Game of Shadows (12 page)

"I figured. I'm en route back to Frankfurt. I need a ride to Argentina."

She listened to his request. "Argentina, huh? You going to look for old Nazis down there?"

"Something like that."

"I sure hope you're not chasing a wild goose on this one. If you fly down there, and it turns out to be nothing..."

He cut her off, "I know. Dr. Ott will be dead. It's the only lead we've got. And it's the only one that makes sense. Besides, we're down to the last quarter here. Have to gamble and throw a hail Mary."

"A football
and
a poker reference in the same sentence? Impressive."

He blew off the snide comment. "Just have the plane ready to roll when I get there."

"Which will be?"

"In a few hours. I just got into Germany a few minutes ago."

She sighed. "All right. I'll have a private plane ready and waiting when you get there."

"You coming with me?"

"No," she laughed. "I have business to attend to here in Europe. But I'll be monitoring your whereabouts."

"Comforting." It was his turn to be snarky.

"It should be," she returned.

"I'll be in touch when I'm on Argentinean time."

He hit end and set the phone back down on the leather passenger seat.

Ahead, the sky was crystal clear, and the sun shone brightly down on the rolling north German foothills. Other less-seasoned veterans of the trade would probably take the good weather as a positive sign. Sean wasn't naive, though. He knew that the journey was far from over, and before it ended, there would be heavy storms again.

Washington, D.C.

"We're going to need to make a move, sir. We can't wait any longer."

Admiral McClain pondered the comment. He held his phone against his ear as he walked through the hallway leading into his bedroom. The lavish master bedroom featured high recessed ceilings, bronze-colored curtains, and a few abstract paintings his decorator had picked out.

A chestnut-brown suitcase was laid out on his bed, the edge of it flush with the walnut footboard. He'd finished packing before his man had called. It was just a matter of getting a few more essentials before he was ready to leave. He tossed a toothbrush enclosed in a Ziploc bag into the suitcase and closed it shut.

"I agree. Time is running out on this whole thing." He walked over to a bedroom door that led onto a small balcony. Beyond the doorway windows was a small white bistro table with two matching wooden chairs. He stared out at the early morning sunrise coming up over the city. "I heard some people were killed in Poland."

A few silent seconds passed before the man on the other end of the line responded. "I heard the same."

"The Axis asset made it out alive, though." It was almost a question.

"He did."

McClain had already heard about the incident at the cemetery. Concern washed over him. "That particular asset could be trouble. He tends to make a mess of things wherever he goes. The last thing we need is him getting in the way."

"I'll handle it, sir."

"See to it that you do. This is not a game we're playing. I knew that Emily Starks interfering with operations would be a problem. Proceed as necessary. I'm getting on a plane in two hours. I sent you the rendezvous point a few minutes ago. Make sure you and your team are on a jet and en route within the hour."

"Yes, sir."

McClain ended the call. He slid the device into his pocket and ran both hands through his hair. Managing operations like this one had been something he'd done for the last few decades. Usually, he was more hands off than right now. But there were things that had to be overseen that could not be trusted to underlings. Sometimes, the people who did the ground work, the foot soldiers, had to be micromanaged. In some ways, they actually wanted that. If they were left to their own thoughts or devices, things could get out of hand quickly.

The stakes were way too high to allow that to happen.

The admiral grabbed a windbreaker and set it next to his suitcase. It was warm in D.C., but he always got a chill when traveling on a plane, even on the private government planes like the one he'd be boarding soon. He grabbed the zipper on the suitcase and pulled it around the edge, carefully stuffing a loose piece of fabric from a heavy coat back into the case.

He grabbed the bag and his laptop case and headed down the stairs to the carriage park where he kept his car. Three minutes later, he was out on the road and heading west, away from the city. Since his flight was in the early morning hours, driving into town to Reagan would have been a huge mistake. Arlington County would be bogged down, and the beltway would be a parking lot for hours. Even though it was more than twenty miles outside of town, getting to Dulles would be faster since he'd be going against the traffic.

As he expected, the drive took barely over half an hour. McClain went through one of the private airline security checkpoints, happily showing off the badge that told the man at the booth just who he was dealing with. The young man gave a short salute, which the admiral returned before accelerating through the open gate.

He drove around to one of the outlying hangars and parked outside one that was unmarked. An American flag flapped vigorously in the wind next to it. A white G6 jet's nose poked out through the massive doorway. There were no couriers to help him with his bags. To be honest, he didn't want to be waited on like that. Not yet anyway. There would be a time for that soon enough when he retired. For now, he was still just another relic from a forgotten time.

