So he really did it, Armstrong thought. Samson had entrusted this risky job to an outsider. He picked up the file again and opened it. The CIA file on Tom Wagner was impressive. Nephew of a four-star admiral. Antiterror specialist, recently recruited by UNESCO for Blue Shield. Saved the Pope’s life and defused an atom bomb in a highly unconventional manner. And together with his team, he had discovered the Library of Alexandria. But why the hell wouldn’t Samson not send his own CIA people to secure a biological weapon? Why give the job to an outsider? To avoid problems with the British? That seemed a specious argument at best. We’ve done a lot of other things behind the backs of the British. Something else must be going on, Armstrong thought.
He stood up and went to the window. He needed help with this. Since Samson had started his affair with Yasmine Matthews, he’d been resistant to all advice. Armstrong had to do something—it was completely against his convictions, but right now he saw no other option. His mind made up, he picked up the phone and dialed a number.
21
Genesis Program, Cornwall, England
Tom climbed out of the car and stretched. Several hours at the wheel of the uncomfortable Vauxhall the U.S. Embassy had given him had left their mark. He’d parked the car some distance away from the official parking areas, on a secluded forestry road. Before he could risk breaking into the research lab, he had to familiarize himself with the area. The Genesis Program grounds lay under a blanket of fog in the crater-like remnant of an old, open-pit china clay mine. Tom walked around the car, unlocked the trunk and opened the small flight case they’d put at his disposal. He lifted out the laser-sighted Sig-Sauer P226, chambered a round, slid it under his belt, and flipped his shirt over it. The spare magazine and utility knife went into his back pockets.
He grabbed the dossier and closed the trunk. Moving around to the front of the car, he called up Google Earth on his phone. After getting an overview of the surrounding area, he spread the contents of the folder on the hood and studied them in detail. It was a little terrifying just how much information the NSA could put together about someone or something at short notice, Tom thought, looking at the photo of Sienna Wilson. She was the key, and she could definitely be useful to him. Dr. Wilson had already shown that she did not want the dangerous substance to fall into the wrong hands. He closed the file, returned it to the car, and headed for the Genesis Program entrance.
A short way down the street, a winding, covered path led from the parking area to the visitor center. It was just after five o’clock, and the gates would close in an hour. A horde of children, laughing and jostling, squeezed out through the exit as Tom stepped into the foyer. He bought a ticket and headed directly for the enormous domes built inside the old clay pit. Connected by a flat building, the two biodomes hugged the former mine face. With their honeycomb-like construction, the domes were essentially oversized greenhouses, unique in size and shape. The rear dome housed the largest indoor rainforest in the world, while the smaller, in front, was dedicated to the flora of the Mediterranean. The research complex was in the forest above the larger dome.
Tom entered the entry building, lush with greenery, that connected the two domes. He turned left, heading for the rainforest, and when the automatic door slid open, it felt like walking into warm soup: the temperature was almost ninety degrees, with ninety-nine percent humidity. It literally took his breath away for a moment and made him forget that he was on a mission. A fascinating world unfolded in front of him, and he could easily imagine a dome on Mars looking something like this. A high waterfall, small streams, rope bridges, wooden huts, and simulated weather. High overhead, near the top of the 180-foot dome, one could look out over the five-acre rainforest from an observation deck, and above that was a smaller service platform.
Tom followed a winding path through dense tropical gardens, past other visitors slowly making their way toward the exits. He was heading for the northernmost section of the dome, directly beneath the research center. He did not know what he was expecting to find there, but if there was a direct connection between the two structures, that’s where it would be.
From the corner of his eye, he noticed someone behaving in an exceptionally suspicious manner. He turned around casually and saw a woman in sunglasses, with her eyes lowered and a baseball cap pulled low over her face. Sienna Wilson.
Why the masquerade? Tom wondered. She works here. It said so in the dossier, and she’d mentioned it herself the first time they met. She practically jumped when a passing employee almost bumped into her, and she quickly turned away and pulled the cap even lower. With all her efforts to appear unremarkable, she was achieving the exact opposite. She was up to something.
Tom followed the attractive scientist for a while to find out what was going on, but quickly decided it was taking too long. Looking ahead, he saw that he could speed things up substantially. Moving faster, he caught up with Sienna, grabbed her by the arm, and pushed her into one of the cool-rooms beside the path: the small, air-conditioned wooden huts offered visitors respite from the tropical climate.
“Hey! Let me go! Who do—” Sienna stopped short when she recognized Tom.
“Out!” Tom ordered the two other visitors already in the hut; indignant, they left.
“You’re that crazy guy from London who set off the fire alarm. What are you doing here?”
“My guess is, the same as you.”
Sienna looked at Tom in astonishment. “I work here. What’s your excuse?”
“If you work here, why the masquerade?” Tom lifted the baseball cap off her head and held it in front of her. Sienna snatched it back and crammed it into her back pocket.
“What do you care? You didn’t answer my question. What are you doing here?” She pulled off her sunglasses.
