Brass Monkey: A James Acton Thriller Book #2 (18 page)

“Since when?” asked Acton as Sandra picked up Niskha.

“But, mommy, I’m not finished yet!” she protested.

“Shhh, honey, Uncle Jim has a very important phone call. I’ll make you fresh pancakes. Right now I need you to go play in your room for a few minutes.”

“Okay,” she said as her mother put her down in the hallway.

Acton hit the speaker button so they could all hear, and placed the phone on the kitchen table.

“We think since this morning,” said Mitchell.

Milton motioned for Sandra to get a pen and paper, which she grabbed off the counter. Milton began to take notes.

“Have you searched the camp?”

“Yes, everywhere, and she’s nowhere to be found.” There was a pause then Mitchell lowered his voice. “We’re really quite concerned.”

Acton kept his voice calm.
There’s no need to panic the kid.
“Who have you notified?”

“Well, you’re the first, sir. I wasn’t sure what to do. They didn’t exactly train us for this.”

Acton sensed the fear in the kid’s voice. “That’s okay, you did the right thing.”

“Professor Acton, there’s something you should know.”

A sense of foreboding filled Acton as he waited for what must be worse news. “What’s that?” he asked with trepidation.

“There was a UN NGO here yesterday, claiming to be lost. I didn’t have a good feeling about them.”

He experienced a momentary sense of relief as his mind had reeled thinking the worst. “Yes, she mentioned them to me last night. She thought there was something odd about them as well.”

“Well, we went over to their camp this morning to see if she was there, and it looks like they broke camp only a couple of hours before we got there.”

“Do you think she went there?”

“Perhaps. There were what looked like a woman’s footprints climbing the hill, then a man’s approaching the same spot, then only one set of heavier prints leaving.”

Acton looked at Milton who shrugged his shoulders.

“Are you sure?”

“No, it’s just a theory. I took photos of all the prints and the camp site, I’m having them emailed to you as we speak.”

Milton pointed at a netbook sitting on the kitchen counter. Sandra grabbed it and placed it in front of him. Milton typed furiously for a few seconds then flipped it around to face Acton.

“Okay,” said Acton as he typed his password into the University’s webmail then pushed it back to his friend.

“But that’s not all. A couple of the students swear they heard a helicopter during the night.”

“What?” exclaimed Milton.

Acton shuddered, his last experience with a helicopter anything but pleasant. “A helicopter?”

“Yes.”

“Strange for a helicopter to be in that area.”

“What should we do?”

Milton cleared his throat. “This is Dean Milton from Saint Paul’s University.”

“Oh, hello, sir, Terrence Mitchell.”

“Listen, Terrence. Call your university as soon as you end this call, and tell them everything you’ve told us. They’ll have people that will contact your embassy in Cairo and send out some people. We’re going to make some calls from our end as well.”

“Okay, thanks.” Mitchell’s voice sounded relieved.

Acton leaned into the phone. “Listen, Terrence. Everything is going to be all right. We’ll get somebody out to you as soon as possible. For now, just keep everybody in the camp, let everybody know what’s going on and that help is on the way.”

“Yes, Professor.”

“And keep in touch with your university, and with me. You’re on the dig’s satellite phone?”

“Yes, sir.”

“Ok, I’ll call you in a few hours, so make sure you keep close to this phone, and keep it charged.”

“Yes, Professor. I’ll do that.”

“Okay, goodbye, Terrence, I’ll call you later.”

“Goodbye.”

Acton flipped the phone shut then leaned back in his chair and tossed his head back, staring at the ceiling for a moment as what he had just heard sank in.

“Look at this,” said Milton, spinning the netbook to face him. The screen showed the photos Mitchell had taken in Egypt. Acton flipped through them, his heart sinking with each one.

“They definitely look like footprints.”

“Yes,” agreed Milton. “And the heavier set could be someone carrying another person.”

Acton stood abruptly. “I’ve got to get out there. Now.”

