Death Wave (42 page)

“His wife is awful nice, too,” said Rachel. “Not weird. She's just like us.”

“Yeah.”

For long moments neither of them said anything. Nick felt knotted up inside. He had believed Walt so completely that he had tried to kill the man. Now … now he just didn't know where he stood, who he should believe.

Finally Rachel asked, “So what do you want to do?”

“I don't know!”

In the shadows of the darkened room it was difficult to make out the expression on Rachel's face. But Nick could hear the anxiety in her voice.

“You know, Dee's asked about joining us.”

“Huh?”

“She says she's tired of waiting for Walt. She thinks he's dumped her.”

“Dee and Walt were making out?”

“Like mad. But she hasn't been to bed with him since we started all this traveling.”

“And she wants to come to bed with us?”

“A threesome.” Rachel hesitated a heartbeat, then, uncertainly, “Might be fun.”

“No way,” said Nick.

“Really?”

“You're my girl. I don't want anybody else and I'm not sharing you with anybody.”

She threw her arms around his neck. “I'll tell Dee to talk to Walt next time he calls.”

Nick kissed her warmly. But then he said, “That's another thing.”

“What is?”

“Walt called us. Just like that. Like he's not afraid of the government tapping the phone or anything.”

Remembering, Rachel said, “He said he's got friends in high places.”

“Yeah. What's he mean by that?”

“You should ask him.”

“I will,” Nick said, clenching his fists in determination. “I will.”

 

RISE AND STRIKE

Rudolfo Castiglione peered unhappily through the rain-streaked window of the London hotel room.

“What a miserable climate,” he said unhappily. “No wonder the British built themselves a worldwide empire. Anything to get away from this cold and rain.”

Walter James Edgerton, sitting across the room relaxedly with his long legs crossed and his arms stretched across the back of the couch, took a more conciliatory attitude. “Oh, I don't know. The rain makes the flowers grow.”

Castiglione turned and scowled at Walt. “We have plenty of flowers in Calabria. Flowers need sunshine, too.”

Walt conceded the point with a nod. Then, “You didn't drag me here to London to discuss the weather.”

“I didn't drag you anywhere,” Castiglione replied. “I ordered you here.”

“So here I am. Why?”

“We need to see some results about Jordan Kell.”

“We? I presume you mean Anita Halleck.”

“Precisely so. This would-be assassin of yours is a total failure.”

Walt swung his arms down and sat up straighter on the couch. “I've got to admit, young Mr. Motrenko has disappointed me.”

“He's useless,” Castiglione complained.

Shaking his head, Walt countered, “No. He's an idealist. I told you that some time ago.”

Before Castiglione could reply, Walt went on, “And we badly underestimated Kell. It was a stroke of genius, taking the lad under his wing. I'm afraid our boy Nick has been contaminated.”

His face showing utter disdain, Castiglione headed for the minibar built into the wall below the room's holographic viewer.

Walt continued, “Kell has given Nick what the lad so desperately wanted: a place in the sun. His blog is watched worldwide, thanks to Kell's appearing on it almost every day.”

“You sound as if you approve of what's happening.”

“I admire talent wherever I find it,” said Walt. “And Kell is a very talented man. He's made an adult out of Nick. And something more: he's given Nick someone to admire, someone to emulate, a father figure.”

“Which means Motrenko is useless to us. He'll never assassinate Kell now.”

Clasping his hands together almost prayerfully, Walt admitted, “I'm afraid you're right.”

Castiglione opened the minibar, yanked out a split of red wine, frowned at the label, then kicked the bar closed again.

“Not to your liking?” Walt asked, barely suppressing a grin.

“None of this is to my liking. Halleck is on my neck night and day. She wants Kell removed! And your would-be assassin has failed us completely.”

“Fortunes of war,” said Walt philosophically.

“Kell's got to be put out of the way!”

“You've got the resources of the World Council behind you,” Walt said. “Why not simply get a few military experts to stage a phony terrorist attack?”

The unopened wine bottle still clutched in his hand, Castiglione shook his head. “Too many people involved. Something that shocking would be investigated. Someone would crack.”

