This is our find. Our find. And—"
“Excusez-moi, Monsieur,” Cloutard interrupted him. “I have the feeling that this conversation might take a while. If you don’t mind, I have to pay a quick visit to the restroom.” He stood up without waiting at all for the director’s reaction and left the office. Hellen, bewildered, could only sit and watch him leave. But she did not have time to wonder about it for long; Director Richter barely paused in his tirade.
“And you, Miss UNESCO, don’t even begin to think that you can get your boyfriend to call the chancellor and then come waltzing in here with your aging art thief. Batting your eyelashes won’t make me or the Albertina researchers bow or roll out the red carpet for you.”
“I would certainly have expected at least a little more respect among colleagues,” Hellen shot back.
“Respect? Colleagues? You’ve practically just stumbled out of university, and now you consider us colleagues? Respect is earned, my dear. Over many, many years.”
The director’s phone rang and he picked it up. Hellen knew that he normally instructed his assistant not to pass through any calls when he was in important meetings, which meant this was no more than a show of strength. He wanted Hellen to squirm. The call lasted almost ten minutes, and the director didn’t seem to mind making Hellen wait.
Hellen had rarely been as angry as she was by the time he finally hung up. Her standing as a scientist had been denigrated. She’d done more pioneering historical work in the last year than this pencil pusher had in his entire life.
“As an official delegate of Blue Shield, you cannot treat me like this,” she began. But that was as far as she got.
“Can’t I? Can’t I? You’ll see what I can’t do!” Richter’s face was beet red as he stabbed a button on his intercom. “Security, please come to my office!”
“How dare you!” Hellen stammered in disbelief.
“Having you thrown out is my pleasure. UNESCO and Blue Shield have never lifted a finger to help us, and if you think I’m going to roll over the minute we find something you think is interesting, then you’d better think again. Over my dead body! You can apply for access like anybody else. And when the bureaucrats are through with your application, and you’ve dotted all the i’s and crossed all the t’s, you’ll have your access. In six to nine months. Now, if
you’ll excuse me, I have more important things to attend to.”
The door opened and two security officers stepped into the office.
“Escort Ms. de Mey off the premises.”
Hellen jumped to her feet and was stalking furiously out of the office when she received a WhatsApp message from Cloutard.
“I am sitting in the Palmenhaus. The melange here is fabulous,” she read. Hellen hurried down the escalator, turned left and walked about two hundred yards down the Hanuschgasse and entered the Burggarten park. She quickly spotted Cloutard sitting in the pavilion fronting the Palmenhaus. The left wing of the Art Nouveau complex contained the Butterfly House, while the right wing was still used as a greenhouse; between them was a café and brasserie, popular with tourists and Viennese alike.
“I need something stronger than a melange,” Hellen sighed as she dropped into a chair beside Cloutard.
“Champagne, perhaps?”
“That’s nice of you, François, but I don’t really feel like celebrating just now.”
The Frenchman held out his iPad to her. “You might soon change your mind about that.”
20
U.S. Embassy, London
His cell phone buzzed. He put the file on the desk, reached for the phone and took the call.
“Yes?” he said.
“It’s Rupert, sir. Tom Wagner is on his way. He’s taken the assignment. He’s due in Ambrose Street tomorrow morning, London time.”
“Thank you, Rupert. Keep me up to speed,” said Chief of Staff Armstrong, and put the phone aside again.
Rupert was a loyal man, personally recruited by Armstrong at the start of President Samson’s term. As chief of staff to the most powerful man in the world, it was essential that Armstrong know what the president was up to when he wasn’t around. Armstrong could only ensure the smooth operation of the West Wing if he knew the president’s every step. And no one was better positioned to tell provide him with that information than the president’s personal Secret Service agent. It was Rupert, too, who had told him about Samson’s liaison with Yasmine Matthews, the NutriAm CEO.
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 6