The admiral walked around the corner of the hangar and found a few workers milling around. A pretty young woman stood at the top of the steps leading into the airplane's cabin. The engines hadn't been revved up yet, and wouldn't be until the plane had been pulled out of its parking space. McClain handed off the suitcase to one of the men in an orange vest and made his way over to the steps.

At the top, the blonde with the low-cut button-up short-sleeved shirt smiled, showing teeth as bright as snow. "Welcome aboard, Admiral. I hope your drive wasn't too bad with the morning traffic."

She obviously didn't think about the direction he'd come. "Not too bad at all, Miss...?"

"Elkins," she answered.

"Not too bad, Miss Elkins."

"Excellent, sir. If you'll make your way back to the main cabin, we will begin preparations for takeoff. Once we're in the air, breakfast will be served."

"Terrific," he said, brandishing a fake smile. Breakfast did sound good, but eating was the last thing on his mind.

He headed where the young woman had motioned with her hand and found his way into a luxuriously appointed area. Beige leather seemed to be everywhere. It bound the chairs and molding along the edges just above the windows. Cherry wood accents contrasted the pale tones of the leather.

McClain found his way over to one of the empty seats and sank down into it. He laid his laptop case on the floor next to his feet, and leaned the chair back. Other than the flight attendant and the pilots, he was the only one on board. It was a surreal feeling after all those years of flying coach, occasionally getting to step up to first class.
This is the way people were meant to fly,
he thought.

Miss Elkins entered through the open doorway, still smiling as broadly as she had before. "Could I get you a cup of coffee while we're waiting to take off?"

"That would be lovely," the admiral answered, giving his best grin. "Thank you."

She acknowledged his comment with an elongated nod, and then went to the back to fetch the coffee pot. At this point, McClain didn't even care if the coffee was good or not. It could have been brewed yesterday. This was the life.

Soon, he knew that doing things this extravagantly would be the norm not the exception. He just had to make sure everything went according to plan.

The flight attendant returned with a steaming cup of hot coffee on a silver platter.
Literally, a silver platter,
McClain thought. He accepted the cup, as graciously as possible, and picked up one of the sugar packets lying next to a tiny carafe of cream.

She lingered nearby for a moment to make sure everything was to his liking. "We should be in Buenos Aires around 9:00 pm tonight. In Argentinean time, it will be 11:00 pm."

A brutally long flight. But necessary. No way he would ever try to fly that far in economy class. Not anymore. But doing it this way? No problem.

He sat back and took a long sip of his coffee.

It wasn't bad after all.

San Sebastián, Argentina

Sean's flight seemed to last all night. By the time he arrived in Buenos Aires, it was well past one in the morning. Fortunately, the flight had been a comfortable one. The seats aboard the private airplane folded down into beds, which allowed him to get some light sleep along the way. Sean rarely experienced a solid eight hours of sleep. Naps, however, were something he could do effectively. During the long flight, he got at least four to five hours of sleep, when it was all added together.

After another three hours of sleeping in the hotel, he was taken back to the airport and flown to the southern town of San Sebastián by seaplane.

During all of his adventures and missions, Sean had never actually been on a seaplane before. He'd started to think that they only existed in movies and television shows. The pilot was a gruff man in his late fifties. He had a scruffy beard with thick patches of gray mingled in streaks of brown, and went by the name of Kurt Dothan. A tattoo on his right forearm told Sean all he needed to know about his pilot’s toughness. It was a skull with a lightning bolt through it, sitting atop a black shield. The words
Airborne Rangers
wrapped around the image.

There was a small airport outside San Sebastián, but getting a flight there unnoticed had been tricky. With a smaller aircraft, they could fly in and out without too many prying eyes bearing witness. Not to mention flights in and out were rare. Flying in with the government jet would get a lot of attention.

Sean was starting to rethink that logic as the noisy, dilapidated contraption muscled its way through the lower reaches of the atmosphere, nearing the coved city.

"The landings can sometimes be a little rough," the pilot informed him. The only thing missing from the guy's smuggler-like appearance was a cigar and a sidearm. Sean figured the man's weapon was probably in a glove box somewhere within reach. "All depends on how the sea is acting that day."

"Good to know." It was rare when Sean sat in a plane cockpit. He didn't mind it, though it lacked the lavish luxuries of the private jet.

Out the window, the majestic hills rolled into low mountains. Snow covered two thirds of them. Sean could see skiers and snowboarders coasting down the slopes of a nearby resort. From such a distance, the people looked like tiny, pleasure-seeking ants. He'd always wanted to come to Argentina for some "summer snowboarding" but the chance hadn't presented itself yet. He was glad he'd brought a jacket on the trip, but going deep into South America in the heart of their winter would mean he'd need to visit a local store and buy a heavier coat.

