The Tesla Secret Page 3

  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.