Shadow Tyrants

TWELVE

Jason Wakefield stalked out of the Vedor Telecom tower in downtown Sydney while he spoke on his encrypted cell phone, the only one he used to call other members of the Nine Unknown. As the beneficiary of the Scroll of Knowledge for communication that had been passed down through generations from Ashoka, he had built Vedor Communications into Vedor Telecom, a global phone and networking empire. On the other end of the line was Lionel Gupta, a Canadian descendant of the original Unknown who had been bestowed with the alchemy scroll. He now headed OreDyne Systems, one of the largest engineering companies in the world.

“You’re telling me,” Gupta said in the snarky tone he was famous for, “that even though you own phone networks around the world, including Italy, you haven’t been able to find out any info about who might have sabotaged the Colossus 5 in Naples? Not even where the phones used to detonate the explosives came from?”

Wakefield caught his reflection in the mirrored window of his Maybach limousine as it pulled up to the entrance of the massive skyscraper. His Indian great-grandfather had immigrated to Australia, anglicized his name, and married the daughter of a New South Wales newspaper owner, so he was more Caucasian than Bengali. The image of Wakefield’s slick black hair, deep tan, and Savile Row suit would be familiar to anyone who read the society pages about his six divorces, the last of which was still in its final stages. While his bodyguard held the door for him, he adjusted a stray hair and plucked a piece of lint from his lapel before getting into the Mercedes. The bodyguard sat in the front passenger seat, and they pulled away.

As usual, the backseat TV was tuned to the local Unlimited News International network. The news hour was just beginning, the screen ablaze with slick graphics and the slogan You and I and UNI. Wakefield muted the sound and closed the soundproof partition before responding to Gupta.

“It’s been only forty-eight hours since the attack on the ship,” Wakefield said, exasperated at Gupta’s impatience. “All we can confirm is that a bomb brought down the crane that destroyed the satellite dish. Besides, Xavier Carlton has his own worldwide news and media company, and he hasn’t been able to find out anything, either.”

“That’s because UNI is wasting time on stupid things like the power outage on that island in the middle of nowhere.”

“I know. I’m watching it now. It’s news when one of America’s most secretive military bases goes dark. And I don’t like the incident’s timing. Not when we’re so close to completing Colossus.” As Wakefield spoke, stock footage and satellite images of Diego Garcia played across the screen during the lead story about the mysterious blackout.

“Are you suggesting they’re related?” Gupta asked.

“That’s what we need to find out, especially with the near-simultaneous explosion of Mallik’s rocket in the Arabian Sea. Something’s going on.”

Gupta paused. “So you suspect a traitor among the Nine?”

“Who else knew how to sabotage the Colossus 5 in that way? Don’t you have your own suspicions?”

“I do. That’s why we’re having the meeting again in two days. We need to find out who is behind all this.”

“How are we going to do that?” Wakefield asked.

“I can’t talk about it right now.”

“If you think this encrypted line isn’t secure, we shouldn’t be talking by phone at all.” Then Wakefield understood what he meant and sat forward. “Wait, you think I’m the traitor?”

“You have expressed reservations about our plans.”

“Each of us has played devil’s advocate at one time or another, even you,” Wakefield said. “And still, we’ve all agreed that it’s in the best interests of both ourselves and mankind to move forward. Besides, how do I know you’re not the traitor?”

“You don’t. But there may be a way to find out who it is.”

“Tell me.”

“I can’t reveal that until the meeting,” Gupta said. “Then we can all decide how to handle it together.”

“We’re so close to achieving our goals, Lionel,” Wakefield said, “we can’t let someone get cold feet now.”

“I know. We won’t. This is what we’ve worked for all our lives and the lives of our ancestors.”

Gupta hung up, and Wakefield tossed his phone on the seat. He had barely slept since getting the news about the damaged Colossus. Luckily, the ship hadn’t been completely destroyed or they’d be years away from completing their journey to a better tomorrow. Now all they could do was race to repair the ship and get it operational.

