THE FOUR HORSEMEN
Ben Sussman
© 2011 by Ben Sussman
All rights reserved.
This book is a work of fiction. Names, characters, places and incidents are either products of the author’s imagination or used fictitiously. Any resemblance to actual events, locales, or persons, living or dead, is entirely coincidental. No part of this book may be reproduced
Smashwords Edition: November 2011
CONTENTS
Chapters
For Morgan & Sibyl
The wind carried screams in its tail.
***
Rivkah heard them and burst from her tent, knowing that they belonged to her mother. As she ran, sand stinging her eyes, blue scarf flapping, she heard others from the tribe emerge with her. Feet flying over the dunes, she scanned the ground, searching.
Suddenly, she stumbled on a bulky object and pitched forward, crashing hard into the ground.
A moan rose up from where she had fallen. Rivkah crawled on her hands and knees until she found a heap of rags on the desert floor.
“Mother?” she asked, her voice tinged with fear and incredulity.
The shadowy shape stirred and Rivkah found herself staring into the face of a woman she hardly recognized. Her mother’s blonde hair was stringy and matted with dirt. The fine lines and planes of her face were covered in filth. It had been four days since her mother had left for the mountains and they had apparently been cruel ones. Upon seeing Rivkah, however, her lips were broken by a weak smile.
“My child,” Miryam struggled to say. “I told you I would return.”
“Let me help you,” Rivkah managed to lift her to a sitting position, eliciting another piercing scream. Miryam fell back into the sand. As she did, a tied sack she had been clutching tumbled to the ground.
The woman mumbled something unintelligible. Rivkah bent her head to hear the words. “Asherah,” was all she could discern. Was she praying to the goddess for help?
“Mother,” she said softly, “what happened on the mountain?”
The words came between shuddering breaths. “I saw the goddess herself, child. Asherah met me on the mountaintop and gave me these,” she gestured at the bag, which shifted from some unseen force in its center. “She was angry and that anger is a terrible thing. People were already forgetting her. Squeezing her out of the histories or smearing her name.”
Rivkah nodded, understanding. Asherah had been known for centuries as the revered wife of Yahweh, the queen of heaven. Yet now, with the Israelites embracing the one-God concept, her existence was problematic. Rivkah’s tribe was the only one that had remained dedicated followers and it was the reason that they had been banished from their beloved homeland.
“Because of our loyalty, she has entrusted us with a great secret.” Again, Miryam looked down to the bag. “What sits here has the power to destroy all mankind, fashioned by the dark forces. Asherah stole them away, placed them in our care.”
She shifted and her tunic fell open, causing Rivkah to draw a sharp intake of breath. Covering her mother’s side was a trail of dark burn marks, raw and red in the moonlight.
She felt the pinch of her mother’s hand on her arm and then her face was inches away. Desperate, pleading eyes bored into hers.
“I’m dying,” she croaked.
“No-”
“Listen! It is your responsibility now. You must take them, hide them.”
“Where?”
A small man with dark flowing robes had appeared at their side, the tribe’s healer. “My queen!” he gasped, upon seeing Miryam. He began to pull at her arm, gently urging her back to the camp. Her hand caught him in the nose, sending him backwards.
“One will come, one like us,” she continued, reaching out to caress a strand of Rivkah’s golden hair. With a moan of pain, her fingers yanked away as she doubled over.
The healer was tugging at her again, insisting that she must come back to the camp if he were to help.
Miryam pushed the sack towards Rivkah, who reached out and grabbed its side.
A lightning bolt of hot agony shot up her arm, causing her to cry out.
“They are our burden until we can send them away,” her mother warned her.
Rivkah nodded in acceptance, bringing a gaze of affection to Miryam’s face. She flung her arms around her mother, holding tight as she felt the life draining away.
“What if I fail?” the girl whispered.
She waited for an answer but it never came. Pulling back, she noted her mother’s slack jaw and glassy eyes. Death had come for Miryam.
Just as destiny had come for Rivkah.
3000 YEARS LATER
One
Icy, slanting rain. Dense fog wending its way over craggy moors. Andie Sullivan watched it all roll past the windows of the Bentley towncar without reaction. It had been a few years since she had last been here, but it was as if no time had passed. The landscape had probably not changed in centuries.
“Is it always like this in Scotland?” a voice broke the silence.