Walt agreed. “There's always a weak link in every conspiracy. It's like old Ben Franklin said: three people can keep a secret—if two of them are dead.”

Castiglione did not laugh. Instead, he said darkly, “The job has to be done by us.”

“Us?” Walt felt a pang of alarm.

“You and me. No one else involved.”

“I'm not an assassin.”

“But you will be,” Castiglione insisted.

Stunned, Walt watched the Italian go back to the minibar, grab a stemmed glass, and start to unscrew the wine bottle's cap.

And he realized that if he helped Castiglione murder Kell, his next victim would be Walter James Edgerton.

Dead men tell no tales.

 

CHRISTMAS PRESENTS

“It's beautiful,” said Aditi.

The Christmas tree filled the cottage with the aroma of fresh pine. Its crown brushed the living room's low ceiling. The tree was decorated with sparkling bright ornaments and tiny winking lights. At its base lay a handful of colorfully wrapped gift boxes.

It was Christmas Eve. Jordan and Aditi had invited Nick, Rachel, and Dee Dee to spend the holiday evening with them. And Cree, of course. The cottage was too small for overnight guests, so they stayed at the inn in the nearby village.

Now they stood admiring the tree, smiling, warm, happy. Jordan had whipped up a bowl of frothy eggnog and even convinced Cree to have a cup. At Jordan's insistence, Cree had given the other security guards the holiday off.

“It's Christmas,” he had told Cree. “Let them spend the holiday with their families.”

Cree had nodded reluctantly. None of them in the cottage had family to be with. But he muttered, “The bad guys don't take Christmas off.”

Jordan had conceded the point and phoned the local constabulary to ask them to block the road leading from the village to the cottage.

“Satisfied?” he had asked Cree, half teasing. “Cornwall's finest will protect us.”

Cree's response was a guttural mumble.

As they crowded the cottage's tiny living room, sipping eggnog in front of the crackling fire that Jordan had built in the fireplace, Aditi said, “Remember to leave room for dinner.”

“Dinner's not till seven o'clock,” said Jordan, sitting next to her on the sofa. He glanced out the window and saw that it was already fully night outside. “The owner of the inn said his cook was making a special Christmas dinner for the six of us, with all the trimmings.”

“And what are the trimmings?” Aditi asked.

Before Jordan could reply, the phone announced, “Professor Rudaki is calling.”

“Rudaki?” Jordan responded, puzzled. “Put him through.”

Janos Rudaki's image appeared in the viewer built over the fireplace. As usual, he appeared slightly rumpled, his thick mop of black hair askew, his face halfway between a frown and a tentative smile. He was wearing a festive red jacket instead of his usual dark suit.

“Professor,” Jordan called cheerily. “Merry Christmas!”

“The same to you,” Rudaki replied, “although it isn't Christmas Day as yet.”

“Greetings of the season, then. It's good of you to call.”

Rudaki's smile turned slightly warmer. “I have decided to give you a Christmas gift.”

“You have? How thoughtful of you.”

In the slight delay caused by relaying the message off a communications satellite in geosynchronous orbit, Jordan wondered what the crusty professor was up to. A Christmas present?

“Yes,” Rudaki said. “You realize, of course, that you are campaigning for my seat on the World Council. I represent the European–North American bloc.”

Suddenly alarmed, Jordan answered, “It's nothing personal, sir, I assure you.”

“Yes, yes, I understand. Politics makes strange bedfellows and all that.”

“I'm afraid so.”

“Well, I have decided to retire from my seat on the Council. As of January first, you will be running unopposed.”

Stunned, Jordan sank back into the sofa's cushions. “But I thought you said Halleck wouldn't allow you to retire.”

Rudaki started to run a hand through his unruly hair, thought better of it. “She insisted I remain on the Council, but the time has come to stand on my own two feet once again. With you stepping in to replace me, I can retire gracefully—and even perhaps go to New Earth to join my daughter.”

“Halleck won't like this,” Jordan said.

With a careless shrug, Rudaki countered, “She'll live through it. She's a strong one.”

