The Tesla Secret

CHAPTER ONE

It was what he didn't hear that woke him.

Nick Carter listened. No insects. No frogs. No rustlings in the trees, no familiar sounds of the night. It was cool in the cabin after the heat of day. The clean scent of California cedars and damp earth drifted through the open windows.

Selena Connor slept next to him. He touched her on the shoulder and she came awake. His voice was soft in her ear.

"Get dressed. Something's wrong."

Nick pushed off the sheet. He placed his feet on the hard wooden floor and picked up the .45 on the nightstand.

Selena slipped naked out of bed. Her clothes were on a chair near the front bedroom window. Wranglers, a green tank top, underwear. She stayed away from the window, skipped the underwear, pulled on the jeans and the top. She slipped her feet into a pair of Nikes and slipped her Glock from its holster.

Nick stepped into his pants. He heard a tiny scraping sound of metal against metal outside the window, a familiar click as the lever released. Adrenaline flooded his body, a rush of raw energy.

"Selena, Grenade!" he shouted.

He threw his forearm across his face and ran straight through the screen door that led onto the deck, Selena behind him. He leapt off the deck, stumbled and fell and rolled to his feet again. Pain shot up his spine. The explosion of the grenade rocked the cabin.

The cedars were thirty exposed yards away. They ran across the gap and reached the concealing shadows of the grove. Nick looked back at his cabin. Bright flames lit the bedroom. The fire was already crawling up the outside wall toward the green metal roof.

Incendiary, he thought. An incendiary grenade. Shit. He took deep breaths and calmed himself.

"How many?" Selena asked. Her voice was low, tense.

"Probably more than one." He watched the flames spreading. "We have to take them down. I'll circle right and come out near the front. You go left. Watch for me."

She nodded.

He touched her arm. "Don't get hurt."

He moved away. Selena watched him go. Her heart thumped against her ribs. She began moving though the trees, her pistol held in both hands down at her side.

The flames roared through the dry wood of the cabin. Red and orange and yellow embers soared into the night sky. Small explosions sounded from inside the burning building. The noise covered Nick's movement through the cedars. He pushed branches aside and lifted his bare feet and set them down with careful precision, feeling the uneven ground. He stayed away from the edge of the grove and circled the flames.

He heard them talking before he saw them, two white men dressed in black. They had Uzis.

"They might of got out." The first man said. He was about six feet tall, lean. Ex-military, Nick thought, the way he's standing with that weapon. The second man was short, stocky.

"From that? Are you kidding?"

He waved at the building. The cabin was engulfed in flame. The framework began to appear as the inferno consumed the walls and interior.

Nick raised his pistol and listened.

"He shouted before it went off," the tall one said.

"Yeah, well. He can shout all the way to hell. They're fried. Let's get out of here."

"Hey, look over there. A cat." The tall one pointed.

A big, orange cat sat at the edge of the clearing, curious, watching the flames. Nick recognized him.

Burps.

The cat was always around when they showed up. Nick owed him. He'd saved their lives a year before.

"Watch this," the man said. "Cat food." He raised his Uzi.

Nick put two rounds in the center of the tall man's back. He went down hard. The next two shots hit the short man in the chest and knocked him backward onto the ground.

Burps ran into the woods. Now we're even, buddy. Nick watched and waited. The bodies didn't move. He looked right and left, saw nothing. No one. He walked out into the open.

Selena's pistol barked in the woods, three hard, flat echoes. A third man fell out into the clearing, dressed in black like the others. Selena stepped from the trees. Nick went over to the man, scanning the shadows. He kicked another Uzi out of reach. Blood bubbled on the man's lips.

Nick knelt down. "Who sent you?"

The man looked up, his face contorted with fear. He coughed blood. He tried to speak and coughed again, a sudden gusher of bright red that spilled out over the brown earth. His chest stopped moving.

Selena walked over and stared down at the man she'd killed. Don't think about it. Deal with it later. She was getting good at tucking her thoughts and feelings away until she could look at them.

"Damn it," she said.

Nick got to his feet and gestured at the bodies. "They deserved what they got. That one over there was going to kill Burps. Just for fun."

"You're bleeding a little," she said. His chest was crossed with welts from the branches and scratches where the screen door had cut him going through.

"It's nothing. We'd better call Harker. There's a backup phone in the truck. "

Selena watched the shifting colors of the flames play over him. His gray eyes were black in the night. His skin glowed red in the firelight, the old scars dark shadows and spots and hollows on his body. They walked to his Silverado. He pulled a gym bag from behind the seat and put on running shoes and an old black tee shirt. He took a phone from the bag and stuck it in his pocket.

The cabin burned. They could feel the heat all the way across the clearing.

"Let's check the bodies." He went to the first man he'd killed and started going through his pockets. Selena took the man next to him.

"Nothing," she said.

"Not here, either." He went to the last body and felt a hard shape through the clothes. He pulled out a cell phone, the kind of cheap throwaway model you could buy anywhere with prepaid time. He pocketed the phone.

"This place is going to be crawling with cops and fire trucks soon," he said. "We have to get the bodies out of sight. Help me drag them into the trees."

They moved the three dead men deep into the woods, went back and collected the weapons, put them with the bodies.

He handed her the phone from the bag. "Give Harker a call while I find some socks."

Selena stood with the phone and watched him walk back to the truck. As she watched, the propane tank in back of the cabin exploded. She looked at the blazing building and realized she still held the Glock in her other hand.

How did I get here? she thought.

CHAPTER TWO

It was a few minutes before six in the morning in Virginia. Elizabeth Harker had been behind her desk for more than an hour. A cup of black coffee warmed her hand. She felt at home when she was behind the desk. The Project had become her life.

Elizabeth Harker had wide green eyes and milk-white skin. She was a small woman. Her size and looks and raven black hair made people think of a Tolkien fantasy where elves and fairies danced in the woods. People sometimes confused size and gender with competence and wrote her off. It was a mistake no one made twice.

Her satellite phone signaled a call.

Trouble, she thought, it's too early. She picked up.

"Director. Someone came after us at Nick's cabin. We need a clean up."

"Bodies?"

"Three. The cabin is toast. Literally."

"Are you all right?"

"Yes. Nick's scratched up some."

"Scratched up?"

"Here, he'll tell you."

Elizabeth heard Selena say something and Nick came on.

"Director, we need a clean up team."

"So Selena said. What happened?" She listened while Nick told her.

"Hold on," she said. She picked up her desk phone, spoke briefly to someone on the other end. Set the phone down.

"A team is on the way. It will take them two hours. Hide the bodies and weapons before anyone gets there."

"Already done."

Nick watched the embers rise, every one a fire waiting to happen. There'd been a freak rain the day before. The cabin was in a wide clearing. There was plenty of space around the flames and there was no breeze. It might be all right. In the distance he heard the first siren.

"Fire trucks and the Sheriff will be here soon."

"What will you tell them?" Harker's voice echoed over the satellite link.

"Propane leak. They'll buy that, the tank went up with the cabin."

"Any idea who they were? Any ID?"

"No. A cell phone, nothing else. There might be something on it."

"Get back here as soon as you can. Don't get arrested."

Elizabeth leaned back in her chair and thought about it. If someone had gone after Nick and Selena, they might go after the others. She called Ronnie Peete and told him what had happened. She called Lamont and Stephanie and told them Ronnie would pick them up.

The Project was the shadow hand of the President. No one was supposed to know who was on the team or where they lived. The Project was secret as far as the public was concerned, but it wasn't the public throwing grenades. Over the last few months too many people had found out about her group. She was getting the feeling that secret wasn't the operative word anymore.

Elizabeth sipped her coffee and looked at the picture of the Twin Towers she kept on her desk. Anytime she began to doubt why she was here, all she needed to do was look at that picture.

The day hadn't started well. She wondered what else it would bring.

CHAPTER THREE

Ronnie Peete and Lamont Cameron were on their way to pick up Stephanie. They rode in Ronnie's black Hummer,

"What do you figure?" Lamont said. He looked in the mirror on the door. A black Crown Vic tailed them a block behind.

"He was outside your building when I picked you up. It could be a cop or Feds. Could be the people who went for Nick. Harker said they used a grenade."

"Wouldn't be the first time. Nick's got bad karma or something about grenades."

"Karma? You going New Age on me?"

"Yeah, right." Lamont took out his pistol and pulled the slide partway back to check for a round. He rested it in his lap. "Nick's got to be pissed about the cabin."

Ronnie glanced in his mirror. The car was still there. Another black Ford entered the intersection ahead and turned toward them. The car behind sped up to close the gap.

"Here we go," Ronnie said.

"Think they're feds?"

Someone leaned out of the oncoming car as it neared and fired a machine pistol at them. The Hummer was fitted with bullet proof glass. The windshield starred with the rounds.

"Nope. Not feds."

Ronnie stepped hard on the emergency brake and cranked the steering left. The Hummer slid into a screeching 180 turn and slammed sideways into the other car and knocked it off to the side.

Ronnie released the brake, punched the accelerator down and headed straight for the second car. Lamont saw panic on the driver's face as the Hummer bore down on him. He tried to turn out of the way.

Ronnie's truck was modified with armor plating, a beefed up frame, a turbocharged engine and a lot of extra horses. A heavy black steel bumper and grill dominated the front. It hit the Ford like a 6000 pound hammer and bulldozed it over the curb. Ronnie kept the pedal down and pushed the car into a store front with a big plate glass window. The window disintegrated in an explosion of glass. Neatly dressed mannequins fell out onto the pavement.

A man scrambled out of the car. Ronnie rolled out of the Hummer and shot him, three quick rounds. Down the block, a woman started screaming.

Lamont got out and squatted down behind the Hummer a second before a large man came out of the car across the street firing an Uzi. The 9mm rounds rang against the steel plating on the Hummer. Lamont's first and second shots missed. The third and fourth shots didn't. The man dropped out of sight.

Ronnie fired. The driver fell forward over the wheel.

That fast, it was over. The echoes died away. Traffic was stopped at the intersections. Nothing moved on the block. Lamont saw a curtain flutter in an apartment window and swung toward it, pistol aimed in both hands. He saw a terrified woman step back out of sight.

Steam rose under the buckled hood of the car in the store front. The driver was dead, his head at an odd angle. The front seat passenger had a thick shard of plate glass from the store window sticking in his neck. An Uzi was clenched in his dead hand. The front of the car interior was wet and red with blood. The man Ronnie had killed lay sprawled on the sidewalk by the open car door.

"Let's check the other one," Lamont said.

They started across the street. No one moved by the second car. Ronnie saw gas underneath. He held out his arm and stopped Lamont. The gas tank exploded, ripping through the Ford.

Sirens were coming, lots of them. They went back to the Hummer. The right side was a mess. The rear quarter panel was crumpled and bent, the shiny black paint along the side marred and scratched, the front fender buckled in against the tire. The metalwork and windows were pocked with bullet holes.

"Messed up your ride," Lamont said.

Ronnie looked at his car and shook his head. "We'll need help with the cops. I'll call in."

CHAPTER FOUR

The team met in Harker's office. Nick and Selena had gotten in from California an hour before.

Stephanie Willits sat on the couch. She was the Project's computer guru, a hacker genius. Everything about computers was in her keeping. Stephanie had dark eyes and hair and a pleasant face people characterized as friendly. She usually had a ready smile. At the moment, the smile had gone missing.

Ronnie sat next to her. The story of the Navajo Nation was written on his face. He had square, solid features and dark brown eyes. His nose was large, Roman looking, a noble nose. His skin was light brown with an underlying reddish tint that got darker during the sunny months. He had on one of his favorite shirts, a gaudy panorama of big-finned Cadillacs full of joyous surfers cruising the Hawaiian sands.

A silver pen that had belonged to FDR lay on Harker's desk next to a picture of the Twin Towers on 9/11. She picked it up and twirled it in her fingers.

"No question this was a concerted attack," she said. "There were no IDs on the people who came after you, in California or here. But we found out who most of them were."

"How?" Selena asked.

She looked fresher than Nick, but not by much. Her face showed lines of fatigue, her violet eyes were bloodshot. She wore jeans and a blue sweatshirt and hadn't bothered with makeup. Her red-blonde hair was pulled back in a short ponytail held by a rubber band. She was letting it grow out.

A long way from when she first walked in here, Harker thought. She's changed. No more rich girl look.

"The three in California were ex military. Their prints were on file. We couldn't get prints from the one who burned up, but the others used to be with Langley."

"Mercenaries," Nick said, "and ex spooks."

"Yes."

"I don't like that. Where did we see this before? Spooks and mercs?""

"In Texas," Ronnie said. He still felt the effects of the wound he'd taken there. "You think it's the same people, Director?"

"Yes. There was one incoming call on the phone you found. It traced back to a company called Endgame Development. They design interactive, violent video games. Think Friday the 13th in 3D and high definition. Endgame is a subsidiary shell of a subsidiary of an entertainment company owned by Malcolm Foxworth."

"Foxworth runs AEON."

"That's why I think it's the same people."

"What do you want us to do?" Nick asked.

"Endgame is in Brighton Beach, in Brooklyn. I want you and Lamont to go there and see what you can find out." Elizabeth fiddled with her pen. "This could have been a preemptive strike, so we don't get in the way of something. They'd go after you four because you're the guts of the fire team. Steph and I were probably on the list after they got the shooters handled."

"Big mistake." Lamont smiled. "They don't know you two very well."