Andie turned to the man sitting beside her. “No. It’s usually not this warm.” She gave a thin smile as he turned to her, shaking his head. The coat that Roger had brought with him was warm enough for a New York winter but could hardly be sufficient for an Aberdeen storm. She noted how he hunched into himself for warmth despite the blasting furnace of the car’s heater.
Something shifted in her coat pocket and she instantly pulled out her Blackberry. There was nothing but a “No Service” message on the screen. Wishful thinking again, she mused, believing that it had vibrated for a new message. The device hadn’t been functioning properly since the previous night, when she’d found herself at a perfectly charming but completely isolated rural inn. Andie was used to far-flung locations with little or no contact to the outside world but it still managed to unnerve her every time she was cut off from her phone and email.
She glanced up as, outside, the clouds that coiled around a rocky outcrop parted for a moment. “There it is,” Andie pointed.
The castle looked to be carved out of the mountain itself. Creeping vines covered large swaths of its large stone walls. Here and there, chinks of warm yellow light spilled out, beacons in the darkness created by the weather. A large turret sprouted from the front of the structure where a brightly colored flag fluttered at its top.
“Beautiful, isn’t it?” she asked.
“Sure, if you’re into the whole Dracula motif,” retorted Roger. “Know anything about it?”
The facts began ticking through Andie’s head. “Built in 1352 by the Laird of Chisholm. Originally fourteen rooms, expanded to forty-three rooms from 1506 to 1509 by the Fourteenth Laird. Served as a military headquarters in six different campaigns against the British. Was briefly a hotel in the 1930’s until the descendants cobbled enough money to buy it back – 223,000 pounds to be exact. Then they lost it again due to debts.”
She enjoyed catching the frown on his face. “I should learn to stop asking you questions like that,” Roger sulked.
“Yes, you should.” Andie leaned back into the soft warmth of the leather seats, letting her mind drift to the meeting. There would be tough negotiations. It’s what she was here for but she still always felt the need to prepare herself as if she was going into battle. The homework was done but there was no telling how the opponent would react.
She felt the slight tilt of the earth as the car wound around a gravel path that curled around and up the mountain. The rain thinned, allowing Andie to catch a glimpse of the dark forest canopy beneath her and its stretch to a slate-gray ocean. At the barest edge of the horizon, three smudges of edifice could be made out, their pylons lifting them above the choppy sea.
Oil rigs.
As the Bentley rounded a switchback, fog ensnared the car again, obscuring their view. Roger was thumbing through a slim leather notebook, glossy slides encased in its binding. “Don’t bother,” Andie told him. He looked quizzically at her. “If all you needed was a fancy PowerPoint presentation and a bunch of pointless pie graphs, you wouldn’t have hired me.”
“I don’t know what you’re talking about,” he said, trying to quickly hide the large variegated pie graph beneath his right hand. A sigh whistled through his lips. “This is a big one for us, Andie.”
“Don’t worry. They only call me when it’s a big one,” she reassured him, turning to look out the glass as they reached level ground again and the car glided to a halt.
A shadowy face at the window made her flinch.
The beefy man with dark stubble tipped a cap and grinned, revealing tobacco-stained teeth. A high-powered rifle was slung over his right shoulder. “Welcome to the Castle Chisholm.” He opened the door, allowing Andie to step out. Roger followed, nervously but silently noting the weapon and the grizzled appearance of its owner. Another guard, this one young and wiry, instantly flanked them while casually cradling the same gun as his partner.
Andie reached into the backseat and withdrew a small leather folder and a long, thin black case, causing the ‘click click’ of two safeties to instantly be thumbed off. She turned to face the guards. “It’s for the master of the castle.” The younger guard moved to take it from her but she pulled it back. “For his eyes only.” A metal wand appeared in the heavyset guard’s hands and he ran it over the case, causing a loud high-pitched whining. His bushy brows lowered over suspicious eyes. Andie returned his stare with calm. “Now you know it’s not a bomb. I’ll let you hold it when we’re in the meeting if it makes you feel better.” The wand disappeared beneath the man’s coat as he gestured towards the front of the castle where a large door lay open, darkness pooling beyond.
Andie stepped forward confidently, Roger trying to keep up. As they approached the door, he gave a small tug at her sleeve. “What the hell is going on here? This is supposed to be a business meeting!” he hissed. Andie shot him a warning glance and jerked her head towards the door. They entered into a grand hallway and instantly felt as if they had stepped back in time. Torches roared in stone sockets along the wall. Hulking suits of armor gleamed in the dim light, butting up against huge woven tapestries. The floor beneath their feet was solid oak and stretched in front of them for an eternity.
