Greene's Calling: Seventeen Book Three (A Supernatural Action Adventure Thriller Series 3) (30 page)

Chapter Twenty-Two

C
onnelly blinked at the sound of her name. She took a deep breath and looked more composed when she spoke again.

‘The situation here and abroad is getting more fraught by the hour, Greene. Congress is baying for Westwood’s blood and wants the FAA ban lifted. They’re claiming that Westwood is playing Russian roulette with the economic future of the United States.’ A frown darkened her features. ‘The political situations in Europe and Asia are no better. Tension is still running high between the White House and the Kremlin. Berlin, Paris, London, and Beijing are also at loggerheads, while North Korea is starting to make some noise. Pyongyang has increased the numbers of short-range, guided missiles along the country’s borders and coasts, and NORAD has confirmed that North Korean submarines with ballistic and cruise missile capabilities are being mobilized in the Sea of Japan.’ Bitterness sharpened her voice. ‘Although the evidence your team and the Germans have come up with vindicates our claims that external forces beyond the targeted nations are at work here, everyone is too busy playing the blame game to see the wood for the trees.’ She closed her eyes briefly and rubbed her temples in slow circular motions. ‘We’re still at DEFCON 4. The Joint Chiefs are recommending Westwood increase the alert state of the US Armed Forces to DEFCON 3. At this rate, all we’ll need is someone to blink faster than the others and we’ll have an all-out nuclear war on our hands.’

Coldness spread through Conrad. The situation was deteriorating by the hour. He had to agree with Connelly’s conclusion; war was looking more and more likely. ‘What did Victor have to say?’

Connelly brightened slightly. ‘He sent us some information our cryptanalysts were able to use to access the data on the secured drives on the Strabo Corp. systems.’ The corners of her mouth turned down. ‘But we couldn’t capture everything. It seems the company’s computer framework was functioning as a database server on a large-scale, virtual private network. The drives were in the process of being erased when we got to them. Our techs couldn’t trace the remote locations accessing the VPN connections. Not only did those appear to require multi-factor authentication, the links were severed shortly after our presence within the network was detected.’

Conrad went still. Not only was the enemy’s goal of global unrest becoming a reality, they were also moving faster than he could have anticipated. ‘What’s in the data you retrieved?’ he said between clenched teeth.

Connelly sighed. ‘I’m afraid the material was too complex even for our forensic scientists to fully grasp, so we got in touch with a couple of experts in the field,’ she said in a worn out voice. ‘I have Professors Bradley Janssen and Akihito Itaka, from the universities of Michigan and Case Western, waiting online at the moment. Both of them specialize in chemistry and macromolecular science. They’ve been briefed on the sensitive nature of the information we’re about to discuss and have agreed to give us their professional opinion on what it means.’ A troubled light dawned in her eyes. ‘Their area of special interest is explosives engineering,’ she added quietly.

Tension formed a leaden knot in the pit of Conrad’s stomach. An image of the detonation tank inside the isolation chamber in Strabo Corp. flashed before his eyes.

The video link split into three windows. Janssen looked about forty years old and was wearing a faded University of Michigan sweatshirt. His blue eyes shone with keen intelligence behind the glasses perched on his nose as he stared into the webcam of his laptop.

Itaka’s disheveled, gray-streaked hair put him about a decade ahead of Janssen. There was a garish, yellow Scooby-Doo tie clipped to his shirt and a Garfield mug next to his desktop. Despite the distance separating him from the two men, Conrad detected the nervous excitement in their postures.

‘Go ahead, gentlemen,’ Connelly ordered from the main window.

Janssen blinked and cleared his throat. ‘Please bear in mind that, without knowing the context in which this data was obtained, it’s difficult to tell you for certain what the people behind it were intending to achieve,’ he warned.

‘That’s okay,’ said Connelly, a trace of impatience modulating her tone. ‘Time is of the essence here. We just want you to put this stuff to us in plain terms.’

Janssen inhaled shallowly. ‘All right,’ he mumbled. ‘The gist of it is this: from the formulations and processes described in the files you showed us, it seems someone may have invented a new explosive.’

There was an audible intake of breath from Connelly.

Itaka leaned closer to his desktop camera. ‘I concur,’ said the Cleveland professor, his head bobbing vigorously. ‘Though the final production method is missing, the data indicates the successful co-crystallization of PETN with a chemically modified nitroamine compound to create a liquid high explosive with a significant RE factor.’

‘RE factor?’ said Laura, puzzled.

‘Relative effectiveness factor,’ Itaka explained. ‘It’s a measurement of an explosive’s power as compared to 1 kilogram of TNT. For example, Semtex has an RE factor of 1.66, meaning you’d need 0.6 kilogram of Semtex to achieve the same destructive effect as 1 kilogram of TNT. This product has an apparent RE factor of 4.9.’ The professor hesitated, his face losing some of its initial thrill. ‘That’s higher than any non-nuclear material currently in existence today.’

