Shock Warning

CHAPTER TEN

Emanuel Skorzeny settled back onto the plush sofa, his feet up on an ottoman, feeling every inch a prince. They had been here for a while now and he was both at ease and at home.

For a Muslim-majority country, the Republic of Azerbaijan could have been a lot worse. Officially, it was still secular, as befit its former Soviet pedigree — although with a high concentration of Shiite Muslims, and Iran only about a hundred miles away, how long that would continue was probably just a matter of time. One by one, the “secular” Muslim countries had fallen, been reconquered, along the southern rim of the Mediterranean in what had been for hundreds of years the old Roman empire, up to and including Turkey, the home of Atatürk and his bold Kemalist revolution — now, less than a century on, despised and forgotten.

Never underestimate the power of religion — or, as he preferred to think of it, deplorable superstition. A powerful, irrational, absurd force — and one that he intended to use to its fullest extent.

What a fool he had been all these years, fighting religion when he could have been using it. He cursed his childhood, the death — make that the murder — of his parents, his upbringing by one of the heroes of the Reich. The atheist, anti-Semitic and unchristian Reich that had sought to purge the world of such primitive belief and instead return it to an older, purer form of savagery, unleavened by the bread of the Hebrews or the love of Jesus. How right they were, and how wrong.

For now he could see, as plainly as if Jesus himself were to sail down from the clouds, separating the wheat from the chaff, the blessed from the damned; whether he came alone or at the side of Allah mattered not. To Emanuel Skorzeny, it was all the same totem, a talisman he would never touch.

But which he could use. “Do you know about the astronauts of Apollo 11?” he asked.

There were two women in the room with him.

The first was Amanda Harrington, the City financial whiz who had run his philanthropic Skorzeny Foundation until she had tried to betray him with one of his own men. He had given her a lesson that she would never forget — nearly killed her, in fact, with a dose of tetrodotoxin — but he had succeeded in breaking her in both body and spirit and now here she was, back on the job, back in his arms and in his bed when he desired her, docile as a lamb.

The second was Emanuelle Derrida, his assistant. That Ms. Derrida was not interested in the male of the species did not bother him in the slightest. She was a beautiful woman, her surname amused him no end, and, of course, he thought her Christian name a thing of beauty, even though she was probably even less of a Christian than he was. Unlike the late M. Paul Pilier, his former aide-de-camp, she was absolutely conscienceless, never blanched at any of his requests, kept the living quarters of his Boeing 707 in pristine condition, as befit a man of his sensibilities. He trusted her — well, he almost trusted her — implicitly and he knew that an order thought was an order carried out.

He wished she did not so obviously desire Miss Harrington, but he was secure in the knowledge that she dare not cross him again.

This must be what true love is, he thought. Then again, there was no point in desiring Mlle. Derrida, which was one of the reasons he had hired her in the first place. After all, carnal and emotional pleasure had to take a backseat to the culmination of his life’s work.

There was no answer about the astronauts, and upon this occasion he was not feeling professorial or instructive. “Very well, then,” he said. “Report.”

The command was directed at Miss Harrington.

“Yes, sir,” she began. It was just like old times again, him and her, the recent unpleasantness long since forgotten if not forgiven.

“Through the timely application of Foundation funds, we have increased the number of safe-harbor sites to which we might repair should the occasion warrant,” she said. “The number of countries willing to give us admittance or to at least turn a blind eye to our presence has increased threefold since last year. And I am very pleased to tell you, sir, that France may soon join their ranks.”

Skorzeny permitted himself a small smile and a brief memory. “I do miss my home there in the rue Boutarel,” he said, “as I’m sure you do as well, Miss Harrington, Mlle. Derrida. When this is all over, we shall return in triumph and disport ourselves at several of the city’s finest gastronomic shrines. What else?”

Amanda Harrington swallowed her distaste for the monster sitting opposite her, said a silent prayer of thanks that he was well across the room, and continued.

“Despite the reversal of fortune that was suffered after the school-hostage crisis in Illinois, the failure of our EMP attack upon the East Coast of America and the considerable blowback after the successful assault on Times Square, the Foundation nevertheless saw its net assets increase, even in the teeth of the ongoing worldwide recession.”

Skorzeny laughed. “Recessions mean nothing to me, Miss Harrington,” he said. “I can create them, prolong them, or end them as I choose. In ancient times, Croesus actually needed to have gold, silver, and jewelry on hand to display his wealth; later plutocrats demanded specie. All I need is a functioning iPad. Which is why, right now, for financial reasons, it amuses me to prolong this one.”

He rose. Amanda shuddered. Luckily, he went to the window to gaze out upon the Caspian Sea instead of upon her.

“How easy it is to make this thing called ‘money,’ once you realize that it isn’t money anymore. Not a storehouse of value. Not even a worthless piece of paper emblazoned with some country’s boastful trappings of sovereignty. Just blips on a computer screen, imaginary numbers rendered temporarily real by equally imaginary flashes of light. And why?”