“We’ll let you know when Laird Chisholm is ready to receive you,” the beefy guard said and headed through an archway to the right. Roger waited until the accompanying escort had discretely placed himself out of earshot and then whirled on Andie.
She held up a hand to calm him before he uttered another word. “Over the past six months, there have been two attempts made on Gerard’s life,” she said. “For all he knows, they were orchestrated by your company.” As Roger began to protest, she held up her hand again to silence him. “If you’re going to try to tell me your firm hasn’t been involved in the business of violence, don’t bother. I know about Costa Rica and I even know about Bulgaria.” His eyes shifted but his mouth remained firmly shut. “So stop the histrionics and let me do what you paid me to do.” He responded with a terse nod.
A voice called out, “The Laird will see you now.” The heavyset guard was back in the archway, gesturing beyond. Andie passed an antique polished mirror leaning against the wall and quickly checked her reflection. Her hair, usually the color of brown sugar, was slightly darker from the damp Scottish air and curling slightly at her shoulders. Her delicate frame was swathed in a designer outfit that highlighted her slim waist, something she thought the Laird would appreciate if his reputation as a ladies’ man was accurate. Everything else, from her green eyes to her chameleon-like skin tone, seemed just to her liking. Taking another step, they moved past the archway.
Clicking down the new hallway, Andie noted the subtle shift in aesthetics. On the walls, modern artwork mixed casually with older pieces. An ancient Greek urn sat atop a small stone pillar while a sketch by Modigliani peered down from above. Alcoves hid tiny treasures. Jewel-encrusted daggers and delicate Egyptian statues. She flicked her eyes to Roger who was looking at everything with slack-jawed wonder. “Close your mouth,” Andie told him. “We’re about to meet the king of the castle.”
Bushy Brows held out an expectant hand towards the thin, black case. Andie passed it to him without a word and strode forward.
The tunnel-shaped hall ended in a huge room with vaulted, beamed ceilings and a stone floor. Stained glass windows filtered in weak light from high above. There was no mistaking that this was once the Great Hall where royalty greeted their visitors and held lavish feasts of celebration. At the far end, sitting in an intricately carved throne that his ancestors would envy, was Laird Gerard Chisholm. He rose and casually placed his hands on his hips, watching with a small smile as Andie and Roger approached.
The statistics on him ticked through Andie’s head. Thirty-four, never married, educated on scholarship at the University of Edinburgh, enthusiastic fan of the Glasgow Rangers. At twenty-three, he had taken the pittance of an inheritance he had received from the sale of a deceased uncle’s land in Cumbria and placed the sum into a variety of stocks he hand-picked. After they provided an astounding forty-three percent return in one year, other investors took notice. By the time he was twenty-seven, he was running one of the United Kingdom’s most successful hedge funds. He had smartly maneuvered his holdings out of real estate before the global financial downturn and still managed to produce well-respected profits to his investors. Last month, Forbes had estimated his net worth at just over four billion pounds.
One of Gerard’s first purchases on his rapid ascent through wealth had been the castle. It had been wrested from his family’s control after the hotel went bust, a fact that had haunted the Chisholms for generations afterwards. Gerard scooped it up for a bargain price, along with the surrounding countryside. He meticulously restored the ancient buildings and a small stone chapel that was said to have once been used by Bonnie Prince Charlie to pray in before the Battle of Culloden.
“Andie Sullivan,” he stepped forward, hand extended and not so subtly raking his eyes over her.
“Your grace,” she bowed her head respectfully, earning a broad grin from her host.
“You know, I tried to hire you once.” She raised her eyebrows questioningly. “Yes, a few years ago. I was buying a company expanding into rural parts of India and was running into quite a bit of interference there. Local customs, complicated tax laws. Then your name popped up. Call Andie Sullivan, one of my business partners said. Best person for the job. But you were busy. Off in Africa or some such nonsense.”
“South Africa, actually. And I hardly think the Gates Foundation would call what I did there nonsense,” she said, her tone more teasing than offended. “But I’ll be sure to clear my schedule for you the next time you call.”
Laird Chisholm gave a nod, casting a glance at Roger. Andie spoke for her companion.
“Roger Brand is with UK Petroleum.” Roger gave a polite hello, giving away his American accent. Gerard looked at him with something between disdain and amusement.
“UKP sends a bloody Yank to try to do this? I thought they have more tact than that,” he shook his head.
