Protocol 7 at-1 Read online

  His eyes lit up. Coordinates, he knew. What we really need. Without another thought, he turned his back on the mysterious study and ran downstairs to join the others.

  * * *

  He found three of the team members huddled around Ryan’s display, waiting for the final course-alteration confirmation from the Munro. Samantha had curled up in the huge armchair and fallen asleep.

  Simon stood waiting as Ryan entered the coordinates for where the team would rendezvous with the Munro. “Port Williams, Chile it is,” Ryan said as his fingers shook on the keyboard. “When we leave Corsica, that’s where we’ll reconvene. Donovan and the S.S. Munro will be waiting for us there.”

  Simon walked closer to Ryan’s screen and said, “Check these other coordinates for me will you?” He recited the West and South numbers he had read on the note and memorized, but he kept the final line-the “-10,022 feet”-to himself.

  Hayden raised an eyebrow. “So you found something?”

  “I’m not sure,” he replied absently, then put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Hurry.” He repeated the figures.

  “Okay, okay.” Ryan’s fingers danced over the old-fashioned keyboard. He was almost used to the ancient tech by now.

  After a moment, Ryan’s face grew pale. He looked like he had seen a ghost. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Look at that.”

  The display was showing a specific location on the Antarctic continent-an outpost marked as “Station 35.” Simon froze for an instant and his heart began to race; this could be the coordinate of Oliver’s location.

  “How did he know?” Simon whispered and then stopped himself. Leon’s note was carefully folded and stored in his jacket pocket. No one else needed to know about it quite yet, he decided.

  He thought about Leon for a moment, and chills went down his spine. He leaned forward and peered at the monitor, double-checking the numbers he had recited. Ryan was right.

  Hayden couldn’t keep curiosity to himself. “So?” he asked Simon. “You discover anything else up there?”

  Simon thought about telling him the whole story, but only for a moment. Then he just shook his head and said, “Not really. Not much up there.”

  Ryan didn’t seem to hear him. “These are still pretty coarse as locational coordinates go,” he said. “And the UNED maps don’t show any stations or outposts near that specific area.”

  Simon knew why, and that was why he had kept the last part of the coordinates to himself. “Still,” he said, “This is where we need to go after we get the Spector-Station 35.” He tapped the digital map on the screen, and wished that Leon had given him more.

  Hayden scowled at him, skeptical as always. “Are you sure?” he asked Simon. “Are you 100 % positive?” For a brief second Simon thought to himself, how can I be sure? Leon must know something or he would have never given me the coordinates. It’s better than nothing. This must be why Dad wanted me to see Leon.

  “I am,” he said, knowing deep down inside that Leon must have known all along.

  Andrew shrugged. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s start packing up. We’ve got a boat to catch in a couple of hours.”

  Simon got up, deep in thought, and walked to the window. He looked out at the moonlit landscape, still tortured by the night wind, and wondered if he would ever see Leon again. Or if he would ever have a chance to enter that study.

  The image of the wooden door had permanently embedded itself in his mind. For an instant, he thought of throwing caution aside and running back upstairs, fast as he could, turning that key and throwing open those doors-

  “Here.”

  He turned in surprise. Andrew was standing there, a glass of scotch in his hand.

  “Here you go, mate. Won’t have much time for this in the near future.”

  Simon looked down at the fine crystal glass and then took it from his friend. He turned it in his hand, marveling at the rich, luminous color, thinking of his father. He looked back at Andrew and somehow managed to construct a smile. “Dad’s favorite,” he said. “Glenlivet 18.”

  He took a slow sip, savoring the taste and the memory alike. The scotch blossomed like a lovely fire in his chest. He looked at Hayden, Andrew, Ryan, and Samantha and made himself smile. He was grateful to be here-with them, in this place, at this time.

  He just didn’t know if they could endure the treacherous journey ahead. No one knew.

  THE ISLAND OF CORSICA

  Dockside

  The brutal chill of the morning air was painful to Simon. He hunched down inside his coat and pressed his arms tight against his sides, trying to trap even a fraction of the heat from his body.

