The Circle of Eight (18 page)

He sensed a shadow to his left and spun to see the
imposing figure of his master standing before him, how he had managed to get
there so fast Dietrich did not know.

“What are you doing, Dietrich?”

The voice was again emotionless, barely questioning, as
if he already knew the answers to the questions he was about to ask, having
already read his subject’s mind.

“I’m just disposing of the empty barrel, my master,” he
gasped, stunned he had been able to form the words.

“Then why do you run?”

Dietrich slipped the dagger into his right pocket and
shifted the barrel from his left to his right arm, shaking out the left arm and
playing for time.

“I’m sorry, master, but somebody grabbed me and I
defended myself. I forgot you had extra guards, and in my horror, I stabbed
one. Then more came, and I panicked. I thought they would seek revenge before I
could explain myself, so I ran.”

He pushed away from the wall several feet as his breath
slowly steadied. The group still surrounded him, his master at an even height
with him as he was several feet farther down the road, his imposing stature
making the difference.

Dietrich kept his side to him, the barrel under his
right arm, then flashed him a smile he hoped would disarm the man.

“I don’t believe you,” said his master. “I believe you
were more affected by the death of the girl than you admitted to, and that your
misguided emotions are leading you astray.”

“No, master, I would never let my emotions affect my
judgment.”

“And yet again, I don’t believe you.”

His master flicked his wrist, and the robed figures
surrounding him began to advance.

Dietrich swung his body to the right, grasping either
end of the barrel in his hands, then swung back, pivoting his entire body to
the left, releasing the barrel at the apex of the swing. The advancing robes
stopped as all heads followed the barrel as it flew over their heads. Dietrich
held his breath, praying his throw was long enough, but his heart sank as the
barrel fell short, hitting the stone wall and bouncing back.

“Pathetic,” said his master as he turned back toward
Dietrich. But Dietrich smiled and watched as the barrel began to roll down the
steep road, the cobblestones unforgiving, their firm surface causing the barrel
to bounce higher and higher as it gained speed and caught on the various
imperfections in the road.

“Get it!” yelled his master as the robed figures
scrambled after the barrel, now bouncing as high as a man.

Dietrich took the opportunity to turn toward Heike’s
home but he felt an iron grip on his left arm, dragging him down the road. He
reached for the blade in his pocket with his free hand and swung it toward his
master, but it was easily intercepted, his wrist caught by the left hand of his
captor.

Who then squeezed.

The pain was unbelievable, his grip like the jaws of a
lion. Within seconds the blade clattered to the pavement as his master
continued to run down the road, undeterred. As they came around a bend to the
right, Dietrich laughed as the barrel bounced over the wall on the left and hit
the side of a building, falling out of sight and into the roaring river below.

“No!” screamed the master, the sound unbelievable,
inhuman. Dietrich felt the grip on his arm loosen and he prepared himself to
break away, but instead the hand quickly let go and gripped his neck. He felt
his entire body lift off the ground as he was carried toward the precipice he
had last seen his beloved from. The grip was crushing and he couldn’t breathe.
He clawed at his master’s hands but it was no use.

He felt his legs hit the waist high wall as his master
held him out over the river below.

“You will pay for eternity for what you have done,”
growled the man, his eyes flaring in the moonlight as if a demon.

The grip loosened and Dietrich felt air surge into his
lungs as he plunged to the river below.

But he didn’t care.

He smiled as his mind filled with thoughts of Heike, and
how they would be together soon, the bliss he felt enough for him to ignore the
harsh shock of cold that enveloped him, then the snapping of his back on a rock
below.

Heike!

Laura Palmer’s Private Jet, Over the Atlantic Ocean

The phone vibrated on Dawson’s chest. He was drifting in and out of
sleep as he lay back in the ridiculously comfortable Gulf V seats. He answered.

“Go ahead.”

“Mr. White, a mutual friend wanted me to contact you.”