“They do,” Andie replied. “That’s why they sent me with him.” Gerard’s mouth slipped up in a tight smile as he stepped down to meet her formally. He gestured towards a small oak table in the corner of the room. Roger took a step to follow but Andie motioned for him to stay where he was. He did, the frown on his face betraying his annoyance.
The Laird and Andie seated themselves in two plush red velvet chairs flanking the table. He leaned forward, placing his palms flat on the table. She noted the lines and roughness of his skin; this was not someone who spent all of his time tapping away at a keyboard.
“Culturalist, eh?” he began. She gave him a noncommittal look. “That’s what they call you, isn’t it?” Andie nodded. Gerard stared at her intently, most likely the same way he did when sizing up CEO’s of the companies he was about to acquire and dismantle. “Why are you wasting my time today, Ms. Sullivan?”
“I would never want to do that. A businessman like you has several precious resources but one of the least plentiful of those is his time.”
“Resources? Like the oil underneath my land.”
“Exactly.” Andie opened up the slim leather folder she had held on to, fanning a sheaf of documents in front of her. She plucked one out and pushed it in front of Gerard. “You’ve got what geologists predict is over 10 billion barrels of oil underneath the land that you control. The three oil rigs that you built offshore are just the tip of the iceberg in terms of production capacity.”
“And UKP wants to get their greedy little hands all over it.”
“They are prepared to make you a very substantial offer to do so.”
Gerard laughed and raised his arms upward, sweeping them to indicate the vast hall. “I’m already rich, Ms. Sullivan.”
“Please, call me Andie.”
“Fine, I’m already rich, Andie. What does it matter if I have four billion pounds or ten billion pounds?”
“It doesn’t really. You’re right.” It wasn’t the answer he had expected and Gerard’s smile began to fade as Andie locked her gaze onto him. “UK Petroleum knows that you can’t be enticed with money. They know that because I told them so. In fact, there’s only one thing that I think could sway you in your decision. The one thing that a man like you, someone who has everything, could still want.”
Gerard crossed his arms defiantly. “And what’s that?”
Andie raised her hand to catch the attention of the guard who held her slim briefcase. He came forward and handed it to her. After a long withering look from Andie, he reluctantly skulked away to leave them alone again. Andie placed the case in the center of the table, making a point of obscuring the papers beneath it. Metal snaps clicked open. In one motion, the top half rose on oiled hinges as she swung it around so that Gerard could peer inside. She waited for the gasp.
It came instantly.
Gerard gazed down, his eyes trying to make sense of what he saw. “How…” he lost the rest of his question in his throat. A shake of the head brought him back to his senses. “This can’t be real.”
“It is.”
Another disbelieving shake of his head as he reached his hands towards the case, then paused. “May I?” At her nod, he lifted the contents out reverently. Light winked off polished metal. The sword in his hand was roughly three feet long. Its handle was interlaced silver and gold with a large ruby set into the base. Around it was tied a thin swatch of cloth, frayed at the edges. Faded but still easily identifiable as a red and blue tartan pattern.
Gerard’s eyes were in a far-away place now, watching his image flit across the mirrored surface of the sword. “The Battle of Neville’s Cross,” he muttered. He stood up and twirled the blade expertly, demonstrating what Andie had already guessed to be years of professional training. The tip sliced through the air in a whistling arc. “Seven thousand Scots lost. And the English?” He turned to Andie.
“Less than a hundred,” she answered. “Among the captured nobles was your ancestor, Sir James Chisholm. I believe he perished in the Tower of London.” Gerard was stalking towards a tall wooden cabinet at the opposite end of the room. His back faced Andie, giving no indication that he was listening.
Andie continued on, knowing that he was hanging on every word. “Among the items that the English army looted was a stack of nobleman’s swords, which were distributed to their commanders as trophies. The one that you’re holding was given to a Captain in the Archbishop of York’s regiment. It was handed down through that family until it was donated to the British Museum about forty years ago. I’ve identified it as the sword of Sir James.” Her eyes cut to an ornately framed oil painting hanging on the western wall. In it, a large bearded man sat astride a war steed, the identical sword dangling from his belt.
Gerard had reached the cabinet now and was working a small iron key lodged into a lock. He twisted it to the right and tumblers clacked into place. The door squeaked open to reveal an assembly of gleaming metal. Axes, crossbows, maces. An ancient arsenal of fearsome weaponry.
“UK Petroleum has acquired this sword and, in return for granting the oil rights, wishes to extend it to you as a gesture of goodwill,” Andie said to him from across the room.