  It was pointless. The constant breeze and the driving mist off the ocean cut right through him as he stepped away from the rental car and walked toward Slip 9, where a mid-sized yacht was waiting. Samantha slipped out of the passenger seat and joined him. The panel truck carrying Andrew, Hayden, and Ryan pulled in close behind.

  They gathered in a tight group at the entrance to the dock.

  “We have thirty-two hours. This boat will take us to Malta. From there we’ll travel on different routes to get to Santiago, Chile.” Ryan said. “We’ll meet at a warehouse in Valaparaiso-you’ll find the address in the packets you receive. And then-Port Williams. I’ve got it all set up; we’ll get the paperwork, tickets, and passports at the next stop. But just to reiterate: everyone has a separate route-everyone, this time, Sam. Even you.”

  “I know,” she said.

  “This is the last time,” Simon said to them. “We had to be all together for the hijacking. Next we’ll meet for the rendezvous. And after that-”

  There was a deep, fuzzy roar from the yacht that Ryan had chartered. Simon turned and picked it out of the tangle of vessels at the far end of the dock. It was an older boat, over forty feet long, but still capable of making the journey to Malta safely, even swiftly.

  Four men in heavy wool sweaters and scuffed black work boots swarmed off the yacht and hit the dock with a single thump. They looked at Simon’s team with identical expressions-a combination of amusement and disdain. Simon raised a hand to them, and the one in front nodded briefly.

  “All right,” he said, low and hard. “As we said last night: no talk of the mission-none at all-while we’re on board. We don’t know who is listening; we don’t know who they report to.”

  “Got it,” Andrew said. “Loose lips sink ships.”

  “Quite literally,” Ryan agreed.

  They were carrying an annoying amount of luggage this time-some of the primitive cyber-equipment had to come along if they hoped to maintain their remote control of the Munro, and beyond that, they had begun to collect the cold-weather clothing they knew they would be needing, sooner rather than later. All that gear was universally bulky and heavy.

  The crew gave them poisonous looks when they saw the small mountain of suitcases, bags, and crates. They actually muttered curses under their breath when they realized how heavy some of the articles really were.

  The sun rose as the last of the luggage was lifted on board, but the morning light brought no real heat with it. It was still achingly cold and quiet as the top of a mountain. All Simon could hear was the distant cry of seabirds and the constant, hollow slap of the Mediterranean Sea against the pylons of the dock.

  Soon, he knew, the Munro would reach the Straits of Magellan. They needed to rendezvous with it before that happened, or all of this would be for nothing. They had to reach Santiago in thirty-two hours or they would never be able to reach the Munro on time.

  The captain of the yacht-its name was obscured by barnacles and moss-was a fair-skinned Greek in his fifties with a charming smile and a gentlemanly demeanor. He shook hands with Ryan, kissed Samantha’s hand, and invited the team into the main cabin where he had prepared a light breakfast.

  He murmured commands to the four-man crew as he led the team below. Before the last of them were fully below deck, the yacht had cast off and was chugging away from its
mooring.

  The captain puttered with his small cups for a moment. Then he turned and addressed Samantha-the only woman in the group. “You like the Greek coffee?” he asked in a thick Greek accent. He pointed to little espresso cups sitting on the table next to a platter of cut fruit.

  “Yes,” she said, rather charmed in spite of herself. “Thank you.” He offered her a cup on a chipped saucer with undisguised pride, and she took it gratefully.

  “Beautiful morning in the Mediterranean Ocean,” he said and awarded the rest of the team with cups of their own. “Beautiful day to come!”

  After their meal, some of the team went topside, if only for the air. It was a brilliant morning; sunlight glinted off the chop as if there were mirrors floating in the sea.

  The other members of the crew seemed to be of Mediterranean descent as well, and none of them spoke English-or claimed not to, at any rate. Still, conversation-even among the team members-was kept to a minimum. Most of them enjoyed the warmth of the sun for a few minutes, then found their way to the crew quarters and gratefully accepted the offer of a newly made bunk. They had already discussed this: their time aboard the yacht was a perfect opportunity to catch up on sleep before reaching Malta.