Lamont had retired from the Navy Seals just before joining the Project. A shrapnel scar ran from his forehead down across his nose and cheek. It made a thin ridge of pink against his coffee-colored skin. He had pale blue eyes, a gift from his Ethiopian grandfather.

Selena said, "What could they be planning?"

Harker tapped her pen. "If the past is any indication we'll find out soon enough."

CHAPTER FIVE

The man who led AEON looked out from his penthouse windows over the city of London. The view took in most of the city. It was a good spot to contemplate power.

Malcolm Foxworth was a small man with a large presence. His hair was black with streaks of silver and carefully styled. His ears were a little too large for his head. His eyebrows formed thin, black streaks over flat eyes blue as glacier ice. Foxworth's face was unremarkable, common even. When he was angry, his complexion turned red. When he was very angry, his face turned chalk white.

Foxworth had started out with a small newspaper inherited from his father. Over the years he'd created a world-wide media empire by telling angry people what they wanted to hear. He controlled radio stations, newspapers, magazines and television outlets, all with one thing in common. Each worked to feed and strengthen the ominous cloud of divisiveness and fear spreading over the globe.

Fear was Foxworth's stock in trade. Fear overwhelmed reason. Fearful people became angry and could be manipulated. The world's leaders had always used fear to get what they wanted. They congratulated themselves and imagined themselves masters of the world. But few knew who pulled the strings that made the world dance.

Foxworth knew, because he was one of them. The conspiracy theorists were right about a hidden group seeking world domination but they'd gotten most of it wrong.

AEON had been called by many names over the centuries. The Illuminati. The Secret Masons. The Hidden Masters. The New World Order. The Trilateral Commission. The Bilderberg Group. Those were useful red herrings, shadows thrown up against the screen of human paranoia, psychological sleight of hand. No one had ever managed to expose the real conspiracy.

In the past year someone had begun to interfere.

Someone had pointed Harker's dogs at the Demeter operation. It was like throwing sand into a machine with closely cut gears. Years of preparation had been destroyed in hours by an insignificant team of ignorant, washed up soldiers led by a woman. It wasn't the first time she'd derailed one of AEON's operations. Every time he thought about Harker, Foxworth wanted to take her throat in his hands and crush it.

Harker drew her power from the Presidency. President Rice didn't play by the rules. He couldn't be bribed, or persuaded to see reason about things that mattered. He was weak, opposed to war. Without him, Harker would become irrelevant.

Rice's opponent in the upcoming US election was AEON's puppet. Voting was untrustworthy, no matter what the polls predicted. Foxworth had no intention of waiting until November to see his man elected.

He was going to assassinate Rice, then eliminate Harker.

He gazed out at the changing London skyline. A light rain spattered the glass. Beyond the Thames, the giant Ferris wheel Londoners called the Eye stood out against the gray sky.

A sudden stab of blinding pain staggered him. He placed his hand against the thick glass of the window to steady himself. His vision blurred. Then his sight cleared and the pain on his skull receded. He walked unsteadily to his desk and sat down.

A door on the other side of the room opened. A tall, smartly dressed woman with pale skin and long black hair came in. She moved with unconscious ease and sexual promise. She glowed in a cream-colored suit that set off her hair. Her red blouse showed just enough cleavage to intrigue the eye. Her dark eyes glittered with unspoken thoughts.

Mandy Atherton had been a model at the top of her profession when she'd met Foxworth two years before. In the cutthroat world of high end fashion and beautiful women there was always someone scheming to take her place. Mandy was no fool. She knew where her future lay, and it wasn't with the fashion industry. It lay in a rich man's bed.

Lately Foxworth had been finding it difficult to perform, but that wasn't a problem for Mandy. Besides, she had other ways to satisfy her needs. She was inventive and intelligent as well as attractive. During working hours she acted as Foxworth's executive assistant.

"Malcolm, Doctor Morel is here."

"About time. Send him in."

Doctor Morel wore a goatee and mustache and a three piece dark suit that had cost a great deal of money. He was 50 years old, balding and beginning to show a paunch. He looked like an actor portraying Sigmund Freud. Custom shoes that added to his height and expensive cologne hinted at his vanity. In his right hand he carried a smooth black leather briefcase full of select medications.

Morel was under five and a half feet tall, one of the reasons Foxworth liked having him about. Aside from the bonus of his height, Morel was also discreet. He was a man who knew how to make his clients feel pampered and respected. More important, he knew how to make them feel better.

"Goddamn it, Morel, what took you so long? I can't think with this headache."

"Sorry, Malcolm, there was construction on the M1. I came as quickly as possible. Please, sit down."

Foxworth insisted that associates he saw all the time call him by his first name. Worker bees called him "sir".

Foxworth sat at his desk. Morel placed his case on the desk, opened it and pulled up a facing chair. He took out an instrument and shone a light into Foxworth's eyes.

"Look up. Now right. Now left." He put the instrument away, took out a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.

"Any other symptoms, Malcolm? Blurring of vision? Hearing problems? Any problems with balance?"

"Never mind that crap. Just give me something for this headache. I've got an important meeting in twenty minutes."

"Of course." Morel filled the syringe, squirted a few drops. "Pants, please."

Foxworth stood. Morel noticed he was a bit unsteady, but said nothing. Foxworth exposed his buttock. Morel gave him the injection.

"You'll feel better in a minute or two," he said. "Are you still unwilling to put yourself in for a few tests? Just overnight."

"I don't want any tests." Foxworth felt the drug working. The pain receded. He took a deep breath. "I don't need any tests. These headaches are just stress."

"Malcolm…"

"Morel. I said I don't want any bloody tests."

Foxworth's voice had gone cold. Something ancient and dangerous lay just beneath it. Morel took an involuntary step backward, as if he had just seen something unspeakably evil. Ridiculous, he thought. It's just the stress talking.

Foxworth calmed himself. "Don't ask me again. A long as I can reach you, I don't need anything else."

"I'm always available for you." Morel closed his case.

The money he got for these visits guaranteed it. If his patient didn't want tests, well, that was his decision. Morel had done what he could. He wouldn't bring it up again, not after what Foxworth had said. For a moment, he'd actually felt threatened.

CHAPTER SIX

Selena's condo had security good enough for Langley or the NSA. She needed it. There was enough rare art on the walls to start a private museum. She'd inherited a fortune from her uncle. His murder had brought her to the Project. She'd never imagined then that she would end up working for Harker.

One of the things Nick liked about her was her lack of pretension. Selena didn't flaunt her money. She had no false airs of superiority because of wealth.

He sat at the counter and watched her in the kitchen. She moved with smoothness perfected in twenty years of martial arts training. The reddish blond coloring of her hair revealed her Celtic ancestors. Her eyes were sometimes blue, sometimes deep violet. Her face was interesting. One cheekbone was a little higher than the other. She had the kind of look people called striking. There was a small dark mole on her upper lip, a natural beauty mark.

Selena had a lot of skills, but cooking wasn't one of them. She was trying out a recipe for beef stroganoff. A pan of noodles burbled on the stove.

"You need any help with that?"

Nick kept the nervousness out of his voice. Selena's last two attempts to make dinner hadn't ended well. They usually ate out when they were together, or Nick fixed something.

"No, I'm fine. How's your drink?"

"I'm good." He picked up his whiskey, took a sip. Foam lifted off the noodles and boiled over onto the stove.

"Darn!" She turned down the flame.

"Won't hurt anything," he said.

She took the noodles off the stove, strained them into a colander in the sink. Half of them stuck to the pan. She scooped them out and added the beef and brought everything over to the counter. It was already set with plates and napkins and silverware. She'd put a rose in a bud vase on the counter. Water in crystal glasses. A large Greek salad.

Nick eyed the stroganoff. "What are those black things?"

"Olives. I didn't have any pickles."

He took a bite. The meat was like leather. His eyes watered. "Kind of hot." They both reached for water. "How much pepper did you use?"

"It said a tablespoon. You like spicy things so I added a bit more."

"A tablespoon." No way, he thought. "Not bad," he said. He took another gulp of water.

"It's terrible. Damn it." She pushed her plate away.

"Great chefs weren't made in a day. The wine's good." He leaned over and kissed her. "And you taste good. Kind of like peppered wine."

"You taste like whiskey. With curdled sour cream."

"Let's just eat the salad."

When they were done they moved to a long couch where they could look out over the lights of the city. The Capitol Dome glowed white in the distance.

"I wish it could always be like this," she said.

"It's like this right now."

"For how long? Something's going to come up. It always does. We still aren't certain who came after us."

"No. We'll find out, though."

"You think they'll try again?"

"Yes."

"How can we stop them?"

"They'll make a mistake. Sooner or later, there's always a mistake. All we need is a lead. We follow that, we learn more, we keep going. Somewhere there's an end to the trail. Then we eliminate the threat."

"We don't know what the threat is."

He picked up his drink and gazed into the amber glow of the whiskey. He set it down.

"We'll find out," he said again. He changed the subject. "You miss what you did before you hooked up with Harker?"

Selena had a unique gift for ancient and obscure languages. She had a world wide reputation as an expert.

"Sometimes. Mostly not. After this last year, I could never go back to my old life. Even with the drawbacks of working for Elizabeth."

She stared into her wine glass. "You think you'll ever want to get out of this? Do something different?"

"I think about it, sometimes. It would be hard to just have a normal life. Whatever that is."

"Some things don't change, normal life or not."

"What do you mean?"

She set her glass down and kissed him. A long kiss.

They broke apart. "Let's not change that," he said.

She looked into his eyes. Gray eyes, with flecks of gold.

They went into the bedroom and undressed. She pressed against him and wrapped her arms around him. She ran her hands over his body, feeling the geography that told his history. His right side was stippled with scars from the calf to the shoulder, the result of a grenade in Afghanistan. A puckered ridge marked where a round had passed through his upper chest. The scars were familiar to her touch. She took in his scent, tried to inhale him. She pushed him down on the bed and straddled him.

"Tell me you love me," she said. "Tell me."

"You know I do."

"Tell me."

"Yes. Yes, I love you."

She was ready for him. She guided him in and they began moving together. Afterward, they lay for a long time in each other's arms.

Nick fell asleep. He dreamed the dream.

They come in low and fast over the ridge, the rotors hammering out the hard heartbeat of war.

The village sits in a sandy valley between sharp, barren hills under a relentless sun. He's first out of the bird, his Marines fast behind. They hit the street running. On the right, low, flat roofed houses. On the left, more houses and the market. The shoddy bins of the market are made from old crates, the walls of hanging cloth. Flies swarm on meat hanging in the open air of the butcher’s stall.

A baby is crying somewhere. The street is empty.

Bearded figures spring up like dragon's teeth on the rooftops and open fire. The market stalls turn into a storm of splinters. Plaster and rock explodes from the sides of the buildings.

He ducks into a shallow doorway. From one of the houses, a child runs toward him with a grenade, screaming about Allah. Nick hesitates, a second too long. The boy throws as Nick shoots him. The child's head turns into a red mist of blood and bone. The grenade floats through the air in slow motion…everything goes white…

Nick shouted and sat up in the bed, slick with sweat.

"It's all right, Nick. It's just a dream." Selena waited until she was sure he was awake before she touched him.

He rubbed his face. "Try and go back to sleep," she said.

"There's no point."

He got up and waited for daylight.

CHAPTER SEVEN

Endgame Development was housed in a concrete and brick building off Brighton Beach Avenue. The area was a zoning nightmare. Apartment buildings and row houses butted up against commercial shops and services. Most of the business signs were in Russian and Ukrainian. Brighton Beach was known locally as "Little Odessa". It was the base for the Russian and Ukrainian Mafia in the US.

The August day was hot and humid. Nick and Lamont sat at a grungy sidewalk cafe down the block from the building, eating Russian pastries and drinking black coffee. Sport jackets concealed their weapons. Nick had a brought a .45 caliber Sig-Sauer P229 designed for concealed carry. He was thinking about changing over from his H-K. The Sig was smaller, less obvious. It sat snugly in a holster at his side.

No one would think they belonged in this neighborhood. They'd probably be taken for cops. Nick didn't like it, but there was no way around it.

There was little to see at the Endgame building. A long, dull yellow wall scrawled with graffiti. A large closed metal garage door at one end. Above and to the right of the garage, a door on the second floor opened out onto a black iron walkway running along the front. The building was four stories high. Two thirds of the way across, the walkway rose in a series of steps and landings to exits on the third and fourth floors. A few small windows, dirty and closed, looked out from the second story. At the other end was another garage.

"Doesn't look like much, " Lamont said, "for a high tech production company."

"Not very friendly. Like the architect was inspired by the Berlin Wall."

"Some of these guys around here probably helped build the Wall back in the good old days."

"I don't see any cameras." Nick sipped his coffee. The coffee was old. The pastry was new. "No obvious street surveillance."

"Neighborhood like this, there has to be something."

"Could be an agreement with the local mob boss. Plenty of security that way."

"Let's take a walk." Lamont tossed a few bills on the table and they got up. Inside the cafe, a rat-faced man watched them go and made a telephone call.

In this neighborhood Lamont's skin stood out like a neon sign. People passing by gave them hard looks. A small sign in English and Cyrillic by the entrance to the building announced that Endgame Technology was on the second floor. A short flight of steps led up to double glass doors. Stairs and a freight elevator were visible through the glass.

"How about the direct approach," Nick said. "I need to develop my game."

"After you." They entered the building.

The entry was dark and smelled of urine and stale beer and cigarettes. The steps were steep and dark and stained.

"Classy," Lamont said. "Their website made this look like the Hilton."