Gerard’s attention was on the cabinet, running his hand across the handle of a broadsword. At last, he brought it to rest on a large sword with a handle covered in brown grain leather. He grabbed it from its holder and turned to Andie. “Sullivan is an English name, isn’t it?”
“Irish, actually. But it’s been a long time since my family paid allegiance to any crown,” Andie smiled. He matched her grin as he moved forward and tossed the new sword in her direction. She snatched it from the air with both hands. It was much heavier than she anticipated. A quick glance at the blade told her it was extremely well made. The gashes along its side also informed her of its heavy usage.
Andie’s mind whirled. She stole a glance at Roger who stood with his ever-present gaping mouth as Gerard stepped forward and raised his sword to chest level. Clearly, this was going to be the negotiating process. To win the deal, she’d have to win the fight. Gerard watched her, waiting for her to give the slightest indication of backing down.
But he didn’t know Andie Sullivan.
Fighting the heaviness, she lifted her sword to meet Gerard’s and kicked off her high heels. Giving her a slight acquiescent bow of his head, Gerard thrust forward. Andie’s sword caught the blow as the crash of steel rang out in the great hall. The momentum of Gerard’s swing nearly knocked her over but she managed to steady herself. Then he was upon her again, lashing out with the steel blade, Andie’s own sword clanging against it in rapid parrying.
Feet scuffled across the polished stone floor as the two fighters inched their way towards the massive throne. Roger and the guards had scuttled to the far side of the room to watch in silence. Andie raised her sword above her head, bringing it down upon the hilt of Gerard’s weapon, causing a reverberation that swept through the metal and all the way to her toes. Gerard backed off for a moment, letting his sword dangle at his side.
“Do you yield?” he asked.
Andie’s glare was his only response. He pushed forward, raising his blade for another arc downward when Andie suddenly sprung to her left. Gerard stumbled, not expecting the movement. His sword carried him forward with his weight and his chest was met by the butt of Andie’s handle. He grunted in discomfort as he rose up, Andie on the offensive now. Flashes of metal were all that the spectators could see as she swiftly pushed him back towards his wooden chair. There was fear in Gerard’s eyes now – an awareness that perhaps he had pushed this woman too far in his quest for demonstrating superiority.
A second later, his backside fell on to the cushion of the throne. His eyes looked down at the gleaming tip of Andie’s sword resting on his Adam’s apple. Raising them, he met the equally steely gleam of her gaze. The two opponents stared at each other, the only sound in the room the ragged breaths escaping their lips.
“Yield,” he said at last. Andie dropped the sword at his feet.
“Congratulations,” she said. “You’re an even richer man.”
With the show over, the formalities now resumed. Papers were hurriedly signed by Gerard who left the room with the excuse of a waiting conference call. Roger fumbled for words as he and Andie made their way back through the long, torch-lit hallway.
“That was incredible! How did you…I mean he looked like he knew what he was doing back there. How could you beat him?”
“I was captain of the fencing team in college,” she said without breaking stride. “He never had a chance.”
He shook his head in wonder. “I really should learn to stop asking you questions like that.”
A smile pulled at the edges of her mouth. “Yes, Roger. You should.”
Two
Something didn’t feel right.
David’s eyes snapped open in the darkness. He rolled over on to his side, gazing at the silky expanse of unrumpled sheet where Andie always slept beside him. More like occasionally these days, he thought to himself. The green digital clock glowed steadily at 3:14am.
Sitting up, he caught a glimpse of the ocean out the window. Sometimes the crash of the waves or the crack of thunder from an off-shore storm woke him up, but all seemed calm now. The waves lapped gently at the Malibu sand, white foam dancing at their edges before melting away. The lights from all of the other houses were dark, most of them obscured by a thick fog that was sure to be covering the Pacific Coast Highway in the morning. He sighed, laying back down, shutting his eyes to make an attempt at falling back into slumber.
That’s when he heard it.
A loud groan from somewhere above him. Not the groan of a person or animal, but a booming creak as if the very house itself had moaned. His feet touched the floor as he padded quickly to the closed bedroom door. He grabbed the doorknob and yelped in pain. It was boiling hot to the touch, instantly causing a red welt to blossom on his palm.
Panic flooded him.
Using a nearby dress shirt still waiting for the laundry as a glove, he turned the knob and yanked open the door. Dense black smoke rolled into his eyes, sending him into a feverish coughing fit. Desperately, he wracked his brain for the proper thing to do in a fire.
