The Ragnarok Conspiracy (26 page)

Michael Inherp watched the docked boats bob in the waves of the Gulf of Mexico. Night had fallen on New Orleans.
Not the old New Orleans
, he reminded himself, full of swagger and slum, of music and magic, of Mardi Gras and murder, of artists and pimps. It was a wounded shadow of the once great city, left alone to rot after Hurricane Katrina in 2005. Lights danced on the sea stretching out before the dock like those in a van Gogh painting, the rigging of sailboats nearby like muffled bells playing to the rhythm of the waves.
Calm before the storm.
He closed his eyes, thinking about the tempest to come.

A small freighter waited hungrily at the dock. It was an unusual vessel, thoroughly modernized, down to tinted black windows and highly sophisticated and expensive radar and communications equipment visible from the outside. Inherp had seen the inside and knew the outside told only a superficial tale. For several days, he and other soldiers of Mjolnir had passed on and off the boat. Men with purpose and haste and intensity foreign to the rhythms of the port.

Inherp continued to scan the port as part of his guard duty. He watched an old fisherman prepare his boat for the night's expedition. This was not the first time the old man had worked his boat during Inherp's watch. Stooped, a gray beard visible from a distance, he had seen unusual activity at the strange boat. Inherp doubted the fisherman thought long on the issue. This was New Orleans, after all. He displayed no real curiosity. He prepped his boat and cast out. Night after night. The old man seemed to have a different pace, a sense of the sea, its rhythm, its long heartbeat and toll of a lifetime. Inherp suppressed a
bitter laugh.
Not like us, are you, Gramps?
With our machines and power, flaunting our disrespect for the great waters of the world.

This night, the activity was particularly brisk, and Inherp knew the man had seen much, even inadvertently.
Seen too much.
The old fisherman had been working when the very large crate was pulled along the dock on an extended trolley. The old man had perked up when the crate rolled by, its mass flanked on each side by armed men. He had cast a glance or two as the men wheeled the crate to the freighter, which was equipped with a small crane. The men had secured the crate to a harness, and the crane had pulled the crate upward, out of sight. The old man had worked late one night too many.

It happened so quickly the old fisherman never understood. Inherp watched a shadow rise behind the fisherman. He had only an instant to recognize the broad end of a silenced weapon raised as several muffled spits sounded over the splashing of waves against the dock. The old man lay on the deck of his boat, nets tangled around his arms, a pool of blood forming around his head.

Inherp bowed his head for a moment. The rigging of the sailboats rang like church bells in the thickening night.

Later, onboard, he was ordered to sequester the large crate below deck. He and his fellow soldiers worked very carefully and secured it tightly. Next to the crate, he and the others stood at attention. A tall, thin man descended a narrow set of stairs above him, bowed to fit within the lower ceiling, and straightened to full height when he reached the last step and entered the room. He wore a dark-gray suit, his silvery hair set tight on his head. Money, power, and influence seemed to radiate from his person, as well as something more feral, something that Inherp could feel and that kept him even more tightly at attention.
William Gunn.
Inherp felt stunned to be in his presence. Following behind, a powerfully built figure with blond hair emerged and now stood a few feet to Gunn's left. This man had a sharp crew cut and the face of a tested warrior.

“Open it,” said Gunn.

Inherp jumped to obey, and within moments, he and the others had
revealed what lay within. Gunn stared at the long, black object inside with a terrible fascination that sickened Inherp. The CEO stepped up and rubbed his hands along its smooth contours. It ran nearly twenty-one feet in length with a diameter of about two and a half feet. Wings jutted outward from its midsection, spanning over ten feet. The very design of the thing reeked of threat and death. It was a predator like the world had never seen.

“AGM-129 ACM cruise missile,” said the older soldier, matter-of-factly. “Average speed that of a jet plane at five hundred miles per hour. Range—two thousand nautical miles. Payload—a W80-1 variable yield. She flies fast, she flies low and unseen, and delivers one hell of a punch at the end.”

Inherp noticed that Gunn did not take his eyes off the black missile. The men around him looked distinctly uncomfortable. Finally, the CEO stepped back and addressed the soldiers.

“When you have delivered the package and it is secured, we will begin training for our most important mission, one that will spill fire on our enemies and forever change the world. You men will be part of that mission, a strike at the heart of fanaticism in the world with a weapon the gods themselves didn't possess.”

He glared intensely across the faces, and Inherp felt the man's eyes burn into him. Gunn turned and marched quickly up the stairs. Although Inherp felt a massive tension leave his body, the night had only just begun.