Reading his mind, the pilot informed Sean that the local temperature in San Sebastián Bay was a balmy thirty-seven degrees Fahrenheit.

The pilot looped the plane over the bay and back out beyond the coast, sizing up where the water would be calmest. The beaches were completely vacant, an odd site for such a picturesque place. Sean imagined that in the summer, thousands of people would cover the white beaches, soaking up every ounce of warm sunshine they could. The bay, too, was absent of any activity, save a lone fishing boat that seemed either anchored in the middle of the cove or happy to stay within the confines of the surrounding hillsides.

"How'd you come to live in Argentina?" Sean asked out of sheer curiosity.

Dothan sniffled and wiped his nose with the back of his hand. "I grew up in Alaska. Been flying these kinds of planes since I was a boy. I used to work for the government."

Sean's eyebrows rose slightly, but he let the man continue talking. The pilot laughed. "Nothing cool like a spy or anything like that. I did deliveries for different government branches in Alaska."

"That's a long way from here," Sean said, staring out over the setting.

"That was the idea," Dothan said.

"You live in Buenos Aires?"

The pilot nodded. "Yep. I usually make one or two of these runs a week. Takes care of the bills and keeps me in the air, which is where I prefer to be."

"Any particular reason you chose Argentina?"

Dothan glanced over at Sean as he leveled out the plane and began the final descent. It was the kind of look that wondered why he asked. "Have you seen the women down here? Absolutely stunning."

An awkward moment passed before Dothan broke out into laughter. Sean smiled, and allowed himself to chuckle at the comment. "Point taken."

The plane's floats skidded over the top of the dark-blue water, cutting through the choppy surface with relative ease. As the aircraft started to settle deeper into the sea, it began to bounce around.

"Water's a little rough today. Nothing out of the ordinary," Dothan informed his passenger.

Sean gripped a handle on the side of the cockpit but trusted what the pilot said. Their speed slowed rapidly, and Dothan cut the engines down to a high idle, steering the plane to an outlying dock off the outer coast of the bay. At the land end of the wooden structure, a small red building had been constructed. Sean wasn't sure what its purpose might be, but it appeared to be unoccupied at the moment.

"I'm going to let you out over there," the pilot said. "You'll need to huff it into town from here. Shouldn't take you more than twenty minutes."

For a second, Sean longed for the comforts of a car that could drive him around, but he didn't complain. He'd been in worse conditions. Although now getting that heavier coat would definitely be his first priority.

"You just gonna hang out here?" Sean asked.

"I'll be in that red building if you need me." He pointed at the structure Sean had noticed earlier.

"That's yours?"

Dothan shrugged. "Me and a few of the fishermen use it from time to time when the need arises. We call it our safe house." He winked from behind the sunglasses in a "just between us guys" sort of way.

Sean didn't ask why they called it that. For the time being, he just assumed it was a place they used to get away from their families for a few hours after a hard week of work. Most people went to a bar. These guys had their safe house.

The pilot cut off the engine after he'd lined up the aircraft with the dock and let it coast slowly toward the shoreline. He hopped out and stepped on one of the runners, grabbed a rope with a loop on the end of it, and tossed it at one of the pilings. Dothan performed the move easily, like someone who had done it a thousand times before. The rope tightened, and the plane stopped drifting. Dothan moved to the back of the pontoon and grabbed another rope, repeating the process. He used the second rope to pull the plane closer to the dock. Once it was close enough, he hopped down to the platform and resecured the two ropes to the moorings to keep the aircraft a little tighter to the dock.

Sean got up and crawled into the back. He grabbed his rucksack and backpack then stepped down onto the pontoon and across the one-foot gap onto the wet dock. A coastal breeze blew steadily across the water, blowing his hair around wildly. The cold wind cut through his light jacket. Dothan zipped up a slightly heavier coat and jumped back onto the plane's float, reached in to grab a small satchel of his own, and then returned to the platform.

"How long you think you'll be?" he asked when he reached Sean's side.

"A few hours, hopefully no longer." Sean truly had no idea how long his search would take, nor if it would be fruitful. Fortunately, he had the entire day to work his magic. He had a bad feeling he was going to need it. Concern returned to his heart and fell into his stomach as he checked the timer on his phone. He only had seven hours left to find what the terrorists wanted or Dr. Ott was dead.

He gave another quick check to see if Emily had updated the status of the operation, but there was nothing from her on his phone. Sean had hoped the Black Ring would contact her so she could negotiate an extension. No luck on that front so far. Most of the time, terrorist groups wouldn't negotiate anything. They simply wanted to prove a point and put fear into the hearts of ordinary people. Not the Black Ring. They were after something, and Sean needed to find it before it was too late. At some point, he was going to have to figure out how to take them down. That little detail would have to wait.