"Yeah, masters of illusion. That's one of their game titles."

They climbed the stairs. On the second floor a long hall covered in cracked linoleum stretched along the length of the building. Nick counted four metal doors, all painted a dull brown. A sign on the second door read Endgame Development, LLC.

Nick tried the handle. Locked.

A door opened down the hall. A large, muscular man with a buzz cut walked toward them. He wore a black tee shirt, black leather sport coat, black pants and black shoes. He moved like a boxer. His face was hard and he wasn't smiling. He looked like someone who could hold his own in the UFC.

Camera somewhere, Nick thought. Pretty good. Didn't see it.

"I help you?" His accent was Russian or Ukrainian.

"Sure, thanks. We're looking for Endgame Development. Got some work for them."

Nick reached in his jacket pocket, watched the reaction. The man covered it, but Nick saw the inner flinch. He's got a piece under that coat. Nick took out a business card and handed it to him. The card said he was Nicholas Allen, Executive VP of Video Production. It gave an address in Manhattan.

"I'm Nick Allen. This is my assistant, Lamont Cranston. We have a gaming project in mind. Endgame has been recommended. We'd like to explore possibilities with them, but they seem to be closed."

"Da, closed. Gone to beach." The man smiled. A gold tooth gleamed in his lower jaw. "You come back tomorrow." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

Nick heard the entry door close below, a whispered word. His ear started to itch and burn. His personal warning system, a psychic quirk that had saved him more than once.

"Well," he said, "I'll just slip my card under here." He bent down as if to push the card under the door, grabbed the man's leg and pulled it out from under him.

Gold tooth was quick. He hit the floor and kicked out at the same time. The blow landed on Nick's shoulder. It numbed his arm and broke the hold. Gold tooth rolled away and bounced to his feet, reaching inside his jacket. Lamont kicked out and slammed the knee. Nick heard it break. Gold tooth howled in pain. He had the gun out and fired as he went down. The bullet tugged at Nick's jacket.

Nick caught him with a hard kick to the groin. The man screamed. The gun skittered across the floor. Lamont kicked him in the head.

One down.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. There was no cover in the hall. Nick drew the Sig and fired into the lock on the door. Lamont let off three fast shots at the head of the stairs. It would give anyone coming up something to think about.

Nick hit the door with his body. It popped open and they were inside Endgame Development. Lamont shut the door behind them. Bullets thudded into the metal.

The door was the only exit. They were trapped.

Piles of shrink-wrapped games were stacked along a wall. Four large wooden shipping crates took up one corner. Computers, a laptop and three large monitors sat on a work bench. A bright poster hung on the wall advertising a violent crime game Nick had seen in stores. It wasn't the real thing. The real thing was about to come through the door.

Nick signaled Lamont. The crates. Whoever was out there would figure they'd be behind the door when it opened. What they'd do was predictable. Nick and Lamont ran to the corner of the room and crouched down behind the crates. Nick breathed deep and brought the adrenaline rush under control. Outside the door, the hall was silent.

Lamont held up three fingers. Three men out there. Nick didn't wonder how he knew. Three or four or more, it didn't make much difference.

There were three.

The door burst open. The first man through rolled and came up shooting at where someone would be if they'd been waiting behind the door. The shots thudded into the plaster board wall. Lamont shot and missed, fired again and the man went down. It gave away their position.

The second and third men reached around the open door and began blasting away at the crates. Splinters exploded from the raw wood. A long piece struck Lamont under his eye and lodged in his cheek. Blood started. He kept firing. The men in the hall retreated.

Stalemate.

Fuck this. Nick stood and ran to the opposite wall. As he ran he got an angle on the hall. He saw one of the shooters and put two rounds into him before he could react.

The last one was stupid. He reached around the door to shoot at Nick. Lamont fired twice. The man slid down the doorframe, folded over in the opening and stopped moving. The room was filled with the smell of spent gunpowder and the hot copper smell of blood. Then the stink of emptying bowels.

Nick went to the workbench and picked up the laptop. He looked at the dead men and holstered his pistol.

"Game over," he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Harker leaned back in her chair.

"The tabloids are calling it the 'Brighton Beach Bloodbath' and blaming it on a mob feud. The men you killed were all tied to one of the Russian gangs. The crates in Endgame were full of pornography packaged as New Age Seminars."

"That's a nice touch," Lamont said. He had a large, white bandage on his face where the splinter had gouged him. It stood out against his dark skin.

"That building is made out of solid concrete with thick doors." Nick tugged on his ear. "Nobody heard the shooting. Or if they did, they thought it was none of their business."

"How did you make it out of there?" Stephanie asked.

"There was a second set of stairs at the end of the hall that led down to a garage. We borrowed one of their cars."

Lamont said, "Nice car, too. A brand new Beemer. We left it parked in a loading zone. It's New York, it would have been towed in minutes."

Ronnie laughed.

"That was a pretty extreme reaction," Nick said. "They couldn't have known what we wanted. Hell, we could have been cops. But they got hard core right from the start."

"They had orders to stop anyone from finding out what was in there," Elizabeth said. "It had to be more than porn."

"The laptop you brought back is encrypted," Stephanie said. "1024 bit encryption. That's state of the art, as good as it gets. Military grade."

"When will you know what's on it?"

"Freddie's working on it now."

Freddie was a maxed out Cray XMT in the computer room. Stephanie had names for all her computers.

"I don't like the Russian connection." Nick said. "Why are Russians involved?"

Lamont looked at Nick. "Maybe it's just about porn. Mafia stuff."

"The Russian mafia is bad news but they don't start shooting people unless they have to. It gets attention and makes trouble. Look at the headlines we got."

"This isn't about porn," Harker said, "it's something else. You went there because we found Endgame's number on that phone in California. It stirred up a hornet's nest. Foxworth is playing hardball for a good reason."

"What's next, Director?"

She set her pen down on her desk. "I want to see what's on that computer. It might give us the next step."

CHAPTER NINE

Malcolm Foxworth pressed a button concealed in the carving on his desk. A flat panel slid open along the top, revealing a large monitor and keyboard. He pressed a key and the monitor elevated itself. He looked at his gold Rolex. A minute to go. While he waited, he imagined the future and smiled. Precisely one minute later the screen came alive. It showed images of eight men, the other members of AEON's inner circle.

AEON had begun in the 18th Century. A group of wealthy and powerful men in England and France had formed an association based on the mutual creation of wealth and the application of power to achieve their goals.

The nine members always addressed each other on a first name basis. It created an illusion of collegiality, but Foxworth had no illusions about the group. None of them did. The leaders of AEON were more like a school of sharks than a gathering of colleagues. Like sharks, they would turn on any member who showed signs of weakness or lack of judgement. Alliances between members were matters of common convenience. Friendship was not unknown, but it was rare.

Foxworth began the conference.

"Gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for joining me."

There were nods of recognition.

"I believe we can keep it brief today. Anatoly, can you give us an update on your progress?"

Anatoly Ogorov was Russia's Foreign Minister.

"The Tesla device is almost complete." Nods of approval greeted his words. "I have been assured that we are close to testing the prototype. Construction of the power generator is ahead of schedule."

"What is the projected completion date?"

The speaker was the representative from Brazil, Jose Silva. In one way or another, Silva had gained control of all energy resources in Central and South America. He was one of the world's 100 wealthiest men. He was also the most powerful member of the inner group after Foxworth.

"Late October or early November," Ogorov answered. "Before the American election."

"You have overcome the obstacles?"

"Not all of them. Not yet. There are still problems. But I am confident."

Silva nodded. "Good. Yes, the election. Malcolm, what do you intend to do about that? We must defeat Rice. His policies are making things difficult for us."

There were murmurings of agreement from the others.

"I understand. Steps are being taken. Rice will not be a problem."

"We have your assurances on this?"

Silva wanted to unseat him as leader. Success was the criterion of continued leadership. There was only one answer possible. Foxworth gave it.

"You do."

For the next fifteen minutes they reviewed the European strategy. There was still disagreement about how long to let the Eurozone and the Euro currency continue. AEON intended to bring down the Euro and reap the benefits of the economic depression that was sure to follow. It wasn't a question of if but of when. There was no immediate urgency. They agreed to further deliberation. Foxworth ended the meeting on that note.

He pressed the hidden button and the monitor retracted into the desk. The panel slid back in place. He activated the intercom.

"Mandy, get Healy in here."

"Right away, Malcolm."

A few minutes later Healy knocked and came into the room.

Michael Healy was Foxworth's Chief of Security. He stood in front of Foxworth's huge desk, his feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Besides overseeing Foxworth's protection, Healy took care of operations that had nothing to do with corporate security or personal protection.

Healy had spent fourteen years in the SAS, Britain's elite Special Forces unit. He'd gotten caught up in a civilian sex scandal involving underage prostitutes and been kicked out of the service for "behavior unbecoming to an officer". A man with his skills could always find work. He'd ended up here, with Foxworth.

His civilian clothes might as well have been starched. The creases in his pants looked like they could cut. His shoes blinded with their shine. His back was erect, his shoulders wide, his face all angles and planes. His eyes were hazel and cold. Foxworth approved. He appreciated discipline.

"Are things ready in America?"

"Everything is in place."

"You are certain there can be no connection back here?"

"Yes."

"Good. You have a green light. Proceed with the operation. That's all."

"Yes, sir." Healy turned smartly and left. Foxworth watched him go.

All the little people with their prattle about democracy and freedom of speech and the rule of law, he thought. Soon there'd be a new rule of law. His law.

CHAPTER TEN

Nick dreamed.

It was hot. He was on a mission in the jungle, carrying his weapons, his gear. He was in a clearing. There was a big spider in the middle of the clearing. Selena was right behind him.

"Don't kill it, Nick. It will make too much noise."

The spider and the clearing disappeared and he was looking at an ancient ruin covered with vines and green things. Serpents and faces were carved on the weathered stones.

"That's it," Selena said behind him.

He turned and looked at her. She wore a pith helmet and a red bikini. She had combat boots and a red plastic pistol.

"Where are your weapons?" he said. "Where's your armor?"

She showed him the pistol, pulled the trigger. Water shot out. Then he was in the middle of a full blown firefight. Bullets chopped the greenery around him. Selena lay next to him, pulling the trigger on her water pistol. The stream was red.

A spot of bright red blossomed on her abdomen, red like her bikini. He watched the blood spread. He dropped his rifle, grabbed her. He tried to stop the blood, pressed his hands on her. Blood poured through his fingers.

"Nick," she said. "Nick."

Her eyes closed. Blood ran out of her mouth. She stopped breathing.

Waves of grief and rage swept through him. He raised his head and howled.

Someone was shaking him. He woke, gasping for air. His cheeks were wet. His heart was trying to pound out of his chest.

Selena gripped his arm. The clock by the bed read 3:07 A.M..

"Nick, you were shouting. You had a nightmare again."

He'd told Selena about the Afghanistan dream. He hadn't said much about the other dreams. They'd started when he was twelve. They didn't come often. He never knew until later what they meant. They were never about anything good and were always about something that hadn't happened yet. Those dreams had a strange intensity, a luminous quality.

Like the dream he'd just had.

It was a psychic ability inherited from his Irish ancestors. His Grandmother had told him it was called the "sight". She'd filled his head with dark mutterings and warnings about it. Nick assumed it came from the same place that made his ear itch and burn when everything was about to go bad.

"Christ," he said. He rubbed his face.

"Afghanistan again?"

"No." She waited.

Nick was silent. The image of his hands trying to hold in her blood stuck in his mind.

"You can't keep doing this," she said.

"Doing what?"

"Trying to get a handle on these dreams on your own. You need to see someone."

"I don't want someone poking around in my head. I'll handle it."

"You are one stubborn man." She wanted to shake him. Instead she said, "Let's go back to bed."

"We're already in bed. I don't think I can get back to sleep."

"I didn't say anything about sleeping. Don't be so damned literal."

Later, he slept.

CHAPTER ELEVEN

President James Rice stood in the wings of the Lakeside Building at Chicago's Convention Center. He listened with half an ear to his VP setting up the crowd of delegates and party faithful. Secret Service agents were stationed back stage. More circulated out front.

Rice was about to accept his party's nomination for a second term. 50,000,000 viewers would be watching. The polls showed him trailing his opponent by seven percentage points. Behind the scenes the atmosphere was tense, his campaign split into opposing factions over strategy.

Everyone wondered what Rice would say. About the endless problems in Afghanistan and the Middle East, the rising tensions with Iran and Russia and China. About jobs and an economy in trouble. The media was sharpening its knives.

It didn't matter that Rice had kept the country out of a new world war and survived a highly publicized assassination attempt a year before. The public's attitude was always "what have you done for me lately?" Kennedy's famous words about what you could do for your country had long been forgotten.

His opponent had no qualms about distorting Rice's record. Senator Richard Carino twisted facts to suit, throwing skewed numbers out like confetti in carefully rehearsed sound bites. He brayed about the enormous deficit and the wars, but posed no sensible alternatives and took no responsibility for the current state of affairs. AEON had spent hundreds of millions of dollars to oust Rice from the Presidency. His re-election bid was in trouble.

The space out front was filled to capacity. Kevin Hogan, Rice's Chief of Staff, stood at Rice's side. Hogan was the picture of a Washington political pro. He looked like what he was, a savvy, shrewd advisor with the unmistakable air that went with proximity to power. He was making an effort to keep calm. A lot was riding on the speech tonight.

"One minute, Mister President."

"How's the makeup?"

"Good, Sir. No one's going to think of Nixon."

