Labyrinth

Chapter 23

Locke barely slept all night. The doctor set the cracked bones as best he could and used layers of adhesive tape and a pair of Ace bandages to hold his work in place. Without proper hospital treatment, which Chris refused, the doctor said he could not guarantee the fingers would ever work properly again. Locke shrugged him off. He did accept painkillers, but they made little dent in the constant ache that gave way to a blast of pain whenever he moved the hand wrong or put any pressure on it.

He stared at the ceiling in the dark room, flirting with sleep but never quite passing over.

After his fateful call to Burgess’s contact exchange, Chris had dialed his home number in Silver Spring. Precautions were clearly useless now. The opposition had Greg. Burgess’s protective arm had not been long enough. Chris felt the knots of anxiety tighten in his stomach more with each of the three rings it took before the phone was answered.

“Hello,” said a male voice he didn’t recognize.

He pressed the receiver closer to his ear.

“Hello?” the voice repeated.

Locke hung up the phone struggling for breath. A stranger had answered his family’s phone, a stranger with an American accent. If it wasn’t one of Burgess’s men, then who was it? In that moment Chris wanted so much for this mess to be over so he could go back home again. But home would never be the same, not ever again. And now he had to consider the possibility that home didn’t even exist anymore. The Committee could have his entire family by now. Greg’s finger might have marked only the beginning of their madness. Whom could he turn to?

Uncle Colin has gone fishing.

They had gotten to Burgess. The big Brit had proved no match for the power of the Committee. But the girl was still alive, which meant her house in Falmouth might still serve as a refuge for him. As of now, Locke had no other destination available. Once in Falmouth he would begin to make new arrangements. The American Embassy offered an alternative, and what other did he have? He’d make sure more than one man was present in the room when he told his story. Someone would listen, someone would act. The Committee couldn’t possibly have gotten to everyone at the embassy, Chris thought, trying to convince himself.

His only other option was to stay in Rome and wait for Dogan. But that was out of the question with the dark man still lurking about. He had to leave the country as soon as possible and make contact with Dogan later, as Forenzo had suggested.

The hotel manager had obtained a return ticket on a charter to London and arranged for a car to take him to the airport in time for its departure the next morning. Forenzo had also given him an American passport with a picture that didn’t even resemble his face. It was just something to hand cursorily over to Customs officials in Rome. London would be another matter.

Locke reached the airport with his single bag in tow. The condition of his left hand had made taking a shower a difficult task and shaving not much easier. Accordingly, Chris felt grimy, and the tension that might have unwound in his neck and shoulders beneath the hot needle spray had stiffened into steel bands under his flesh.

He moved rapidly through the international terminal toward the charter’s departure gate, as planned with little time to spare. That meant little time to be spotted. But still he was alone, a single man with a bandaged hand easy to pick out of a crowd. En route to the gate he fell in stride with a number of other passengers who apparently were heading for the same flight. Locke tried to mix with them, doing his best to appear part of their conversations without drawing too much attention.

A girl in jeans up ahead was carting too many bags, and one slipped from her hand. Its contents spilled all over the floor, souvenirs by the look of it.

“Damn.” She moaned, dropping the rest of her bags in frustration.

She had started to gather up her spilled belongings when Locke drew up even with her.

“Need some help?” he offered, trying to make a much-needed friend for the moments ahead.

“Sure.” The girl glanced up. She looked to be in her mid-twenties with sandy hair that danced about her shoulders. She had radiant blue eyes and was stunningly attractive. Chris felt himself taken aback.

He did the best he could at retrieving her souvenirs of Italy with his one good hand.

“Hey, what did you do to yourself?”

“Fell down some stairs,” Locke explained, trying to look embarrassed.

“We got insurance for that kind of stuff. It says so in the brochure.” She started to reach inside her handbag. “I’ve got one here somewhere.”

“Don’t bother, please. It’s already been taken care of. Right now the only thing I want to do is get home to my own doctor.”

He dropped the last of the souvenirs back into the bag.

“Home sounds like it’s America for you too,” the girl told him.

“Yes.”

“I’m sorry I ever left,” she said somberly. And Chris realized he had fallen in quite naturally with her step as she moved for the gate. “Europe sucks. Boring as hell, if you ask me.” They had almost reached the perfunctory Customs station. “Hey, what’s your name?”

“Chris.”

The girl stuck out her right hand and the bag of souvenirs almost went tumbling again. “Chris, I’m Nikki. Got anyone to sit next to on the flight?”

“As a matter of fact, no,” Locke said, blessing his luck as he took her hand warmly.

“Glad to hear it.” Nikki squeezed her features into a tight mask. “I didn’t mean that. What I mean is that since you’re not with anyone, we can sit together.”

“I’d like that,” Chris said.

They passed through the Customs station where a woman was casually checking passports. Locke reached into his pocket for the one Forenzo had obtained for him, along with his ticket.

“Where did I put the damn thing?” Nikki was asking herself, letting all her bags slide to the ground. She gave up on the handbag and tried a pocket in the jeans jacket that was faded the same color as her pants. “Here’s the damn thing. God, can you imagine leaving it in the hotel or something?” she asked Locke.

“I’ve done that,” he told her, handing both passports to the Customs woman, “a couple of times.”

Boarding came ten minutes later right on schedule, and Chris carried one of Nikki’s bags onto the plane as well as his own. Her presence was a godsend to him. A couple, or what seemed to be a couple, traveling together aroused almost no attention whatsoever. If the Committee had people looking for him, their task would be more difficult now.

Once they had taken their seats, Chris’s attitude toward her changed. She had served her purpose and he wished now only to be left alone for the duration of the flight. He made himself smile through her constant chatter, occasionally responding just to assure her he was paying attention. It went on like that for some time before his words became terse and impatient. Finally he snapped at her after the drinks were served, and hurt, she became silent and lost herself between the standard set of earphones deposited on each seat.

Chris dozed briefly, awakening suddenly to a horrible thought. What if Nikki had been sent by the enemy? What if the plan was to have her kill him in midflight? Certainly for people capable of using a wine cork as a murder weapon, the means would come easy. He watched her stealthily through partially opened eyes, resolved to keep his vigil for the entire flight. And a weapon, he needed a weapon on the chance that—

No! No!

Locke shuddered inwardly. What was he becoming? Had he changed so much in order to stay alive? No, people couldn’t change that fast … unless they had it in them to begin with. Burgess had said he was right for the job because it was in his blood, part of the legacy his mother had left him. Maybe the big Brit was right.

And what of his son? Chris wondered what he could do to save Greg, if the boy was still alive. Just considering the problem, though, formed a knot in his stomach. He didn’t even know where to start. Even his mother’s legacy did not include sufficient resourcefulness for that.

Locke shrank down in his seat. The effect of the painkiller was wearing off and he didn’t want to be dull-witted when he reached London. Greg was beyond his reach, just as so much in his life had been. Barring a miracle, he would have to carry his son’s death on his conscience for the rest of his life. Chris wondered about Brian Charney’s conscience. How many similar burdens had he carried? Not that they prevented him from taking on a few more.

Locke thought of Lubeck dying alone in a godforsaken South American town and of Charney spilling his blood on a thick carpet inside the Dorchester Hotel. They died as they had lived, Chris realized: empty, alone, a vacuum where their morality had once been. They too had been running, afraid to look back, just as he was. So he wasn’t alone there, wasn’t the only man to suffer through such a crisis. Maybe all men did. Some were just better at the running — and the dodging — than others. You could fool the others but you couldn’t fool yourself. The Luber had resisted being retired, because then the running would have to stop and all that lay behind — the truths — would catch up. So he had run to San Sebastian and died there and maybe it was better that way. And Locke had run to London, Liechtenstein, Italy, and now back to London again.

But dying wouldn’t be better.

Because he had something Lubeck never had and Charney had lost: a family. His marriage was no better or worse than anyone else’s; it just was and he had been a prima donna to believe otherwise. And what kids these days didn’t want to break from their parents at younger and younger ages?

Locke felt chilled suddenly as his thoughts came back to Greg. Was running to the American Embassy the best way to arrange for a rescue? Or would the Committee keep Greg alive only as long as Chris kept his mouth shut? If he was still alive. There were no answers, only decisions to be weighed and a chance taken either way. No black or white, just gray. Men like Dogan were used to the gray. For Locke it was a new shade.