He turned. This was one of those Skorzeny rhetorical questions that demanded an answer. “And why?”

Emanuelle Derrida said nothing, as she usually did. “I’m sure I don’t know, Mr. Skorzeny,” replied Amanda. She hoped her nonresponse would keep him on the other side of the room, lecturing instead of leching.

“Because people believe in them, Miss Harrington, as well you should know. They believe in the purchasing power of imaginary numbers, the way European peasants once believed in putting pigs on trial for witchcraft. They believe in them because they have no alternative, but the fiction has more power than the reality. Because no one can cart around a storehouse of wealth in precious metals and expect to exchange a tiny sliver of it for a loaf of bread. Because modern life is too complicated, too complex. And so we turn to totems and talismans. To substitution ciphers, representations of reality that obscure more than illuminate. To signs and symbols and portents.”

He turned away from the sea and looked directly at her. “Do you understand, Miss Harrington?” he inquired.

“Yes, sir,” she answered. “I think I do, sir.”

“Very well, then,” he said. “Report. You know whom I’m talking about.”

Amanda knew whom he meant. Even with the boss on the run, Skorzeny’s private intelligence service was very good, and his immense wealth gave him access to figures well-placed in both the American government and its security services.

“As far as we can tell, sir—” she began.

“And as I calculate these things, that ought to be pretty damn far,” observed Skorzeny from his window perch.

“He’s gone to ground, sir,” she responded, quietly.

That got his attention. The old anger flashed. At what age did the fires finally tamp down and die? Did the seven deadly sins, particularly lust and greed, finally fade to memory? Perhaps only when they faded to black.

“What do you mean, Miss Harrington, ‘gone to ground’?” he barked. “There is not my equal on this planet, as you well know, and this bastard surely cannot elude my holy wrath, no matter how fiendish his cleverness.”

Skorzeny turned his attention back out the window, looking south, watching the ships on their stately progress toward Bandar Anzali in Iran, or one of the Islamic Republic’s other port cities. That was where she would be headed soon, drugged, bound, gagged, a piece of baggage being delivered in the custody of Miss Harrington to her new, er, interlocutors, her last words already written and posted to Washington. From Bandar Anzali, he knew, it was but a short ride into Tehran, through Rasht and Qazvin and then along Highway One to the capital, and Doom.

Before she could open her mouth, she became aware that he had switched something on — a dirge she recognized at once. Thank God, it wasn’t the Metamorphosen by Strauss, which he had forced her to listen to as he’d poisoned her with the fugu fish toxin back in France. No, not Strauss. Instead, it was the funeral march from Beethoven’s “Eroica” Symphony.

Skorzeny could feel the vipress’s eyes on him, her thoughts boring into him. But hatred and love were two sides of the same coin, one the obverse of the other; as long as strong emotion was involved, all was right with the world. If Amanda hated him now, it was of no consequence. That hate could easily turn back to the love she had once bestowed upon him. All it would take was continued proximity.

Besides, it was a challenge, and there was nothing Emanuel Skorzeny loved more in this life than a challenge. Especially one involving a woman.

“Gone to ground? Impossible.”

How he had wanted to kill Maryam himself, and how it had pained him to have to let her go — not only for monetary reasons, for the price on her head was quite high, but for geopolitical reasons as well. The Iranians were still not quite sure whether to trust him, not after what had happened to their operative Kohanloo on the East River in New York. On the other hand, they were all in this together now, and they needed him far more than he needed them. So off-loading the devil’s mistress had been a business decision.

“Gone to ground, Mr. Skorzeny,” repeated Amanda. “Vanished. We have put out every feeler we can, even upped our payments to certain political columnists well-fed on the Georgetown party circuit, men and women who can hold their liquor when all around them are losing theirs. Nothing.” She waited a beat. “Perhaps he’s dead, sir.”

Her observation had the desired effect. Skorzeny suddenly exploded in rage and anger.

“Dead!” he shouted. “Impossible. Impossible! I cannot, I will not let some Fort Meade bureaucrat cheat me out of what is rightfully mine!” He was nearly apoplectic.

“M. Skorzeny—si’l vous plaît,” said Mlle. Derrida, barely looking up from some French fashion magazine she was reading. Mlle. Derrida was very fond of French fashion magazines, mostly because she was very fond of French fashion models. In fact, with her slender body, long legs and cascading hair, she rather looked like one. “Your health.”

Skorzeny took a breath and started to calm. “What I mean to say is, it is not possible that he has been terminated. I would know it — perhaps not in my head but in my heart.”

Miss Harrington let out an involuntary laugh, which she quickly covered with a cough. If this creature had a heart it would have to be donated to science upon his death as a perfectly preserved example of a nonfunctioning organ that had somehow managed to keep its host alive for decades. “Excuse me, sir,” she said.

Fortunately, he hadn’t noticed. “No,” muttered Skorzeny, “he is still out there. Plotting against me. Let this be a lesson to you ladies — never fail to have done yesterday what you cannot do today and may no longer be able to do tomorrow. Do I make myself clear?”