Rice smiled. "I hope not."

Hogan gave a weak laugh. In the first Kennedy-Nixon televised debate, Richard Nixon had come across on the black and white screen as a man who needed a shave, a man who couldn't be trusted. It was a bad day for the country, the day television became a major player in shaping American politics.

Onstage, the Vice-President was finishing up. With a broad gesture he turned toward the wings.

"Fellow Americans, I give you the President of the United States."

"Showtime, Mister President." Hogan gave Rice an encouraging smile. "Give 'em hell, sir."

On cue, the sounds of "Hail to the Chief" filled the hall. Rice strode onto the stage, looking out at the crowd, waving his hand. Blinded by the lights, he stumbled on an electrical cord carelessly laid across the stage.

Rice heard the first shot and felt the wind as the bullet passed by the back of his head. Chaos erupted on the convention floor. In an instant, Rice was smothered under a swarm of Secret Service agents. He heard a second shot and felt it strike the man lying on top of him. The agent cried out. Blood sprayed out over the stage.

There was a volley of answering shots from his detail. An automatic weapon opened up somewhere overhead. For a moment, he was back in Vietnam. Bullets juddered into the living shield piled on top of him. The rounds ripped through the carpet, shattered the podium where he would have been speaking. The shooter was somewhere above in the darkness behind the lights.

He felt the shock as a bullet struck his arm, then pain. There was another fierce volley of shots from his detail. Suddenly the shooting stopped. Strong arms pulled bodies from him, lifted Rice and ran with him off stage.

Kevin Hogan lay on the floor in a spreading pool of blood. Proximity to power had its price.

CHAPTER TWELVE

Michael Healy feared no one. The closest he came to fear was nervousness. He was nervous now. He'd screwed up. The last three assignments from Foxworth had turned out badly. It didn't matter that he wasn't the one on the scene who had failed. He was responsible.

"Rice is still alive." Foxworth looked at him. "Lucky for you, the man you picked is dead. So are the people you sent after Harker's team. What have you got to say about it?"

"No excuses for Harker's people, sir. Bad luck with Rice. He tripped just as our man fired. It was certain, except for that."

"Not our man, Healy. Your man."

"Yes, sir."

"Tell me why I should not terminate your position."

He has no idea how fast I can kill him, Healy thought.

"No excuses, sir," he said again.

Foxworth swiveled, looked out the windows. He turned back.

"Don't make any more mistakes."

"Yes, sir." Healy relaxed, just a fraction.

"What is your assessment of the damage from the Brighton Beach incident?"

"It shouldn't be a problem. The men killed were low level security, former FSB provided by Ogorov. The police and papers think it's a gang war. I don't see it coming back to us. There is one possible issue."

Foxworth waited.

"A computer is missing. One of Harker's men must have taken it. It has messages on it that could lead back to Prague."

"Can they be read?"

"No. They're coded. But the point of origin can be traced."

"If Harker figures that out, she'll send someone to Prague."

"It's what I'd do."

Foxworth considered for a moment. "We have to cover it. Send a team to Prague. Watch for Harker's people to show up. If they do, eliminate them."

"Yes, sir."

"That's all."

After Healy left, Foxworth looked out his windows at the London cityscape and considered the problem of Harker. He hoped she sent someone to Prague. Sooner or later, he'd find a way to eliminate her and her group of troublemakers once and for all.

CHAPTER THIRTEEN

"The shooter had an M4A1 with an ACOG sight," Elizabeth said, "the latest version. The one our snipers like."

"Christ," Nick said. "How does someone get hold of that?"

"Tracked to Fort Bragg. The Army arrested a Quartermaster Sergeant who works in the armory. They're talking to him as we speak."

"I'll bet they are, " Ronnie said.

"What's an ACOG?" Selena asked.

"ACOG stands for Advanced Combat Optical Group," Nick answered. "There are a lot of variants. It's a computerized telescopic sight with built in goodies to determine range, compensate for bullet drop and wind factors, things like that. You haven't worked with it yet. It's not available on the civilian market. The M4A1 is strictly military and police use."

"Where was the shooter?" Ronnie asked.

"In the HVAC duct work over the convention floor," Harker answered. "He fired through a vent. That center is 300,000 square feet. The system runs all around the top and it's huge. Plenty of room for someone to crawl in there."

"They ID him yet?"

"A former Army Staff Sergeant named Hardin. Dishonorable discharge after an incident in Afghanistan. He was accused of rape."

"Winning hearts and minds," Nick said. "There's always a rotten apple somewhere to give the military a bad name. How come he didn't end up in Leavenworth?"

"It was political."

Nick shook his head.

Harker said, "The Bureau and the Secret Service are all over the assassination attempt. It's not our concern at the moment. We have something else. Stephanie broke the encryption on the laptop from Endgame. Steph, show us what you found."

The monitor on the wall lit. On screen was an email with directions to Nick's cabin and photos of Nick and Selena. Selena shivered. Someone had taken her picture and sent assassins to kill her.

"Son of a bitch," Nick said.

"The message was sent to a cyber café in Los Angeles," Stephanie said. "It's a dead end. I got prints from the laptop and sent them to Interpol. There were two hits, both former FSB. Russians."

"The Russians went after us?" Selena looked at Stephanie. "Why would they do that?"

"They wouldn't," Harker said. "It's not the government."

"That's an assumption," Selena said, "that it isn't the Russian government."

"You want to do the assumption thing?" Ronnie asked.

"Why not?"

"Okay." Harker looked at them. "Assumption number one is it isn't the Kremlin. What's two?"

"Those hoods were ex FSB," Nick said. "So assumption number two is that whoever is behind this has a Russian connection."

Lamont said. "Who has the contacts to hire guys like that?"

"The Russian Mafia, for one."

"Yeah, but the mob wouldn't have any interest in us. Don't forget the ones who went after us here and in California were American."

"Then assumption number three is that it's someone with widespread contacts here as well as in Russia. Who fits that profile?"

"Endgame is part of Foxworth's holdings," Selena said. "He runs AEON. He would have contacts here and in Russia."

Elizabeth said, "Ogorov is part of AEON. He could be the Russian connection. So we're back to them again."

Nick shifted in his chair, trying to ease the pain in his back.

Ronnie smoothed the front of his shirt, where hula dancers swayed under impossibly green palm trees.

"Look what's happened so far." Lamont counted out points on his fingers. "First they go after Nick and Selena. Then Ronnie and me. Nick and I go to New York, Russians try to kill us, and we find a computer with directions to Nick's place."

He'd run out of fingers. "That about it?"

"There's more," Stephanie said.

Lamont groaned. "What, more?"

"Several emails went between Brighton Beach and Prague."

Nick rubbed his forehead. He felt a headache beginning. "Prague? As in the Czech Republic?"

"Yes." Steph clicked her mouse. The screen filled with neat groups of numbers.

"These are messages in code."

Elizabeth drummed her fingers on her desk. "Can you break it?"

"I'm not promising anything. The groupings are typical of a book code. The Brighton people were Russian. Assuming this actually is a book code, then the book is probably Russian."

"How will you find out which one it is?"

"I'm running a scan of every Russian book in the world databases, combined with a decryption program. If the numbers refer to a page and a word, either the word comes first or the page. The program checks it both ways and looks for correlations. If they added an extra digit or a pre-planned substitution to get the right location of the word, we'll never crack it. If the book they used isn't in the data banks, same result. We're out of luck. "

"And if it works?"

"Then we'll know which book, which edition, which page and which word. Then we translate. The computer will do that. Then we read the message."

"Simple," Ronnie said. "Why didn't I think of that?"

"Because the government pays you a princely salary to blow up things," Stephanie said. "They don't pay you to think." They all laughed.

Harker said, "How long will it take?"

"It depends. When there's a match the computer will tell me."

"All right. Good work."

"What about Prague?" Nick asked Harker.

"I want you and Selena to check it out. Selena, you speak Czech, don't you?"

"Yes. I'm rusty, though."

"That doesn't matter." She slid a folder across her desk. "Once Steph told me what she'd found, I put this together. This has your legend and passports. You and Nick are Canadian for this trip. Married."

"Quicker than Vegas," Nick murmured.

Harker gave him one of her looks. "Nick, you're a sales rep. You're in Prague to try and drum up a little business. You brought your wife along for a real European vacation."

"Doing my bit for globalization." He said it as if it left a bad taste in his mouth.

"The address of the cafe where those emails originated is in there." She tapped the folder. "It's not much, but it's all we've got. Go there, see what you can find out. Try and identify the sender."

"How are we supposed to pick someone out? Assuming the sender is even there?"

Harker reached into a drawer and took out what looked like an ordinary digital camera. "You're a tourist. Tourists take a lot of pictures. Every picture you take with this will upload to a satellite. Steph and I will have them seconds later. Go to the cafe where the emails came from and take pictures. If the sender uses it on a regular basis and if he's in the databases, we might get lucky."

"That's a lot of ifs and not much to go on."

"Best I can do."

"I hear the beer is pretty good in Prague," Ronnie said.

CHAPTER FOURTEEN

Nick and Selena landed at Ruzyně International Airport in the early evening. Nick had altered his appearance so the facial recognition scanners wouldn't pick him out and blow his cover. After the Jerusalem incident he couldn't travel in the open if operational security was in force.

He wore a neatly trimmed beard and mustache. Silicone pads and latex changed the shape of his face, giving him a puffy, slightly dissipated look, the face of a drinker. Skin-toned elastic pulled his ears tight against his head. The distinctive scar where a Chinese bullet had taken away the lobe on his left ear was gone. Contact lenses turned his gray eyes hazel. His short black hair was concealed under a brown wig indistinguishable from the real thing.

Nick's Canadian passport was genuine. It identified him as Richard Wilson, a business man from Vancouver. He wore a wedding ring. The customs form he'd filled out on the plane listed the purpose of his visit as business/vacation.

Selena was dressed in practical, plain clothes that made her look dull, an uninteresting woman in awkward brown shoes with a long skirt, excited about her once in a lifetime trip to Eastern Europe. She wore a wig of mousy brown. Her eyes were the same color behind large glasses with clear plastic frames. She wore a cheap diamond wedding set. Her passport listed her occupation as elementary school teacher and her name as Sylvia Wilson.

They deplaned into the controlled lanes leading to customs. Nick noted the security cameras and guards and kept his head down, just another jet-lagged traveler anxious to get to his hotel.

The customs officer was bored. He looked at the passports and scrutinized Nick's face. He gestured at the camera bag slung over Nick's shoulder.

"Open the bag, please."

Nick opened it, took out the camera. "Latest model," he said. "Stores 5000 pictures."

The official checked that the camera had been declared. He stamped the passport and handed it back.

"Enjoy your stay." He stamped Selena's passport without more than a glance.

They took a taxi to their hotel. The room had been booked from Vancouver using a credit card in Wilson's name. The hotel was a remodeled older building optimistically rated 3 stars. A traveler on a limited budget would choose a hotel like this. From here it was a twenty minute walk to the heart of the old city.

They registered for five days. The clerk gave Nick a large metal key with a long wooden tag on it. He told them to leave the key when they left the hotel. He kept their passports and handed them a FedEx package.

"This came for you, an hour ago. From your office? You are here on business?"

"Yes." Nick handed the clerk a business card. "Business and pleasure. Thank you."

He took the package. A rack of brochures on the counter advertised tours, attractions and restaurants. Selena took several and placed them in her purse.

"Be sure to see the clock," the clerk said to her. "Welcome to Praha."

The elevator was ancient, an elaborate open box of wrought iron with an accordion gate. They rose at a snail's pace. Selena watched the shaft slide by through the black ironwork.

A bird in a cage must feel like this, she thought.

Their room was stuffy and hot. Nick closed the door and locked it. A window looked out onto the street. He opened the window and watched a brightly painted electric tram rumble by on the street below. His back ached from the flight, a long, dull pain that spread around his side and clawed at him when he moved. They'd flown coach. People like the Wilsons didn't fly business or first class.

He sat on the bed. It sagged under his weight. "We should take those detainees at Gitmo and strap them into economy airplane seats for a few days. That would make them talk."

Selena laughed. "That's cruel and unusual punishment, Nick. Can't do that."

She sat down next to him. Nick opened the package. It contained two Irish passports with entry stamps for the Czech Republic, two SIG Sauer P229 pistols chambered for .40 S&W, holsters and four loaded magazines. A box contained things they'd need if they had to use the Irish passports.

Nick had never liked the Glocks that the others carried. They were great when they worked, light, easy to carry. But they had a tendency to jam at awkward moments. Looking at the Sig, he made up his mind to talk with Harker about switching everyone over when they got back.

He picked up one of the pistols and inserted a magazine. He racked the slide, and let it go forward. He pushed the decocking lever down with his left thumb and put the gun in a holster. Selena did the same with hers. The pistol was safe with a round in the chamber. Pull the trigger and you were in business.

"Nothing like a gift from home," he said.

"What's our plan?"

"It's too late to do anything today except find someplace to eat dinner. We need sleep. Tomorrow we'll go to that cafe."

CHAPTER FIFTEEN

Morel placed the syringe back in his briefcase and closed it. Foxworth rolled down his sleeve and fastened a gold and diamond cuff link. The drug moved through his system, the pain receded. He didn't know what Morel had given him. He didn't care, as long as it handled the pain. The headaches were getting more frequent. But Doctor Morel made them go away and that was what mattered.

Foxworth smiled. "Thank you, Ernst."

