Shadow Maker (5 page)

Istanbul, Turkey

P
avel Ercan whistled as he walked. He loved the acoustics of empty hallways. He enjoyed solitude. That's why he requested the late security shift at the university's new biochemical research facility. He led a team of three guards that each manned a floor. As the senior guard, he could have taken the desk at the entrance—where there was a television—but he preferred it here, on the third floor, in the quiet.

The
click
of a closing door echoed from the crossing hallway ahead. Usually by this time, all the staff and students had gone home. The floor should be empty. Pavel placed a hand on his nightstick, but before he reached the hallway, a short, white-haired man in a lab coat rounded the corner at an urgent pace. Pavel relaxed. He recognized Dr. Varga. The facility chairman always moved at such a pace, always had someplace to be.

Pavel waved smartly and smiled, but the professor ignored him and continued toward the bank of elevators at the center of the floor. The security guard did not feel particularly snubbed. Dr. Varga never acknowledged anyone beneath his station, unless it was to bark an order or chew them out. He watched the man jab at the down button until one of the elevators finally opened and he stepped inside. Then he inclined his head and spoke into the radio handset hanging over his shoulder. “Big man is coming your way, Janos,” he warned, prompting the guard at the entrance to turn off the TV and pretend to watch the door until Varga exited the building.

“Yah, yah,” the radio crackled back.

With the most exciting event of the evening behind him, Pavel retreated to a chair at the end of the hallway and sat down to enjoy his dinner. He removed a paper-wrapped chutney sandwich and thermos of coffee from his backpack, and was just about to bite into the sandwich when he heard an echoing crash from far below.

Pavel sighed. He set the sandwich down on top of his backpack and keyed his radio. “Janos, what have you done?”

Janos made no response.

“Adnan, go down to one and check on Janos. Find out what that
imbecile
has broken this time.” Pavel emphasized the word
imbecile
, hoping that Janos could hear him.

“I always check on him. Why can't you check on him?”

Pavel glanced down at his chutney sandwich. It called to him. “Because I am in charge and you are closer. Now get moving.”

Half a minute passed as Pavel took a sip of coffee and then raised his sandwich for the second time. As his teeth sank into the soft white bread, the hallway went completely dark. “What now?” he mumbled through a mouth full of chutney. He swallowed and picked up the radio again. “Adnan, come in.”

Adnan did not reply.

“Adnan? Janos?”

Pavel got up and started walking toward the elevators, muttering about the incompetence of his crew. He tried to raise his flashlight, but the lanyard tangled on his belt, forcing him to hold the sandwich in his mouth and look down to unhook it. Finally, he flipped on the bright beam and looked up again. His blood ran cold. The chutney sandwich fell to the floor with a light splat.

A menacing figure barred his path barely a meter away, cloaked in black with a wide hood that obscured his face. The security guard went for his nightstick, but he was too late. He barely saw the flash of the knife before it ripped across his throat. He grabbed at the wound with both hands and felt the sickening gush of his own warm blood pulsing through his fingers. He tried to speak, but he couldn't. He couldn't even scream.

—

The hooded figure stepped around the gurgling guard without waiting for him to fall. It was not until he turned down the next hallway that he heard the
crack
of the man's skull hitting the tile next to his ruined sandwich. At the far end of the hall, he found the facility's cold-storage locker. A red light glowed above the door, warning that structural power to the refrigeration units had been compromised, leaving them on the auxiliary batteries. The door was still locked, secured by a keycard reader and biometric pad that were also supported by backup batteries, but that was expected.

The intruder reached into the fold of his cloak and removed an access card that read
VARGA, BIOCHEM
. He swiped the card, causing the red LED on the biometric pad to turn orange and blink. Letting the card fall to the floor, he reached into his cloak again. This time he produced a white cloth, stained with blood, pinched between his fingers. As he raised it to the pad, the cloth unraveled over his hand to reveal a severed thumb. He pressed the thumb against the pad and the LED turned green. The lock clicked open.

Inside, the intruder opened a large canvas satchel and began sweeping chemicals off shelves. Most fell into the bag. Others fell to the floor. Glass vials filled with blue, amber, and clear liquids shattered at his feet. When the bag was half-full, he went to the rear of the locker and found a tall locked cabinet. He smashed the glass with his elbow. Again, the intruder indiscriminately swept vials and bottles into his satchel—this time continuing until it was full. Then he bent down to the bottom shelf and carefully lifted a pressurized titanium container. On all four sides of the box, bright yellow labels read
BIOHAZARD: CONTROLLED SUBSTANCE
.

G
et packed,” said Nick, letting the door slam behind him as he rushed across the tile foyer of his home. Katy sat on the living room couch working on her latest hobby. Photos and colored paper lay all around her on the cushions, a large open binder on her lap. Their son sat on the carpet at her feet, giggling as he knocked down stacks of blocks.