“Yes, sir,” replied Amanda. Mlle. Derrida didn’t bother to respond.

“No secure traffic about this woman, Maryam?”

Miss Harrington pretended to consult some notes on her iPad. “None, sir. Upon receipt of her letter, the entire network went dark. It’s as if neither of them had ever existed.”

“Which is, of course, the perfect proof that they’re still alive,” retorted Skorzeny. He left his seat by the window and moved back into the room. “If there were a God, wouldn’t he be more likely to speak to us by his absence then by his presence? What faith does it require to believe in a being standing right in front of you?”

He sniffed the air, as if seeking either the divine or the diabolical via his olfactory sense. “And President Tyler?”

Amanda let out an inaudible sigh of relief. At last, he was back on ground she could stand on. “President Tyler’s political fortunes are waning and I can say with a degree of high confidence that it is very unlikely he will be returned to office in the American general election next month.”

“Miss Hassett will defeat him? Of this we are sure?”

Amanda consulted her screen. “He is trailing across the board, even in reliably partisan polls that normally favor the other side. She is leading among all age-groups, and among all demographics. If these trends continue, we are looking at an historic repudiation of a sitting president, especially one swept into office so recently on a wave of such electoral enthusiasm.”

“We may have played some small role in that,” said Skorzeny.

“Indeed, sir. For a price. Your subsidies to Mr. Sinclair have been rising steeply, I note.”

That would be Jake Sinclair, the head of the largest media conglomerate in America. Sinclair’s empire was fully behind Angela Hassett, the governor of the smallest state in the union, a woman who guarded both her past and her private life jealously. But, as few contemporary politicians did, she realized that she was not selling the past, but the future. It didn’t really matter who she was, or even what she had accomplished. She was the embodiment of the Future, and the compliant and complicit Sinclair media were with her every step of the way, blocking unwanted inquiries, refocusing the debate when the debate needed refocusing. They carried the water and did the dirty work and no doubt they expected to be rewarded handsomely with policy preferences and Oval Office access once the formality of the presidential election was past.

“An investment, Miss Harrington, an investment.” Tyler didn’t have a Chinaman’s chance, as they used to say in pre-PC America.

“In short, Mr. Skorzeny, President Tyler looks to be a one-term president, his appeal to the ladies notwithstanding, and we should plan accordingly.”

“Duly noted, Miss Harrington, so proceed accordingly.”

“Yes, sir.”

“Then perhaps all the rest doesn’t matter. A new president will appoint a new head of the National Security Agency and therefore of the CSS and so will rid us of this meddlesome general, Seelye, and his unholy crew.”

“I would expect so, sir, yes,”

“Very good,” said Skorzeny.

He went to the desk, opened a drawer, and extracted a new laptop computer, which he placed on the clean desktop. It was not his computer, as everyone in the room knew. It was Maryam’s. The computer she had with her in the hotel room in Hungary. The computer issued by the National Security Agency/Central Security Service of Fort Meade, Maryland. God alone knew what secrets it contained.

An astonishing breach of op-sec, thought Skorzeny, as he contemplated the machine. To let such a valuable object fall into a stranger’s hands… into his hands…

Which is why he was not going to touch it. The damn thing would be booby-trapped six ways from the Sabbath, whichever Sabbath the impudent devil observed. To even lift its lid was asking for trouble. Any number of things could happen, all of them bad. It could explode. It could melt down, taking his hands with it. It could… well, it could do whatever the bastard’s mind could conceive of.

For surely he would not have let it be captured so easily. No man, not even one besotted with a woman as lovely as Maryam, would be so blithe. There must be a catch to it — yes, that was it. The devil had wanted it to fall into his hands, had offered Maryam to him, had intended for her to become his prisoner.

Skorzeny took a deep breath.

It was a play worthy of himself. The perfect poisoned pawn. And he had almost fallen for it!

He glanced up at Miss Harrington. Time really was a harsh mistress. The luscious young thing stripping off to her knickers soon enough stood revealed as a withered hag, smothering you in her foul embrace. What if she were to betray him again? He was implicitly sure of his power over her — she was nothing without him — but, still… Out of some misguided feminine revenge, although for what he could not think. What if she were to somehow free the woman, double-cross him, sell him out?

Why then, much as it would pain him to do so, especially after all they’d been through, he would have to kill her.

But he didn’t want to kill her. He had tried that, almost, once before, and look what had happened. The whelp had followed the trail right to his lair, and nearly killed him as he’d slithered down his escape hatch. Truly, a viper unto his breast.

Which begged the question: To open or not to open? Treasures untold within, but corrupted. Gratification, followed by death. A window into the soul of the enemy — whose bile would spatter you and take you down the road to perdition.

His hands hovered over the laptop. Damn the woman for closing it as they’d entered the room. Damn her to the hell she was even now experiencing in her place of confinement.

Or was she?

Could he trust Miss Harrington?

The laptop. The woman. The women.

Him.

He looked around the room, at Miss Harrington and Mlle. Derrida. “Now,” he said, “about Apollo 11…”