He hurled himself to the ground, gaining a momentary respite from the choking air. The floor seemed to be cooler with nothing obstructing his path. His eyes desperately searched for landmarks he would recognize – the carved wooden leg of the dining room table or the snaking DSL cord from the computer. It was nearly impossible, though, with the thickening darkness and the air becoming ever more impossible to inhale.
The heat was growing in intensity, skittering in lancing needles across David’s bare back. He used his elbows to lead the way across the hardwood floors which were already turning black in patches. At the end of the hallway, where the low ceiling gave way to the soaring living room and its solid oak beams, there was a small window that looked out over the garden. It was tiny, possibly not even large enough for him to squeeze through, but David knew that it was his best option for escape.
A loud pop behind him caused him to turn. The exquisite red crystal vase that he and Andie had found together in the Tangierian marketplace had burst from the heat. Shards of glass literally rained down upon him, liquefying instantly in the broiling flames. He quickened his pace, arriving at the space of wall where he believed the window to be. Pushing through a layer of hot blackness, he groped at the wall and felt nothing but plaster. Damn! He must have misjudged. Desperately, he moved a few inches to the left, forcing his eyes to crane open against the stinging smoke.
Suddenly, there was the smoothness of glass beneath his fingertips. He pressed himself against it, fumbling for the lock in the center of the frame. The tab flipped open with a twist and David caught a refreshing burst of fresh air. He looked outside and his heart instantly dropped to the bottom of his stomach.
The entire world was aflame.
The ground was covered in snaking lines of fire while trees and shrubs were massive conflagrations. The houses next to theirs were belching out smoke and occupants in equal measure.
A rush of flame surged through the window screen, forcing David back into the house. The way was impassable, he realized. There was only one thing left to do – try to make it out the front door in what little time was left. This time, he ran fully upright through the smoke, burns raking his forearms and chest. The smoke parted for a brief moment, allowing him to catch a glimpse of the front door. He couldn’t be more than five feet away. There was a chance if he could just-
Pain exploded on the back of his head as he went crashing down to the ground. In a daze of disorientation, David struggled to raise himself but couldn’t. He twisted his head and saw the huge, charred finger of an oak beam lying across his back, pinning him to the floor. Another brief tug and he knew that it was useless. He was trapped.
Everything he now saw, felt and tasted was heat, swiftly enveloping his body. As he closed his eyes for the last time, his lips softly murmured one word.
“Andie.”
Three
Night brought the rain with it. The steady patter of watery speckles on the Bentley’s windshield had become the loud thrum of a downpour. The luxury car handled the country road with ease, sloshing over deep ruts and puddles with hardly a jostle for its passengers. Andie urged the driver to hurry since her plane was due to depart in just a few hours. He obliged, kicking the speed up to over one hundred kilometers per hour. After depositing Roger at the modern glass hulk of the Edinburgh Sheraton, the sedan wended its way through Royal Mile tourist traffic and on to the thoroughfare that would eventually end at the M8 Motorway.
Bzzz. It was not her imagination this time; Andie’s Blackberry had sprung to life. She pulled it from her pocket and the gadget promptly informed her that she had over three hundred emails and twenty-two voicemail messages. Sighing with frustration, she began scanning through the emails, beginning with the oldest first and noting the senders before bothering to open them.
It was a list that any other consultant would give their left arm for. State officials, captains of industry, heads of entertainment conglomerates, the odd celebrity. All of them former clients of Andie’s or people hopeful to become a new customer. None of them attracted her attention. She automatically labeled them in her head in priority of who she would reply to once on the plane.
Her thumb paused the scroll when she saw a sender’s name in the middle of the pack – David Weatherly. The subject line read “I’m drunk” and the time was marked 11:14pm from two days ago. She couldn’t help but smile as she opened the body of the message.
“I uncorked that Montepulciano we found in Tuscany. The one we paid twenty Euros for. I figured it would remind me of you. It did…a little too much. Now half the bottle is gone. You’re out there somewhere and I’m missing you. Love you, Andie. Be safe. P.S. – the wine is awful. We overpaid.” A small laugh bubbled out of her. David always had the ability to do that.
“Edinburgh Airport, Ms. Sullivan,” the driver said, bringing her back to attention. Outside, she saw the bright lights of the terminal getting closer. A glance at her watch told her that she only had about twenty minutes to get through customs and board the plane. She pocketed the Blackberry; business would have to wait. Tossing a twenty pound note to the driver who tipped his hat in gratitude, Andie snatched the small suitcase on the seat next to her and sprinted through the raindrops.