Katy did not look up from her scrapbooking. “My day was fine, dear. How was yours?”

“My day's not over yet. I have to ship out tonight. Pack up. You're going to stay at your mother's while I'm gone.”

That got Katy's attention. She put her scissors down. “What's going on?”

As a young officer, Nick had learned to discern when it was appropriate to follow orders without questioning. His subordinates also had that skill. He often wished his wife could learn it too. “Look, it's not complicated. I don't want you and Luke here alone. As soon as you drop Dad off at the airport tomorrow, I want you on the road to your mom's house. Don't even come home in-between. Pack up the car before you leave with Dad. If he asks why you're going out of town, make up an excuse.”

“Or you could tell him the truth,” said Kurt Baron, emerging from the hallway to the guest room. “What's all this about?”

“It's nothing, Dad.” Nick turned away from his father and shot Katy a look that said “Do as I say.”

Katy shot a glare right back at him, suddenly in one of her moods. “How is it nothing?” she argued, standing up and crossing her arms. “You're telling me to flee our home, but you won't say why.”

Nick heard a sniffle at his feet. “Dada?” Luke stared up at him, on the edge of tears, his hand frozen above the tumbled blocks as if he had caused all the anger in the room by knocking them down. Nick willed his tense features to relax and gave his son a reassuring smile. Luke smiled back and returned to his game.

When Nick looked up again, his wife's expression had not softened. He slumped down into an oversized chair, defeated. “Our presence at the attack wasn't happenstance,” he said, watching her hardened glare collapse into shock.

“You mean the bomber was trying to kill you?” asked Kurt.

“Maybe, or at least get my attention.”

“That doesn't make any sense. Why would a suicide bomber target you? You're just an adviser.”

Just
. Nick hated it when his dad used that word. You're just a kid. You're just an outfielder. You're just a lieutenant.
Just
meant you didn't matter. He bit back what he wanted to say and offered his dad a very uncomfortable truth. “I don't know why.”

“Then how can you be sure?” asked Katy.

“The FBI has evidence.”

The older Baron stepped deeper into the room, a stern expression—his colonel face—bearing down on Nick. “What evidence?”

“
Classified
evidence, Dad.” Nick sat forward in his chair and sighed. “The how and the why don't matter now. The fact remains that I've come up on some terrorist group's radar, and if they were able to find us on the Mall, then they probably know where we live. I have to leave the country tonight, and I'm not comfortable leaving Katy here alone.” He matched his father's stare. “I told Katy to go to her mother's place. I'm trying to keep my family safe, and I would appreciate your support.”

“You don't have it. You're not making sense.”

Nick almost came out of the chair swinging at his father's defiance, but he caught himself when Luke stopped playing and looked up at him again. He took a deep breath and settled back down into his seat. He settled his voice as well. “Dad, I've already explained that the FBI is sure about this.”

The elder Baron made a T with his hands, signaling détente. “That's not what I meant. Listen, if they can figure out where you live, it won't be long before they can figure out where Katy's folks live. You can't protect her by sending her to West Virginia.”

Nick leaned back against the cushion and looked up at his father. “You have a better idea?”

“As a matter of fact, I do.” Kurt bent down and scooped up his grandson, to the delight of the child. “Katy and Luke can come with me to Israel.”

“What?” Katy abruptly turned to face her former ally.

“I'm serious. My invitation to speak included travel and accommodations for two. That's standard practice. Guest speakers usually bring a spouse or an assistant.” He sat down in the chair across from Nick and started bouncing Luke on his knee. The toddler laughed and squealed. “Two days in Frankfurt to speak at the campus there, two in Jerusalem, another day in Frankfurt on the way home. No terrorist would anticipate Katy and Luke hopping back and forth between Europe and the Holy Land. If you want to protect your family, keep them on the move.” He smiled down at his grandson and lightened his voice. “It will be fun! There's going to be a total eclipse visible from Jerusalem. Not everybody gets to see one of those.”

As much as he wanted to find a flaw in his dad's idea, Nick couldn't argue with the logic. When crossing borders, vacationers only had to manage their suitcases and their children. Terrorists, on the other hand, had to manage identities and weapons, and those things took time. Katy's surprise travel would keep her one step ahead.

Katy's hands were on her hips. “Excuse me. Does the little woman get a say?”

“Of course, my dear. How thoughtless of us.” Kurt offered her a chivalrous bow, playing the white knight opposite Nick's tyrant king.

Katy responded to the knight with a sweet nod of thanks and then knelt next to the tyrant's throne, placing a hand on his arm. “I've always wanted to see Israel. And I think your son and I would be a lot safer traveling with your father than driving ourselves to Lewisburg.” Her light grip on his forearm became a heavy squeeze, with a couple of fingernails added for emphasis. “Don't you?”