After the leaders had left the room, Inherp and the other young recruits assembled the crate again. As the wood began to cover the black monstrosity within, Inherp hung back from the others, using the crate's sides to partially shield himself from their view. In his hand he held a small metallic and plastic object, and he pointed it at the missile several times discreetly, finishing quickly and ensuring that he remained hidden from the other two soldiers. Finally, he pocketed the object and assisted in the final steps of securing the crate, boxing in the beast once more.

Afterward, he ascended and stood looking across the bow to the
waves below. He felt sick inside and turned his face to the wind. Cool air swept across his face as the ship motored out to sea in the quiet of the night. He touched the cell phone in his pocket. It held information that the world had to see—and had to see soon. He knew that somehow, he had to live long enough to make sure that they did.

Savas entered the Operations Room. As always, there was an assault of visual information from the many monitors mounted on the walls—a strange FBI version of Times Square. J. P. Rideout called to him from across the room.

“John—we've got the specs on that plane and the initial analysis of the explosion. This came from the US Navy. They were right on the scene and recorded most of the useful data we've got on this.” He called up several figures on one of the screens showing a large commercial jetliner, 747, and several incomprehensible schematics depicting the analysis of the blast.

“J. P., can you give me the Cliffs Notes version?”

“Yeah, sorry. I don't understand half this stuff myself. Bottom line—this was not an accident. A high-yield explosive device was employed, likely contained in the baggage compartment. How it got past security is anyone's guess. S-47 isn't easy to detect, but they wouldn't have needed anything so sophisticated to bring that plane down.”

“Was there any wreckage recovered?”

“That's still ongoing. There will be some, but that Boeing was blown to bits. There appears to be some remains of the tail section, but it's deep now, and it will take at least another few weeks until the navy can get the necessary equipment out there—that is, if they aren't diverted to the Gulf.”

Savas shook his head slowly. “Yeah. It's a magnet right now for large ships with men and guns. This whole thing is starting to reach critical mass over there.”

Rideout looked up from his terminal. “You think this is going to
lead to war?” Several heads swiveled over in their direction. It was a question on everyone's mind.

“Well, it doesn't look good, but I'm not the one to predict the choices of nations and armies. I sure as hell hope not. If it does, it won't be some little police action like Nam or Iraq—no offense to you guys, who saw blood spilled there. This is going to be something big, something where we can't even bring the bodies back. If Russia and China get involved, who knows where it will go. Mjolnir's wet dream.”

Matt King piped up. “The mosque in Sudan—same MO. Same results from forensics. Your little visit didn't dissuade them from using S-47, or from anything else, it seems. There were riots again in Khartoum, and the American Embassy was firebombed. Molotov cocktails and the like. Luckily, we evacuated our people last week. It's definitely not a good time to travel with a US passport.”

“Or to live near any Muslim holy site of any significance,” said Savas.

Frank Miller nodded, wincing from the pain in his shoulder, his arm in a sling. “That sure as hell is true. The question is, where will they strike next? We've been banging our heads against this for months, but there's no rhyme or reason, no pattern.”

Savas and Cohen exchanged glances. “No,” Savas said. “Nothing. No structure, pattern, nothing we can get our hands on to predict and prepare.”

“There's something…” Angel Lightfoote whispered as much to herself as to anyone in the room.

“Angel?” asked Savas. “You think you see something?”

Lightfoote stared forward, shaking her head. “There's always something.”

He sighed. They remained in the dark, powerless, while a panther stalked the world—and stalked him and Cohen. They kept waiting for the hammer to fall.

Husaam Jordan stepped into the room and approached Savas. “John, we think that Gunn has left the country, probably for Mexico or somewhere in Central America.”

“What?” William Gunn leaving the country, and not flying to a big bank in China or Europe, made Savas very uneasy. “Field agents last had him in New Orleans!”

“He lost them quite effectively, it seems. He's been using a number of decoys. Our contacts at the ports place a man who fits his description, as well as an unusual amount of activity, at a cargo ship several days ago. Right around that time, there was a shooting at the same port that occurred the night that ship left harbor. We've been able to track the numbers on the boat back to an old discarded model once used by Operon several years back.”

“We need a better team down there,” Savas said dejectedly. “You spooks are doing our job for us. OK, assuming that this is not a coincidence, why does that mean he's out of the country?”

“CIA contacts in Mexico, John. This boat docked several days after departure, south of the border. We've sent a team, and they will check it out, but I bet all traces of Mjolnir will be gone.”

“Assuming he was on the boat, what the hell is he doing there?”

“Not vacationing,” the Muslim said flatly.