“I’m here to prevent your ‘biological danger’”—Tom made air quotes with his fingers—“the one you want to warn the world about, from falling into the wrong hands.”
“What? Why?” Sienna said, struggling for words. “What do you know about the ‘danger’?” she asked, with air quotes of her own.
“Two years ago, you found a very special plant in Central America. In your research, you discovered that it could quite easily be transformed into a biological agent. Then you overheard a telephone call and found out that your boss was trying to sell your research to mysterious buyer.” He let his words sink in a moment. “How am I doing so far?”
Sienna was speechless. “Who . . . who are you and what do you want with my plant?” she finally stammered.
“You know my name: Tom Wagner. Officially, I work for Blue Shield, a department of UNESCO, but I also freelance on the side. Sometimes for the pope, today for the U.S. president. He would also love to get his hands on your discovery.” Tom had no time to fool around and he’d decided to go with the truth from the start. But even as he spoke, he realized how absolutely crazy he sounded, and Sienna confirmed his fears.
“Oh, of course. And on weekends you have tea with the Dalai Lama.” Sienna snorted derisively and tried to push past him. He held her back.
“No, but I was doing shots with the Russian president yesterday.” He straightened up in front of Sienna and tried to win her over with his most charming puppy-dog face. “Look, we can help each other here. I’m one of the good guys.”
“I don’t need help from a James Bond wannabe. Now let me go or I’ll scream.”
Tom moved aside and Sienna stormed out of the little hut. Tom followed a few seconds later, but she had vanished.
22
Kranichberg Castle, foothills of the Austrian Alps, about 50 miles south of Vienna
“I still can’t believe anyone swallowed your story. Why would anyone believe you’re a serious historian from the Louvre?”
Hellen thought it was the funniest thing she’d heard in a long time, and she laughed while Cloutard steered the Smart car up the winding mountain road. “Well, that got me inside. Once I was in, our mole on the inside helped me find what I need
ed.”
“What mole?” Hellen held on tightly to the door handle of the Smart—Cloutard was taking the curves perilously fast.
“At our first briefing, your mother told us that Blue Shield had a contact inside the Albertina. Fortunately, it happens to be the same individual who has assisted me in getting into various Austrian museums in recent years. All I can say is: Cellini salt cellar . . .”
Cloutard smiled mischievously.
“You stole the Cellini salt cellar from the Museum of Fine Arts?” She punched him in his side. “But we got it back again. You’re lucky no one caught you.”
“First: no one has ever caught me. And second, just between us: the salt cellar you got back is a forgery. But it does not matter. To make a long story short, my contact, who understandably would prefer to remain anonymous, allowed me to photograph the documents.”
Hellen was about to say something when Cloutard braked hard. A big truck came rumbling down the narrow mountain road in the opposite direction, and Cloutard steered the Smart close to the shoulder. Although they were still a long way from the High Alps, Hellen’s fear of heights made itself felt. To distract herself, she focused on Cloutard’s iPad, going through the photographed documents once again.
“I hope we’re going to the right place,” she said. “Kranichberg Castle was one of the Habsburgs’ oldest possessions, and my gut feeling tells me we’re about to get lucky. It says here that they kept their emergency cache of treasure deep in its cellars. And one of the rediscovered inventories lists a large number of artifacts that originated in Central America.”
“The name Cortés is also on that list. But there is one thing that bothers me,” Cloutard said, looking up the mountain, where the top of the watchtower already loomed over the treetops. “Why has no one ever found the old Habsburg vault?”
“Because until now, there were no documents pointing to it. No one has ever looked for anything here. I mean, Cortés, El Dorado and an old, empty castle south of Vienna? Who’d ever make the connection?”
Cloutard swung around the last curve and they drove through a narrow arch onto the castle grounds. They climbed out and looked around. This high in the hills, it was deathly quiet. Cloutard pointed to the building on the left of the castle.
“That looks like a hotel,” he said.
“It was a fancy spa hotel a long time ago, apparently. But things did not work out financially and these days it’s empty.”
The passed through a second arch and could now see the rear of the crumbling hotel. An overgrown terrace, smashed windows, ramshackle balconies and graffiti-covered walls—it was a sorry sight.
“I did some research while you were driving. The castle and all the land around it was bought up cheaply a few years ago. There were big plans for it, but so far nothing’s been done.”
“Which means we will have to find our own way inside,” said Cloutard, rubbing his hands together.
“How convenient that I’ve brought along a professional burglar,” said Hellen, only half joking. She would not soon forget that Cloutard had been sharing a bed with her mother just a few hours earlier. They ignored the “private property” and “trespassing prohibited” signs, and climbed over the fence, Cloutard’s still-healing bullet wound slowing him down a little. He examined the castle’s weathered entrance door and whistled softly through his teeth.
“I think we should go in through the old hotel. The door will be easier to open and there is bound to be a connecting passage. This entrance does not look like anyone has opened it for years.”
They went back to the hotel and Cloutard checked the entrance for any security safeguards. He grinned.