When the jet came down in London, Nikki gave him one slight smile and moved into the farthest aisle. Chris felt the guilt chew at him. He cursed himself for even considering she might have been part of the opposition when, in fact, it was he who had placed her life in very real danger by using her to help him escape from Rome. He wondered if he should call her back and warn her quietly to be on her guard, that he had behaved strangely out of fear. But she was already too far away, still hurt and confused by his treatment of her. It was probably better that way. A thinly veiled warning would have led to questions and to her acting out of apprehension rather than routine. It was safest to leave her ignorant.

Nikki moved down the ramp into the Heathrow terminal ahead of him, never looking back.

Locke’s next problem was making it through Customs. The passport that had gotten him out of Rome could never get him past the far more diligent officials in London. During the long flight he had come up with a shadow of a plan but lacked a method to implement it.

A female representative from the airline stood just inside the terminal greeting the disembarking passengers with smiles and well wishes, hoping on behalf of the airline that they had enjoyed the charter and would book it again. Locke’s method of implementation was suddenly clear. He approached her straightaway, not waiting for the woman to pick him out.

“A problem, sir?” she asked, her smile dimming.

“Yeah, I suppose having my passport stolen on the plane could be called that.”

“Stolen?”

“Somebody yanked it from my jacket while I was asleep.”

“Did you inform the stewardess?”

“Yes, and she told me to see you as soon as I was off the plane. Not much help at all really.” Locke gritted his teeth. “Hell of an operation you’re running here.”

The woman’s face reddened. This was probably the last thing she’d expected or wanted to hear. “We’d better go somewhere and get this straightened out.”

“That would be jolly.”

“Follow me.”

They moved beyond the regular Customs lines into the same bank of offices where Chris had met Robert Trevor, the man who had given him the gun six days before. Wouldn’t it be something to meet up with him again? The woman ushered Chris into one of the small offices and offered him a chair.

“I’ll find one of the supervisors and be back presently,” she explained. “The airline will represent you every step of the way and will take whatever steps are necessary to expedite matters, Mr., ah—”

“Jenkins, Peter Jenkins.”

“Yes, Mr. Jenkins,” she said moving for the door. “I’ll only be a minute.”

When she was gone, Chris sprang immediately from his chair. He had penetrated this part of Customs, but getting into England proper remained the real obstacle. There was only one chance.

Locke stepped out of the office and wandered into an area prohibited to passengers, all the time keeping his eye peeled for the return of the airline rep.

“See here, what are you doing?”

Locke turned to his right and found a man in a blue Customs uniform approaching.

“This is a restricted section,” the man charged. “No one’s allowed in here without an escort.”

Locke made himself look puzzled. “They sent me to the receiving area. My young nephew’s coming in on—”

“Well, sir, you’ve missed the receiving area altogether,” the official snapped. “De-boarding passengers don’t even pass this way.”

“But I—”

“You’ll have to exit this area immediately.”

Locke sighed, shrugged his shoulders, and started down the corridor with his bag in hand. He had done it! But that gave him little cause for celebration. He still had to reach Falmouth and the safe house. If the girl was a professional, she’d be expecting him. With Burgess dead, this was his only recourse. She’d know that, and Locke felt equally certain that Colin would have left her with detailed instructions on how to proceed. The big Brit must have known they would get him all along. He would have taken precautions.

Chris quickened his pace to a fast walk when he hit the main concourse of Heathrow. Speed remained the paramount concern but a trot would have made him too noticeable. At the exit he talked with three cabdrivers before finding one willing to make the five-hour journey to Falmouth. Chris agreed to his exorbitant fee. His funds were dwindling, but money meant nothing to him now. It was a tool to be used like any other.

The sun had just set when they reached a large housing development a mile from the center of Falmouth. Locke had the driver drop him off around the corner from the girl’s house at 205 Longfield, opting to walk the final stretch in case the house was under surveillance. The development’s homes were all pleasantly similar, terraced and fronted by small, tidy gardens. Two-oh-five Longfield was colored medium brown, virtually indistinguishable from the rest on the street, except for the lack of a garden.

He scanned the area carefully, passing the house three times before deciding it was safe to approach. Other than the barking of a few dogs and the low hum of music coming through an open window, the dark street was silent and the only cars parked along it deserted. Locke kept his pace steady up the walk toward 205 Longfield’s front door.

He rang the bell. Waited. No answer.

He rang it again. Still no answer.

Locke wanted to bang as hard as he could on the door but that might attract notice. He would have called the girl’s name had he known it.

He tried the bell a third time with the same results.

Reflexively his hand slipped to the knob and turned it. The door creaked open. Chris entered without hesitation and closed it behind him. Obviously the girl had gone out, leaving the door unlocked for his expected arrival. Those would have been Burgess’s instructions.

Locke moved into the foyer and froze. The girl hadn’t gone out at all.

Her naked body dangled from the high ceiling, toes about even with Chris’s head, suspended from a light fixture by a rope strung in layers around her throat. Her face was purple and her bulging, crossed eyes seemed focused on the black, misshapen tongue hanging out between her lips.

Locke stumbled backward and fell. His breath had gone and his eyes couldn’t leave the girl’s corpse. Then the room spun briefly into darkness and he shook himself from the spell.

He had clawed his way back to his feet just as the front door burst open and three men in suits rushed in, tackling him hard. Locke knew he hit the floor but never felt it, nor did he bother to resist. The hands treated him roughly, grasping and pulling. Then he was yanked back to his feet as a fourth man stepped through the front door. He had silver hair and looked tired.

“Christopher Locke, I presume,” the man said plainly, extracting an identification wallet from his suit jacket.

Chris just stared as the picture ID stopped inches from his face.

“MI-6, Mr. Locke,” the silver-haired man continued. “The name’s Colin Burgess and I’d like some answers.”

Chapter 24

“I’m not sure I follow this.”

The Secretary of State lowered his eyes back to the portion of the file Calvin Roy had handed him.

“Simply stated, boss, somebody exchanged mud for manure in Charney’s file. Damn thing’s been doctored.”

“How?”

“It’s obvious, ain’t it? Six pages detailing all of Charney’s field assignments with never more than one month between entries, except here,” Roy said, standing up and touching his finger to the section of a page the Secretary was looking at. “Seven months missing, boss, and if that don’t tell us somethin’ I don’t know what does.”

The Secretary’s eyebrows flickered. “You checked further into the missing seven months?”

“Sure did. Dug up Brian’s old travel vouchers from records. Took some time but it was worth it when I got to the bottom of things: Charney was in England for almost the whole period bumped off his file.”

“We lost Locke in England.”

“Yup, because we checked all of Brian’s contacts there except the right one. Somebody wanted to make sure we missed him.”

“Find out who it is yet?” the Secretary asked.

“The contact, you mean? Cross-checkin’ now, boss. Won’t be long till we know but it won’t matter much ’cause it’s too damn late. Fact is, though, we got snookered good.”

“By somebody high up,” the Secretary acknowledged.

“And I don’t like it one bit. Access to these kinda files goes a long way beyond simple restricted. Only a few fingers in the whole city can call up this kind of info on their boards … and erase it.”

The Secretary looked straight ahead. “We’ll have to find the person behind those fingers, of course.”

Roy held his stare. “Already working on that too, boss.”

“And Locke?”

“We think he’s headed back for England. He called a certain number there from both Liechtenstein and Rome. We handed the info over to MI-6. They got a watch on the place, probably a safe house arranged by Charney’s British contact whose name was yanked off his file.”

The Secretary sighed. “What in hell did this Locke get himself into over there, Cal?”

“It’s what we got him into, boss, and now we gotta get him out. And it’s not just over there either. I pulled his family out soon as I could but I missed one. His son’s disappeared.”

“We’re dealing with pros, then.”

“We’re dealing with maggots, boss. Something superbig’s about to go down and lots of people, startin’ with Lubeck, have been killed to keep us from knowin’ what. Hell, there’s bodies all over Europe buried with pieces of what’s goin’ on, and I’ll bet the barn Locke’s the only one who can put them together.”

“What’s your next step?”

Roy didn’t hesitate. “I’m gonna trace the snookerin’ with Charney’s file back to the fucker responsible. When I find him, he’ll lead me to the rest of the maggots.”

“What about Locke?”

“I’ve had a man on his phone twenty-four hours a day. So far he hasn’t called home. That might mean he’s dead already.”

“Then you better get to it, Cal. Pull out all the stops.”

“That’s the idea, boss.”

As soon as Calvin Roy had left the room, Secretary of State David Van Dam reached for his phone.

“You’re who?”

Locke heard himself ask the silver-haired man the question but it didn’t register. He felt himself tilting back on his heels and might have tipped over if it wasn’t for the men holding him at either shoulder.

