Yasmine nodded, then realized that her caller could not see a nod at all. “As you prefer, sir. I’d be happy to come to your office sometime in the next few days,” she said quickly.
“I’d prefer somewhere neutral. No one else needs to know that we have anything to discuss,” said Pitcock. Yasmine did not like his tone at all. “When I was a boy, my father used to take me fishing to down to Dyke Marsh. You can park in Belle Haven. That’s just a short hop from your headquarters. The Secret Service will pick you up there and drive you to my favorite fishing hole. We can discuss the matter there without being disturbed.”
Pitcock paused for a moment as if to give Yasmine an opportunity to say something. But just as she was about to answer, he interrupted her and went on: “Tomorrow would work for me. Oh-seven-hundred. I’m an early riser, you know – once a Marine, always a Marine.”
The sentence sounded to Yasmine more like an order than a suggestion. Of course, the vice president could not tell her what to do, but she felt it would be prudent not to enter into a long discussion.
“Of course, sir,” she simply said.
“Great! Then I’ll see you tomorrow morning.”
Pitcock hung up. What the hell does he want? she asked herself. Was it about her affair with the president, or the re-election? Would he support the plan? She couldn’t read Pitcock at all. She did not know how far he was willing to go to win the next election, and what she had in mind was audacious indeed. She decided not to brood on it any further. She would find out in the morning anyway. Working her way to the top of NutriAm hadn’t been a walk in the park. It had taken a lot of tact, hard work, and negotiating skill for Yasmine to get where she was. She could handle the vice president . . . but forewarned was forearmed. She pressed a button on her phone and her Harvard boy appeared in the office a second later.
“Get Hudson here, fast.”
Aaron Hudson was her head of security, and had also taken care of one or two delicate matters outside the company on her behalf. Yasmine had learned to hedge her bets. It couldn’t hurt to document her discussion with Pitcock.
31
In front of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel, Geneva, Switzerland
“I know you like to have your secrets, but could you finally tell me what the hell we’re doing here?” Hellen was in a rotten mood. Cloutard had insisted on keeping her in the dark about why they had to fly to Geneva first, when their actual destination was the Alcázar of Seville.
“All right,” Cloutard sighed. “We need to get into the Alcázar, right?”
“Right.”
“And we need someone who knows the palace.”
“Right.”
“And someone who can get us into the king’s bedroom.”
“Right.”
“Enough ‘rights’ for now, please . . .” Cloutard shook his head in amusement. “But it does not matter. There is only one person who can do all of that, one person who can help with this absurd scheme: the former king of Spain, José Rodrigo 1.”
Cloutard was grinning as if he’d won the lottery. Hellen just stared back with incomprehension. “The old Spanish king? The one who abdicated and fled Spain amid reports of money laundering? Wasn’t he living in exile in Dubai?”
“Exactly. Except, he is not in Dubai. That is just what people are supposed to believe.” Cloutard pointed up to the top of the balconied façade of the Ritz-Carlton Hotel. “In reality, he currently resides in the Grace Kelly suite on the top floor.” He looked at his watch. “Mon Dieu, we have to hurry. We have an appointment with His Royal Highness in two minutes.”
Cloutard took the utterly baffled Hellen by the arm and pulled her with him into the hotel lobby.
“The king has done a little business with me in the past and owes me a favor.”
“So it’s true? The king really was getting his hands dirty?”
Cloutard pinched his thumb and finger together and drew them across his lips as if closing a zipper. “My lips are sealed. The presumption of innocence is sacred.”
He went to the elevator, exchanged a few words with the bellboy, and slipped him a banknote.
“Madame de Mey, the king awaits,” said Cloutard, ushering Hellen into the elevator. She stepped in hesitantly. “Don’t worry. A king is as human as you or me,” said Cloutard in an attempt to reassure her, with only moderate success.
The elevator opened onto the luxurious hallway in front of the Grace Kelly suite. Cloutard went to the door and knocked, and it opened a moment later.