Sean walked to shore with Dothan. There was a padlock on the shack's door, which the pilot immediately set to unlocking so he could get inside out of the cold.

While he watched Dothan working on the lock, Sean asked him if he would be okay with keeping his rucksack and backpack. "I don't want to get bogged down with them. There's just a few clothes and my laptop for the most part," he explained.

"Sure. I'm not going anywhere until you're ready to leave." He unfastened the lock and hung it loosely on the latch before pushing the door open. He put a hand out and grabbed Sean's things then disappeared inside. A second later, he reappeared. "Stay warm out there. Give me a holler if you need anything. Surprisingly, I get cell service out here."

"Will do."

The initial part of the walk into town was blustery and frigid. When he reached a sidewalk that wrapped around the city's natural bay, the wind was cut down significantly from the barrier the surrounding hillsides and ridges provided.

San Sebastián was one of the most unique and picturesque places Sean had ever visited, which was saying something since he'd travelled all over the world. The city's buildings, mostly condos and apartments near the coast, rose up from just beyond the horseshoe-shaped beach, clumped together thickly at first, then scattering as the sprawl stretched into the hills and mountains beyond. Evergreen trees grew in patches going up the slopes amid sparse clusters of barren hardwood trees that looked like skeletons of their summer selves.

A blanket of heavy clouds began to roll in from the west, covering the sky in a gloomy shade of gray. When Sean had checked the forecast the night before, it had predicted partly cloudy skies, but no precipitation was expected. Now he wasn't so certain. He picked up the pace, striding fast down the sidewalk. He looked up at some of the homes built atop the ridge looming over him. Their views must have been spectacular on a clear, warm day. Skinny trees and tall grasses blew in the wind along the walkway when an occasional gust snuck by the bay's hillside barricade.

It took nearly fifteen minutes for Sean to reach the comfort of the city, but when he did, he found it was almost a ghost town. Hundreds of cars were parked along the streets and in various parking lots, but very few pedestrians were to be seen. An occasional person appeared, walking quickly down the street and just as rapidly turning into a building to escape the cold.

Another burst of wind, howling through the street corridor and sinking deep into his bones, reminded him just how badly he needed to find a coat. He reached one of the condominiums that he'd seen from the other side of the bay and decided to step inside to ask for help.

Once in the lobby, he found a doorman standing in full uniform, with a hat that looked like it would be more at home on an army general. The man's light-brown skin, dark hair, and matching mustache reminded Sean of one of his friends from college. While his friend had been athletic and extremely fit, this version looked twenty years older, and much less in shape. He stood near a central column in the room. The floors were covered in a gorgeous sandstone tile. A few brushed bronze sconces illuminated the sides of the room while a dome-shaped chandelier hung from the ceiling by a framework of wrought iron.

"Buenos dias," Sean greeted the doorman in Spanish.

The man smiled and returned the greeting then asked, "How may I help you?"

Sean was grateful for his skills in languages. They'd proven their worth a thousand times over. "I'm looking for a place to buy a new coat. I forgot to pack one when I embarked on my vacation, and it is very cold outside."

The man's smile continued to beam, though he flashed a momentary look of concern. "Yes, sir. It is terribly cold outside. You definitely need a coat thicker than this," he pointed at Sean's windbreaker. "There is a shop two blocks from here that should have everything you need. They sell ski equipment and apparel during the winter."

"Excellent," Sean said. "Thank you so much."

"No problem, sir."

Sean gave a polite nod and exited the building.

It only took him ten minutes to reach the building, find a suitable coat, and make the purchase. The young woman at the counter eyed him suspiciously, perhaps wondering what he'd been expecting as far as the weather was concerned.

"Lost my other coat," he explained in Spanish, to which she simply smiled and bid him good day.

Before he reached the exit, Sean took out his phone and pulled up the address for Alfred Wolfz's home. He tapped the link on the screen and then hit the button for directions. A route appeared with a blue line that started with him taking the street to the right, winding through a few more side streets, and eventually ending about a mile away, closer to the foot of the mountains.

He zipped up the warm, fluffy coat and stepped back into the cold. He'd also purchased a small cap to keep his head and ears warm, and tugged it down tight over his hair. With his new gear, the wind didn't seem nearly as biting, though it still stung his face as he walked up the sidewalk before making a left across the street. He wound his way through a series of back alleys and side streets until the taller buildings were left behind and he found himself in an area filled with two- and three-story homes. Most of them had faded white walls with terracotta rooftops. They were packed tightly together, resembling larger cities he'd visited across the globe, though the number of homes was much smaller, making it feel more like a little brother to a town like Barcelona.