The man calling himself Colin Burgess grabbed Locke’s lapels and yanked him so close that Chris could feel the heat of his breath.

“Look, you bastard, I’m in no mood for games. I’ve got scores to settle here and they might as well start with you.”

“No,” Locke pleaded, “you don’t understand. I thought you were dead. But it wasn’t you. It was—”

Burgess shook him hard. “What in hell are you talking about?”

“The other Colin Burgess. He helped me but it must have been a setup to make sure I’d get where they wanted me to go.”

“Make sense, boy!”

“Brian sent me to him — to you.”

Burgess’s fingers, locked on Chris’s collar, almost choked his breath off. The foyer’s only light, the sole break in the darkness, danced across Burgess’s enraged face.

“Brian Charney?”

Locke tried to nod. “He recruited me. He was dying so he gave me your address. Bruggar House in Cadgwith Cove.”

Burgess’s grip slackened. “I haven’t been to Bruggar House since my wife died. That’s over a year ago.”

“They knew that and used it. You don’t realize who we’re dealing with here. They’re capable of anything. Anything! Oh, God, they must have had this all planned out from the start.”

“And just who are ‘they’?”

“The Committee.”

Burgess released his grip altogether. His eyes clouded with uncertainty.

“I think it’s time we got this whole thing straight, mate.”

They headed through the misty darkness for Plymouth and the Holiday Inn in Armada Way. It contained a restaurant Burgess had used for important meetings in the past. He referred to the establishment as “safe,” but Locke knew nothing was safe, not so long as the Committee was moving closer and closer to implementing its plans. Their conversation began in the backseat, with two of Burgess’s men in the front and two more in a car following.

“They’ve got my son,” Locke said desperately, “maybe the rest of my family too.”

“Just your son, according to the latest reports we received. The rest of your family is under government protection. You can speak with them later.”

“Oh, thank God.” Locke sighed, feeling relieved for the first time in longer than he could remember. “Wait,” he said suddenly, alert again. “Latest reports? What are you talking about?”

“Operatives from every major intelligence service in the free world have been looking for you, mate. Man named Roy in the States seems determined to bring you in.”

“I’m not going anywhere until I get my son back. You’ve got to help me. You’ve got to!”

“In time, in time. My stake in this is personal too,” Burgess said grimly. “I’m supposed to hand you over straightaway to Roy’s men but first I’ve got my own questions. Whoever took your son killed Brian. That’s the score I’ve got to settle.”

“Then that much is true. You and he were friends.”

“Far more than just friends, mate. He saved my life in East Berlin….”

“And carried you back to the Wall.”

“Your information is rather complete.”

“The other Burgess passed it on. The Committee leaves nothing to chance.”

Burgess looked away. “You’re throwing ghosts in my face again, mate.”

“The Committee’s no ghost. Nobody can see it because that’s the way it functions. But you’ve heard of it, haven’t you?”

“Rumors, just rumors.”

“That’s the way they want it, damn it! That’s how they’ve been able to go undetected for so long.”

Burgess looked back at him. “And what is it they’re about to do now?”

Locke hesitated. Burgess seemed to read his mind.

“Wondering why you should trust me, right? What if I’m the imposter and the other Burgess was the real thing? Here, check my ID again. I’ve got a flashlight somewhere in the front to let you study it letter by letter.”

Burgess started to reach into his jacket but Locke stopped him.

“Don’t bother. Fake identifications must be child’s play for the Committee.”

“Then I’ll have this car take us straight to Whitehall in London, right to MI-6 headquarters. Or would you prefer Downing Street and the Prime Minister herself? Afraid they might have built a replica of her house, mate?”

“I wouldn’t put it past them, not after what I’ve seen and heard this past week. I trust you because everything finally makes sense. They had to be aware of my movements while keeping me isolated at the same time. The other Burgess had to be one of theirs, I see that now. Otherwise, they never could have arranged for Felderberg’s death so conveniently and left me holding the bag.”

“Felderberg was connected with this?”

“Indirectly. He acted as a middleman for the Committee without realizing whom he was acting for.”

Burgess was nodding feverishly in the half light. “Yes, yes, that fits. He was killed the same day you were placed in Liechtenstein. Go on. Go on!”

“He confirmed the key to the entire operation was food — crops, to be specific. The Committee was buying up huge amounts of land in South America.”

“Why—”

“I’ll explain the details later. What Felderberg didn’t grasp was the significance of these investments. He sent me to the Dwarf in Florence. The Committee would have followed me to him as well if it wasn’t for Dogan.”

“Dogan!” Burgess roared. “How does Grendel enter into this?”

“Apparently he was assigned to kill me but realized I was the wrong target. He went to South America to check out a lead that started this whole thing.”

“My Lord,” Burgess sighed, “what did Brian drag you into?”

“I’m not sure, not of all of it anyway. It’s all centered around something called Tantalus, some sort of plot to destroy the U.S. economy.”

“Did you say ‘destroy’?”

Locke nodded. “And when it’s done the Committee plans to replace us as the number-one crop producer in the world. I was at a plant in Liechtenstein where they’ve come up with a way to drastically speed up crop growth. I saw the results.”

“And this Tantalus?”

“Still bathed in darkness, unfortunately. But Dogan should be returning soon with more answers.” Locke felt his muscles stiffen. “We’ll have to get to him. The plan was for him to meet me in Rome. But the Committee penetrated my cover. The other Burgess obviously passed on the false name I was traveling under.” Chris held the real Burgess’s weary eyes. “All the more reason for me to trust you.”

Burgess nodded. “I didn’t get myself assigned to this detail for nothing, mate. I knew you held the key to finding Brian’s killers. Now we’ll bring the bastards down. I’ll have the wheels in motion by tomorrow morning, even tonight. Just let me get everything straight.”

“You can’t destroy them. They’re too big.”

“Exposure will do for a start. It’ll give us time to operate.”

“What about Dogan?”

“Leave that to me.”

Chris touched his mangled fingers. “They’ll spare nothing to find him … and us.”

Burgess glanced down at the bandage. “Broke your fingers, did they, mate?”

“How did—”

“Simple. It’s a crude torture and usually quite an effective one when used on amateurs.” He regarded Locke closely. “It seems they underestimated you.”

“I got lucky.”

“In this business there’s no such thing as luck.”

They were almost to Plymouth. Locke rested his head against the back of the seat.

“The other Burgess told me he — you — were responsible for my mother’s capture. Is …”

Burgess nodded. “Yes, mate, it’s true. I caught her, all right. Those were difficult times. A man wasn’t always able to be a gentleman.”

“I understand,” Chris said, swallowing the lump in his throat. “She deserved to die for what she did.”

Burgess’s eyes went blank. “She escaped.”

“She what?”

“You heard me. We hanged someone else in her place. Too much publicity to do otherwise, you understand. Morale in the country was low enough as it was. We couldn’t let on the truth. There were only a few of us who knew it anyway. I authorized the switch. It wasn’t a public execution, so there were no witnesses.”

“You’re saying she escaped England alive?”

“No. I’m just saying she wasn’t hanged. Our people caught up with her again at a farmhouse the Germans had been using as a pickup point. It was quite a battle. No survivors on their part. We used explosives in the end. Whole house burned. Not a board left standing by the time it was over.”

“Her body?”

“Nothing left, like I said. I’m the last one left alive who knew the truth. I figured you deserved to hear it.” Burgess closed his eyes. “Those were bad days, awful ones. I thought when they were over I’d seen the worst.” The eyes opened again. “Now you’ve made me wonder.”

Locke felt more secure almost as soon as the two cars passed into Plymouth. Somehow returning to a big city comforted him, especially when they approached Holiday Inn’s familiar logo. He almost felt at home.

Though not comparable to the Dorchester, Armada Way’s Holiday Inn was Plymouth’s finest hotel. Burgess explained that Locke would go through an initial debriefing period there. The risk of moving him at this stage had become too great. The involvement of the Committee in what was going on merited a change in strategy.

Two of Burgess’s men stayed outside while the other two accompanied Locke and the MI-6 man across the lobby into the hotel’s finest restaurant. The lighting was bright and there were plenty of windows looking out at the darkened city. They were ushered to a table against a wall in the rear, similar in placement to the one Charney had chosen in The Tombs a week before. Locke noticed that it was impossible for shots fired from beyond the windows to reach them. And Burgess left two men on guard at the restaurant entrance.

The MI-6 man sat down with his back against the wall and signaled Locke to take the chair adjacent to instead of across from his. Burgess waved an approaching waiter away and leaned across the table.