“François, viejo ladrón!” exclaimed a man of around eighty, his hair combed back rigorously. The former king exuded the charisma that only an aristocrat can, and he rose slowly to his feet and waited for Cloutard to come to him. Then Jose Rodrigo 1 glanced past Cloutard to Hellen and, paying no more attention to the Frenchman, shuffled over to her. He took her hand and kissed it.
“Bienvenido to my modest home. Whom do I have the undeniable pleasure of receiving?”
Hellen blushed and stammered out an introduction.
“What are you doing with this old crook, señorita?” the king said, glancing back at Cloutard. “He is certainly not the best company you could keep.”
“I am sure you are a much better influence, Your Highness,” Cloutard replied archly.
“Let’s get down to business,” the king said. “Come into the salon.”
They went into a different room, this one decorated entirely in white, gray and gold: white walls, a highly polished white conference table, gold-framed pictures and mirrors on the walls, armchairs upholstered in mottled gray. The window offered a stunning view over Lake Geneva.
“We need to get into the Alcázar,” Cloutard said. “To be more precise, we need to get into the royal bedroom.”
Jose Rodrigo leaned back and nodded knowingly. “Ah. You’re after the El Dorado map,” he said.
Cloutard and Hellen could only stare back in surprise.
“What did you think? That the royal family knew nothing about it? We’ve known about the map for centuries, and we have tried many times, with the map as our guide, to find El Dorado. But we never found anything in that green hell.”
Hellen spoke up. “But Your Highness, Cortés’s letter is very clear. He drew a map for Carlos V showing where El Dorado lies.”
“Cortés was a first-class swindler. After his return, he was not treated well by the Habsburgs and presumably did whatever he could to crawl back into the emperor’s favor. But the fact is, everything Cortés brought back with him from El Dorado has long since been spent, down to the last gold coin. The map is worthless.”
“And where is it now?” Cloutard asked.
“Let us make one thing perfectly clear, François: after this conversation, we are finished. Understood?”
“Bien sûr,” François said.
“Good. I have no faith whatsoever in the treasure map, so I am happy to tell you. The map is still hidden away behind the headboard of the bed, as Carlos V ordained. It is no longer the same bed, to be sure, but it has become a ritual to pass the map from generation to generation and to hide it on the back of the headboard, though we know it is worthless.”
“I would still very much like to see it,” said Hellen.
“And for that we need access to the royal bedroom in the Alcázar,” Cloutard repeated.
José Rodrigo sighed and glanced out the window.
“All right. But only because I will be rid of you forever, François. I still have many friends at court, and one of them lives in the Alcázar.”
The door to the lounge opened and a servant entered.
“Your Highness, I am terribly sorry to interrupt your conversation, but something distressing has happened.”
32
Camino Real Hotel, El Paso, Texas
Shelley opened her eyes. It took her a few moment to realize where she was and what had happened the night before. A smile spread across her face. She could not remember the last time she had felt so free. Singing, dancing, laughi
ng, drinking, the whole night long. And then there was this man, this man who managed effortlessly to flip the switch inside her—the switch that, for a few hours, turned off the stressed-out, care-ridden, frustrated single mother and brought out the fun-loving, positive, confident woman she used to be.
And the sex that followed . . . although she almost hesitated to describe what had happened the night before with a word as cheap as “sex.” It didn’t even come close to what she’d experienced with this man. Shelley’s smile stretched into a grin and she had to admit to herself that, right now, she wouldn’t mind at all being taken by him again the way he’d taken her the night before. Deep down, in fact, she hoped that he would do it not only today, but tomorrow, too. And the day after that. She was ready for him. Dreamily, she rolled over. But the other half of the bed was empty.