Without waiting for a response, Nick's dad set Luke down and stood up, clapping his hands together. “It's settled then. I'll call the travel company right now and make all the arrangements.”

—

Had that been the end of it, Nick would have considered the status quo maintained—Dad wins and everyone else plays along. But that wasn't the end of it. Shortly before he left for the base, Nick informed Katy that he had to take away her phone to keep her from being tracked. He had delayed the conversation because he knew it would turn into a fight, and it did. Katy cried, which set Luke off, and then of course his dad had to butt in. This time Nick did not back down, and he ordered his dad to minimize communications too. He was certainly not to call or text Nick. The elder Baron fought back. He could call his own son whenever he wanted to. “Fine,” said Nick, “but don't expect me to answer.”

Nick made up with Katy, kissed her good-bye, kissed his little boy, but those were the last words he said to his father.

L
ike the repurposed presidential bunker below, Romeo Seven's hangar facility was a relic of days gone by, a testament to the excess of the Cold War. The two massive adjoining structures had been erected in 1958 to house Ike's new Boeing 707 presidential fleet. There were only two aircraft, but like every Strategic Air Command endeavor, the grandeur of the new facility far exceeded its purpose. One hangar alone could have sheltered three 707s and included offices and shop space for an army of maintenance personnel.

As with the bunker, Walker had renovated the out-of-use hangars with black funds. On the outside, they looked the same as any of the unused hangars found on Air Force bases across the country. On the inside, they housed a state-of-the-art facility with propulsion, hydraulic, and avionics shops; a subterranean engineering lab; and a small fleet of aircraft, of which the flagship was a jumbo-jet-sized stealth striker called the M-2 Wraith.

As Nick entered the hangar an hour before the mission launch, two CIA pilots were preflighting the latest addition to Walker's air force—a sleek, gray and black Gulfstream C-37B. Normally Nick and Drake piloted the Triple Seven's aircraft, but the colonel had worked out a deal to have Agency pilots fly this militarized version of a G550 luxury business jet. Walker wanted his operators to use the Gulfstream as a mobile command center, and they couldn't do that if they spent all their time playing around in the cockpit.

A blonde in greasy blue coveralls hopped down off one of the Wraith's massive landing-gear assemblies and flagged Nick down with a dirty oil rag. “Aren't you taking my baby with you?”

Amanda Navistrova led the aircraft maintenance team. She was also one of the Wraith's principal designers, with multiple degrees from MIT. The coveralls, the unkempt ponytail, and the safety goggles strapped to her forehead did little to detract from her gorgeous features. In fact, Nick decided, few women could pull off that ensemble better.

“If you mean the Wraith,” he said, closing the distance between them, “I've got to leave her in the barn. We're looking for subtle, and landing the world's largest stealth aircraft at Budapest International doesn't fit the bill. If you mean your other baby—”

“I don't.” Amanda cut him off, casting an evil glare toward the entrance behind him.

Nick glanced over his shoulder and saw Drake stepping into the facility. When he turned back, Amanda was walking away beneath the broad belly of the striker. She slapped the rag down on a worktable and disappeared into the maintenance section.

“What did you do this time?” asked Nick, meeting Drake at a table covered with black duffels and hard equipment cases next to the Gulfstream's cargo bay.

Drake unzipped one of the bags. “Nothing. I don't know what her problem is.”

Amanda and Drake, known collectively as Mandrake by Walker's techs, had been the Triple Seven's token office romance for years. In Nick's opinion, they should have been the Triple Seven's token married couple, but Drake couldn't pull the trigger. Every time things got serious, he did something stupid to pick a fight, like flirting with their waitress at dinner. Nick didn't believe Drake's
nothing
for an instant. “You're an idiot.”

Drake lifted a Heckler and Koch MP7A1 compact submachine gun from the duffel and checked the chamber. “I know.”

Both fell silent and continued their equipment checks. While Drake moved on to a nine-millimeter Beretta Nano micro-compact, Nick popped open a wide, flat case, revealing six black boxes set in gray foam, each the size of a deck of cards. Each had a small screen and keyboard, and each had a tiny earpiece mounted on copper contacts in the upper left corner. These would serve as the team's field radios, controlled by an app on their smartphones, or by touch and voice commands should the phones become unavailable.

Nick activated all the screens to make sure the earpieces were charged and then shut them off again. When he closed the case, Ethan Quinn was standing in front of him, glancing back and forth between the two quiet operatives. “What'd I miss?” he asked.

The older operatives responded simultaneously.

“Nothing,” said Drake.

“He's an idiot,” said Nick.

Quinn clapped his hands and rubbed them together. “Situation normal then. I guess it's time to go catch ourselves a hacker.”