Dawson recognized the voice of the young CIA analyst he
had dealt with several months ago during the New Orleans crisis, Chris Leroux.
He was trusted by Kane and had come through in a big way. He also had it on
good authority this young man had figured out the Brass Monkey incident long
before anyone else.

“What have you got for me?”

“Do you have access to a laptop and the Internet?”

Dawson looked at Professor Palmer.

“Doctor, do we have a laptop with Internet access?”

She nodded, pointing at the laptop on her pullout desk.

“Go ahead,” she said as she shuffled out of her seat. He
took her place as the two professors stood behind him, the rest of the team
gathered around. He put the phone on speaker.

“You’re on speaker. I’ve got a laptop with Internet
access.”

Leroux quickly gave him a set of login instructions and
moments later they were looking at a secure briefing the CIA analyst had put
together.

“I’ve put together everything we have on Martin Lacroix.
He’s a medical doctor, apparently brilliant when he worked publicly, but he’s
gone more into the political side of things now, directing third world funding
for various programs the World Bank supports. He’s a big proponent of family
planning programs, woman’s rights in the third world—”

“That’s ironic,” commented Niner.

“—birth control, population control programs, conversion
of traditional farming to larger corporate based farming using genetically
modified grain and rice. He seems to be a crusader to bring the third world
into the twenty-first century when it comes to reducing poverty and improving
food supply.”

“I’m guessing he has ulterior motives,” muttered Acton.

“What?”

“Nothing,” said Dawson. “Continue.”

“Well, it’s all in the file, but if he’s not off on a
World Bank junket, he’s usually found at his home in San Marino.”

“San Marino? Never heard of it,” said Jimmy.

“The Most Serene Republic of San Marino,” said Acton.
“It’s a microstate within Italy, about twenty-four square miles, maybe
thirty-thousand people.”

“Jesus, I’ve dropped deuces bigger than that,” muttered
Niner who then looked at Professor Palmer. “Umm, sorry ma’am, I was born
crude.”

“Call me ma’am again and you won’t need to worry about how
the next generation turns out.”

Jimmy punched Niner in the shoulder as Acton gave his
fiancée a thumbs up then continued.

“On a per capita basis it’s one of the richest in the
world, very stable, very safe, no debt, budget surplus, little unemployment.
It’s a leftover from the fourth century that managed to survive the turmoil
around it. The rich love it because they can live in Europe, live their
lifestyle, come and go as they please, and have all of their money sheltered
from the idiocy of the European Union.”

“So it’s a tax haven,” said Niner.

“Pretty much.”

“Do we know if he’s there now?” asked Dawson.

“Intel has him arriving there two nights ago,” said
Leroux. “Also, we’ve traced the calls to and from that cellphone you retrieved.
It was a burner. All of the calls were to and from the same number. The number
was a repeater that bounced around the world a few times, but I managed to
track it down.”

“Where?”

“San Marino.”

“Anything on his movements over the past few years?
We’re thinking he might be linked to seven others in his organization.”

“It’s difficult to say. Passport records show him
travelling all over the world, almost a different city every week.”

“Any pattern?”

“Well, I cross referenced these trips with World Bank
business and was able to find one anomaly.”

“Yes?”

“Four times a year he goes to France like clockwork, only missing a few times in ten years.
Each solstice and equinox, he is in France. Sometimes there is World Bank
business, but never on the day before or the day of.”

“That’s odd,” commented Acton. “Almost pagan. The
Rosicrucians were Christian, but they did embrace all belief systems that were
thought to better themselves.”

Palmer cleared her throat.

“You gentlemen do realize the next solstice is in three
days?”

“He could lead us right to them.”

“If he thinks we’re after him, do you think he’d be
stupid enough to go?” asked Jimmy.

“Not stupid enough, but he just might be arrogant
enough,” replied Dawson. He picked up the phone. “Sir, thank you for your
assistance. We’ll contact you if we need anything else.”

“My pleasure, Mr. White.”

Dawson ended the call, looking at those gathered around
him.