“I want to hear everything now, mate. From the beginning.”

Locke told the story yet another time, sparing none of the details and focusing especially on the information passed on by Felderberg and the Dwarf. Burgess interrupted occasionally with questions, and it was a half hour before Chris had brought him up to the moment the cab had dropped him around the corner from the girl’s house in Falmouth.

“Who was she?” Locke wondered as Burgess finally signaled for the waiter to come over and take their order.

“Nobody. Just someone … the Committee set in place to back up Burgess’s cover, the fake Burgess, that is.”

“Why not just use him as the contact?”

“Too direct.” Burgess ran a hand through his thinning silver hair. There were bags under his eyes. “They didn’t want you able to contact the imposter at every whim because that would have meant more questions, and sooner or later doubts might have sprouted in your mind.”

“They protected me for as long as it suited their needs.”

“But something made them change their minds rather abruptly, as your hand there indicates. Something unexpected, I would guess.”

“Dogan,” Locke surmised. “He pulled me right out from under them, in effect replacing Burgess as my guide. They hadn’t figured on his presence, or of anyone helping me or believing me for that matter.”

Burgess nodded somberly. “That explains it.”

“Explains what?”

“Word has been put out — very subtly, you understand — that Grendel is an outcast and not to be trusted. His credibility is gone. His own people have disowned him. In our line of work, it’s called a quarantine order, restricted status in this case.”

“There’s got to be somebody he can go to.”

“There weren’t many people to begin with. Dogan’s assignments were strictly deep-cover field operations through something called Division Six….”

“He told me.”

“Well, officially, Division Six doesn’t exist and neither does Grendel. If he walked into the CIA tomorrow, no one besides the director would know who he was.”

The waiter arrived again and Burgess ordered for both of them, Chris just nodding his acceptance.

“I, on the other hand,” Burgess went on after the waiter departed, “have the backing and support of an entire government at my disposal.”

“It isn’t enough.”

“To bring down one criminal organization? Think again.”

“The Committee is no ordinary organization. They’ve remained undetected for this long by eliminating anyone who had the potential to do damage.”

Burgess smiled confidently. “They never dealt with the power of MI-6 before, mate. I could have a squadron of Special Air Service commandoes standing by with one phone call.”

“And send them where? To do what? The enemy’s invisible, a ghost, remember? You can’t destroy what you can’t see.”

“That Chinese giant who ruined your fingers was visible enough and so are the rest. The Committee’s just people, and people can be killed. If all else fails, that’s what necessity will dictate.”

“You’ll have to find them first.”

Burgess nodded. “You’ve given us plenty of places to start looking: Felderberg was right about Austria; it sounds like their base of operations all right. We’ll just have to narrow things down a bit. The clues will be there. They’re probably in your words and I haven’t caught them yet.” He leaned over closer to Locke. “I’m going to put in a call to London now. An hour from now this hotel will be swarming with my people. We’ll begin our assault from here.”

Burgess started to stand up. Locke grasped him on the forearm.

“What about my son?”

Burgess shrugged. “That’s a tough one, mate. He’s the only leverage they’ve got over you, which should keep him alive.”

“Leverage to insure what?” Locke demanded. “That I don’t talk, right? Well, I’ve done that. I’ve told you all I know, which means the leverage doesn’t mean shit anymore. It’s superfluous and so is the life of my son!”

The MI-6 man sat back in his chair. “Calm down. They can’t know we’ve made contact.”

“Unless they were watching the house, waiting for me just as you were. They killed the girl, Colin. They knew that’s where I was headed and they killed her. Maybe as a warning, I don’t know.”

“You’re giving them an awful lot of credit.”

“Brian said they were everywhere. I think I’m beginning to understand him. They’ve penetrated important levels of governments everywhere and that’s just the beginning. Nothing is beyond their capabilities.”

Burgess stood up quickly this time, looking shaken. “I’m going to make that phone call now, and I’m going to pray you’re wrong. But even if you’re right, I know the right people to marshal a force against them. We’ll beat them, mate, you’ll see.”

The MI-6 man moved from the table, then out of the restaurant into the lobby. His two men held their positions on either side of the door. Locke gulped his water, reached over and drained Burgess’s as well. His mind was racing. The Committee could not be destroyed through normal measures but it was vulnerable. Otherwise, the dark man and Shang would not have appeared in his hotel room. The Committee was effective only when its control was total. That, though, was no longer the case. Locke had slipped from their grasp and Dogan had entered the scene, and they certainly seemed scared of Dogan. They could be beaten, especially if Burgess reached the right people in British intelligence. His phone call would not take long. He would be returning shortly and—

Locke glanced up toward the restaurant entrance. The two guards were gone from their posts. He felt the rise of anxiety in his stomach and fought to steady himself. Perhaps they had followed Burgess into the lobby. Their job was to protect him, not Locke. That must be it.

Chris waited. He’d give it another few minutes and then check the lobby himself.

The waiter brought their salads, set Locke’s down in front of him and Burgess’s before an empty chair. Chris turned a fork through the lettuce. Still no Burgess. He strained his eyes, trying to see further into the lobby, feeling the grip of panic seize him tighter.

Locke lowered his head and massaged his eyelids, trying to keep calm. He opened his eyes again and looked at the restaurant entrance.

A girl was approaching. He recognized her. Blond hair, dressed in jeans. It was Nikki!

“Hey, fancy meeting you here!” she said when she reached his table.

“Look, I—”

“Keep quiet,” she said in a suddenly serious tone. Her face had taken on a new expression, which made her look totally different. Older somehow.

“Who are—”

“I said keep quiet. Just listen. Your friend and his men are finished. They got them. But we can still get out if we move fast. Through the kitchen. Don’t move until I tell you to.”

“Tell me who you are.”

“Your fairy godmother. I’ve saved your life twice already, three times now. You really should be more careful.”

Locke felt confusion sweep over him. “But I thought it was the Committee that kept me alive.”

“It was.”

“Then you’re—”

“That’s right.”

“Why?”

“Long story I can’t even start now. Things are changing, crumbling. It may be too late already to set them right again. We’ve got to act fast. You’ve already helped us unknowingly. Now you’re going to have to with full awareness.”

“What makes you think I will?”

“Because we’re not your true enemies, not all of us anyway. There’s lots going on here you don’t understand. You will in time, but for now you’ll have to trust me.”

“Then you better give me a damn good reason to.”

“The life of your son.”

Locke almost slipped from his chair.

“Stand up, it’s time to move. I said stand up! If you want to save your son, we’ve got no time to waste!”

Chris started to rise. “You know where they’re holding him?”

She nodded. “Our next stop: Bruggar House in Cadgwith Cove.”

Chapter 25

Dogan fought to clear his head as the stewardess announced they’d been cleared to land at Leonardo Da Vinci Airport in Rome. San Sebastian weighed heavier and heavier on his mind.

He had carried the boy back to the jeep, then swabbed and bandaged his wound as best he could with the first aid kit. Next came a nerve-racking ninety-minute drive to the next town of reasonable size, the jeep threatening to give out a number of times. He took the boy and the other three children straight to the town doctor and proceeded to make a series of phone calls, trying to reach someone who could help him make sense of what he had learned in San Sebastian.

By late Tuesday night he was sitting in the still stifling heat of an office belonging to a U.S. Agriculture Department representative on temporary assignment to Bogotáas an adviser to the Colombian farming industry. His name was Tom Halloran, and the assignment seemed to have both bored and disgusted him. He was fair-skinned and had done his best, though futilely, to avoid the South American sun. His flesh was burned red, his nose peeling off in layers. Sweat poured from his brow in a steady stream as a ceiling fan sliced through the hot, thick air. His freezer made ice cubes, which turned back to water almost as soon as they were lifted from their tray. Dogan could barely find a trace of them in the glass of soda Halloran handed him.

“Christ,” the agriculture expert muttered when Dogan had finished highlighting those parts of his story directly related to Halloran’s expertise. “No wonder you want to keep this off the record.”

“It never happened, right?”

“Oh, sure,” Halloran said with a wink. He guzzled half his cola down, then held the still-cool glass up to his cheek. “I don’t want to get involved anyway. You ask the questions.”

“The mist that wiped out the crops,” Dogan started. “What could it have been?”

“A fungus, most likely. They reproduce like crazy, exist purely to grow.”

“But I doubt even an ounce of the mist was released. What had to be a hundred acres of crops were … gone in less than an hour.”