Unknown Location, Egypt

Laura was jolted awake. Her head pounded with a throbbing, pulsing pain that radiated from her face all the way to the back of her head. The sound of rushing blood filled her ears. And the sound of a truck changing gears. She opened her eyes slightly, then blinked several times, trying to moisten them, the dry air having turned her eyeballs into arid orbs. She reached to rub them when she discovered her hands couldn’t move, and in a moment of panic, it all came rushing back to her. Crawling up the hill. The sound behind her. The man hitting her in the face with something. And now this, tied up in a vehicle heading to who knows where for who knows what purpose. The truck bucked forward again, the gnashing of gears roared in protest, the driver having trouble shifting.

Laura was lying down on the cool, metal floor of some sort of truck. The side that filled her vision was piled high with boxes and canvas bags, most of which appeared military issue, their distinctive green with black stencil lettering a dead giveaway. She rolled herself onto her back and examined her surroundings.

She was alone.

She breathed a sigh of relief, lifted her back off the ground, then pushed with one leg to swing herself around so she could lean up against the equipment she had surveyed. She gasped against the gag she just realized she had in her mouth. She pushed against it with her tongue, to no avail. It was there to stay, unless she freed her hands. She turned and rolled onto her back again, this time kicking her legs in the air and pushing down with her hands, trying to extend her arms as far as she could. She lifted them up as she tucked her legs into her chest and then bent one leg to the side, then with a push and what she thought would soon be a dislocated shoulder, she freed one leg, then the other. She lay back down, catching her breath, her gasps against the gag ragged.

A few more breaths and she reached up and pulled the gag from her mouth and breathed deeply. She looked at her hands and discovered she was bound by a plastic tie. She knew immediately she wasn’t going to be chewing through the tough plastic with ease. She needed something to cut it with. She rolled onto her stomach and pushed herself to her knees, and was about to lift her head when she saw a bolt in the truck floor. She dropped to her elbows, then positioned the plastic tie over the rough edge, and rubbed.

St. Paul, Maryland

“I’ve booked you on a flight to New York leaving in six hours,” said Milton as Acton carried his bag down the stairs and deposited it near the front door.

“Okay, thanks.”

“I know I can’t talk you out of going, hell, I’d go too if it wasn’t for this”— Milton waved his hands at his wheelchair—“but have you thought this through?”

“What do you mean?”

“I mean, what’re you going to do when you get there?” Milton motioned for his friend to sit down. Acton, pacing near the kitchen counter, eyed the chair then sat down reluctantly and sighed. “You’re going into a violent, third world country, with no support network.”

“I know, but what choice do I have?”

Milton leaned back in his chair. “Well, I’ve been thinking about that.”

 “And?”

“Reading.”

Acton smiled. “Of course! I hadn’t even thought of him! He’s perfect!”

Milton nodded. “With that new Interpol job he took after London last year, he might be able to help you.”

Acton grabbed his phone, looked up the number and dialed.

CIA Headquarters, Langley, Virginia

“Sir!”

Morrison looked up to see an excited Leroux rushing into his office, waving a file. “Reports of a Russian helicopter over the Red Sea!”

This perked Morrison up. “A Russian chopper in that area? From where?”

“As near as our guys can tell, it launched from a Russian cargo ship, entered Egyptian airspace, landed for thirteen minutes, then returned to the ship. Egyptian air force planes sent to intercept challenged it, but it was in international waters before they could engage. We intercepted the communication.”

Morrison leaned back in his chair, rubbing his chin.

“Okay, so we have a Russian chopper in Egypt, illegally. We have the Russians pulling in favors to apparently do a flyby at thirty thousand feet in the same area. We have a Russian battlecruiser re-tasked into the same area. We have a white supremacist group, claiming something big is going to happen, and they are going to Egypt as part of a UN NGO. And we have a British archaeology professor who may have stumbled upon them, in Egypt. Go on.”

“Well, as soon as I found out about the chopper, I found the coordinates for where they think it landed.”

“And let me guess—”

Leroux cut him off, apparently too excited to let his boss finish his sentence. “Right next door to Professor Palmer’s dig site!”

Morrison let out a thin whistle.
Unbe-fuckin’-lievable!
“Chris, I don’t know how you pull these things out of your ass, but that is something.”

Leroux grinned. “So, what do we do?”