“We may just have what we need. Let’s get to Geneva,
gear up, pre-position in France, then find out where this bastard goes. With
any luck, we take these guys down by season’s end.”

Geneva Cointrin Airport, Geneva, Switzerland

Customs was usually cleared quickly on private jets. Private
terminals, a separate customs gate for the few passengers that came through
that particular terminal, then you were free and clear to enjoy whatever city
you had just flown into.

Acton had only been to the Swiss city of Geneva once
before. And he loved it. The history, the architecture, the people. It was
small for such an influential city, it carrying a lot of responsibility
internationally, reflected in its multinational population, fully half of its
nearly 200,000 residents foreign. With its neutral status, Switzerland had
managed to avoid almost two centuries of neighboring wars, and was able to play
arbiter to many conflicts and international projects. Recognized worldwide as a
center for diplomacy and international finance, its bank accounts were still
legendary, if not as secret as they once were.

But this time he was here for anything but pleasure. He
had been filled in on what had happened to Stucco and his family, to the Geneva
police detective’s family, and to Dawson’s family as well. It was unbelievable.
It was horrifying. He glanced over at Laura and gave her a little smile.

If anything ever happened to you, I don’t know how
I’d go on.

He had never been truly in love before in his life. He
had thought he was several times, but it wasn’t until Laura had come along, and
they had fallen in love, that he realized all the previous times had been
nothing.
This
was
true
love,
this
was what life was about.
Imagining life without her was something he couldn’t fathom. They had had a lot
of close calls since they met each other, and every time he had thought he had
lost her he had felt empty, hollowed.

Sometimes he wanted to become a hermit, settle down in
some small college town somewhere and teach, her in the town’s other college—a
nice, safe, predictable routine. No dangers, no secret cults, no bullets or
rockets flying by their heads.

But that wasn’t them.

Being out in the field at a dig site with their
students, that was what they lived for. Holing up, leading a sheltered life,
wasn’t for either of them. They’d go shack-whacky within weeks if they couldn’t
get their hands dirty. And if that meant grenades and ninjas, then so be it.

Ninjas?

A quick mental rerun of the last few years and he
confirmed Ninja’s hadn’t made an appearance.

Yet.

Too cliché!

As they exited the terminal, the familiar face of Spock
greeted them along with Mickey, both standing in front of SUVs.

Why are they always black?

He didn’t see any rental stickers as they loaded their
luggage in the backs in silence. He and Laura were in the same SUV as Dawson,
Red and Spock, the rest in the other with Mickey. Spock began to immediately
bring them up to date.

“I’ve secured rooms in a busy part of town so our
comings and goings shouldn’t be noticed. Wings and Jagger are securing supplies
now. Comms have been set up with Atlas already. I’ve already tapped into the
locals and got their files on Maria’s rape case and the suicide, along with the
Inspector’s family’s murder. Not much in the details. There’s no forensics,
nothing to lead to the killers, but you’ll find this interesting,” said Spock.
He pulled a file folder off the dash and handed it to Dawson. Dawson flipped it
open as Acton leaned forward to see what it was.

Dawson shifted in his seat, holding the contents higher
so the backseat could see. The first was of the suicide scene where Maria had
been hit by the bus.

“See anything unusual?” asked Spock.

“No,” replied Dawson. Acton stared at it and admitted he
didn’t see anything either.

“Don’t look at the accident site. Look at what has nothing
to do with the accident.”

Acton leaned in even closer, still seeing nothing. An
intersection, a stopped bus, a chalk outline where Maria’s body had come to
rest, painted lines, a pool of blood, a pole covered in bills in the
foreground, occupying the right-hand side of the photo, slightly out of focus.

“Holy shit!” he exclaimed as it finally jumped at him.

“Ah, the Doc has it,” smiled Spock as he made a turn. “I
haven’t had time to retrieve it yet, so we’ll go there now. Only about two
minutes from here.”

“I must be dense because I still don’t see it,” said
Dawson.