He closed his eyes and tried to relax before he arrived at his next appointment. He must have nodded off, because he jolted awake when he was thrown against the back of the front seat. He always refused to wear a seat belt because it wrinkled his suit, but this was one time he wished he’d had it on. His nose crunched as it hit the partition, and blood cascaded down his chin.

The Maybach screeched to a halt.

“Get down!” his bodyguard yelled.

Hazy, confused, and covered with his own blood, Wakefield didn’t do as he was instructed. Instead, he watched the driver’s head get blown apart by a bullet that smashed through the supposedly bulletproof windshield. The man slumped over the steering wheel, pressing against the horn, which now blared nonstop.

His bodyguard dodged several of the armor-piercing rounds that neatly penetrated the windshield, but the bullets didn’t get through to Wakefield. They were stopped by the partition. The bodyguard got out and returned fire, but he was taken down immediately by three bullets that tore into his chest, tossing him around like a rag doll before he collapsed to the pavement.

Three men in black balaclavas approached the car. One of them was carrying a huge drill, the other two automatic weapons.

Panicked, Wakefield made sure the door was locked. He wasn’t a fighter and didn’t carry a gun, so he grabbed for his phone. However, it was no longer on the seat where he’d left it, and he dropped to the floor frantically searching for it.

By the time he found it, the man with the drill was grinding away at the door lock.

Wakefield dialed 000, Australia’s emergency number. “Come on, come on,” he muttered while it rang.

Outside, he could hear the men shouting at one another in some kind of Hindi dialect.

The phone clicked, and Wakefield heard someone say, “Ambulance Emergency. What town or suburb are we coming to?”

“I don’t know,” Wakefield said, trying to keep his voice calm. He knew this call would become public record at some point. “I’m in downtown Sydney somewhere. Men have shot my driver and bodyguard and are trying to break into my car.”

Wakefield could hear typing on a keyboard. “We have triangulated your location, sir, and police have been dispatched. What is your name?”

“It’s Jason—”

The door was wrenched open, and a powerful hand reached in and latched onto his arm. He was dragged out, and the phone was yanked from his hand. The masked gunman threw it to the street and stomped on it.

He looked like the man in charge because he tilted his head toward a white panel van and spoke in a commanding voice to the two men who were holding Wakefield.

Wakefield tried struggling against them, but the man in charge slapped him across the face. The impact hit his broken nose, and a shock of pain exploded through his head. He went limp as they dragged him down the street.

The masked leader pulled the van’s sliding door open. Wakefield knew he had to fight to stay out of there, having been trained in anti-kidnapping techniques, but he was spent and in agony. He could barely resist.

He was about to be thrown in when Wakefield heard a loud crack, and blood splashed across the van’s white exterior. At first, he thought they had shot him and he just couldn’t feel it because of shock.

Then he saw the wide eyes of the masked men’s leader. He had a huge hole in his chest.

As the gunman slumped to the ground, two more shots rang out, and his companions let go of their prisoner and fell.

Wakefield slowly rolled over, fully expecting to be shot as well. He saw another man coming toward him, this one in a suit almost as nice as his, with a pistol pointed at the ground. He bent down to check the three masked men.

When he stood back up, he said, “They’re dead.”

“Who are you?” Wakefield asked.

“Asad Torkan,” his savior said. “Romir Mallik asked me to keep an eye on you. For good reason, it turns out.”

“Mallik sent you?”

“He thinks there is a traitor amongst the Nine Unknown. Come with me. We need to get out of here in case they have backup.”

Torkan gave him a hand and a handkerchief, then guided Wakefield to a silver BMW. He helped Wakefield into the passenger seat. As soon as Torkan got in, he threw the car into gear and tore away as they heard sirens approaching.

Wakefield leaned his head back with the handkerchief against his aching nose. “Do you know who ordered my kidnapping?”

“Mr. Mallik might have,” Torkan said, thumbing his phone.

“Why would someone do this?”

Instead of answering him, Torkan spoke into the phone.

“Mr. Mallik, we have a situation,” he said. “Someone tried to kidnap Jason Wakefield… Yes, he’s all right… Thank you, sir. Just doing my job.” He turned and smiled at Wakefield. “But if it weren’t for your foresight, right now Mr. Wakefield would probably be as good as dead.”