Halloran waved his forearm, already wet from swiping at the sweat on his face. “This fungus is obviously some sort of hybrid. The mist released millions of individual fungi spoors which produced toxins as they divided. The toxins are what killed the crops down wherever the hell you were. As more spoors were created, more toxins spread. It’s a geometric progression. The fungus gets stronger and stronger as it goes along. Picture billions and billions of tiny eating machines doubling in number with each bite. That’s what you’ve got here.”

“Then that explains why they burned the fields,” Dogan concluded. “The spread of the fungus had to be stopped.”

Halloran’s gaze was noncommittal. “Fire would have knocked most of the spoors out by denying them a food supply, but these little bastards are smart. They travel with the winds in weather systems. There had to be something more.” He thought briefly. “This town you’ve described, was it surrounded by mountains?”

“Yes, on all sides.”

“There’s the rest of your answer,” Halloran said. “Mountains in these parts can block winds plenty long enough for the rest of the spoors to die for lack of food supply — that is, of course, because so few of them were released in the first place. A little more of that mist and the stuff would be all over South America by now.”

“That fast?”

“Four to six days. Winds and weather systems, remember?”

“Oh, Christ …” Suddenly the room felt even hotter to Dogan. He reached down for his cola to find that he had drained the glass without realizing it. The ceiling fan swirled noisily above. He gulped down some stale air. “And what if this same … fungus was released in the United States?”

“How much?”

“A lot more.”

“If the logistics were right, there wouldn’t be a damn field crop left in the whole country within ten days, two weeks at the outside.” Halloran paused. “This part’s just theoretical, right?”

“Sure. What happens next, after all the crops are gone?”

“To begin with, lots of people will go hungry for more reasons than one. The United States controls more than sixty percent of the world’s exportable grain and other foodstuffs basic for human existence. We maintain more of a monopoly on food exports than all the OPEC nations combined have over oil exports. So if we lost our crops, it’s not an exaggeration to say our balance of trade wouldn’t exist anymore. We’d suddenly have to become a food-importing nation. And, even given the vast stockpiles we keep, the first impact of that would be staggeringly inflated prices for all farm-based products. Before long, white bread will end up costing more than caviar.”

“But wouldn’t it get better once the imports started coming in?”

Halloran shook his head. “Coming from where? The reserves of other food-exporting nations aren’t nearly as strong as ours, and what little they could get to the U.S. would be subject to the equally pressing problem of distribution. We’re just not set up for that. What criteria are we going to use to decide who gets the food and how? If you leave it to a market of drastically inflated prices, only the rich will be able to eat. Americans will starve, Ross, lots of them.”

“With no relief in sight?”

Halloran’s cheeks were dripping with sweat now. “The worse would be yet to come. Remember, we’re not just talking about farmers here. What about the dairy and poultry industries, not to mention beef ranchers? The quantity of field crops animals require is staggering. Cut back on their food and you end up with less meat, less chicken, and less dairy products. And don’t forget that field crops are actually grasses, so we’re also looking at the loss of all grazing land. Need I tell you the results?”

“Massive price rises in all food-related areas,” Dogan replied softly. “People would be priced straight out of eating.”

Halloran nodded, licked the sweat from his lips. “And inflation would continue to skyrocket as supplies continued to diminish. The farm belt states would face immediate bankruptcy. Defaulting on loans would cause panic and runs on banks that could not possibly meet the demand for cash. The government would be forced to step in with massive stopgap spending measures, which would push inflation off the board. Under these conditions you can forget all about Washington’s capacity to provide long-term relief.”

“Depression,” muttered Dogan. “But it would be temporary, right? I mean, the farmers would just have to start over from scratch.”

Halloran dabbed a rumpled piece of notebook paper against his face. “Nope, that’s the clincher. Soil that cannot sustain crops will erode immediately. It would be useless for a hundred years or more. Much of the middle U.S. will literally become a giant mud slide and will end up being washed down the waterways. The effect of this hyper-fertilized water packed with lingering pesticides rushing into the Ohio, the Missouri, and especially the Mississippi River would be an oceanic algae boom in the Gulf of Mexico. Hundreds of square miles of ocean would be turned into a sludge of green, choking off the direct oxygen needed to sustain marine life. Our coastal fishing industry would become virtually nonexistent, worsening the food scarcity all the more.”

“I imagine the rest of the world won’t be faring much better,” Dogan said lamely.

“Even worse, if you can believe that. Without us to supply them with food at drastically reduced prices or through direct aid, developing and Third World countries will be totally unable to feed their people. England, France, and Japan won’t be far behind either, nor will the effects be limited to our allies. Last year we exported fifty million tons of grain to the Soviet Union and another twenty to other Warsaw Pact nations. People starve just as quickly behind the Iron Curtain as in front of it.”

“But say someone else was able to supply them — and us — with crops.”

“What do you mean?”

“What if a powerful force was able to organize all of South America into a vast food-exporting consortium? What if they had discovered a means to genetically increase crop growth enough to turn this whole continent into a greenhouse?”

Some of the red seemed to fade from Halloran’s face. “Then that force would be in a position to hold the rest of the world hostage. The results would be a massive swing of global economic power over to it, political power too; for, in effect, the whole world would know where its next meal was coming from … or not coming from.” Halloran hesitated. “But don’t expect any of this to make things any easier for the boys and girls back home. The good old U.S. of A. would still be facing drastic economic realignment.”

“Economic what?”

“Realignment. If a system doesn’t work anymore, it’s got to be thrown out and replaced. Regardless of what happens in South America, we’d still lack even the semblance of an economy as it’s known today. No trading, no commodities, no stock exchanges, no banks as they function now, and cash itself would become increasingly worthless.”

Then something suddenly occurred to Dogan. “But how could crops be grown in South America or anywhere else once the fungus is released? It would spread across the whole globe, wouldn’t it?”

“Not necessarily. This fungus of yours could easily be engineered to be chemotrophic, meaning exposure to sunlight and oxygen causes it to gradually break down. It might have a built-in time clock of, say ten days — plenty of time to knock out the United States, Canada, and parts of Central America, while sparing South America and the rest of the world.” Halloran ran another piece of crumpled paper over his face. “But don’t worry because ten days would be plenty of time to plunge half our population into very real poverty. You’d see the evolution of a new two-class system divided simply into those who can afford food and those who can’t. You’d need martial law, curfews, holding pens for the millions of homeless driven to live in the streets. There’d be more people unemployed than working, with the gap continuing to widen because the resources and capital wouldn’t be available to reverse the trend. I could go on forever with this, but then so can you. Just use your imagination.”

Dogan had been doing just that for much of the flight, trying to see what the world would be like as Halloran described the Committee’s vision. Now, as the 747 streaked for the runway, his mind turned to more immediate concerns. After he had spoken to Halloran, Dogan had initiated a series of calls through usual channels in an attempt to make contact with his own people apart from Division Six. None of the conversations had gone well. There was hesitance, uncertainty, contrivance in the responses of his contacts, and only one explanation was possible: Since Dogan had failed to comply with his orders, he had been quarantined. Field operatives would have been warned not to cooperate with him, especially those he’d worked with in the past. And if the quarantine order was restricted, as he fully expected it was, isolation was just the beginning. Qualified field agents would have an open mandate to take him out.

And there was more. Dogan tried to recall the final words of the woman he had killed in the shack overlooking San Sebastian.

The Committee is changing and there is nothing you can do to stop it. It‘s too late. You can‘t fool me with your words. I know they sent you.

The last sentences seemed to indicate a charge that he was part of the Committee. But if so, who did she represent? Perhaps a faction of the Committee had broken off. But what would such a faction have to gain? The operation was well underway. U.S. crops were going to be wiped out while the Committee began the process of turning South America into the greatest crop producer the world had ever seen. So why would there be need for change? What was it he couldn’t stop?

The 747’s tires grazed the runway. Dogan rejoiced to be back on the ground, ready to pick up the elusive trail once again. His trip had filled in all the missing pieces of Locke’s story. He recalled the college professor’s rendition of Lubeck’s final words on tape.

I‘m in a position overlooking the fields now. It appears that … Oh, my God. This can‘t be. It can’t be! I‘m looking out at—

Lubeck must have been looking at the very sight the boy had described for Dogan in San Sebastian: a few fertile rows of crops standing amid utter destruction. The shock of that would have triggered his final, panicked words. Lubeck had known all along the key was food. He must have realized instantly the true significance of San Sebastian. And his report would have detailed it, but they had gotten to him. Yes, it made sense.

What didn’t make sense was that on top of all this, something else was going on, as hinted at by the woman in the shack.