That night Savas lay next to Cohen, unable to sleep. He glanced over at the clock—it was three in the morning. His mind was obsessively examining the scant data and unproven hypotheses that characterized the investigation. There had to be a pattern to the attacks, something that would help them understand their structure and purpose, and from that, to know where Mjolnir would strike again. Did any of this have to do with Gunn's departure for Mexico? Why would he leave in such a clandestine fashion? How would they unearth the evidence required to link him to these crimes?

He rolled over on his side. If he stayed like that too long, his back, battered during his days on the force, would cramp, but he needed to look at her. She slept peacefully, her lips slightly parted, a slow and soft rhythm to her breath hardly disturbing the quiet of the night.

A sudden sound broke the peace. His head darted toward the bedroom door. The sound was muffled, shielded from the bedroom by a hallway and several thin walls, but it was unmistakable. Several sudden and harsh spits, an intake of breath, and the soft thud of a body falling against the wall.
Outside.
He pulled off the blanket, jumped out of bed, and ran to the chest of drawers. He pulled out his handgun, checked the clip, and popped the safety. The moonlight shone through the windows, bathing his naked form in a silvery sheen. Every muscle was tensed, and he listened a moment without moving.
Click.
The bolt lock. Every nightmare he had had in the last month was coming alive before him.

He jumped back to the bed and shook Cohen. She stirred, opened her eyes, and was about to speak when he placed his hand over her
mouth, holding his gun hand to his own with an outstretched finger over his lips. She snapped to an alert state, her eyes large, instinctively pulling the sheet closer. He shook his head, motioning to her not to speak and indicating that she should get down behind the bed. Cohen was an amazing FBI agent, but she was an analyst, not made for violence. Savas had seen plenty on the streets, especially during his early years at NYPD. But these were the trained assassins of Mjolnir, not common criminals.
I cannot lose her.

The door crashed open with a thunderous noise, the drag chain snapping and flying across the living room. Savas dove through the bedroom door landing on his shoulder and side on the floor of the hallway. Absorbing the impact, he steadied his firearm and aimed in front of him.

He saw two dim shapes entering the apartment, weapons in their hands.
Two.
But he had the advantage of surprise.

He opened fire from his prone position at the closer of the two shapes; the other was still coming through the doorway. Three rapid shots from his pistol. The figure crumbled, let out a hoarse shout, and dropped to the ground firing wildly and shattering a mirror on the wall over the couch. Instinctively, Savas rolled right and into the bathroom, and a second later the wooden tile of the hallway exploded as several shots tore through the floor. He pulled his feet inside, stood up to steady himself, and prepared to dart out and fire on the second assailant.

It was unnecessary. His assailant found him.

Suddenly a dark shape appeared in the doorway. Savas swung his arm to divert the man's weapon hand, and several shots exploded against the tile of the bathtub. He brought his own gun forward, but the assailant was both fast and strong. Savas's wrist was pinned by the gunman's left hand and twisted backward so hard he cried out in pain and dropped his gun. The man brought his gun across his body as a bludgeoning weapon and struck Savas in the jaw, crashing his head into the wall. Partially stunned, yet running on the adrenaline of survival, Savas was able to bring his left arm down like a hammer, smashing
the weapon out of the man's hand. The gun clanked heavily as it hit the floor tiles.

Cohen screamed his name.
No! Hide, hide, hide…
Savas felt the impact and deep swelling pain as the man crashed his knee into his testicles, and a flurry of fists impacted his abdomen and face, sending him crashing backward through the shower curtain and into the bathtub. His back was nicked by several broken shards of tile lying in the bottom, and he crumbled into the fetal position, wracked with pain. He watched helplessly as the man reached down, picked up his weapon, and aimed it at him.
Rebecca, run…please, run.
His vision blurred as he bordered on the edge of consciousness.

Two loud explosions shook him to alertness, and he felt a spray of blood as the chest of his assailant burst open, two bullets passing through his body and embedding themselves into the tile above the bathtub. The assassin fell to his knees with a heavy thud, then slowly pitched forward onto his face. The killer's body began to spasm. Savas gazed forward and saw another shape in the frame of the doorway, a man, arms outstretched and ending in a pistol.

“Agent Savas, sir?” came a young voice. “Are you OK?”

An hour later, Savas put down the phone and placed the ice pack back on his jaw.
Ice packs all over me
, he thought ruefully. Cohen sat across from him, her eyes bloodshot with dark circles under them. Her expression was pained. He could guess what it was like to look at him right now. At least the presence of all the FBI agents in the house should help calm her.

“It's OK. It's just not going to be pretty for a while.”

“What did Larry say?” Her voice was nearly devoid of emotion.
Shock.