“
We
do nothing.
You
keep doing that brilliant thing you do, and keep me posted on anything to do with Acton, Palmer, New Slate, Egypt, Russians, et cetera, et cetera. I’m going to let our assets in the area know.”

MS Sea Maiden, Red Sea

The gunfire had stopped. Dymovsky cautiously stepped out from the crates he was hiding behind, and saw Koslov further down the deck leaning over the rail, looking in his direction. Koslov waved for him to come forward, but also waved his hand at the deck, indicating he should keep his head down. As he approached Koslov, he saw that the entire assault unit had their weapons pointed at a single open hatch, the metal surrounding the compartment scarred from hundreds of hits.

“Come out slowly, with your hands up!” he heard Chernov order.

Koslov snapped his fingers at him and pointed at a nearby crate. Dymovsky nodded and ducked behind it, watching through the slats as the action unfolded. He saw a pair of hands emerge, holding a TEC-9 machine pistol by both hands, raised in front of the still shadowy figure.

“Toss your weapon out first.”

The man’s hands withdrew slightly into the darkness then thrust out again, the weapon sailing through the air, clattering on the rusted deck several meters away.

“Now come out with your hands up, slowly.”

The shadow solidified as it emerged from the hatchway, revealing a man. Dymovsky smiled.
Sergeant Yakovski.
He took several more steps into the light, his hands held high, as the assault team inched toward him.

Dymovsky rose from behind the crate.

Yakovski looked at him, a sly grin creeping across his face. “Agent Dymovsky.”

Dymovsky stepped toward him. “Sergeant Yakovski.”

“Get on your knees and put your hands behind your head!” ordered Chernov.

Yakovski dropped to his knees, gripping the back of his head with his hands. Koslov moved in while another Spetsnaz commando covered him, and grasped Yakovski’s hands, then pushed a knee into his back, sending him sprawling, face first, into the deck. Yakovski grunted with the impact. Koslov gripped Yakovski’s left hand and bent the arm behind the prisoner’s back, then brought the other hand down, gripping both in one hand while he fished a plastic tie from his utility belt. He bound Yakovski’s hands expertly, then searched him for weapons, running his hands up and down Yakovski’s arms, back and legs, then flipped him over and searched his front. He flipped Yakovski back over then gave Chernov the thumbs up.

“Get him up,” ordered Chernov. Koslov hauled Yakovski to his feet and marched him to Chernov as Dymovsky walked over to join him.

Yakovski ignored Chernov, focusing instead on Dymovsky. “First Red Square, and now the Red Sea,” said Yakovski, laughing at his own joke. “You get around, Agent.”

Dymovsky didn’t react, instead keeping his face as impassive as he could. He stared directly into Yakovski’s eyes, letting him know there was no room for amusement this time.

“You know why we’re here,” said Dymovsky, his voice firm, monotone.

Yakovski met his gaze. “I do?”

“Where’s the weapon?” snapped Dymovsky

“Over there on the deck,” Yakovski shot back, indicating his TEC-9.

“You know what I’m talking about,” said Dymovsky. “Don’t make me turn you over to him.” Dymovsky tossed his head at Chernov, catching a glance at his blank stare.
Cold.
The expression, or lack thereof, on Chernov’s face even made Dymovsky’s heart leap. He pictured the last two prisoners, and the fate they had met under his care.

“Who’s he?” Yakovski allowed Chernov a glance up and down, a sneer of contempt on his face.

“Spetsnaz.”

The single word wiped the look off Yakovski’s face, and for a moment, a flash of fear filled his eyes. Yakovski quickly regained his composure, returning his stare to Dymovsky, but it was too late. Dymovsky knew he had him, that momentary flash of his widening eyes at the word Spetsnaz. With Yakovski ex-military, he would definitely know how crazy Chernov very well could be.

Dymovsky decided to press the advantage, and stepped to within a few inches of Yakovski, his face so close he felt Yakovski’s slightly quickened breath on his cheek. Dymovsky leaned in closer, toward Yakovski’s left ear, opposite where Chernov stood, and whispered, “I follow the rules. He doesn’t. Tell me what I want to know now, or you will die, and still have told me everything I need to know.”

Dymovsky straightened and took a step back. “Where is the weapon?” he repeated, this time louder for everyone to hear.