“A hardware-store alarm system,” he said. He reached into his backpack and pulled out a set of lockpicks. Seconds later, the door swung open and the alarm beeped, a sign that the countdown had started. “We now have fifteen seconds to deactivate it.”
23
Hope and Anchor Bar, El Paso, Texas
“Goddamnit, Jonathan, you can’t do that!” The woman was getting loud, and the barkeeper was starting to get worried. “Are you out of your fucking mind? You cheated on me, motherfucker! How could the court give you custody of Dylan?”
The barkeeper looked directly at the woman and raised his hand, signaling to her to keep it down. The woman ignored him.
“Dylan’s all I’ve got. You can’t take him away from me . . . what do you mean, I can’t take care of him? What? You don’t even have to pay alimony? What the actual fuck?”
The barkeeper was starting to lose his patience. The bar was busy and the karaoke session had just started, but more and more faces were turning to the woman shouting into her phone at the bar. He was about to wave the bouncer over when the woman burst into tears and slammed the phone onto the bar. The display shattered and part of the phone broke off and flew at the barkeeper, who dodged it like a boxer dodging a straight jab. The woman buried her face in her hands and sobbed bitterly.
“Give the lady a double scotch. On me,” said the man at the end of the bar, who’d been following the woman’s distraught conversation the entire time. The barkeeper poured the whiskey and set the glass in front of the woman, her face still buried in her hands. Suddenly, she felt a touch on her shoulder. She raised her head and saw an unbelievably good-looking man holding a glass of whiskey.
“Good scotch heals all wounds,” he said, and his mischievous smile made her face flush red. She threw back the drink, then took a few moments to really look at the man. She could see right away that he didn’t belong here. He wore jeans, like all the other guys in the bar, but his fit perfectly and looked new, not like the scuffed, grimy jeans you normally saw in El Paso. Also missing was the flannel shirt and Stetson that usually completed the outfit. The man was clean-shaven, he looked after his hands, and to top it off he actually smelled good.
“What’s your name?” he asked.
“Shelley,” she said, and she knew the man wasn’t from El Paso. There probably wasn’t a man on either side of the border as attractive as he was, with his charisma and that gorgeous accent.
“I know a good divorce lawyer in the city. Dylan will be back home with his mother soon enough, where he belongs.” Shelley liked what she was hearing, but she was also surprised. “I couldn’t help overhearing you just now,” the man explained, and he ordered two more whiskeys.
Shelley nodded and her eyes again filled with tears.
“A boy shouldn’t have to grow up without his mother,” the man said, and Shelley saw a sad look in his eyes, too. “My own mother passed when I was a child,” he whispered, then turned his face away for a moment. Shelley laid her hand on his arm and the man smiled at her.
Christ, he sure is pretty when he smiles! she thought.
“Can you sing?”
The unexpected question took Shelley by surprise, and without thinking she said, “Of course I can.”
The man handed her a fresh whiskey, and they downed their drinks together. Then he led her away from the bar.
“Then let’s see if we make a good duet.”
Only then did Shelley realize she was in a karaoke bar. Two high-school girls were just finishing Whitney Houston’s “Greatest Love of All,” and judging from the wild cheering from the other patrons, they were ready to go straight on to “America’s Got Talent.”
“Oh my God! I’ve never sung in front of other people,” Shelley managed to stammer, but she was too late. The man grasped her around the waist and lifted her onto the stage. He went over to the DJ and came back with the microphone. With two whiskeys inside her, Shelley could feel her inhibitions dissolving. But the alcohol was only partly to blame. The rest of the credit went to the man who’d managed to make her forget her problems with Jonathan in the blink of an eye. Seconds later, she heard the opening notes of the Righteous Brothers’ “You’ve Lost that Lovin’ Feeling.”
The man crooned: “You never close your eyes anymore, when I kiss your lips . . .”
An
d a moment later, Shelley joined in, and they sang their souls out together. With only one microphone to share, they stood close together. Shelley didn’t know if it was the whiskey or the man’s aftershave, but she simply tuned out everything around her and had more fun than she’d had in years.
The audience whooped and whistled, and Shelley was not surprised at all when the man kissed her as the last note faded.
Then everything happened as if they were in a film. They drank, laughed, kissed, and before Shelley knew it, they were lying in bed in El Paso’s most luxurious hotel, the Camino Real. Shelley had never had a one-night stand in her life. And she’d never been with a foreigner. She had no idea the British could be so passionate in bed.
24
Kranichberg Castle, south of Vienna
Cloutard took out his phone and calmly opened an app. He scrolled through it until he found what he was looking for.
“C’est bon,” he said, as he tapped a numerical code into the alarm system, which instantly shut down.
“Don’t tell me there’s an app for that,” Hellen said, astounded.
“Cheap alarm systems always have a standard code, like an electronic skeleton key. And yes, someone made an app that lists every manufacturer’s code.”
Hellen shook her head. “You’re a dangerous man, François.”
“Your mother said the same thing,” Cloutard remarked without thinking, regretting it immediately when he saw the look on Hellen’s face.
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 7
