Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1) (9 page)

20

Arlington, Virginia

“ANY CHANCE WE GOT EVERYTHING?” Grayson asked.

“If Alexander wrote only eleven pages in his journal then we for sure got it all,” answered the young man furiously tapping on a keyboard in front of a wall of monitors.

“I’m not in the mood for your sarcasm,” Grayson snarled. He didn’t like the informal communication style of young people today, which was anyone under forty in his book. He particularly didn’t like this young man’s constant stream of flippant remarks. He missed his days in the United States Army when he could plant a boot where the sun didn’t shine to cure a young man of his character and attitudinal deficiencies.

“Sorry, sir. What I meant to say is what we already know. The transmission stopped on a page that was in midsentence. Right after it started. Our man didn’t get all of it.”

“So no chance the satellite connection was broken and we’ll get the rest later?” Grayson asked as he ran a hand over the gray stubble of his military haircut. Ramrod straight, he was a compact five-eight and one-hundred-and-sixty pounds of muscle and sinew that belied his sixty-two years of age.

“No sir. Not a couple hours after it started. At least I don’t think so,” Mark Doyle, the mid-thirties, nearly emaciated programmer answered, wanting to roll his eyes and say something smart, but wisely resisting.

“Diagnostics showed everything arrived at burst speed fine,” Doyle continued. “Nothing else was sent. Nothing is lost in the Deep Web,” he added.

He knew Colonel Grayson—the man loved the title so much he had made Colonel his first name—was very proud that he knew about the part of the Internet that was not indexed by common search engines and where Doyle and other hackers and spies did much of their work. Doyle gave Grayson just enough information to make him feel like he understood something he was totally ignorant about.

After a pause, Doyle mustered his courage to continue, “There’s one other thing I’ve discovered, sir.”

What now Grayson wondered.

“I don’t like the way you’re saying ‘one other thing,’” he said softly, but in what he knew from experience was a menacing tone.

Doyle had grown inured to the old man’s temper and tirades but did his best to look scared. The colonel liked intimidating people. Doyle would love to give the old man “one more thing” but the old fart paid him too much to stir that hornet’s nest. Maybe he would screw with the colonel’s credit cards when this contract was up.

“Well?” Grayson asked calmly.

“We’re not the only ones that got the transmission, sir.”

“What?!” Grayson bellowed, the calm instantly replaced by rage.

Here we go again, thought Doyle. Rant and rave like your hair is on fire. I can wait. I hope you pop a blood vessel and send a clot to your brain.

After a pause, Doyle said politely, “It’s got to be your operative, sir. He was the only one that could have created a back door in our program. It was in his possession for more than nine months.”

Burke. What game was he playing? Grayson asked himself, his eyes burning holes into the soul of his computer hack.

Grayson was one of the few men in the world that knew the real identity of the shadowy international fixer. He had followed the career of the man who had once served under his command with interest and admiration. At times he almost thought of Burke as the son he never had. Grayson actually had a son, an attorney, but he didn’t really care for him. Too soft. Grayson sent business Burke’s way on a regular basis. He didn’t think Burke had a clue that the steady stream of work that flowed his way was anything but organic.

But this was the first time he had employed him directly. What a disappointment. He knew the task was herculean, near impossible, but based the Burke’s previous—and sometimes improbable—successes, Grayson thought Burke had the tenacity and savvy to pull it off. What a miscalculation. The time it had taken Burke to reach the point where he screwed up the acquisition of Alexander’s secrets was ridiculous. It wouldn’t be a reflection on Burke with Grayson’s employer. His employer didn’t know about Burke. It would shine a spotlight squarely on him. Unacceptable. Burke’s failure was ultimately his own failure. The buck always stopped at the top.

What had gone wrong? Why was such a simple task so hard? Grayson didn’t know every detail of the operation, but had kept his eyes and ears on the basics from a distance, and knew Burke had laid a classic honey trap for Alexander.

Why do smart men fall so easily for pretty girls?

Little did Burke know that Grayson had helped him with that detail.

Alexander’s life was so structured and guarded that getting into the journal was impossibly slow work, which magnified the failure to secure anything more than a prologue—a strange, rambling, insane prologue—of what Alexander was planning next in his illustrious international career.

“I will ride the blood red horse of the Apocalypse? I will be the Beast?”

What the hell was Alexander planning to do? Grayson wondered. Get saved? Start a religion? If so, the man had a peculiar understanding of faith. The tortured prose made it sound like he had plans to wipe out more than half the earth’s population. Was he experiencing dementia? There was a rumor Alexander suffered a stroke in the past few years. The scribbling in his diary had nothing to do with business plans as Grayson’s client had led him to believe would be the case. The mumbo jumbo in the opening pages of that leather journal was crazy talk. He started with a computerized translation of the script and then had a Georgetown linguistics professor who was fluent in Classical, Koine, and Modern Greek, rush over to make sure he got the translation right. Grayson read the corrected words at least ten times. They made little practical sense, unless the man really was planning mass genocide, which you never knew with an ego the size of Alexander’s. Was he? If so, he was a fool. That couldn’t be right. The man was not stupid. He knew math.