Morel tried not to show his surprise. He couldn't remember Foxworth ever expressing gratitude or calling him by his first name. It was a symptom as disturbing as the fits of rage or cold anger. His patient stood and walked to the windows. Morel waited.

"A new day is coming," Foxworth said. "A day that will bring order to the chaos out there." He swept his arm across the view of London. "It will be difficult for them, of course. But in the end, they'll find their place. History will thank me."

"You're a visionary, Malcolm."

"Yes." He turned toward Morel. "We're going to Tuscany tomorrow. A car will pick you up in the morning. Mandy has your tickets."

"As you say, Malcolm." Morel dipped his head and left the room.

Foxworth watched him leave, then picked up his encrypted phone and placed a call to Moscow. He wanted an update from Ogorov

Anatoloy Ogarov's advice shaped Russia's foreign policy. The Russian President was unaware that the advice came from Foxworth.

Ogorov answered. "Malcolm. I planned to call you later today."

"We are on schedule?"

"We are. The first test is tomorrow. I trust Yuri. I am confident." Ogorov paused. "What happened, Malcolm? Why is Rice still alive?"

"Some idiot left a cable across the stage. Rice tripped over it just as our man fired. We won't get another chance anytime soon."

The drug was working. Foxworth felt only mild concern. "It doesn't matter. Just an unfortunate turn."

"Yes." Another pause. "Malcolm, some of the others are nervous. These last attempts to eliminate problems haven't worked out well."

Drug or not, Foxworth felt the anger begin. By others, Ogorov meant the leadership of AEON. Foxworth led and set the direction of the group. It wasn't a democracy, but his position depended on consensus by the others. Even he was not secure. Results were what mattered.

"Which others?" Foxworth had to trust someone. Ogorov was his strongest supporter in the leadership circle.

"Silva is one."

"That doesn't surprise me."

"Maupassant is unhappy."

"When they see the results in November, dissent will cease. If it does not…"

He left the rest unspoken.

CHAPTER SIXTEEN

Prague was everything the tourist brochures raved about. Selena and Nick strolled over the stones of Old Town Square in the heart of the medieval city. It was vacation month in Europe. The day was pleasant, with temperatures in the 70s. The square was jammed with tourists from every part of the Continent. They were just two more foreigners, taking pictures of everything, especially the clock on the old town city hall.

Prague's astronomical clock dated to 1410. Two large dials showed the position of the sun and moon and a calendar of months. The clock began striking the hour as they watched. Carved statues of the twelve Apostles came out on top and glided in procession from one side to the other. A skeletal figure of Death tolled out the time.

Nick watched Death hammering the bell. "Imagine what it must have been like back then, looking at that."

"The whole city is a time warp." Selena had been reading the brochures. "There's a street up by the castle called Golden Lane, the street of Alchemists. Tiny little houses built against the castle wall for the King's retainers."

Hradčany castle was the largest castle in the world. It dominated a hill overlooking the city on the other side of the Vltava river.

"Maybe we'll check it out later. Let's find that cafe."

The cobbled streets running off the square were narrow and old and had the feel of the middle ages. It was easy to imagine them filled with carts and horses and merchants centuries before. Now they were lined with modern shops and crowded cafes. Nick would have liked to browse the shops, sit in a cafe and watch people pass by. He doubted it would happen.

Caution was a habit. He checked for tails as they walked. Nothing stood out but something didn't feel right.

The cyber cafe was on a narrow side street. The decor was European punk. It looked like a second rate nightclub, black and chrome and plastic with neon highlights. The theme seemed to be somewhere between disco and heavy metal. Two dozen monitors and keyboards were lined up in a row on a counter. Chrome stools that might have come from a 50s diner in America were bolted to the floor in front of each monitor. They had swivel seats covered in red vinyl. Most of them were taken. A sign on the wall announced that computer time could be rented for 50 Korunas an hour. Nick did the calculation. About $2.50.

Across from the computer wall, a gleaming four piston espresso machine took up the short end of an L-shaped counter. A coffee bar displayed assorted pastries and sandwiches. A blackboard on the wall listed the specials of the day in colored chalk.

The cafe was crowded. About thirty tables took up the floor space. Someone got up from a table by the window and left. Nick and Selena walked over and sat down. In a minute a waitress came to the table.

She was young and almost pretty. She wore knock-off Levis and a black shirt. Her long black hair was pulled back in a pony tail. She had dark blue eyes. A short white apron was tied round her waist.

She said something in Czech. Selena understood but this wasn't the place to show off her knowledge of the language.

"I'm sorry. Do you speak English?" Selena took out a travel dictionary of English and Czech phrases, thumbed through it, pointed at a line that read "I would like a coffee and pastry, please." It was right below "Please, which way is the toilet?" and "Excuse me, I am a visitor in your country."

No shit, a visitor. Like anyone would think they were locals. Not on this trip.

"You are American?" the waitress said in English. Her accent wasn't bad.

"No, Canadian."

"We're from Vancouver, " Nick said, smiling.

"I have cousin in America, in Seattle. He has been to Vancouver."

"Can I take your picture?" Nick asked. The perfect tourist.

"Sure." The girl struck a pose, hand on hip and smiled. One of her teeth was missing, which somewhat spoiled the effect. Nick pointed the camera. Beyond the waitress, most of the cafe was visible. He took her picture, another, moved the camera slightly, took two more. He showed her the picture.

"Very nice, see?"

The man behind the counter yelled something at her.

"Okay, I bring you coffee." She moved away.

"I got most of the cafe." He raised the camera and took two shots of the computer wall, one of the men behind the counter. Someone scowled at him.

"Sorry." He waved and set the camera down.

"Someone's watching," she said.

The waitress reappeared, set down two small steaming cups of thick, black coffee and two sticky buns and went away.

"You mean the guy in the blue cap?"

"That's him. Second table to your right. Blue cap, mustache." She smiled.

Nick picked up his cup, blew on it. A man sitting in front of the monitors turned away. "I got him on camera. You're getting better. There's one more. By the computers. Suspenders, looks like a working guy. Stocky, black pants."

"'How did they know to follow us?"

"They weren't following us. They were already here."

"Waiting for us to show up."

"Looks like it. Eat some of your pasty. Laugh a little. We're going to have to do something about them." He grinned.

She laughed. A happy tourist. "You're such fun on a trip. What next?"

"We finish our coffee, pay our check and go sightseeing. They'll follow. If there are two, there may be more. They don't know we've made them. We'll let them make the play."

When Nick rose from his chair a jolt of pain took his breath away. He winced.

"You okay?" she asked.

"Fine. Let's sightsee."

CHAPTER SEVENTEEN

Zoran Jovanovich had been a company commander with the Scorpions at Srebrenica during the Bosnian War. The Scorpions were the infamous point of General Ratko Mladic's Serbian spear. Mladic had greatly admired Hitler's Nazi SS. Highly trained, ruthless, disciplined, the Scorpions were a cadre of ethnic fanatics who followed orders without question.

Srebrenica was a name written in blood. At Srebrenica, Mladic's troops had murdered 8,000 Muslim men and male children and buried them in mass graves. Then they'd raped the women. Zoran and his unit had been enthusiastic participants in the events.

Zoran was an assassin, what the West so quaintly called a "hit man". Over time he'd built a solid base of clients. In the criminal underworld he was called "The Scorpion", an acknowledgement of both his expertise and his wartime role.

Prague wasn't the first time he'd worked for his present client. The first time had been in Belgrade, a few years back. The target had been an assistant curator at the Tesla Museum, a man with stolen papers his employer wanted. There had been other assignments since then from the same unknown source.

Zoran watched the two Americans pretend to be tourists. His client had provided pictures and 100,000 American dollars as initial payment, with another 100,000 due upon completion. The operational details were left up to him. Zoran had been told the targets would come here, to the cafe. And there they were. It was good to deal with professionals. Good to have accurate intelligence.

It wasn't any of his business why his employer wanted them killed. The woman was good looking, behind those stupid glasses. Maybe he and his partner would enjoy her before they killed them. He'd make the man watch. It would be like Srebrenica again, only just two instead of thousands.

Zoran missed the old days.

CHAPTER EIGHTEEN

Far to the east of Prague, Irtysh Air Force Base was a crumbling memorial to the passage of the Soviet empire, acres of concrete and decaying buildings that sprawled like a cancerous sore across the Western Siberian plain. Few remembered it or cared. They would have cared, if they had known what was happening there.

A man in a white laboratory coat stood in front of a gigantic hanger and watched a black Kamov helicopter hover like an uncertain bird before settling onto the cracked tarmac. The rotors slowed and stopped. An officer in full uniform climbed out of the helicopter.

General Sergei Kaminsky was one of the most powerful men in the Russian military. The stiff rank boards on his massive shoulders bore four gold stars. He was a bull of a man, with thick black eyebrows that matched the color of his eyes. He had a fleshy face. His mouth was set in a perpetual downward curve, as if he had never learned to smile.

The man in the white coat who came forward to greet him was the pride of Russian physics. Yuri Malenkov was thin and tall. He walked with his head tilted slightly to the side, as if listening to something only he could hear. He had a large, bulging forehead and an IQ topping out somewhere near 200. That made him a genius. It also made it difficult for most people to understand what he was talking about.

The physicist and the general shook hands. Kaminsky looked at the sky and took a deep breath of the clean air.

"A beautiful day. One can breathe here, not like Moscow." He looked closely at the scientist. "Shall we proceed, Yuri?"

"Yes, General. Please come with me."

The doors of the hanger stood open at one end. The Tesla device was mounted on a platform halfway across the hanger floor. Heavy electrical cables ran across the floor from four enormous diesel generators. The cables ended in junctions at the base of four tall rods of copper. A metallic core wrapped in tightly coiled wire protruded like a cannon barrel between them, pointing out through the open hangar doors. The air inside the hanger smelled of diesel and ozone.

Yuri led Kaminsky to a concrete bunker that had been built at the back of the hanger. Inside the bunker, tables stacked with electrical equipment took up most of the space. A half dozen technicians watched the instruments, waiting for the test to begin. All eyes turned to the two men as they entered.

The general and the physicist went over to a large viewing window in the forward wall of the bunker.

"What have you accomplished? Explain what I am looking at." Kaminsky eyed the odd structure in the middle of the hanger.

"Tesla's design is limited by the technology of his time, but it would have worked even back them. It has been a challenge to build it."

"You have overcome the obstacles?"

"Most of them. What you see here is a test device only, based on Tesla's prototype design with adaptations for modern materials. The plans for the actual weapon are different. It will be much bigger and requires a different power source."

"How does it work?" the general asked. Yuri had prepared himself with simple answers Kaminsky could understand.

"It ionizes hydrogen atoms and strips them of their electrons."

"Leaving sub-atomic particles?"

Yuri nodded, pleased at Kaminsky's understanding.

"Yes. Exactly. Stripping the electrons causes the creation of protons. The device accelerates the protons past a high voltage electrode and discharges them as a focused, high-energy particle beam. It travels at almost the speed of light in a straight line. The beam pulses continuously as long as power is applied. When it strikes the target it disrupts the atomic and molecular structure."

"Why hasn't this been done before?"

"We tried to develop such a weapon. The old Semipalatinsk-21 test site in Kazakhstan was used for the experiments. The Americans have been experimenting with particle beam weapons for years. The difficulty lies with the energy source and portability. We could not make the beam strong enough to prevent dispersion in the atmosphere, or make the weapon practical in size. Once I understood how Tesla's thinking worked, I was able to design a unit that overcomes some of these obstacles. Some remain."

Kaminsky waited. Yuri continued.

"The biggest problem is power. The beam requires more than 100 megawatts to reach targets in space. Tesla designed a revolutionary power source. It is almost complete, but we still lack a key element to boost it to sufficient levels. We are building ahead of ourselves. Until we have that element, we will not have the capability you desire."

"What is missing?"

"An amplifier, the key to reaching maximum power."

"And this?" Kaminsky waved his hand at the odd-looking shape in the hanger. "What is the capability?"

"With the test unit I anticipate a range of less than two kilometers before blooming."

"Blooming?"

"Blooming is when the beam disperses because of particles in the atmosphere. Dust, humidity, things like that. Once it blooms, it loses destructive force. Two kilometers is a great achievement, but as you can see, the device is not practical for battlefield conditions."

"You don't know if it will work." There was a hint of warning in Kaminsky's voice.

"General, you requested I notify you when the device was ready to demonstrate. I am confident it will work."

Kaminsky smiled and patted Yuri on the shoulder. "So, let us see it work."

"Begin, Sasha." Yuri spoke to his chief technician, hovering nearby.

Sasha barked commands. Rows of lights on the boards changed from red to yellow to green. The ozone smell grew stronger.

"We have to build up the charge," Yuri said. "Once we reach that point, power can be applied continuously."

Kaminsky nodded. Electricity crackled and leapt from the tops of the copper rods like lightning and poured into the core. A blue haze formed around the Tesla device. It hummed, a deep, low vibration Kaminsky felt through the soles of his boots.

"Ready," Sasha called.

From their vantage point, Yuri and Kaminsky could see the target, a T-34 tank placed a kilometer away on the plain.

"General," Yuri said, "just press that button under the window. The device has already been targeted."

A large red button projected from a steel box mounted on the wall. The two men looked through the glass. Kaminsky pressed the button.

A blinding beam of blue light ripped through the air. The tank vanished with a sound as if a god had clapped his hands together.

Kaminsky stared open-mouthed at the spot where the tank had been, speechless. Even Yuri was surprised at the power he had unleashed.