  As he watched the others go below, Simon thought deeply about all that had happened last night and in the last two weeks. Although exhausted beyond what his body could bear, he could not sleep. Less than an hour after boarding, he found himself alone, restlessly pacing the deck-forward-aft, aft-forward-and thinking about geostationary satellites, datastreams, and Andrew’s gadgets.

  What if they don’t really work? He asked himself. What if they stop working? They had agreed to travel separately on this last leg of the journey, but would that be enough? It was true: following individuals, with or without tech, was easier than following groups, but finding individuals in a sea of seven billion people was far more difficult.

  At least that was the theory. And if he was wrong, someone, or many, could die. Max, he thought. Max, what the hell happened to you? I could have used you here. I don’t know if I can do this by myself.

  “Excuse me.”

  The voice was behind him. Simon turned to find the captain standing there, looking uncharacteristically uncomfortable. He had a package in his hand-something flat, wrapped in wax paper, like a parcel from a butcher shop.

  “This is for you,” he said. “It was given to me by…well, it was given to me.”

  He passed it over almost briskly, as if he was glad not to be touching it any more. Simon accepted it with a murmured “thank you,” and the captain fled, clearly happy to be finished with his chore. He passed Samantha as she climbed the steps from the crew quarters, rising gracefully out of the shadows like a weary naiad. He put the package in his pocket as she approached.

  “Simon,” she said. Her voice was soft and betrayed her own exhaustion. But Simon turned away, not ready for conversation-not now.

  “Simon,” she said again and put her hand on his shoulder. He didn’t turn back; he kept his eyes fixed on Corsica as the boat pulled away, deeper and deeper into the open sea. “I’m worried about you.”

  He still did not turn to her. “Well, I’m worried about you, too,” he said.

  She looked around the deck. The sailors were far from them, probably beyond earshot, but she was still careful with her words.

  “I know I have been…a handful,” she said. “I probably will be again. And the irony isn’t lost on me: I chose this…destiny…and then came to regret it almost immediately.”

  He almost laughed and nodded his head. At least she’s honest, he thought.

  “It’s not that I regret my friendship with you, Simon. You know that. Just…”

  “It’s more like, ‘be careful what you wish for,’” he supplied. “‘You just might get it.’”

  “Exactly.” She pulled gently on his shoulder, forcing him to turn to her. Her eyes were full and stunningly clear. “I love you, Simon,” she said. Before he could respond she put up a hand to stop him. “I know, you don’t love me, not in the same way. We’ve had this conversation already, and not so far from here. But I thought this whole thing would be an opportunity. A chance to remind you how deeply I felt, and how…how easy it would be to reciprocate.”

  “It’s not, though, Sam. Not-”

  “I know that now,” she said. “It was stupid and immature from the beginning. But that doesn’t change two things for me, Simon. One: I have to live with the consequences of my decision, no matter how much I regret it. And two: I still do love you. I want to protect you more than ever.”

  “…Even if I’m constantly putting you in danger?” Simon looked past her out over the water. “It’s not right. I just wanted to find my father. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

  She shook her head. “You need to get some sleep. You’re going to collapse soon. There’s nothing that you can do, no problem you can solve between now and the time we reach Malta. So stop trying.”

  “But-”

  “Rest, Simon. Please. We need you.” She looked straight into his eyes and squeezed his arm. “I need you.”

  He looked deeply into her eyes and knew, for the first time, that she would be fine on her own, at least for the next leg of the journey.

  They joined the others in the galley, where his team was drinking strong coffee and sampling all the baked goods the cook was happy to supply. Simon sat at the table with them; Samantha stood close behind him with a casual, warm hand on his shoulder.

  He pulled the packet from his coat, opened it, and withdrew a sheet of papers. Ryan recognized them immediately.

  “Ah,” he said. “They came.”

  “They did.”