The 747 came to a halt at the terminal building.

The passengers started crowding into the aisles and he joined them. His isolation was a temporary matter. He would contact Vaslov with news of a shadowy terrorist group called SAS-Ultra. Its one-eyed leader had to be found and convinced to join him in attempting to destroy the Committee.

Locke would be waiting for him at the Rome Hilton. Dogan would begin the process from there.

Forenzo, the hotel manager, knew his old friend would be arriving sometime that night. Of course, the American could not be allowed to enter the hotel. The forces that had caught Locke were undoubtedly still about and discretion had to be observed. It would be a small matter to ward Dogan away and one that Forenzo would take on himself. His friend would be looking for him and Forenzo had already prepared the signal. The only other thing required was his presence in the lobby.

Night had already fallen when Forenzo returned to his windowless office. The hotel still had to operate and he was behind in his work. He opened the door to his office and limped inside, flicking on the light switch.

Nothing happened. The bulb must have blown, he figured. He had started to turn back out the door when he felt his shoulders grabbed and twisted. At the same time, the door closed all the way plunging the room into total blackness.

Forenzo was shoved viciously against the wall and was about to scream when he felt the burst of agony in his abdomen. All that emerged was a gasp and a gurgle as the blade was pushed in and drawn up, splitting his midsection in two. Blood poured up his throat but Forenzo was dead before it began to spill out. He slumped down against the wall drenched with his own insides.

Minutes later, after depositing the manager’s body in a pile of dirty linen, Shang stepped into a room on the tenth floor and began the wait for Dogan.

Audra St. Clair held the receiver tighter to her ear.

“Dogan will be out of the way by the end of this evening,” Mandala reported.

“And Locke?”

Mandala hesitated. “He slipped away from us again in Plymouth but he won’t get far.”

The old woman breathed a sigh of relief. She was playing with dynamite here, but a person did not reign over the Committee for a quarter century without developing a stomach for such things. Matters were out of hand, she knew that now along with the fact that Mandala was to blame. He was shrewd and cunning and would not be easy to best. She had defeated other worthy opponents, though, and he would prove no different.

“You learned nothing from Locke in Rome?”

“I’m afraid he’s better than we thought. Displaying his son’s finger should have gained us everything but, still, he held back.”

“You underestimated him, Mr. Mandala.”

“We all did.”

“If you find him, you will bring him to me with no more of these childish games. It’s time for Mr. Locke to join our crusade instead of fighting it. That means the release of his son is mandated. Understood?”

Mandala remained silent.

“I asked if my instructions were understood. I want the boy returned safely to America.”

“As you wish, madam.”

Mandala hung up the phone, hoping he hadn’t hesitated long enough to make the old bitch suspicious of what was really going on without her knowing. Her orders had puzzled him greatly. Not that they mattered, of course. Locke’s son was to be executed just after midnight unless instructions were received to the contrary. And since he had no intention of issuing them, the boy for all intents and purposes was already dead.

Chapter 26

It was pitch black when Nikki pulled her car to a halt down the road from Bruggar House.

“You still haven’t told me a damn thing about who you are or what your stake in this is,” Locke said. “You are obviously part of the Committee, yet you acted against those who eliminated Burgess and his men at the Holiday Inn.”

“If you know that, you know enough for now,” she said firmly.

“But at the airport in Rome this morning, how did you know I’d use you the way I did?”

“I made myself available to aid your escape. You chose the proper strategy. I was impressed.”

“Spoken like a true professional….”

“It’s going to take one to save your son’s life.”

That silenced Locke and suddenly he understood. Nikki was a killer, same as the dark man and Shang. The hardness of her eyes now was identical to theirs — and Dogan’s — but the look didn’t fit her. She should have been the smiling, happy girl from the airport. In the world he had entered, nothing could be taken for what it seemed to be. People became whatever best suited them at the time, revealing their true selves only rarely. Chris wondered if he was seeing Nikki’s now. He followed her from the car.

They had discussed the plan on the way into Cadgwith Cove, going over and over it along the Lizard. She estimated four or five men would be inside Bruggar House. The key was swift and silent action. The men’s orders would be to kill their hostage immediately if assaulted. They could not know an assault was underway until it was too late.

Nikki opened the trunk and handed Locke a pair of Mac-10 machine guns.

“Thirty-shot clips. Nine millimeter,” she explained. “One for each of us but you’ll have to carry both and stay out of sight until I get inside. I’d expect them to have a man watching the outside from one of the upstairs windows. That means you’ll have to approach from the side. That’s a lot of ground to cover in very little time.”

“I can handle it.”

“Once inside, your job is to protect my back. With any luck, my gun will be the only one we’ll need.”

Nikki grabbed a twin pair of sheathed blades from the trunk and stuck them on opposite sides of her belt. Chris noted their unique shape, blades circling off in near forty-five degree angles from the hilts.

“Kukhri knives,” he muttered, “weapon of the legendary Gurkha soldiers from India. Where in hell did you learn how to use them?”

Nikki made no reply, just closed the trunk and started away. Locke followed in step toward the dark outline on the cliff that was Bruggar House.

The leader of the team holding the boy inside did not like working with Chinks. Too damn creepy for his tastes. The two they had sent him this time were better than most, but he still avoided turning his back on them.

He was a bear of a man with a pockmarked face and had reserved the duty of killing their hostage for himself. If the Chinks didn’t like it that was too fucking bad. He would have preferred to be done with the job already, but the orders specified midnight and the damn Chinks always insisted orders be followed to the letter. He didn’t want to push things too far with them. They were slippery creatures, these two, small but incredibly quick.

Now midnight was almost here and the leader was spinning the cylinder of his Magnum. A long time ago he might have felt pity for the fair-haired boy with the blood-dried bandaged around his mangled hand, perhaps even regret at having to kill him. Tonight, though, all he felt was amazement at the job the damn Chinks had done on him with their knives, a surgical masterpiece.

Little bastards had been good for something, after all.

Locke split from Nikki halfway down the street and moved toward the cliff out of sight from Bruggar House. Nikki approached straight on. Chris kept her in view as long as he could, then stepped up his pace when she disappeared into the darkness.

Nikki moved right up the front walk without hesitating and rapped the brass knocker hard.

“Hey, is anybody home? Come on, I need help!”

Above her in a second-floor window, a shadow flickered. Obviously the lookout. She rapped the knocker harder.

“Come on, I know there’s somebody in there.”

She heard footsteps approaching but the shadow remained in the upstairs window. That was bad. If he saw Locke coming, the boy would probably be killed.

Nikki heard locks being turned inside the heavy door. Still no lights had gone on outside, leaving her Kukhri shielded by darkness. The door opened. From the dimness inside, a face peered out, inspecting her.

“You’re not gonna believe this,” she said, seizing the advantage, “but my car broke down and I don’t know where the hell I am. I sort of got lost.”

The door stayed open just a crack. “Yeah, well, we can’t help you.”

She made herself look innocent. “All I need is a phone.”

The door opened a little more. “Ain’t got one.”

Nikki frowned angrily. “Well, can you at least show me where I am and how to get back to civilization?”

The man shook his head. “I’m bad with directions. Just beat it.”

Nikki shook her head defiantly. She jammed her thumbs into her belt to facilitate drawing her blades. “Look, asshole, I’m not leaving this porch until I’ve got a place to go!”

The door was flung open. The man stepped out. An ugly hand thrust forward to shove her down the steps.

And then Nikki was in motion, dipping under the arm to make it look as if she was being yanked inside while she whipped one of the knives from her belt and swept it across the man’s throat. The momentum of the blow and shape of the Kukhri carried it in and through, so the man’s head slid obscenely to the side, held to the neck by only a few sinews of flesh and cartilage. For a second his eyes bulged crazily. Then they glazed over as a fountain of blood spouted from the gaping hole.

The action outside had seemed all wrong to the lookout in the upstairs window, and he had just reached the staircase when Locke sprinted through the front door, a Mac-10 in either hand.

Rapid footsteps pounded the steps and Chris saw a man rushing down. The man was aiming his gun as he moved.

Chris dived to the cold floor and rolled. A whistle split the air followed by a horrible gasp. Locke gazed up to see the man glancing dumbfounded at the Kukhri blade buried in his midsection. He rocked backward, then forward, crashing through the banister and tumbling to the floor.

“Damn,” Nikki moaned, grabbing the Mac-10 from Locke, “the noise! We’re blown!”

She took off for the staircase. Locke sped after her, finger against the trigger of his Mac-10. It was remarkably light but Chris knew its potential for devastation was incredible. Still, his bandaged left hand made grasping it difficult and he wondered what that might do to his aim.