“Oh,” she murmured to herself, disappointed. She lifted her head and looked around. The evening before, she’d had no chance to actually look at the room, so she hadn’t noticed that it didn’t really look like anyone was living there. In fact, there was no sign that anyone but her was still there now. She got out of bed, picked up her panties and bra, and began to put them on, but then changed her mind. Maybe he’s in the shower, she thought. If so, she would join him. On the way to the bathroom, she dropped her underwear on the couch. She opened the door and her shoulders slumped. There was no one, not even any personal effects. She was alone.
But just then somebody knocked at the door. Shelley turned around. That would be him; he must have gone out for a minute and forgotten his key.
“Room service,” she heard a second later.
He even took care of breakfast, she thought with a smile, pulling on her underwear and the dressing gown she found in the wardrobe.
She went to the door and opened it. A waiter pushed in a serving cart. Shelley took no notice of all the delicious food stacked on the cart, because the whole situation suddenly made her feel a little queasy.
“Where is Mister . . .?”
Shelley paused. Only then did she realize that she did not even know the man’s name.
“The suite was booked by a Mr. Isaac Hagen,” the waiter said.
“Was?”
“Yes. Mr. Hagen checked out early this morning. According to his instructions, we were to bring you breakfast in the room and give you this envelope.”
The man reached into his jacket pocket and handed Shelley a brown envelope. Shelley was crushed. Men were just scum. How could she have thought that a guy who picked her up in a bar and with whom she’d screwed drunkenly half the night might be a dependable, responsible man? She sighed. The waiter excused himself and Shelley poured herself a cup of coffee. It was fantastic. She could always rely on coffee to soothe her soul. She picked up the cup and sat down on the couch. Then she opened the envelope. She took a second mouthful of coffee as she slid the photos out of the envelope. The coffee cup clattered to the floor. The liquid spread across the white carpet. Shelley struggled to breathe. One glance at the photos and her whole world came crashing down.
33
Genesis Program, Cornwall, England
The wired glass deflected Tom’s shot. Mr. Clean had ducked for cover below the window and was crouching out of sight against the door.
“Tom, we have to go!” Sienna plucked at his shirt and pointed up at the dome. The sun was starting to set, and flashing blue lights illuminated the curved structure in the twilight. They were surrounded by police. And Mr. Clean’s gotten away again, Tom thought angrily.
Staying low, they crept along the service trail until they reached the main path. From their slightly raised position, they had a good view over most of the rainforest. The first cops were entering the biodome and fanning out. Tom and Sienna soon discovered who had called them.
“He was back there,” the hippie said, pointing in Tom’s and Sienna’s direction.
“We’ll take it from here, sir. Please stay back,” the officer instructed the man, sending him back outside.
We’re sitting ducks if we stay here, Tom thought. Hot, sweaty ducks. For now, he wanted to keep that from Sienna. Maybe he’d have a flash of inspiration in the next five minutes. The dome only had one main entrance. Presumably, there were also a few emergency exits, but if his local colleagues were halfway competent, they would already have those secured. They needed an exit that didn’t look like an exit and would therefore be unguarded. They crept on cautiously, putting as much distance between them and the police as they could, at least for the time being. At an information board, Tom briefly studied a map of the entire area. And, in fact, an idea started to form in his adrenaline-junkie brain. He looked up at the arching dome overhead.
“That’s where we have to get to,” he said to Sienna, and pointed to the center of the roof. The small service platform could be reached via a series of steps leading up from the rock face.
“What do you have in mind?”
“Simple. We fly.” Tom took off at a run, Sienna close behind. They had a solid head start on their pursuers now. The dome was more than two hundred yards long, with numerous interwoven paths and nooks and crannies where a person could hide. Searching all of them would keep the cops busy for a while. Only one obstacle stood between them and their destination: the long rope bridge that led to the foot of the steps. Keeping low, they crept across the wobbly construction, trying to stay as quiet as possible, but the wildlife and the rushing water inside the biodome covered the little noise they made. Suddenly, Tom’s fist shot into the air, a signal to stop. Tom turned back to Sienna, a finger placed to his lips. Directly beneath them, a member of the local constabulary appeared, assault rifle at the ready, searching the winding path. Sienna stared back at Tom, her eyes wide. She held one hand pressed over her mouth, stopping herself from making the slightest sound. When the man moved on, so did they.