Savas motioned to the door. “Well, the agents outside—it's the worst. Shot dead right next to the door. We were saved because Larry had another team downstairs. I didn't even know. They were monitoring everything. Apparently they had installed microphones around the place, as well as the communications equipment the two out in
front were plugged into. They knew the second the hit took place and got their second team up here as fast as possible. I'm going to tell Larry that the basement is too damn far away for an effective response.”

“Who were they?”

“You can guess,” said Savas. “Prints are in the Armed Forces' database. Professionals. Who else could it be?”

Cohen nodded and pulled her robe around her. She looked cold, he thought. He just felt too awful to get up and move over to her.
Give me a minute, Rebecca.

“Larry says we'll move to a safe house soon. You'll need to pack up. Maybe we should have done this earlier. After the cyber attack, they knew everything about us, including where we lived. Protecting the apartment was fine, but it wasn't enough. We need to hide out for a while, baby. These guys want us dead for real.”

“John, if that man hadn't come in when he did…”

Savas finally did stand up. He drew a sharp breath. There are just places a man ought not to be hit. He took two steps and pivoted onto the couch next to Cohen. Glass shards from the mirror had been roughly cleared off, scattered across the Persian carpet she had bought only a month ago. He put his arm around her as her shoulders shook.

“It's OK, baby. We talked about this, remember? Don't think about what might have happened. I'm here. Hurting, but here.” She looked over and smiled at him, and he brushed a tear from her eye. “But I think I'm going to have to remain celibate for at least a week.”

She laughed softly at this. Savas kept up his charade of nonchalance and smiled back. He forced himself to remain motionless when he needed to shake. He kept his own tears to himself—as well as his thoughts. Inside, he shook with fear, fear that mere seconds had separated Cohen from death. He shook with the shame of the truth that he had failed to protect her. Only her presence next to him gave him any calm.
At least she is safe and will be safer soon.

William Gunn walked outside a small airfield in Mexico. The runways were barely within the specifications he required, although they would
not likely meet FAA approval for the laden cargo planes that were the predominant traffic. But safety was not his primary concern. The looser regulations and minimal scrutiny from any regulatory bodies made this the perfect location from which to work. The overgrown grass and its mesmerizing patterns blowing in the wind also gave it some modicum of charm as well. He spoke to the large man walking beside him.

“My main concern is the trail we are leaving. We were exposed with Operon, and we must be sure to end our reliance on former elements of Gunn International.”

Patrick Rout nodded. “I understand, sir. It was extremely convenient in the beginning, but its exposure required the hard-to-anticipate breach of the arms network itself, which is something we will continue to have to rely on.”

“I understand the rationale, but the CIA's efforts have shown us the flaw in that reliance, and we must make sure we are completely detached from any such elements in the future.”

“Yes, sir.”

“The use of the modified cargo plane?”

“We have recruited well. The engineers did a remarkable job in bringing significant stealth technology to the aircraft. I have seen it tested—in flight—and it works beautifully. It's too bulky to be invisible on radar, but the signal will be low. If they don't know precisely where to look, they won't see us.”

Gunn paused and gazed out over the field of grass. They were so close, and everything had gone according to plan. The nations had reacted with even more panic and fervor than he had anticipated, practically ensuring complete chaos and war after this mission. The final phase of their grand plan was in motion. Soon the Western armies would once again flow into the Middle East, and the Hammer would strike the Arab nations soundly at their most sensitive point. A new era would begin. William Gunn needed to make sure nothing got in the way.

“Perhaps it is time to take a new tack in New York.”

“Sir?”

“Our efforts have been unsuccessful.”

Rout stiffened. “We are nearly ready to strike hard, Mr. Gunn, as planned. Changing the operation now, I believe, is a mistake.”

Gunn shook his head. “I don't mean overall. I refer to Savas. He has proven very elusive. Perhaps a more indirect course is required.”

“Indirect, sir?”

“We are fairly sure now that there is a relationship between him and the Cohen woman. Our recon supports this conclusion strongly.”

“Yes, sir. She will be targeted for elimination.”

“I believe this to be a mistake. With her death, we risk granting him tremendous motivating force. However, were we to take her alive, she would become a powerful deterrent to his continual involvement in their investigation.”

“Perhaps.”

Gunn remembered painfully the last time he had seen his wife. “I know something about the man. He will not wish to lose someone else in his life that he cares for. Bring her here.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Good. Precautions, no more. They are not close to us in any significant fashion. But they are the closest anyone has gotten. Very soon it will not matter what they or anyone else does. The world will be far busier trying to contain the spreading fire.”