Kaminsky found his voice. "This was designed as a weapon?"

"Yes. The American papers of the time called it a 'Death Ray'."

"They were right," Kaminsky said. "Amazing. You have done well, Yuri."

The physicist preened at the flattery.

Kaminsky picked at his large nose. "We have a little less than three months. Will it be ready?"

"Only if we can resolve the power amplification. Otherwise, no." He paused. "There is something that may help, but it's a long shot."

"Go on."

"There is a book, very old, in Portugal. The Spaniards found it during the conquest of the Yucatan. It's called the Mafra Codex. Tesla mentions it in his notes. I'm not sure why, but he thought it might help him refine the weapon. Get me the book."

Kaminsky nodded. "It will be done. Once you have the power boost, will the weapon work?"

"Given that condition, yes. We've had some difficulty with the aiming device. Since we can't test it with the real weapon yet, we're using lasers. I think we are past most of the problems. With a true amplifier in place, the range of the beam will be as good as infinite. Nothing will stop it."

"And you can sustain the beam?"

"Once the amplification problem is solved, I am confident we can. Perhaps only for a few minutes."

"A few minutes is all we need," Kaminsky said.

CHAPTER NINETEEN

Elizabeth and Stephanie watched the display from a photo comparison program running on the Crays downstairs. The program scanned a combined database from Interpol, NSA, DIA, Langley and the intelligence services of Israel, Britain, and the European Union. There were a lot of bad people in that database. The computers looked for a match to the pictures transmitted from Nick's camera.

The program analyzed distinctive facial features and body posture. Eye shape, bone structure, ear lobes, the shape of the skull. The nose. Dimensions in a 3-D axis. Beards, clothes, hats, eyeglasses, contact lenses and makeup meant little to the computer. It could be fooled, but it wasn't easy.

On the left of the monitor screen, the pictures from the cafe flickered and changed as the computer sorted and compared. On the right, facial images from the database blurred in rapid succession. The facial recognition program was one of the foundations of anti-terrorism. It required the kind of computing power only governments could afford.

The pictures froze. MATCH appeared in bold red letters.

"Bingo," Stephanie said. She tapped a key. The picture went full screen. Information about the subject popped up beneath it.

"Well, well. Not a nice man," Elizabeth said. "Zoran Jovanovich. Captain in Mladic's Scorpions. Wanted for war crimes committed at Srebrenica in '95."

They read the file in silence.

"A real bastard," Stephanie said.

"He's sitting a few tables away from Nick. I don't believe in coincidences. I wonder if he's got any friends with him?"

"I'll narrow the search to Serbian nationals, war criminals. Associations with Mladic."

Steph entered the commands. Images flooded the screen again. Within a minute there was another match.

"Nikola Nikovich. Also at Srebrenica, a sergeant under Jovanovich. Wanted for war crimes. He personally executed over 200 male children under Jovanovich's orders. Wanted by Interpol for rape and murder."

"What have Nick and Selena got themselves into?" Steph asked.

"We'll have to let them sort it out." Elizabeth picked up her sat phone. "Time to make a call."

CHAPTER TWENTY

Prague in August was a pickpocket's dream. The crowds reminded Nick of a Tokyo subway at rush hour. They walked through the arch of the tower guarding the old town side of Charles Bridge.

The bridge over the Vltava river had been built by Charles IV to link the city and Hradčany Castle. Construction had begun in 1357. It was 600 meters long, supported by massive arches and piers of stone. Statues of saints and kings lined the span on both sides.

There were no vehicles allowed on the bridge. The roadway was packed with tourists and vendors and noisy with the chaotic babble of half a dozen languages. Kiosks sold food and crafts and souvenirs. High on the other side of the Vltava, the walls and towers of the castle loomed over everything.

"Impressive." Selena looked up at the enormous building. "You want a castle, you can't beat that one. Blue Cap is behind with his friend."

They stopped at a kiosk displaying 19th century prints of Prague and the surrounding countryside.

"I don't like this crowd," Nick said. "If they want to hurt us, there's a lot of cover here. Confusion. No way to tell who's who."

They began walking again, dodging a mime in white face and stripes who stepped in front of them. They kept to the middle of the broad avenue.

"You think they want to kill us?"

"Always assume the worst."

"One of your rules."

"It's a good one."

"If the crowd works for them, it works for us, too."

"There's that," he said.

They were half way across. Nick's ear began itching. They stopped at a kiosk selling sunglasses lined up on a revolving rack with a mirror. Nick glanced in the mirror and saw Blue Cap moving up fast behind.

"They're closing," he said. "Get ready. They'll have knives. They won't use guns here."

His adrenaline started pumping. The crowd pressed around them. Blue Cap came up on the right. Nick thought block, elbow strike, leg sweep. He got ready. The man passed three feet away and kept on walking. Nick pulled himself back at the last second. He watched the cap disappear into the throng.

Selena let out a long breath. "The other one is still back there. He's looking at postcards."

"Maybe he wants to send one to his mother." Nick looked up at the castle.

"Let's go to the castle There are too many people here. They'll make a move later."

Selena said, "We can see the Crown Jewels. There's a special exhibition on."

"You want to see the Crown Jewels? Are we on vacation?"

"You have a better idea? I like jewelry. Not on men, though. You'd look dumb wearing a crown."

"King Nicholas. Has a good ring to it."

Nick's phone rang.

"Speaking of rings." He looked at Harker's ID on the display.

"Nick, you're in bad company."

"Hello to you, too, Director. What else is new?"

"Get serious, if that's not too much trouble. Where are you?"

"On the Charles Bridge. We've got two watchers on us. They knew we were coming and waiting for us in the cafe."

"One in a blue cap, the other has suspenders?"

"Yes."

Elizabeth said, "The one in the blue cap is named Jovanovich. He commanded a company at Srebrenica during the Bosnian War. The one with suspenders was in his unit. They're both wanted for war crimes."

Nick knew about Srebrenica.

"Bad company. Like you said."

"See if you can get them to tell you why they're after you."

Nick said nothing.

"We need to find out what's going on here. Why were they waiting? Who hired them? Whatever else you can get."

"There are a lot of people around."

"So get them somewhere that's not crowded."

"Director…" She was gone.

"Well?" Selena looked at him. Over his shoulder, she saw Suspenders still looking at postcards.

Nick told her what Harker had said.

"How do we find them?

"We'll see them up there," he said. He nodded at the castle. "They'll find us."

In the Old City behind them, Death tolled out the hour.

CHAPTER TWENTY-ONE

Stephanie walked into Elizabeth's office. Elizabeth took one look and couldn't help smiling.

"Good news? You look like the proverbial cat."

"I identified the book they were using at Endgame. In Brighton Beach? I broke the code, I can read their messages."

"Better sit down. What's the book?"

"At first I thought it might be a Russian classic. Something like a first edition of War and Peace."

"But it wasn't."

"No. It's modern. Generation P, by Viktor Pelevin. It's a metaphor about consumerism and greed and the search for meaning in a corrupt society, about a conspiracy of the media to control the masses. Not the sort of thing you'd expect a bunch of ex FSB hatchet men to be reading."

"A media conspiracy."

"Yes."

"Makes me think of Foxworth."

"If it's him, he's got a weird sense of humor."

"What did you find out?"

"Brighton Beach was a central routing point for messages from all over the globe. Everything came in there and went out again. Since we broke up Endgame they've moved the routing station somewhere else. I ran a trace to find the main servers and got nowhere. If I can't find them, NSA can't either. "

"Who's got that kind of technology?"

"A government or someone with unlimited resources. They aren't as clever as they think, though. I was able to send a little something to them. It tells us when a new message is sent and captures it. A new one just came through. It ended up in Paris."

"Go on." Harker picked up her pen.

"It's about something called the Mafra Codex."

Harker began tapping. "Talk to me, Steph. What is the Mafra Codex?"

"I had to look it up. It's an ancient book from Mexico. Pre-Classic Mayan, probably around 500 CE. It's the only one that survives from that period."

"A book."

"Not a book like books today. It's made of bark pages with pictures and glyphs on them. The Conquistadors brought it back to Spain. King Phillip gave it as a present to a family that backed him when he took the Portuguese throne. It hasn't been fully translated."

"Where is this book?"

"In Portugal, in the Mafra Palace library. That's why it's called the Mafra Codex. It's in bad condition and not on display. They keep it in a special archival vault."

"So, what's the message?"

"An urgent order to steal the Codex from the library. The message says by any means. No restrictions."

"What could possibly be that important in a Mayan book? Good work, Steph."

Stephanie watched Harker tap her pen.

"You're going to send everyone after it, aren't you?"

"Am I that obvious?"

"What else could you do? If it's important enough that the bad guys want to grab it…" She left the thought unfinished. "I'll be in the computer room if you need me."

The door closed behind her. For the moment, Elizabeth was alone in her office. She took a labored breath and forced herself to relax. There were no lights flashing on her phones. No calls from CIA or the White House. No immediate crisis she was supposed to solve or comment on or stop dead in its tracks. There were plenty of potential problems in the pile of folders on her desk, but they could wait.

She was tired.

It wasn't just the illness that made her tired, the disease that almost killed her before the doctors found the drug that saved her life. It wasn't the frequent headaches, an after effect of the .22 round she'd taken in her head.

She was just plain tired.

She closed her eyes and leaned back in her chair. When was the last time you took a vacation? She thought about it. Years ago. She'd gone to the Bahamas and gotten the worst sunburn of her life. In the back of her mind she'd thought she might meet someone on one of those white sand beaches, someone to have a romance novel fling with. She'd never had a fling.

She'd never been promiscuous, but she was no stranger to sex. The last time she'd let a man into her bed she'd been younger, still working at Justice. She'd thought he was the one. She'd had the classic hopes, a career, a family, a loving husband. Classic hopes had turned into a classic situation. He'd turned out to be a pompous ass. He'd left her for someone who didn't challenge his narcissistic image of himself, someone younger who ended up throwing him out.

Since then there'd been no one she was really attracted to. Someone who could handle the reality of who she was, her job and all the ripples that went with it. If he was out there, she hadn't met him yet.

The time was past for children. But she wouldn't mind having someone to share her life with, someone to hold on a cold night, someone to have breakfast with in the morning.

For Christ's sake, she thought. Elizabeth, you need a break. Maybe Hawaii…No you can't. Not now. Maybe later.

When all this was over she promised herself she would take that vacation.

She opened her eyes. Reality returned. Stephanie had been right. She had to send the team after the Codex. Nick and Selena could join Ronnie and Lamont in Portugal after they were done in Prague.

CHAPTER TWENTY-TWO

Red velvet rope kept a group of tourists away from a glassed case holding the crown jewels of the Holy Roman Emperors. Two armed guards wearing elaborate powder-blue uniforms kept watch on either side of the case. Blue Cap was in the group. Suspenders pretended to study a display of medieval armor a hundred feet from where Nick and Selena stood.

They looked at the glittering display. The crown was made of hoops of gold rising from a circular band of gold set with precious stones. Four elaborate finials rose from the band, studded with the biggest sapphires Selena had ever seen. The crown was topped with a golden cross embedded with more sapphires. Diamonds, rubies the size of pigeon eggs and gleaming pearls rounded out the decorations. A golden scepter and orb, both set with an abundance of jewels, completed the display.

"We're lucky to see these," Selena said. "They're usually locked up. It says in the brochure that it takes seven separate keys just to get to where you can access the vault."

"Some of our politicians in Washington would like a set of those."

"I'll bet that crown was heavy."

"Price of being king," Nick said. "You get the toys, you get the headache and the stiff neck."

"Can you imagine living here?"

The original castle had been started in 880 CE. It had been added to for centuries. Every style of European architecture was represented somewhere. There were hundreds of rooms. There were chapels, quarters for medieval monks and nuns, kitchens and bedrooms and dungeons, buildings for every use and description, a large cathedral. The castle stretched for half a mile, a rat's maze of halls, passageways, walkways, gardens, bridges and stairs.

She said as much to Nick.

"Rat's maze. Our rats are still with us. I'm getting tired of sightseeing. Let's get them somewhere quiet."

Nick consulted a map of the castle he'd picked up when they came in.

"Here."

"The Basilica of St. George?"

"There will be fewer people around. It's good a place as any."

The Basilica was located toward one corner of the castle grounds, away from the main buildings, connected to a former Benedictine convent and marked with two needle-shaped towers of whitish stone. The towers were over 90 feet high. Everything about the castle was big. The Basilica of St. George was no exception.

They strolled through the castle grounds until they reached the Basilica. They went in with their watchers not far behind. Their footsteps echoed on the hard stone floor. Nick looked around and pointed at a side chapel.

"That looks like a good, quiet spot."

The tour map identified the chapel as the shrine of Vratislav I. A sign with closed in four languages hung from a chain strung across the entrance between two metal stands. They stepped around the barrier and into the shrine.

It was an impressive room. The high, arched ceiling had been fitted together with a master stone mason's skill. At the far end of the chapel, wide stairs swept up in matching curves to a curved apse with tall windows. The dome-like ceiling of the apse bore faded paintings of religious figures against a white background. Afternoon sun streamed though the windows and filled the chapel with light.

The tomb of the saint was to their right. It looked like a small wooden house set on a stone base and was decorated with a painting of a nun and a bishop holding a staff. The bishop knelt in front of the nun. Nick didn't have time to contemplate the symbolism. Blue Cap and Suspenders came in. Steel flashed in their hands.

"Go for the high ground," he said. "There's room to move up there. Try not to use your gun."

They ran up the stairs.