Even with her first class ticket, getting through the phalanx of customs officials took longer than she expected. Using a bit of Gaelic to charm the sternest guard allowed her to make it to the gate with mere seconds to spare. She trotted down the gangplank, handing the boarding agent her pass and entering into the plane.
Thankfully, the seat next to hers was empty. She plopped down as exhaustion set in. Wet from the rain and winded from her airport sprint, she could feel sleep coming on. Settling back into the plushness of the wide seat, her eyes closed. “I’ll just rest for a minute,” she told herself. “Too much to do. Too much to do.”
***
She lurched forward, jolting awake. Disoriented, Andie blinked her eyes a couple of times to shake out the cobwebs. The voice of the Captain piped through speakers above her head, “My apologies for that. Seems we struck a bit of turbulence. Nothing to be concerned about. Thank you.”
“Rough awakening,” a voice startled her. A middle-aged man now occupied the seat next to her. “Sorry, I didn’t mean to frighten you.” He was tall and broad, with gray hair cut into a military style crop. His face, though bearing evidence of a few fights in its time, was open and friendly. The immaculately pressed sleeves of his white button-down shirt disappeared underneath a sports coat that was casually resting upon his lap.
“That’s okay,” Andie answered. “I just didn’t know anyone was sitting there. Thought I was the last person to make the plane.”
“Well then, I suppose I have the dubious distinction of being the tardiest passenger.”
Andie gave a polite smile and rubbed her eyes. She reached towards her purse, thinking about all the messages she still had to answer.
“Don’t bother.” She came up short, then looked back at her seat neighbor. She hadn’t noticed it upon first glance but the man had ice blue eyes. The mouth may have been smiling but those eyes reflected depths of wintry coldness.
“Don’t bother with what?”
“Your Blackberry. That’s what you were reaching for, isn’t it? Mine hasn’t been working this whole flight.” She nodded, craning her neck to see if a stewardess was nearby. The aisle was dark and deserted, the other passengers in first class resting in fitful slumber. “You’re safe, Ms. Sullivan.”
The utterance of her name snapped Andie’s senses into high alert. “How do you know who I am?” she demanded.
“Again, you’re in no danger. I assure you.” There was still a smile on the stranger’s lips, one that made it clear he was used to commanding a conversation. A subtle sense of power was ebbing in his direction, trying to keep Andie off-balance.
“How wonderful,” she replied. “Now why don’t you stop doing your best to unsettle me because it won’t work. Tell me who you are and what you want and I’ll decide whether or not you’re safe from getting blasted with mace.” His smile faded as the eyes narrowed and swept over her from head to toe. She knew that he was assessing whether she was bluffing and, if not, where the mace was hidden. “It’s here but you’re in no danger if you start talking. I assure you,” she said mockingly.
His hands materialized from beneath the sports coat and produced a slim white envelope. “I come bearing nothing more than a business opportunity from my employer.” Andie took the envelope from him, turning it over to see a darkly embossed “RJM” on the flap. She shook her head, muttered, “Maybach.” It had been a long time since she’d done any work for him. Without opening the envelope, she held it out for the dapper messenger to take back. “I’m about to take a long sabbatical from my work. Not interested.”
“Ah yes, your upcoming nuptials. Congratulations.” He stood up, shrugging on the sports coat. Andie continued to proffer the envelope but the man held his hand up. “Keep it. I was asked to deliver it and so I have.” He looked down the aisle. “I’m going to spend the rest of the flight in the bar area.” As he turned to go, he paused and looked back at her. “So you know, I’m very sorry for your loss.”
Andie watched as his back receded into the inky darkness of the plane. She couldn’t be sure what his last words had meant. However, she was sure enough about their effect.
They chilled her to the bone.
Four
There were two times in his life that Troy had a gun put against his head. This was now the third.
“I don’t like you,” the man holding it said to him.
Not exactly the words I was hoping for, Troy thought. Out loud, he said, “I can understand that.” His hands were raised in surrender, as they had been for the past five minutes. The cold steel of the gun’s barrel pressed into his forehead a bit deeper as his captor contemplated him.
“I’m going to ask you one more time. Why are you here?”
Troy took a breath before giving the same answer he had the last time. “Like I said already, I heard there might be some left over computer equipment here that they didn’t take. I thought I could help myself and maybe make a few bucks selling it.” The man just stared at him. The gun didn’t move. “On eBay,” Troy calmly pressed on.