‘If this stuff has indeed been made, it’ll be the biggest innovation the explosives industry has seen in decades.’ Janssen’s face gleamed with a fine sheen of sweat. ‘The engineering applications in the military and mining fields alone for a liquid substance with this kind of sensitivity, detonation velocity, and stability will be almost infinite.’

Conrad’s heart pounded painfully against his ribs. ‘Can this thing be detonated by a high-intensity energy beam?’

Janssen blinked. ‘Hmm. It’s feasible, yes,’ he admitted, surprise evident on his face.

‘A Q-switched laser can initiate the detonation of PETN,’ said Itaka.

‘Connelly, show them the picture of the red bar Laura forwarded earlier,’ Conrad requested in a stiff voice.

The Director of Intelligence puckered her brow slightly and barked out an instruction over her shoulder. The image of the object Stevens had discovered inside the metal canister in the isolation lab in Strabo Corp. appeared on the screen.

‘Do you know what this is?’ Conrad demanded of the two professors.

The scientists squinted at their respective cameras.

‘That’s a ruby laser rod,’ said Janssen.

‘Although I haven’t seen one quite that size before,’ muttered Itaka.

Conrad’s hands balled into fists on the armrests of the chair. ‘Could a physicist make a laser device using these rods?’ he asked, dreading the answer he knew he would receive. ‘One capable of detonating a liquid explosive?’

‘Yes,’ the two men replied simultaneously.

‘Thank you,’ Conrad murmured after a beat, his knuckles white.

Laura placed a hand on his shoulder. Although he was grateful for the warmth of her touch, Conrad detected the same rigid tension coursing through her.

‘If that’s all, I think we’ll finish—’ Connelly started in a brisk voice.

‘Wait!’ Itaka interrupted. He stared at the camera. ‘Brad, did you notice something strange in the data we saw?’

‘What do you mean?’ said Janssen, perplexed.

‘The formulae. Don’t you think they look like the stuff Professor Hagen was working on before he died?’ said Itaka, his tone insistent.

Conrad watched as Janssen clicked on his mouse and scrolled down the screen of his laptop. Light reflected off his lenses and highlighted his widening eyes. ‘Gosh. I can’t believe I didn’t see that. You’re right, Aki. These could be his experiments.’

‘Who’s Professor Hagen?’ Connelly demanded of the two men.

Itaka tugged at his collar. ‘Our apologies,’ he said in a somber tone. ‘Professor Svein Hagen was an esteemed colleague of ours who died in an accident in Hawaii eight years ago.’

‘What kind of accident?’ asked Conrad.

‘His car plunged off a cliff into the sea.’ Itaka’s mouth drooped. ‘His wife and eldest daughter also perished in the incident. Their bodies were never recovered.’

Conrad mulled this over for a moment. ‘Could someone have stolen his work?’ he said finally.

Itaka hesitated. ‘I honestly don’t know. But this data bears a remarkable similarity to the research he was engaged in before his accident.’

Connelly thanked the two men and disconnected their links, her face pale.

‘I’ll have to talk to Westwood and the Joint Chiefs,’ she said. ‘If there’s a new bomb being made to target us, we need to be prepared. I’ll pass the information to our allies across the Atlantic.’

She seemed to recall something. Some color returned to her cheeks.

‘Incidentally, the NSA and CIA have uncovered subtle variations of the Strabo Corp. directors’ names on the executive boards of more than forty companies around the world.’ A bleak smile crossed her face. ‘One of those enterprises owns a black MD520N helicopter. Another participated in the FedEx Field fundraiser event.’ She leaned toward the webcam. ‘The most interesting fact is this,’ she added in a hardening voice. ‘A CIA analyst ran that list through an anagram software and came up with a surprising hit. One of the Strabo Corp. directors was called Rojan Korviacz. We found someone by the name of Zoran Rajkovic mentioned in an old Obenhaus Group news archive. He was a former member of their board of directors. We’ve contacted Maximilian Obenhaus to obtain more information on the man.’

Shock reverberated through Conrad at this news. ‘That could explain how they got to his brother,’ he muttered.

One of the Sit Room analysts crossed the floor and wordlessly handed Connelly a sheet of paper. Her lips tightened in a thin line as she scanned its contents. She looked up at the camera. ‘French Central Intelligence just called. The Turkish authorities have confirmed that Ridvan Kadir and Volkan Sahin attended the same private school in Manisa. Guess who owned the place?’

Conrad stared blankly at her for a couple of seconds. He pulled a face. ‘The same people who were running Strabo Corp?’ he hazarded.

‘Bingo.’ Connelly’s eyes glinted dangerously.