Jordan realized that this meant his election to the Council was practically assured. “I … Professor, I don't know what to say, how to thank you.”

With a knowing grin, Rudaki replied, “After sitting through a few Council meetings, you may not feel so grateful.”

“I don't have a Christmas gift to give you in return.”

“Get the next mission to New Earth started,” Rudaki said. “And make certain that I am included on it.”

“I will,” said Jordan.

“Good. Now good-bye. And again, merry Christmas to you all.”

And his image winked off.

“You'll win the election!” Aditi said, radiating happiness.

“Congratulations,” said Nick, offering his hand.

“I'd better tell headquarters about this,” Cree said, reaching into his trousers pocket for his phone.

Rudolfo Castiglione stepped through the doorway from the dining room and said, “Put your phone away. No one is calling anyone.”

Startled, Jordan saw a tall, gangling black man standing beside Castiglione. Both of them had guns in their hands.

 

CONFRONTATION

Before Jordan or anyone else could utter a word, Castiglione smiled cynically and said, “I hope you don't mind our entering your cottage through the back door. I thought we should visit you on Christmas Eve.”

“With guns leveled at us?” Jordan growled.

Nick stared at the black man. “Walt? What're you doing here?”

Walt looked tense, strained. “We didn't expect you three to be here. Thought you'd be back in the village, at the inn.”

Castiglione nosed his pistol at Cree. “I presume you have a weapon.”

Looking thoroughly disgusted, Cree jabbed a thumb toward his jacket, resting on the back of a chair by the fireplace. “In my coat.”

“Fine. We'll leave it there.”

Jordan asked, “How did you get past the police blockade?”

“One little car parked in the middle of the lane?” Castiglione replied, almost contemptuously. “Our satellite imagery showed it clearly, plus the country lanes that wove around it. Your policeman was probably asleep; he neither saw nor heard us.”

“So why are you here?” Aditi asked, her voice brittle with tension.

Castiglione sighed dramatically. “I'm afraid there's going to be a fire. This cottage is going to burn to the ground—with all of you in it.” He shook his head. “A great tragedy. The whole world will mourn your deaths.”

“Walt!” Dee Dee screeched. “You can't—”

“He can and he will,” Castiglione snapped. “He has no choice.”

Nick took a step toward Walt. “Speak for yourself, man.”

“Everybody dies,” Walt said, barely above a whisper. “Sooner or later.”

“In your case,” said Castiglione, “it will be sooner. Within a few minutes.”

“You can't expect to get away with this,” Jordan said.

“With all the resources of the World Council behind me? Of course I will get away with it. Some faulty electrical connection in your tree's decorations will start a fire while you're asleep.”

“You mean while we're unconscious,” said Jordan. Pointing at the guns, he asked, “Neural tranquilizers, aren't they?”

“Yes. You will be blissfully unconscious. There will be no pain, I assure you.”

Cree took a step and moved in front of Jordan. “You'll have to get past me first.”

“No great trouble,” said Castiglione, pointing his gun at Cree.

“And me,” said Nick, stepping to Cree's side.

“What foolish bravado.”

“Wait!” Aditi called. “You're overlooking something.”

Castiglione frowned.

Aditi said, “Everything that I see and hear is transmitted back to New Earth automatically. My people are watching and listening to you.”

“You're bluffing.” But Castiglione's gun wavered ever so slightly.

That was all Cree needed. He slashed out with an edge-of-the-hand chop that knocked Castiglione's pistol skittering across the floor. Nick bellowed like a wild man and leaped at Walt, who fired at him point-blank.

Walt's gun cracked loudly and Nick's body spasmed even as he bowled into Walt. Jordan grabbed for the black man's gun and all three of them tumbled to the floor.

Dee Dee picked up Castiglione's gun while Jordan and Walt struggled on the floor beside Nick's twitching body. The Italian stood frozen, wide-eyed, as Cree plucked the pistol from Dee Dee's hand, then stepped over and kicked Walt solidly on the side of his head. Walt's eyes rolled up and Jordan scrambled to his feet with the black man's gun in his hand.