CHAPTER TWENTY-THREE

The two Serbian killers split and came up the stairs on each side of the apse. Selena and Nick waited for them near the windows. Blue Cap had a long, shiny switch blade. He tossed it from hand to hand and smiled. Nick watched them come. He turned to Selena.

"I hate knives."

"So do I."

"To hell with the noise." He pulled his pistol out. Selena did the same.

The two Serbs froze. They hadn't expected that.

"Drop the knives." Nick's voice was harsh. "Do it."

The one wearing suspenders looked at Blue Cap. Blue Cap was the leader. He nodded. The knives clattered on the stones.

"You will not shoot," Blue Cap said. "If shoot, police come, you die in jail quick. I guarantee this."

"Your English is pretty good for something I'd usually scrape off my shoe. Tell us who sent you."

"No one send. We are seeing sights. We see rich American tourist, think you have money. Just business. You should let us go now."

"Who told you we were American? We're Canadian, asshole. You were waiting for us in the cafe. Who told you we'd be there?"

"Okay, you Canadian. Having coffee in cafe." He shrugged. "No one sends us." He grinned.

"Get down on your knees."

Blue Cap didn't like that.

"You make mistake."

"Down. Now."

The two men got down on their knees.

"Put your hands behind your back." Nick took a roll of electrician's tape from his pocket and gave it to Selena.

"Cuff 'em, Dano."

"What?"

"You never watched Hawaii Five-O? Doesn't matter. Wrap this around their wrists and hands. Bind them tight. We'll take a little walk to the police station. I know who you are, Jovanovich. The cops might be interested in Srebrenica."

Blue Cap was fast. As Selena stepped forward, he fell forward onto his hands in sudden movement and swept his legs across and knocked Selena down. He grabbed for her gun. She rolled toward him and slammed her elbow into the side of his head and followed with a hammered fist into his solar plexus. He gasped and stopped fighting. His partner tried to get up. Nick brought the Sig down hard on top of his head, then hit him again to make sure. The man sprawled unconscious on the floor. Selena got to her feet. They taped the men's hands behind them.

Jovanovich groaned. Blood trickled from his ear.

"What do we do with them?" she asked.

"We talk to our friend here. Then we turn them in. Interpol's going to love it. Give me your gun."

She handed it to him. He took the pistols and went over to a tall, wide vase filled with flowers next to the wall and dropped the guns in.

"I've done enough sightseeing for one day."

CHAPTER TWENTY-FOUR

Back in the hotel, Nick had Harker on the satellite phone.

"Jovanovich talked. He doesn't know who hired him, but he's worked for the same person before."

"Yes?"

"Jovanovich makes his living killing people. His first job for whoever is after us was a little over three years ago. He knifed a clerk from the Tesla Museum in Belgrade and made it look like a sex deal gone wrong. The clerk had some papers his client wanted, designs by Nikola Tesla. Since then, Jovanovich has killed a half dozen people for the same guy. He says the man is his best customer."

"He sounds like a real piece of work."

"He's proud of what he does. Considers himself a professional."

"His client is probably Foxworth. I wonder why he wanted designs by Tesla? Or how the clerk came by them?"

"Director, we need to get out of here. The police are suspicious. They let us come back to the hotel but they took our passports."

"Use the Irish ones."

"I thought you might say that. Selena is changing her look right now."

As he said it, she came out of the bathroom. She wore a wig made from shoulder length red hair. The glasses and school teacher look were gone. She had on a tailored green blouse, a stylish skirt and silver earrings in the form of a Celtic knot. Her eyes were covered by green contacts. She looked more Irish than the Irish did.

"I'm sending you to Portugal," Harker said. "Ronnie and Lamont will meet you in Lisbon. They'll explain the mission. Your flight leaves from Ruzyně at 8:35. The tickets will be at the TAP counter, first class. Get rid of the guns."

"Already did."

"Have a good flight." She broke the connection.

Nick said, "We're going to Portugal"

"Portugal? Why?"

"I don't know. Ronnie and Lamont will brief us when we get there."

"Are we going to Lisbon?"

"At least to the airport."

"They have great cafes there. Good music."

"In the airport?"

"Of course not. In Lisbon. And stores for shopping."

Nick groaned. "Shopping."

It took him fifteen minutes to change his appearance. A different wig, new contacts that turned his eyes blue. The beard was gone. Different glasses. Different clothes. They left the hotel by a side entrance and avoided the desk. As far as anyone knew, Mr. and Mrs. Wilson were still upstairs.

Two Irish tourists caught a taxi for the airport.

CHAPTER TWENTY-FIVE

Elizabeth pulled up the latest pass of SBIRS. The Space-Based Infra Red System consisted of 24 low orbit satellites and 4 satellites high in geo-synchronous orbits. Tracking stations spread across the globe fed a continuous data stream back to the Pentagon and the various intelligence agencies. The system's primary mission was to detect and track missiles in the event of a launch, but it had other uses.

Checking the satellite intel was part of her daily routine. For the past year she'd been watching something in Central Russia on the Western Siberian plain. That part of Russia contained no significant military capabilities. It wasn't much of a factor in the Pentagon's war game scenarios and received little attention. The installation was camouflaged to look like a grove of trees, but the infra red revealed a distinctive shape. It looked as though the Russians were building a pyramid there, which made no sense at all.

The site was near an abandoned military air base left over from the Cold War, near the fishing village of Irtysh at the junction of the Irtysh and Ob rivers. The Irtysh flowed north from Kazakhstan until it joined the Ob and then continued on to the Arctic Ocean. A paved road, rare in that part of Russia, ran from the town to the base.

SBIRS had been in operation for several years, but there were gaps in the coverage. Elizabeth pulled up the records for the location and began scanning backward. The pictures moved back in time until the shape changed and disappeared. The outline had first appeared less than two years before. She ran the photos back another two years and stopped.

Why would the Russians build a pyramid in the middle of nowhere? Why build it at all?

She began running the sequence forward a day at a time and watched. At first, nothing. Just an abandoned base. An occasional figure, walking. Two men with motorcycles, using the old runways to race each other. Then a sudden flurry of activity. Trucks, men, equipment. She checked the time stamps. Almost three years ago.

Fences went up. Soldiers began patrolling. The Russians were using the abandoned base for something. Hot spots indicated significant heat sources inside the old hangers, probably large generators. The satellite intel should have been flagged for closer observation, but there was no record of that.

She followed the trail of distribution for analysis. All surveillance of the area had been tasked to Langley. Even Langley wasn't so incompetent they would miss something as blatant as this. The only possible explanation was that the intel had been deliberately buried. Someone had shut down any inquiry. Elizabeth's intuition started setting off alarms. Very few had the power to do that.

Lodge, she thought. The former Director of the CIA. He'd been Deputy Director when the pyramid had first shown up in the reconnaissance photos. Everything would have gone through him.

The pictures unreeled like a silent movie made of stills. A large flatbed loaded with a T-34 appeared. Men unloaded the tank in a field away from the hangers, past the runways. An old tank, non-op, in a field. It didn't make sense. The pictures moved forward. Suddenly the tank was no longer there. The time stamp was recent.

At first Elizabeth thought the shots were somehow out of sequence, or that the tank had disappeared during one of the periods when the satellite was out of range. She moved back and forth. One shot, the tank was there. Next, it was gone. The frames were one second apart. The tank had vanished in an impossible amount of time. The ground where it had been was disturbed, covered with a dark smear.

What were the Russians doing out there?

CHAPTER TWENTY-SIX

"That is really something."

Lamont spoke for all of them. The Mafra Palace sprawled stark and white and beautiful in the moonlight. It lay 18 miles outside of Lisbon, near the Portuguese coast. The Palace was as big as a small city, one of the largest single structures in Europe. Two tall bell towers rose from the center. The full moon shone down on the promise of a king to his queen, Mary of Austria.

Give me an heir and I will build you a palace to rival any kingdom in the world.

She did. He had.

The team sat in a gray Fiat van parked near a wildlife preserve next to the castle grounds. In the light of the moon, the extravagant Baroque monument to a king's ego looked like a magical vision from a fairy tale.

Mafra had an elaborate security system to protect the priceless art and treasures inside, supplemented by a complement of guards. During the day the castle was patrolled by a full roster. At night two men watched monitors in a security center on the ground floor and took turns making rounds. The guards carried pistols. Cameras watched the grounds and galleries and halls.

No one could approach across the lawns and gardens without triggering an alarm. All of the windows and entrances had infra-red and motion sensors. The sheer size of the place meant the camera views had to switch in ordered sequence. There were gaps in the continuous coverage.

There hadn't been much time to prepare a plan. They'd gone over maps and old blueprints of the palace. Nick had decided to go in through the cover of the park and access the ancient sewer system under the palace. From there they would find a way into the palace itself.

"This moon could be a problem," Nick said.

"The light might keep the rats away," Selena said.

"Rats?"

"There's a legend the sewers breed giant man-eating rats that come out at night."

"I hate rats." Ronnie looked out at the trees and paths of the park. "Doesn't seem fair."

"What doesn't?"

"You said man-eating. Means they won't go after you."

Nick rolled his eyes. "Check your gear," he said.

They got out of the van. They were dressed in black. Black jackets, black pants and gloves, black Kevlar vests, black shoes with soft soles. Black balaclavas. Ronnie carried a pack. Each had a pistol, knife, light, ammunition and a suppressed MP-5. They had earpieces and microphones. If they split up, they could stay in contact.

"Remember the ROE," Nick said. Rules of Engagement. "The Portuguese guards are off limits. Subdue them if you have to, don't kill them. They have uniforms, they're easy to ID. No one else should be there. You see anyone else, they're one of the bad guys and fair game."

"Got your library card with you?" Lamont said.

"Let's go get something for Selena to read."

They moved into the park. The gravel path crunched under their feet. The moonlight made dark pools of shadow under the trees. The night air was cool and smelled of pine and the mixed, dark scent of the zoo animals. A bird called, high, mournful sounds that sent shivers up and down her spine. She felt the adrenaline kick in and forced herself to walk calmly.

They came to a large maintenance shed housing a pumping sub-station for the sewer system.

Nick consulted his map of the grounds. "The entrance should be in here."

He had the lock open in a few seconds. They stepped inside and closed the door. He flicked on his light. The pumps and a generator sat silent against one wall. A round steel plate was placed in the center of the floor. Ronnie and Lamont lifted it away. Iron rungs descended down a brick shaft into darkness. A foul odor of ancient and modern waste drifted up through the opening.

"Phew," Ronnie said.

"What did you expect? Roses? I'll go first. Lamont, you bring up the rear."

They entered the shaft and climbed down. The ladder ended on a platform with an iron railing. The platform opened onto a walkway of stone wide enough to move single file along the sewer wall.

The sewer was horseshoe shaped, big enough to stand up in. A dizzying pattern of ancient stone bricks laid in concentric circles ran off toward the palace on the right and the ocean to the left. The walls dripped with gray slime that sucked the light away. The air was thick, like breathing syrup. A trickle of dark water ran down the center of the passage.

"Smells like shit," Ronnie said.

"Good one, Sherlock." Lamont wrinkled his nose. ''At least we can stand up."

"That way." Nick pointed right.

They walked along the tunnel. There were rats. They weren't giant rats but they were black and they were big. They squeaked and ran past their feet. Selena shuddered. She met Nick's eyes.

"Like California," she said.

He nodded. "At least we've got light this time."

"And no spiders."

Ronnie kicked a squealing rat into the center channel.

There was something darker than human offal in the tunnel. A miasma of centuries, of a time when kings ruled Europe and wore golden crowns worth enough to feed thousands. As he walked, Nick thought not much had really changed since the kings ran things. The crowns were gone, but in their place were plenty of new symbols of power. Hi-tech weapons that cost countless billions of dollars. Television commercials for unneeded and meaningless products. Expensive political ads that sold dishonest hypocrites and liars as smiling men of the people. And the same age old, hopeless poverty for most of the human race.

They came around a long curve to a place where the tunnel branched in two. Nick chose the passage on the right. After ten minutes they came to a second platform, old and crumbling. Another set of rungs led upward.

Nick shone his light up the shaft. The rungs ended at an iron cover. He climbed. Bits of old rust drifted down in a shower. At the top, he pushed against the plate. He put all his strength into it. It didn't move. Nick climbed back down.

"No good. Let's look for another."

"What if they're all like that?" Selena asked.

"Then we'll figure something out."

They walked on. They'd reached the original tunnel, dating back to 1717. Moisture dripped from the walls. Nick tried not to breathe. They came to another set of rungs. Nick climbed to the top and pushed against the cover. It moved, just a little. Something popped in his back. He took a deep breath.

"Ronnie, climb up here and help me."

The two men pushed against the plate. It moved. Steady pain radiated down Nick's left leg. The plate slid to the side. They climbed out of the hole. The others came through.

"You okay?" Ronnie looked at him.

Nick wiped a sheen of sweat from his forehead. "Yeah. I'm fine."

The air was stale with dust. Compared to the sewer it felt like a spring day in the country.

"Glad we're out of there," Lamont said.

The room was a sub basement full of boxes, crates, broken statuary and junk of every description. It might once have been a dungeon. The ceiling was of rock, low and dark. A narrow flight of worn stone steps led upward. At the top of the steps was a solid wooden door. Nick climbed, the others behind. Pain was steady in his leg.

"You're limping," Selena said.

"It's nothing."

Nick adjusted his gear, unslung his MP-5. He opened the door into another basement.

"Looks like we got lucky," Lamont said.