If countries with nearly unlimited budgets couldn’t figure a way to eliminate a couple billion undesirables, how could one man? Sure he was the rich of the rich. But even if he threw ten or twenty or whatever billion dollars he had sitting around at the task, that would only go so far as was evidenced in Washington, D.C., which couldn’t get a bang for a trillion bucks, home of his longtime employer at the Pentagon, and the source of most of his work as an independent contractor in the world of international espionage.

Doyle watched Grayson’s face contort in agitation. It was almost amusing. He waited silently for his next orders.

Grayson looked over and their eyes met. What about the kid? Doyle, the MIT grad, was plenty smart. When it came to computer programming he was a genius. He definitely needed a sandwich and some exercise if he was going to get rid of the death camp survivor look.
Poor guy. Wonder if he’s ever had a date, much less got laid. I should have at least got him a hooker to help realign his maladjusted outlook on life. Might have knocked some of that sarcasm out of him.

A genius, but apparently Doyle was not bright enough to protect the operation from the only thing that mattered. Other eyes. Traces of what they had done. Grayson was working for a whale who was himself dangerous. But not as dangerous as the man he wanted Grayson to extract information from. A much larger whale with the teeth of great white shark. There was a reason he had subbed out the project to Burke. Grayson wanted to stay nimble if something went wrong. And it looked like something had gone seriously wrong.

Why am I surprised?

He looked over at the kid. What was his first name? Matt? He knew too much and had proven to be unreliable, not just in work but also in attitude.

“I’m sorry, sir,” Doyle said earnestly, doing his best to hide the joy he felt at his employer’s discomposure.

“You did your best Matt,” Grayson said laying a comforting hand on Doyle’s shoulder.

“It’s Mark, sir.”

“So sorry, Mark,” said Colonel Grayson.

In a fast, vicious, practiced twist of his hands, Grayson snapped the man’s neck, severing his spinal column cleanly.

What’s one more mess to clean up in an operation that had been a disaster from the start?

But this was less of a mess than letting the kid live. Who was he kidding? Failure meant a contract on his head. Time to shut this thing down before he found himself standing still while someone put him in their crosshairs. Time to let it go and move on.

Grayson hated to admit what had been on his mind. Maybe there were waters too deep to swim in even for a man of his prodigious skills
and accomplishments. Maybe he was being too hard on Burke. When the full contents of Alexander’s journal failed to deliver, it was a sure signal that it was time to exit the stage, something he had been planning anyway. Burke wasn’t the only one who had created a life in the shadows with enough identities, tripwires, protective layers, and cold hard cash to live out retirement in luxurious comfort. Grayson would miss the adrenaline rush of the battlefield, but all good things must come to an end. Maybe he’d get to know his grandkids. But probably not.

He hated to retire on a failed operation. But survival was the ultimate victory.

Doyle’s empty eyes looked up at him.

What’d you say Mark? Speak up! Nothing to say? No sarcasm?

Before he disappeared—his first retirement destination would be Argentina with all those pretty young girls, he thought—he needed to take care of a few loose ends; one in particular. Who was the man that had hired Grayson going to look for when it became obvious he wasn’t going to get what he paid for? Himself of course. Twenty-five million US dollars should get you a lot more than eleven pages of drivel.

I will be the Beast? What are you thinking Alexander? I knew this would be a SNAFU—but this is over the top messed up.

Grayson didn’t want to look over his shoulder for the rest of his life, wondering when the man who hired him—or the man he tried to steal from—would finally locate him. He, Grayson, had to die. Correction. He needed to appear to die. And he had to put the man who hired him on the trail of the man who killed him. That would be Burke. But he didn’t want the man to actually find Burke. So Burke had to die in reality, but appear to have survived. Burke had eluded a death Grayson planned for him once before. But this time he wouldn’t be so lucky.

Burke was a shadow in the world of shadows, but hadn’t yet figured out his every move had been monitored the past six months, thought Grayson, a twinkle in his eyes. Burke didn’t know that Grayson knew
he had switched hotels in a hurry. He didn’t know that Grayson knew he was in the Oak Room at the Plaza Hotel pretending to drink a vodka tonic right now.

I’m sorry son. To think, after this was all done I was going to hand you the keys to my business. But failure is not an option. For either of us. Someone’s got to pay. It sure as hell ain’t going to be me.