They climbed the steel stairway cautiously. The view from 160 feet in the air was breathtaking. Nobody looked up, and why would they? No one in their right mind would see an escape route in the star-shaped hatch in the arched roof, allowing the service team access to the outside of the dome. Luckily, Thomas Maria Wagner was not in his right mind.
In a small cabinet on the service platform, they found ropes and climbing gear. “Ever heard of Australian rappelling?” Tom asked, grinning, as he pulled on a harness. Sienna, watching him wide-eyed, shook her head. “It’s easy. You run face first down a building with the rope holding you. Tom walked his fingers down his arm to demonstrate.
“You’re kidding me,” said Sienna with a dubious frown. “No, no, no! Can’t we just turn ourselves in? We haven’t done anything. All we wanted was to stop something worse.” She held up the case.
“If we turn ourselves in, we’ll spend the next few days in custody trying to justify ourselves, and we’ll have no control over what becomes of that lethal stuff,” he said, nodding toward the case. He hooked the rope to the top of the dome. “Your turn.” He helped a reluctant Sienna climb into a harness.
They climbed outside.
“It’s very simple. You hold the rope in your hands in front of you like this, and you lean forward. The rope will hold you.” He demonstrated a few steps for her. “Then you just take one step after another.
The elements were definitely on their side: a layer of fog still blanketed the entire area. Three cheers for English weather, thought Tom. “Stay on the frame. Don’t step onto the plastic panels,” he said.
Tom let Sienna go ahead. At first slowly, then faster, she walked forward down the honeycomb structure. Tom slackened his brake and followed close behind. Trying to manage both the rope and the case, however, Sienna lost her balance on one of the last thirty-foot-high honeycomb sections and slipped, her foot breaking through an octagon. The sudden noise alerted the police inside. Tom, close behind, helped her pull her foot free.
“Up there!” shouted one of the policemen, pointing up at Sienna, his attention drawn by the noise. “Stop! Don’t move!”
; Sienna screamed in panic as bullets suddenly flew around her, one actually ricocheting off the case.
“Keep going,” Tom shouted, when Sienna was free again. He returned fire, not trying to hit anyone. He just had to make the cops duck for cover, and it worked. For a few moments, the firing stopped.
Seconds later, they reached the bottom. With solid ground beneath her feet once again, Sienna hugged Tom with relief.
“If no one’s shooting at you, that can be a lot of fun,” Tom said, unclipping both of them from the ropes, and they ran into a small patch of woods next to the dome.
“Where to now?” Sienna asked.
“I thought you worked here. Don’t you know your own park? You’ve got the longest zip line in England right here.”
Sienna remembered. With everything else going on, her mind had gone blank.
“And I figure, seeing as I’m already here, I’ve just got to try it out.”
Another fifty yards and they saw the wooden tower where the zip line started, rising high above the surrounding trees. “Unless I’ve miscalculated badly,” Tom said as they ran up the stairs, “this thing should fly us right over the top of the police lines.”
Tom snapped Sienna into a harness on one of the trolleys and himself into the other. The twin cables dropped hundreds of feet, crossing both biodomes and the entire park complex surrounding them. “Now or never,” he said, and they kicked off from the platform and soared like Superman across the park. Tom was in his element as they shot through the fog and they reached the other end without incident. Shrugging off their harnesses, they ran to Tom’s car, still parked on the nearby woods road.
“See? Piece of cake. We’re out!”
Tom and Sienna jumped into the car and Tom pulled out onto the road. But they didn’t get far. A single bullet hurtled through the rear window, passing through Sienna’s seat and her torso before burying itself in the dashboard.
The Golden Path (A Tom Wagner Adventure Book 4) Page 10