On the third floor, the leader joined the two Chinese in the corridor. Footsteps pounded up the stairs. One of the Chinese pumped a shell into his twelve-gauge shotgun, tilted its barrel down, and squeezed the trigger.

The deafening blast blew out a good portion of the wall and showered Chris and Nikki with the splinters. Both went down hard, the fall saving them from the hail of fire that followed. Locke hugged the carpet but Nikki stayed in motion, firing her Mac-10 in a constant burst as she rolled. Bullets split the air around her, just missing. Nikki kept firing. From the top of the stairs came a scream and the sound of a thudding body amid the deafening roar of gunshots.

The leader watched the body of the Chink hit the floor, amazed at how the little bastard had managed to pump out three more rounds with his chest and guts blown apart. That made it two against two now, and the leader was thankful the guy on his side was another Chink.

Locke started up the stairs behind Nikki, gripping the Mac-10 as tight as he could with his bandaged hand, fighting to hold the barrel steady.

The leader slid out from behind the wall and fired three rounds down the steps, covering the second Chinese’s move to a better position with his M-16. The Chinese tried to return the favor by firing a burst but it was too late. The leader’s Magnum had clicked on an empty chamber, so when the figure rose before him he tried to duck away. He felt the hot pain burn his side and shoulder and crunched hard against the wall, sliding down to the floor. The figure was darting up the stairs now. It seemed to dance through the Chinese’s hail of fire. A fucking broad, would you believe it? The leader’s mind returned to his orders. Orders were everything, he reminded himself. Breathing heavily, the taste of blood thick in his mouth, the leader started crawling for the door. With a trembling hand he reached in his pocket for his final speed loader.

Nikki started her rush up the stairs just as Chris had almost caught up with her. Bullets blazed everywhere and he thought he heard her scream but he wasn’t sure. The Mac-10’s blasting led her way and out of the dimness a lithe figure darted down the corridor, firing a series of rounds behind him. Nikki took off after him, keeping her body low and tight against the wall, leery of turns and doorways. This was the last one left alive by her count.

The leader popped the speed loader home and snapped the cylinder closed. He had reached the door of the room holding the hostage, but the girl was too easy a target to let go. He aimed the Magnum as carefully as he could.

“Get down, Nikki! Get down!”

Locke was tugging the trigger of the Mac-10 even as he screamed the warning, spraying rounds toward the downed man holding the pistol. His bandaged hand couldn’t control the barrel, though, and the bullets stitched a pattern in the wood above the figure as it pushed against a door and crawled forward into a room. Chris lunged after him, only to be tripped up by a bloody corpse that sent him sprawling to the floor.

Nikki, meanwhile, had gone down with Locke’s warning, feeling the heat of the bullet pass just over her ear and dig into the wood above her. At that instant the lithe figure — a Chinese, she realized — rushed back toward her with his M-16 carving up the air before him.

Nikki swung her Mac-10 upward and fired in the same motion, catching the Chinese in the gut with a barrage of nine-millimeter rounds. Blood slid from the holes in his midsection. He slowed but kept coming, his finger clicking on an empty trigger, mad eyes clinging to life.

Suddenly a knife flashed in his hands in place of the rifle and Nikki fired the last burst from her Mac-10. The bullets tore much of his skull away, but still the blade was plunging down. Screaming, Nikki had risen to block it when the Chinese stiffened and collapsed atop her.

The leader knew he was dying but managed to raise the pistol toward his captive, pouring all his remaining strength into the effort required to pull the trigger. He started to squeeze.

“NOOOOOOOOO!”

The leader never heard the drawn-out scream as the intruder rushed into the room, machine pistol blasting away. He felt his own trigger give, heard the blast as life was stripped away from him.

Locke kept the Mac-10’s barrel tilted at the sprawled body. The trigger clicked empty as he moved through the room.

Please let me be on time. Oh, God, please ….

Tied to a chair in the rear of the room was Greg, head slumped on a filthy blue T-shirt. Chris’s heart sank in his chest as he crept nearer. The boy was dead. He had been too late.

Then he realized the T-shirt was moving, expanding regularly with Greg’s breathing. He was alive! Thank God!

Chris hugged him tight, feeling with disgust the ropes that bound him.

“Greg,” he said softly, almost sobbing, “Greg, can you hear me?”

The boy’s face fell limply to his father’s shoulder. He was unconscious, but he was alive. The beating of the boy’s heart against his own chest was the most welcome sensation Locke had ever felt.

The tears of relief started to come and Chris let them.

Darkness was Shang’s friend. His training en route to becoming the most dangerous man in China had dealt plenty with working in it, and now the giant almost preferred it to light. His eyes could adjust quickly and see things no other man could, which made the darkness his ally.

He huddled inside the door and waited. He had been waiting for some time now but the training had taught him infinite patience. He would kill the famous Grendel with his bare hands in the darkness.

A key turned in the lock outside. Shang tensed with anticipation. A wave of peace swept over him as the door started to open. Dogan’s figure was entering the room now, his key still protruding from a gloved hand. His fingers felt for the light switch. Shang acted.

He grabbed his victim from behind at the head, hoping to snap the neck quickly and simply. But suddenly Grendel’s hands came up hard, acting as a barrier as he twisted for a counter-move. They faced each other in the darkness, each searching for an advantage on the other. A slight edge was all that was required to turn the tables.

Shang felt Grendel go for his eyes, a foolish move really because it forced him to overreach and allowed the giant to come under and find his throat. Shang shoved him viciously backward until Grendel’s head smacked against plaster. Then, as Dogan writhed and clawed desperately, the giant joined both his hands beneath his chin and jammed it upward and back.

There was a crunching snap, Dogan’s body going first rigid and then limp, his head sliding toward the middle of his back.

Shang let the American’s frame slip down to the carpeting. Then he twisted the neck one last time just to make sure the job was done.

Chapter 27

“Major Pete’s gonna be a little late, louie,” Calvin Roy told deputy National Security adviser Louis Auschmann. “Some kind of emergency came up. We’ll get started without him. You read my memo?”

Auschmann nodded. “You really think it’s the Secretary?”

“Back where I come from, son, they say a bull carries his brains in his balls so it’s pretty easy to tell what he’s got for smarts. Same way with Van Dam. It all fits. Locke got himself fingered ’fore he even left Washington, way I figure it. And Van Dam was the only one in the department besides me and Charney who knew about the deployment.”

“That’s not a lot to go on.”

“It got me started thinking, though, and when Charney’s file got tampered with, I got downright pissed. Only somebody with control of a lot of strings coulda pulled that one. It was done too clean and all evidence of the tampering was knocked off the computer. That takes high-level clearance, Louie, the highest. It had to be Van Dam.”

“Then you took a hell of a chance laying everything out for him.”

“’Cause he’s part of somethin’ much bigger, and if I’m gonna trap the rest of the maggots, I gotta have bait. This whole mess has been too clean from the beginning. Charney gets himself killed and Locke takes off all over Europe leaving bodies everywhere without getting himself caught or killed. He couldn’t have gotten that far unless somebody wanted him to.”

“Why?”

“That’s what I’m hoping the Secretary will tell us … one way or another.”

“What do you make of MI-6’s report on picking up Locke?” Auschmann wondered.

“Shit stains don’t wash out too easy, Louie, and that’s what their story’s got all over it. They had Locke and lost him. That somebody is tryin’ awful hard to see he ain’t caught.” Roy started tapping a pen against his desk blotter. “They yanked his son and the boy’s probably good as buried now, and I got me a feeling lots more people are gonna be joining him unless we get some answers real soon.”

Auschmann thought briefly. “Van Dam won’t talk.”

“Yeah. So I already got the President to approve a detailed investigation into his movements in the last few months. Way I see it, he musta made a few stops on the sly at wherever this mess is centered.”

“Those things take time.”

“We’re movin’ extra fast. We’ve also got a tap on his private line and a couple men watching every move he makes hoping he leads us to the rest of the maggots.”

The phone rang. Roy picked it up.

“It’s Kennally, Cal,” the head of the CIA said over the private line. “You’ll be hearing from the President soon enough, but I figured I’d let you know first under the circumstances. You just became Secretary of State. David Van Dam’s dead.”

Roy wasn’t surprised at all. “Shot himself, did he, Major Pete?”

“Not unless he held the trigger long enough to empty a dozen bullets into his gut. Somebody just assassinated him.”

“Chris, we’ve got to get out of here.”