21

The Mediterranean Sea

DAD ALWAYS WANTED ME TO wear a suit and work in an office, Nicky Alexander pondered. Maybe he was right—or maybe I’m getting older. Or maybe I’ve got someone on my mind … no … don’t go there … better to keep your mind off her. Keep your thoughts on what matters.

After the conclusion of his frontline work in the baking sun of Yemen and Saudi Arabia, he slipped into Sudan on a speedboat across the Red Sea. Not quite as dramatic as Moses, but it felt like salvation after his time with Sheikh Malmak. His earlier meetings there held the same purpose as his time with the old buzzard, but none held the same drama or danger. Still, his uncle was right. He had built a formidable network of stooges who didn’t have a clue why they were being given armaments and vital information about their enemies, but knew exactly what to do with the mother lode of resources. It was time for him to let others do the nasty work.

After taking a jeep across barely passable desert roads, he caught a plane from Khartoum to Cairo under one of his aliases. Rubbing the stubble on his head and catching the reflection of his black beard in a window before boarding, he wasn’t sure his own mother would recognize him, much less the sailors on the merchant marine vessel he
was working on out of Port Said to Port Chania on the Island of Crete. He was just another itinerant worker looking to make a few bucks loading and unloading freighters.

From Crete, he would take a commercial ferry filled with budget tourists that made a stop in Patmos, his next stop. From there he would find out how his operations were progressing and get his next assignment from Uncle. Flying under the radar, he felt naked not knowing what was happening in Yemen, the Ukraine, the States, Liberia, Shenzhen, Turin, Paris, Berlin, London, Moscow, and other areas strategically targeted for beta events.

How long will I get to stay in Patmos? Better not to think of that. His uncle would not approve. But thoughts of the remarkable scientist, Claire Stevens, beautiful and fair in contrast to his dark, hard handsomeness—or so he had been told—were impossible to suppress.

He knew the first time he laid eyes on her that he wanted her— and that she wanted him. The chemistry was intense and magical. How many women had he slept with? Too many to count. But nothing compared to unbridled passion of making love to Claire. No, not quite right. Making love
with
Claire.

Is that a first for me?

He focused on what mattered most. He would make calls on a satellite phone that bounced to various stations in space to catch up on developments. Only then would he allow one of the medical staff to attend to the jagged wound on his forearm. People would whisper that he had to fight his way out of Yemen, but the truth was he was gashed opening crates of Kalashnikovs—a mere scratch in comparison to the American and the Saudi prince’s neck injuries. Then he would take a long hot shower to clean the ubiquitous desert sand that had burrowed itself in every nook and cranny of his body. Next he would visit the Patmos barber—his uncle had brought in the man who had cut his hair as a kid—for a straight edged razor shave. Then he would take the
forbidden walk down the hall to Claire’s apartment. They would share a shot of ouzo followed by a simple dinner and bottle of Agiorgitiko wine. Then the evening would begin.

Now is not the time to think of such things.

One thing Uncle had always taught him was business first. Always.

Malmak, if you are only half the man you think you are, you truly are great and mighty. Attack before they arrive at your camp. Bring the dawn of war to the southern reaches of the Saudi Peninsula. Then die. I hope you choke on your qat as the blood drains from your body.

“Hey, we aren’t paying you to look at he sea,” the angry Moroccan shouted at him. “I’m docking your pay.”

He shoved Nicky backward. Nicky nearly bit his tongue, squelching the impulse to strike back. He lowered his eyes and mumbled an apology. He quickly bent to hoist and carry a heavy crate into the ribbed metal container that was being prepared for delivery at Port Chania. The man smacked him in the back of the head.

Nicky took a deep cleansing breath and stifled a smile. In the world he worked in, it was wonderful to be taken lightly. That meant you were invisible—and alive to greet another day.

Suddenly the roar of a sleek black helicopter descended from above. The foreman ordered men to make space for the rotating blades as it pitched and bobbed onto the white painted crosshairs of the helipad.

The captain was now on deck and strode forward to greet the man who quickly exited the craft. Nicky knew him immediately. Frank Wallach was a captain in his uncle’s military division. There could be only one reason for his appearance. Nicky stepped forward.

“Get back, scum,” the Moroccan threatened with raise hand.

“Let him through,” the captain snarled, giving the man a boot in the buttocks as he turned to back away.

The supervisor stepped back with bowed head to let Nicky pass.

He and Frank embraced.

“What’s happening? Where are we going?” Nicky asked Wallach as they jumped aboard the helicopter.

“A small setback,” Wallach said, as they lifted off the deck of the freighter. “You’re meeting Mr. Alexander in New York City. Tonight.”

The blues and greens of the Mediterranean were stunning as the freighter became a speck in the undulating, white-crested lines and swirls on the canvas of water.

So much for being invisible, Nicky thought. And so much for seeing Claire. He nearly groaned with yearning.