They were in the electrical room, modern and clean. Thick metal conduits housing the main power supply fed into panels of circuit breakers. Dozens of lines led away from the panels into the building.

"Those look like the video feeds." Nick shone his light on a thick bundle of colored wires.

Ronnie opened his pack and took out a small video recorder, a series of probes and what looked like a pocket television with a digital meter. He went over to the wires and began probing.

"We've got cameras," he said. On the fifth try he said, "Got it." He clipped the probe onto the wire.

The screen showed 24 tiny images from the security cameras above. "This one is the main feed. Everything routes through here. We're looking at everything they see."

He plugged the video recorder into the device and turned it on.

"We'll set up a two minute loop and take the real ones off line. Whoever's looking will see what we want them to."

"Nothing."

"Right." They waited. Ronnie checked the recording and attached another lead to the main feed.

"Taking the cameras off line…now." Ronnie pressed a switch. The image flickered and steadied.

"We're good to go."

Nick said, "Once we get oriented, we head for the second floor. The library is in the rear. When we find it, Selena, you're the boss. Tell us what to do. When we get the Codex, we get out."

"What could be simpler?" Lamont said.

CHAPTER TWENTY-SEVEN

Project security went everywhere with Elizabeth since the attacks on her team. She had 24/7 surveillance on her Georgetown home. She was always guarded when she wasn't inside Project HQ.

Elizabeth closed her office door and took the elevator down to the ground floor exit. A black, armored Lincoln waited for her. It had five inches of armor plate, bullet proof glass, steel sidewalls, run flat tires and a turbo-charged diesel engine. It wasn't good on mileage. Her driver held the rear door open for her.

"Good evening, Director."

"Good evening, Tom."

Tom closed the door after her. Her other bodyguard was a big man, a comforting presence. He got in the front passenger seat. A Remington 12 gauge pump stood upright in a rack next to him. Elizabeth began reviewing the latest satellite data from Russia as the car rolled out of the garage.

There was new activity at the Irtysh air base. She had battled with DIA over getting a satellite tasked full time to observe, with only partial success. There were windows of time when the satellite was out of range. But a picture was emerging.

The Russians had increased security. She estimated that a full company of soldiers was stationed at the base. Anyone approaching the pyramid had to pass through three checkpoints, each one more elaborate than the one before.

There was new fencing. A new road from the base to the pyramid. Guards patrolled. Dogs. Light towers were going up. Someone was putting a lot of effort into guarding something.

She glanced out through the tinted windows of the Lincoln. A yellow motorcycle with two riders in black leather sped by. Both riders wore full helmets with black visors that concealed their faces. As the bike pulled ahead, the passenger turned and threw a dark package behind him toward the car.

"Fuck!" Tom yelled and hit the brakes.

The heavy car shuddered and slowed. The armor underneath the engine took the blast. The explosion sounded like a thunderclap inside the car. The Lincoln lifted into the air and the windshield blew out. Bits of glass cut her face. Elizabeth was thrown hard against the door as the car came down on its side and slid along the pavement to a stop.

Her driver lay unmoving against his door. His partner hung sideways from his seatbelt, unconscious and bleeding. Dazed, she saw the motorcycle turn back. The passenger leaned out with another bomb in his hand.

Elizabeth never went anywhere without her gun. She drew the Glock and aimed with shaking hands through the opening where the windshield had been. She was seeing double through the smoke, two motorcycles coming toward her. She pulled the trigger as fast as she could, again and again. It felt as if she were underwater, everything in slow motion, the sound of the gunshots muffled and indistinct. Hot brass shells fell around her, a shiny, strange rain.

The motorcycle slammed down onto the pavement and the bomb meant for her exploded. The bike and riders were enveloped in flame.

Later, she couldn't remember how she'd gotten out of the car. What she remembered was the sound of sirens and the body of her driver, covered in blood.

CHAPTER TWENTY-EIGHT

The Library of Mafra Palace wasn't like any library Nick had seen before. The room was the length of a football field. Ceilings of white plaster molded with floral accents radiated in ribbed arches from a high, closed dome in the center. The library was a testament to the golden age of Baroque architecture.

The floor was paved with tiles in white, rose and gray. Under the central dome, the tiles formed a circle of geometric patterns bounded by a square. It looked like an expensive oriental rug woven of marble. Two tiers of wooden shelves stretched away on either side of the room. Thousands of books lined the shelves. Marble columns supported the second tier and a balcony bordered by a marble balustrade. Pale moonlight streamed through large windows. The library was eerily beautiful in the cold light.

Dark shapes swooped down on them and darted away as they moved into the room. Ronnie ducked and swore.

"Bats. They've got bats in here. Rats and bats. What the hell kind of a palace is this?"

Nick laughed. "Rats and Bats. Sounds like a good name for a rock band."

"The bats eat insects that would eat the books," Selena said. "The Portuguese let them live in here."

Lamont sighed. "How do you know stuff like that?" He looked at the leather bound volumes lining the shelves. "Lots of books. Where's the Codex?"

"The Codex isn't on display. Look for another room. There has to be a place where they keep damaged books for restoration or storage."

Five minutes later they found it, locked with an electronic key pad. Ronnie took a device from his pack and placed it against the lock. Digital numbers in green blurred and stopped one by one until a five number combination appeared. The door clicked open.

In the security station near the main entrance, a red warning light illuminated. The guard watching the monitors didn't see it. He was lying on the floor. The back of his skull was gone, where a bullet had exited and taken most of his brain with it.

CHAPTER TWENTY-NINE

The restoration room was the size of a large garage. A workbench along one wall bore a neat array of glues, inks and odd tools no one but a book restorer would ever understand. A leather bound volume lay on the bench, open to a drawing of a medieval knight stepping off into an abyss.

Selena walked over to the table.

"This is incredible." Selena's voice was hushed, almost reverent. "This is a 14th Century illustrated edition of Le Morte D'Artur. The Death of Arthur."

"King Arthur?" Nick walked to her, looked down at the book.

"The same."

"Very nice," Nick said, "but not what we came for."

"Sorry." She scanned the room. "Try that cabinet with the keypad. It's temperature controlled."

The code they had used to enter the room opened the cabinet. Inside was an oblong wooden box about six inches deep and a foot long. Selena took it out and opened the lid.

"This is it," she said. She closed the lid and placed the box in a large, empty pocket in front of her jacket. It made the jacket bulge out in front. Nick thought of Afghanistan and suicide bombers. He shook off the memory.

His ear began itching.

"Something's not right," he said.

Nick's ear burned. He tugged on it. Ronnie and Lamont looked at each other. They all knew what that meant.

"Shit," Ronnie muttered.

"Kill the lights." Nick's voice was quiet, calm. He felt the old pre-combat surge.

He let the door open a crack. They heard muffled whispers, the scrape of a boot on marble. MP-5 up by his cheek, Nick pulled the door open.

Five men, dressed in black, wearing balaclavas and holding ugly, short barreled automatic weapons.

Nick opened fire. The gunfire lit the library in bright flashes with a disorienting, strobe-like effect. Everyone began yelling and shooting. Something slammed into his chest and spun him around. He saw Selena hit as he went down. It was a ballet of death, shadow men dancing in the moonlight and the light from the guns…

…and the bullets shattered the market stalls around him, ricocheting from the stone walls, the AKs a constant roar in his ears. He made it to a doorway. Across the dirt street a child ran toward him shouting about Allah. The child had a grenade…

…and he was back in Portugal. The flashback was over. The fight was over. He'd been gone for a minute. He broke out in a cold sweat. Five black shapes lay crumpled on the marble. The floor was littered with spent brass. The smell of the guns filled the air.

Lamont bent over him. "You all right?" He helped Nick to his feet.

"Yeah." His chest was bruised. His left arm was numb. Selena was doubled over, gasping for air.

"S'all right," she said. She struggled for breath. "Knocked the wind out of me."

Ronnie helped her up. She pulled the box with the Codex from her jacket. The round had punched through the book and been stopped by the armor underneath.

"Nick," Lamont said.

"I'm okay. Jesus, I love this armor."

Ronnie bent over one of the dead men. "Guess theirs wasn't as good as ours." He picked up one of their guns. "Russian. PP-19. Good weapon."

"Not good enough," Lamont said. "What are Russians doing here?"

"Same as us."

"This one is still alive." Ronnie knelt next to one of the prone figures. The man's eyes fluttered and opened. Blood ran from his mouth. Ronnie knew he wasn't getting up again. So did the man on the floor.

"Fuck your mother," he said in Russian. Then he was gone.

"Definitely Russians," Lamont said.

CHAPTER THIRTY

Elizabeth sat in Stephanie's office drinking coffee and thinking about people trying to kill her. She'd dressed all in black today. Black silk blouse, black suit, black shoes. It suited her mood. The only touch of color was a silver pin in the shape of a swan over her left breast, set with tiny diamonds.

Nine in the morning, and she was already on her fourth cup. Her stress levels were somewhere in the stratosphere.

Stephanie's desk had three large monitors and built in keyboards linking to the bank of Crays downstairs. A bobble doll of Elvis Presley was stuck on top of the monitor in the middle. A framed travel poster of Venice hung on one wall.

A large corkboard over the console was pinned with notes to herself and pictures of friends and family. A vase with fresh flowers was placed between two of the monitors. On the right wall was a realistic photo picture of a window looking out over an ocean scene and a sunny day.

"No clues?" Stephanie asked her. "Nothing to indicate who sent them?"

"No. My guess is AEON."

There were no long term physical effects from the bomb. She'd been partially deaf for a day. Her face bore several cuts from flying bits of the windshield. She had bruised ribs where she'd been thrown against the door. Apart from that, her body was fine.

The attack replayed itself in her mind. The car lifting into the air and crashing down onto it's side. The impact. The noise as it scraped along the pavement. The pistol recoiling in her hands as she shot at the faceless riders, the explosions. The scene was etched into her thoughts forever. She thought of her guards, one dead, one on life support.

She'd sent a plane to Portugal. The team was on the way back with the Codex.

"There was no ID on the men they killed in Mafra?" Stephanie reached out and tapped Elvis with her finger. He wobbled and bobbled.

"No, but they had Russian weapons. One of them died speaking Russian."

"What did he say?"

"Nothing important. They were after the Codex. It's just good luck we got there first."

"Bad luck for them." Stephanie tapped Elvis. He bobbled.

"They killed the museum guards. That wasn't necessary. I don't have any sympathy. The Portuguese are trying to figure out what happened, but I don't think they'll get anywhere."

"AEON would explain a Russian connection."

Elizabeth nodded in agreement. "This is getting messy. I wonder what's in that Codex? It has to be important to send in a team like that."

"What do you think they're trying to do?"

"Foxworth is up to something. He's made a serious effort to eliminate us."

"But why? All he's done is get us involved."

"I thought at first he might be trying to get even for Texas, but it's gone way beyond that. Or perhaps that's all it is."

"Going after you was a mistake."

"No," she said. "Failing was a mistake."

Elizabeth's voice was quiet and controlled, her green eyes an unusually dark color. Stephanie had no doubt that Foxworth had just made the biggest mistake of his life.

CHAPTER THIRTY-ONE

The Codex lay on Elizabeth's desk. There was a hole in the middle from the bullet. The bark pages were faded and brittle. The corners were chewed away by insects. There were tiny holes everywhere. The pages were long and narrow and covered with faded pictures and the strange shapes of Mayan glyphs. To Nick the writing looked like drawings of pieces of popcorn, with a helping of squiggles, pictures and rows of dots.

"You can read this?" he asked Selena.

She brushed a hand across her forehead. Her violet eyes shone with excitement. This was her element, ancient languages and writing that made the Times crossword puzzle look simple.

"Some of it. This example is unique. It has elements of early Mayan and Toltec mixed together. I'd guess it's from around 500 or 600 CE. It's going to take me a while to figure it all out, but I can do it."

"Can you make sense of what you see so far?" Elizabeth asked.

"Some of it. I don't know why AEON would want it The first page is part of a construction record. Perhaps an inventory."

She pointed at a vertical row of glyphs and dots. "This is a list of building materials. The dots are numbers, how many units of stone, that kind of thing. I think some pages may be missing. Usually the first page praises the king and dates the record by his rule, glorifies his achievements. Like the Egyptian obelisks."

"How long will it take you to translate?" Elizabeth asked.

"I'm not sure. Mayan is one of the most documented of all the ancient languages but early variants like this aren't well understood. I'll need Steph to help me. I'll compare this with known texts and look for similarities and speed it up with the computers."

"Like you did with the Minoan."

"Exactly."

"Then you'd better get started."

"Come on, Selena." Stephanie stood. "Let's go talk to Freddy."

Nick watched them leave. "Steph acts like those computers were people."

"Just don't say anything bad about them when she's around," Elizabeth said. "They're like a family to her." She picked up her pen. "Any ideas about Portugal?"

"Only a question. Why the Russians?" Nick said. "I don't think they were regular forces or Spetsnaz. Their armor was inferior. They were careless. Special Ops people wouldn't have done what they did. Besides, their uniforms had a red patch on them I'd never seen before."

"I think Ogorov sent them."

"AEON?"

"It's the only thing that makes sense. The question is whether or not this is sanctioned by the Federation government."

"You think the Kremlin would cooperate with AEON? Foxworth?"

"No, but we need to find out exactly what we're up against. It makes a big difference if we're taking on the Federation."

"How are you going to find out?" Ronnie said.

"The old fashioned way. Ask. I think it's time for me to reach out and touch someone."