The War Cloud (25 page)

Conrad studied Andros. “What’s going on? I say Midas and your knees start shaking. The guy blows up your boat, kills your crew and almost kills me, your good friend. Odysseus would have had three arrows in this guy’s throat by now.”

Andros, in turn, studied him. “You were not always so vengeful. I want to meet the woman who hurt you so badly. So I can introduce her to my rival shipowners in Athens.”

Conrad looked out at the lush, green spiniada of Corfu Town and thought of Serena. “When you find her let me know. Because she’s not taking my calls.”

“Forget her,” Andros said. “How did you leave things with Mercedes?”

Conrad said nothing.

“I thought so,” said Andros. “Why should she tell you anything about Midas or his operations? More important, what makes you think Midas would have told her anything of value that she could pass on to you? My rule is the less a woman knows the better.”

“Which explains the women you go out with,” Conrad said. “Look at that boat he named after himself. You know that the richer a man gets, the smarter he thinks he is. Midas is an arrogant bastard, and I’m willing to bet that in his hubris he’s let Mercedes see more about his operations than he’s realized.”

“Are you willing to bet your life?”

“I did that a long time ago. Midas took his shot this morning. And I’m still here.”

“So is he, my friend. And he has an inexhaustible supply of henchmen and money. You are only one man.”

Conrad poured some of his brandy into a glass, gave it to Andros, and then held up his bottle in a toast. “What about my buddy, the Greek tycoon, who is going to get me into that Bilderberg party tonight?”

A centuries-old warning holds explosive implications

for America’s destiny….

A
New York Times
,
USA Today
and

Publishers Weekly
bestseller

“A roller coaster that will captivate readers of Dan Brown and Michael Crichton, penetrating one of the biggest mysteries of our time.”

—
The Washington Post

“Greanias keeps the pace breakneck … sweeping readers right into Conrad’s struggle.”

—
Publishers Weekly

“A devilishly clever maelstrom of history, secrets and modern-day political intrigue. Relentlessly action-packed, with tantalizing twists and twirls on every page.”

— Steve Berry,
New York Times
bestselling author

“A top-flight thriller.”

—Blogcritics.org

“Finally, a hero worthy of our admiration!”

—FreshFiction.com

F
ive soldiers of the U.S. Provisional Army came to an abrupt halt at the Georgetown wharf and dismounted their horses. The sleet had stopped, but it was bitter cold outside. The commanding officer looked out across the water at Suter’s Tavern. It was the middle of the night, but he could hear music from inside. A lone lantern flickered in the middle window of the second floor.

That was the sign
.

The man they were after was inside.

The officer signaled his men. They moved quickly toward the front door in single file. Their boots splashed lightly in the moonlit puddles, the bayonets at the end of their muskets glinting. Two soldiers went around the back to take positions behind the kitchen. The other two pounded the front door with the butts of their muskets.

“Open in the name of the United States of America!”

The door opened a crack to reveal the face of a small boy, who fell back in alarm as the soldiers pushed their way inside. The thirty or so revelers in the tavern sat fast in their chairs, their mugs of ale midair and their mouths open. The music stopped, the sudden silence broken only by the crackling of the fireplace flames.

The commanding officer, a head taller than most in the room, grabbed the boy by his collar and demanded, “We are looking for a runaway slave, a cook who goes by the name Hercules.”

Hercules was in the kitchen, chopping onions for one last serving of his popular stew. His wiry dark hair was pulled tight to his scalp and stuck straight back like the handle of an iron skillet. Rules of the house. But he had refused to shave his beard. As his stew rose to a slow boil he suddenly realizedhe noise in the tavern had died down. He cocked his ear.

The kitchen door flew open, and in stormed four Green Coats. Their commanding officer, who identified himself as Major Cornelius Temple of the U.S. Provisional Army, shouted, “Which of you is Hercules?”

Hercules froze. So did the other kitchen staff, all slaves. None of them said a word, but their anxious gazes drifted toward Hercules.