The flare of satisfaction that coursed through the immortal was short-lived. ‘But we still have no idea who these people really are or what they’re planning.’

‘No,’ Connelly concurred, her face sobering. She hesitated, her eyes darting right and left. ‘But, according to Victor Dvorsky, your kind may feature somewhere in their history,’ she added in a low voice.

‘We know they possess the knowledge and ability to make a powerful new explosive,’ said Laura with a frown.

‘And the capacity to detonate it, if they’re making those laser devices,’ added Stevens.

‘Not to mention that they appear to be gathering a well-equipped army led by a battalion of ruthless mercenaries and warlords,’ mused Anatole.

‘But for what purpose?’ Conrad exclaimed bitterly. ‘I can’t help but feel that a small group of individuals are masterminding all of this. And I fear their next step will make the events we’ve seen so far look like child’s play.’ He stared at his fisted hands for a moment before looking up at Connelly. ‘I think we should go public.’

A blank expression washed across the face of the Director of National Intelligence. ‘What do you mean?’

‘Put out the picture of the woman from the FedEx Field to the world media. We don’t need to release any confidential information. Just the fact that she’s a prime suspect in the recent incidents in the US and Europe, and that she’s wanted for questioning.’

Connelly steepled her fingers in front of her face and watched him thoughtfully above them. ‘You really think that’s gonna work?’

Conrad shrugged. ‘We’ve got nothing to lose.’

A strained silence followed while Connelly contemplated his suggestion. ‘Okay,’ she said finally. She called Petersen over and gave him brief instructions in a low voice.

The Homeland Security agent moved off camera, a faint frown on his face.

A phone suddenly chimed inside the Learjet cabin. They looked at Anatole as he took out his cell and answered the call.

‘Hi,’ said the immortal. His brow furrowed. ‘We’re talking to the team in Washington right now. You want to link up?’ He paused. ‘Okay.’

Anatole disconnected and leaned across the table. ‘That was Victor,’ he explained, fingers clattering on the keyboard of the plane’s computer. ‘He wants to talk.’

Another window opened up on the screen. Victor Dvorsky gazed solemnly into the webcam on the other side of the video link. He was seated at a desk inside a floating, glass office overlooking an enormous vaulted stone chamber milling with people. Conrad dimly recognized the background as the Bastian First Council’s main command post in Vienna. It looked somewhat different from the last time he had set eyes on it, more than sixty years ago. Back then, the world’s first computer had just been invented.

‘Sarah, Conrad,’ Victor greeted with a brisk nod. ‘It’s good I could catch you together. What’s the latest from your end?’

Conrad swiftly apprised the Bastian leader of their most recent findings from Paris. Connelly did the same with the investigation’s progress from Washington. Victor’s face remained inscrutable while he listened.

‘Have you got something for us?’ said Conrad.

‘Yes,’ said the Bastian leader. ‘It’s about that symbol Laura sent through earlier, the one you found in Luther Obenhaus’s safe and the Strabo Corp. lab.’

Conrad straightened. ‘What about it?’

‘It’s a Tughra,’ said Victor. ‘I’m not surprised you didn’t recognize it. It’s been a few centuries since I’ve had any reason to set eyes on one myself.’

Connelly raised an eyebrow. ‘What’s a Tughra?’

‘It’s an imperial monogram used by the Sultans who ruled the Ottoman Empire,’ said Conrad bitterly. ‘Dammit, I can’t believe I didn’t see that!’

‘Each Ottoman emperor had his own Tughra created at the start of his reign,’ said Victor. ‘This monogram became the royal signature and seal that went on every official document issued by that particular ruler.’ The Bastian noble leaned back in his leather chair. ‘The Ottoman Empire was dissolved in the early 1920s. The last Sultan to have an imperial monogram made was Mehmed VI. We’ve compared the symbol you discovered with all the Tughras that have ever existed.’

‘And?’ said Conrad, muscles tightening.

‘It doesn’t match any of them,’ said Victor. ‘This is a completely new Tughra.’

‘What does that mean?’ said Connelly in the silence that followed.

‘The design of a Tughra is not without significance,’ Victor explained. ‘Each element that makes up the motif has a specific meaning. In combination, they spell out a message in Ottoman Turkish specific to the ruler the Tughra represents. This one is no different.’ He paused. ‘It says “Zoran, of the line of Suleiman and Mustafa, the Rightful Heir to the Empire.”’

Conrad’s mouth went dry.

‘Zoran?’ said Connelly sharply. ‘Are you certain?’

‘Absolutely,’ said Victor in a steely voice.

‘That ex-Obenhaus Group director was called Zoran Rajkovic,’ said Stevens.

From the way the Bastian leader focused a calculated gaze on Conrad’s face, he knew he was the only one who had grasped the extraordinary significance of the Tughra’s message.