Nikki’s voice lifted Locke from his trance. He eased the still-unconscious Greg away from him and his eyes fell on the blood-caked bandage enclosing his left hand.

“Whatever happens, I’m not leaving the boy,” he said. “Not again.”

Her voice way strangely calm. “He needs medical attention and a safe refuge. We can’t provide either.”

“I’m not leaving him,” Locke persisted.

“There’s a doctor in the Devon countryside. I’ve used him before. He’s reliable … and trustworthy.”

Locke started working the ropes free. “Fine. Let’s go visit him. But I’m staying with Greg the whole time.”

“Then you’ll be taking the very real risk of leading the Committee back to him. I can’t protect you forever.”

“Just another few days is all I ask, long enough to get us back to the States.”

“You can’t run from them, Chris. It’s too late.”

Locke swung toward her. “Wait a minute, you’re part of the damned Committee. Or are you?”

“Yes. And no. Everything’s changed. There’s a splinter faction led by the man who kidnapped your son and tortured you. He’s out of control. We’re trying to stop him, but it’s got to be done our way.”

“Great. Be sure to send me a postcard and let me know how things turn out.”

“His only chance to stay alive is if we win, Chris. Yours too. We need you.”

“Why?”

“I … can’t explain now. Just trust me. We’ll take the boy to the doctor in Devon. He’ll be safe there.”

Chris felt himself wavering. “I want guards around him, lots of them.”

Nikki shook her head. “No. The more men we alert, the greater the chances that your son will be found. The doctor will handle everything. He’s well versed in these matters. You’ve just got to trust me,” she repeated.

“You still haven’t explained why.”

“Everything will be clear in the morning.”

“In the morning?”

She nodded. “We’re going to Austria.”

The doctor’s house was nestled comfortably in the countryside of Devon, totally isolated from civilization. The doctor was an old man with a wizened face and flowing white hair. Greg hadn’t regained consciousness when they arrived, nor did he during the old man’s initial examination. He was a survivor of a German concentration camp, and he understood pain and the people who brought it. He would protect the boy with his life, he promised staunchly, and with the lives of his sons: a pair of brawny youths turned hard and strong by years of living off the land. Both handled guns quite well. Greg would be safe there and could remain as long as necessary.

Chris left detailed instructions on what to do with the boy if he failed to return. The doctor said not to worry, he would handle everything, though he said he could tell by Locke’s eyes that he would return. Nothing was going to stop him, the old man claimed, he could tell from experience.

Chris and Nikki’s next stop was a country inn ten miles up the road. They were both exhausted and in need of food. They registered as a married couple, and a large tip to the sleepy clerk who doubled as a cook gained them four sandwiches, which they gobbled gratefully. Nikki grasped Locke’s arm tightly on the way to their room, resting her head tenderly against his shoulder. The facade ended as soon as they were inside.

“We can’t take any chances,” she explained. “We’re sitting ducks here if anyone makes us. We’ve got to play the part of the married couple to the fullest. I know how the men after us work. We might be watched anywhere, anytime.” She looked toward the room’s single bed. “That means we sleep together.”

“At last, the light at the end of the tunnel….”

“That’s as far as it will go,” she snapped.

“Just joking, young lady. Christ, you’re young enough to be my daughter. And this may surprise you but, that luscious body of yours aside, sex is the last thing on my mind right now.”

“I didn’t mean it that way,” she apologized softly. “You just don’t understand.”

“What don’t I understand, Nikki?”

She looked away, saying nothing.

“Who are you?”

“You know who I am.”

“I’m not talking about names. I want to know who you are. Your accent’s clearly American but I’ve got a feeling you’re not exactly a citizen.” When Nikki made no response, Locke continued. “Those Kukhri knives you’re so adept with, you know how the Gurkhas used them in World War II, don’t you? They were great warriors, almost mystical, I’ve heard. They used to sneak into German camps at night, right into a tent where two soldiers slept. They’d cut off the head of one — just one — so the other would wake up in the morning to see his buddy’s head looking at him from his chest. Played hell with German morale, not to mention their sleeping habits. Anyway, no matter what steps the Nazis took, the Gurkhas still made their mark. You know when I knew the Falklands War was over? When it was announced the British were sending a boatload of Gurkhas into the battle.” Locke hesitated. “I guess I’m telling you this because you’re like a Gurkha, aren’t you? Cold and deadly. Nothing can stop you, or change you. I’m right, aren’t I?”

“It doesn’t matter.”

“I think it does.”

She turned toward him suddenly. “Would you like to hear about all my years of training? Would you like to hear what I was doing while most girls my age were going to finishing school and worrying about boyfriends? I was fifteen when it started, almost twelve years ago. Training camps in the Soviet Union and Libya — that’s where it started. Then came individual instruction from masters in some rather unique disciplines.”

“Deadly as well as unique, it seems.”

“Yes, deadly!” she said, eyes narrowing. “It was a question of beliefs. I felt what we were doing was right. I grew up with the ideals. Our actions were necessary. Sacrifices had to be made.”

“Sacrifices? Listen, lady, who the hell do you think you are? My son almost died today and as it is he’s going to go through life with one less finger than everyone else. So don’t talk to me about your damned sacrifices. More than two hundred people died at San Sebastian and lots of them were children too. Thanks for saving my life, but the people you work for are still animals. Only animals kill children.”

“I agree,” Nikki said softly. “Times changed and we thought it was necessary to change with them. We went too far. We recruited a man who was a specialist in organized terror and violence.”

“Good-looking dark guy with a Chinese ape for a pet?”

Nikki nodded. “His name’s Mandala.”

Chris held up the hand Shang had worked on. The bandage had slipped off and hung filthy around his wrist. The enlarged, poorly set fingers looked even worse than the day before.

“I’ve had the pleasure, remember?”

“Mandala, we believe, has moved out on his own,” she told him. “He’s taken Tantalus and changed it to his own liking. We’re just starting to put things together now.”

“The best strategy would seem to be canceling the operation altogether.”

“It’s too late. The operation’s already reached the stage where Mandala was to take over. So we’re going to try to beat him and salvage it at the same time. To abandon the operation now would have catastrophic consequences.”

Locke jumped from the bed and walked to the dresser, his head starting to pound. “I don’t believe I’m hearing this. You sound like your people are out to save the world, pure philanthropists. Well, that’s bullshit. I’ve seen too much, heard too much to buy it. The Committee’s only out for itself. We’re talking about self-interest in its purest form.”

“We’re offering the world order.”

“That’s what the Nazis said, my girl.”

“You don’t understand, you’re not even trying. Look around you, Chris. The world’s being horribly mismanaged. People live only for today with no thought of tomorrow or the day after. Leaders are transients; their rushed, ill-conceived policies are never given a chance to work. People are poor, hungry, frustrated, and it’s getting worse. In twenty years half the countries on Earth will have their own hydrogen bomb, and tell me somebody won’t use it when the supply channels finally dry up and their people demand action. Tell me the time isn’t right for the stability we promise.”

“Stability is one thing,” Locke told her. “What you promise is something else entirely. Don’t forget, I know what Tantalus is all about. You’re going to make yourselves the world’s largest crop producer, aren’t you?”

“It goes much deeper.”

“Why don’t you tell me how?”

“I can’t. Not yet.”

“Prefer to wait until your people have the world over a barrel?”

“It’s called centralization.”

“Blackmail is more like it.”

Nikki shook her head. “You don’t understand. Food’s just the beginning, the very first step. Everything’s laid out. Our people are everywhere, rising in positions of power. We’re pumping money into campaigns across the world to gain control of parliaments and senates. Our policies have nothing to do with rhetoric. We believe in action.”

“So you retained Mandala and look where that’s gotten you.”

“Tantalus was supposed to insure order. He saw it as a means to create chaos.”

“I don’t follow you.”

“Everything will become clear in Austria.”

“Your people set me up from the beginning, didn’t they?”

Nikki nodded. “But I was always there when you needed me. I was even there in the park when you killed Alvaradejo and at Vaduz Mountain in case Felderberg’s men took you down.”

“Oh, my God….”

“Without your participation we never would have learned about Mandala’s treachery. He would have destroyed us all.”

“You’ve destroyed plenty of people on your own. I lost my two best friends because of this. And don’t forget my son….”

Nikki’s gaze grew distant. “We’ve all paid a price.”

Locke’s eyes sharpened. “All of a sudden you’ve got me wondering something, Nikki. Why you? Why this undying commitment to this cause since the age of fifteen?”

“Tomorrow,” she replied. “You’ll understand tomorrow.”