Hercules had been a slave until he ran away from his master two years ago. He had been making his way as a cook ever since, having perfected his renowned Southern dishes at the General’s homes in New York, Philadelphia, and Virginia. If all he ever did was cook for his master, he would never have left. But his master made him carry out other missions, too. Secret missions. Dangerous missions. Now his past had finally caught up with him.

He just hadn’t expected it to come so soon.

Hercules laid down his chopping knife on the table and stepped forward, praying that the only thing the soldiers were after tonight was a runaway slave, and not the secret his master had him bury years ago.

The major looked down his nose at Hercules. “Come with us, slave.”

Hercules was only average in height, but he was as muscular as his namesake. Standing proud, he gazed directly at the commanding officer. The major’s green coat reached the knee and sported yellow lapels and cuffs. His vest was white, single breasted, with white buttons. The white fringed strap epaulette on his right shoulder designated his rank. But it was the major’s black three-cornered hat that had transfixed Hercules, specifically its small but spellbinding silver insignia.

The Regiment of Riflemen
.

Hercules understood then that he was in the presence of killers, sanctioned by the new federal government. Until now Hercules knew of the Regiment of Riflemen by reputation only. Earlier that year Congress authorized the formation of a specialized unit of snipers that engaged in unconventional tactics. “The first in the field and last out” was the regiment’s motto, and their tactics borrowed heavily from the Light Infantry and even Indians. That much was clear from the major’s belt, which along with a leather cartridge and bullet cases held a tomahawk and scalping knife.

Hercules would not resist arrest, if only for the sake of the other slaves.

He turned to open a small closet door and heard the
click
of a musket hammer behind him.

“Slowly, slave.”

“Jus’ gettin’ my coat.”

Hercules calmly removed his herringbone overcoat with ivory buttons from its hook. The wool was so finely woven it gave the whole coat a glossy sheen.

The young soldier released the cocked flintlock and lowered his special model French Charleville. But be-fore Hercules could button up, the butt of another musket smacked him in the side of his head and he went down on all fours.

“You run away with that coat, slave?” the major snarled, as he kicked Hercules in the side like an animal.

Hercules knew the drill. The major had no feelings for him one way or another. He simply needed to make him an example to any other slav in the kitchen who might think that they, too, could one day run away.

“I bought it righteously, suh,” Hercules managed to say with a grunt before four strong arms pushed him outside.

“He’s a freedman by law in Pennsylvania!” cried one of the cooks.

“He’s not in Pennsylvania anymore,” the major barked as the door slammed shut behind him.

A flat-bottom boat, manned by four boatmen, waited at the wharf, the icy waters of the Potomac lapping at its sides. The sleet had returned, coming down even harder than before. The soldiers pushed Hercules to the stern. A moment later he was sitting between two soldiers and opposite the major and two others as they shoved off into the dark.

“The General is looking for you, slave.”

Hercules shivered. The General, his master, was a just man and a great leader. But he had burdened Her-cules with secrets too heavy for any American patriot to bear, let alone a slave.

Lord, please don’t let this be about the globe
.

Hercules gazed at the white exterior of the Presidential Palace as they floated by. Now in its seventh year of construction, it was still unoccupied; President Adams lived in Philadelphia with his family. In the distance loomed Jenkins Hill and on top of it the new U.S. Capitol Building, or at least part of it.

The General had once told him that more than a century ago the hill was called Rome and the Potomac the Tiber, because the property owner, a man named Francis Pope, had a dream that one day a great empire to rival ancient Rome would rise on these banks. But all Hercules could see was marshland, half-finished buildings, and tree stumps along what was supposed to be a grand thoroughfare–Pennsylvania Avenue–linking the great white Presidential Palace to what they were now calling Capitol Hill.

The boatmen were rowing vigorously now, as a few floating chunks of ice struck the sides of the boat. Even the major had to grab an oar. Hercules at first wondered why they didn’t make him row too. But he figured they didn’t want to hand a runaway slave an oar only to have him swing it at them.