  Simon leafed through the contents of the package very quickly, then handed it over his shoulder to Ryan. Ryan inspected the papers and the passports a bit more carefully, then passed them out to each team member, once again like a dealer distributing cards. They took the individual packets with a strange, wordless solemnity. They all knew, each of them, that the world was about to change again.

  Hayden was the first to speak up. “Are you sure these are going to work, Ryan?”

  Ryan’s response was quick and convincing. He had obviously been thinking about it. “I can’t guarantee anything,” he said, “but this is the best option we have.”

  Hayden grunted, hating to agree, then stuck the papers in his pocket and looked out of the murky window of the boat. The old paved road-the one leading away from the coast-was still above and beyond them.

  Simon took only a moment longer to examine his new identity. He could barely make out the name in the dim light of the moving vehicle, but he didn’t care who he was, as long as they reached the rendezvous point for the Munro with plenty of time to spare.

  “When we land in Santiago,” Ryan said, “there’s to be no talking, no sharing cabs, nothing. Go to the hotel or inn that is listed in your packet. Stay there until you receive the signal on your safe phones. We will meet again on the deck of the S.S. Munro.”

  They all looked at their papers with renewed curiosity, anxious to see where they would be spending the next, solitary leg of their journey. Simon saw that he was set in a hotel with an unpronounceable name on a street which sounded just as odd.

  Then something unusual caught his eye.

  There was a piece of paper inserted in his new passport-a thick, creamy sheet, exactly like the paper Leon had used for his handwritten note back in Corsica.

  What the hell…he thought. Without bringing any attention to it, he pulled the note free and read it quickly. All the others were busy looking at their own documents; no one seemed to notice he had an extra sheet. It read:

  When you reach Chile, call a scientist by the name of Nastasia, who will help you on your mission. Do not speak to anyone about this note. It may jeopardize everything.

  Who the hell wrote this? he wondered. Doing his best to look inconspicuous, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulle
d out the note from the study door-the note that had changed his life, that he had kept in his pocket, on his person, since the moment he had discovered it. He compared the handwriting on the two documents, squinting in the dim light of the gallery to be absolutely sure.

  No. They were different. Whoever wrote the first note-and it had to have been Leon, he signed it-did not write the second.

  Then who…?

  He pushed the thought away and carefully stashed all the papers-including the note-in the inner pocket of his coat. The others seemed to have found safe places to store their own documents.

  Enough intrigue, he told himself-prayed, actually. Enough secrets.

  Suddenly, Simon realized just how tired he was…and imagined just how good a hot shower and a nap would feel.

  UNDISCLOSED ISLAND

  The hovercraft that pulled out onto the remote island was no unusual experience for Blackburn. He sat blindfolded, escorted by a team of men that he had never seen. He had done this before. Flown off the coast of Argentina for hours; and then onto a hovercraft to different islands each time. It usually took less than two hours to reach his destination once the plane had landed, but for some reason this time it took a bit longer. He was accustomed to what would happen next. He would be blindfolded until he had reached a specific chamber, usually large enough where he could hear the echo of his own voice reverberating.

  The Hovercraft came to a complete stop and deflated. Blackburn was escorted off, and in less than fifteen minutes he had entered the chamber. His blindfold was taken off and like always, the room was nearly pitch black. Only a faint glow surrounded his figure and cast the shadow of his body onto the floor.

  Blackburn was ruthless, a coldblooded villain in his own right. However, each time he had to confront the chamber, it made him more uncomfortable. He had never seen the ones he answered to, and was never sure if each time might be his last. It was almost as if a fear, greater than he could explain, compelled him and guided his life. He lived completely in two separate worlds, one as a politician in Washington and the other as a servant to powers he could not comprehend. Each time he stood in the chamber, like this very moment, he could sense the silhouettes of the multiple figures that sat around him. He could almost feel their eyes, peering into his back and was never sure if one wrong word would end his life. As always, he was rarely given a chance to repeat his words, so he had to choose carefully when asked. Then like a knife, through the darkness of the air, the voice cut through Blackburn.