Hercules pulled at the collar of his coat as pellets of sleet slapped his face. He felt the stare of the major in the bow, whose own coat was not so heavy. But Hercules had paid for the coat himself, and his tailored wool trousers and buckled shoes, too. The General had allowed him to cook outside of the Philadelphia house in nearby taverns to earn extra money. Much of it he spent on fine clothing, which offended soldiers in the General’s charge who were not paid nearly as much nor dressed as well.

Finally the sleet stopped and the boat struck the op-posite shore. The soldiers pulled him out and escorted him toward steps that led up the hill to the General’s estate.

Mount Vernon was ablaze with light. There were torches everywhere, and Hercules saw carriages and horsemen five deep in the court as he was marched to-ward the servants’ entrance. An express courier gal-loped past on horseback, shouting for them to get out of the way, and almost trampled them.

Inside the manor, at the bottom of the back stairs, Hercules waited with several parties of private citizens and military officers and wondered what he was doing among such august company. The General’s physician, the lanky Dr. Craik, was exchanging sharp words in hushed tones with a portly Catholic priest. Hercules couldn’t hear what they were saying, and he was embarrassed by the curious glances from the others. They all seemed to know some terrible secret that he did not.

A few minutes later, a gaunt-looking man Hercules recognized as the General’s chief of staff, Colonel Tobias Lear, plodded down the steps. Hercules anxiously watched the group part as Colonel Lear walked straight up to him. His military escort, seeing no chance for him to flee, stepped back and released him.

Lear looked him over. “My God, man, they were supposed to bring you, not beat you senseless.”

Hercules didn’t understand what Lear meant, nor Lear’s glare at the major, whose expression remained emotionless.

“I been beaten worse,” Hercules said.

Lear glanced about the room in search of Dr. Craik, but the General’s physician was still occupied with the priest. He took out his own handkerchief and touched it to Hercules’ temple. When Lear withdrew his hand, Hercules saw blood on the cloth. Instantly worried about his coat, Hercules glanced down and was relieved to find no soiling.

“His Excellency will see you now,” Colonel Lear said.

Hercules glanced back at his military escort and then followed Lear up the stairs. Lear paused before the door to the General’s chamber.

“Brace yourself, man,” Lear said and opened the door.

Hercules at last beheld the cause of all the hue and cry: There, in his bed, writhing in pain and gasping for air, lay General George Washington, first president of the United States of America and current commander-in-chief of its armed forces. A string was tied around the great man’s arm, where blood, thick and heavy, oozed from a vein.

They’re bleeding him,
Hercules realized. A bad sign.

Sobbing quietly at the foot of the bed was the General’s wife, Martha, who rose to her feet and smiled weakly at Hercules. Young Christopher, the General’s personal servant, helped her out of the room and shut the door, all the while averting his eyes from Hercules. The guilty look on his face made Hercules wonder if he was the servant who gave him up and told Washington his whereabouts.

“The General asked for you,” Lear said now that they were alone. “As you can see, he’s dying.”

How can this be?
Hercules wondered. The last time Hercules saw his master, he seemed as robust and regal a man in his 60s as he had ever laid eyes upon. That was shortly before Hercules had run away. Terror seized his heart as he approached the bed, anxious to know what punishment his master might have in store for him.

“Massa Washington,” Hercules said. “I didn’t mean no disrespect. I just wanna be free, like you said the law allowed back in Philly.”

“Don’t be alarmed, Hercules,” Colonel Lear said. “His Excellency understands the reasons for your departure and apologizes for the abruptness of your summons. He wants you to know all is forgiven. But he asks one final favor of you, not as a slave but as a freed-man and patriot. Apparently, you are the only man he trusts with it

Astonished, Hercules drew himself up to his full stature, his pride mixed with fear. For years the General had trusted him with his life–every time he put a fork in his mouth–like the Pharaohs of Egypt and their taste-testers, paranoid of conspirators who would poison them. But this was different.