“On eBay,” came the flat response. Troy nodded helpfully. “So this place has been abandoned for about four years and you think you’re going to score some prime electronics from it?”
Troy tried to hang his head sheepishly. Not an easy thing to do when a small caliber pistol was holding it up. “I guess I didn’t put much thought into this.” He’d practiced this cover story a million times and it usually worked. The rumpled clothes combined with his youthful looks to cast him as the unlucky geek that got in over his head on something. He tried projecting as cool as a demeanor as possible, desperately hoping that the man wouldn’t search him, wouldn’t find the inside of his jacket pocket where-
“Hey!” a voice called out from the dark room behind them. “You done in there or what? We got stuff to do.” The man’s eyes cut away from Troy as the gun slacked a little, giving his forehead a split second of relief. Troy took the chance to scan the room again, spotting a large window that overlooked the grounds outside. One of its lower panes was shattered, leaving a gaping hole in the center. Not the best place for an exit but probably the only one. He certainly couldn’t leave the same way he had entered.
A mere half hour ago, Troy was feeling rather pleased with himself. The contact that provided a steady stream of tips over the past couple of years had called him in the middle of the previous night. “I’ve got something you might be interested in,” he said.
“What is it?” Troy asked, fumbling for the switch to turn his lamp on. He never bothered with having a clock but there was no question that it was sometime well before dawn.
“Maybe something for your next book,” the source chuckled.
Troy rolled his eyes, asking “How much is this going to cost me?”
“Two thousand.”
“Forget it.” He moved to hang up the phone, but heard the contact’s protests on the other end. He brought the phone back to his mouth. “Try again with the price.”
There was a sigh and then, “OK, five hundred. That better?”
“If it’s good info.”
It was.
An hour after the call, Troy was seated across from his information supplier at the IHOP on Santa Monica Boulevard. The restaurant never closed and provided a bustling clientele that kept the waiters disinterested in any conversations. Troy’s contact was stirring a cup of coffee, eyes red from a lack of sleep. Troy still didn’t know his name but he had pieced together enough of the man’s history: mid-level file clerk employed at the Federal Building in Los Angeles, divorced and possessing an unhealthy addiction to internet poker. All of these traits combined to create a perfect source of confidential information for Troy. Someone who had access to top-secret documents and a constant hunger for secret cash.
Troy surreptitiously slipped an envelope under the napkin in his lap and pushed it across the table. It had eaten into the last of his savings compiled from eight straight royalty checks from Amazon. His companion automatically slid it on to his own lap, thumbing through the bills. A smile came as he relaxed a little and took a sip of the coffee.
“Well?” Troy asked.
The man leaned forward, hunched over his coffee cup. “A couple of days ago, a box comes to my office marked for shredding. It’s marked Top Secret.”
“So of course you take it home.” The man nodded, reaffirming Troy’s affection for him.
“Inside, stacks of papers. Most of them worthless. Until, at the bottom of the pile, I find this.” He slid a folded piece of paper across to Troy who cast a quick glance around before opening it. His eyes raked the page, where large black marks smudged out most of the sentences. At the bottom was a small paragraph that mentioned the findings of a Dr. Takashi for “Project Equine.”
“Project Equine. What’s that?”
The contact shrugged, “No idea. But this Takashi was a major player for us. I’ve seen his name a bunch of times on classified documents.” Troy motioned him to speed up, growing impatient. “Takashi died last year. Cancer or something. This was a box of stuff that was taken from a storage room in his old office that they were moving. Nobody even bothered to look inside except me.”
Troy frowned in annoyance. This felt like it was building up to a big bunch of nothing. How do I get a refund back from an anonymous stoolie, he mused. The man must have sensed his frustration because he reached into his pocket and produced another folded piece of paper. He pushed it towards Troy, who snapped it up. It was the second page of a two-page memo with only a couple of sentences on it.
It was heavily redacted, black marks obscuring most of the text. However, there were a few phrases still visible. Project is unfeasible at this time. Discontinue immediately. Extreme danger presented to the general populace.
Troy raised his eyes, “Extreme danger to the populace?” The source gave his usual non-committal shrug. Troy turned his attention back to the document. There was a typed note at the bottom directing all papers to be destroyed at the testing office in Hayward, California. “You ever been to this office?” Troy asked.
“That’s the most interesting thing on that piece of paper. There’s no record of a government office at that address. I checked.” Troy could feel his heart kicking into beat, the one he felt when a story was near. “I accessed some of the local building inspector’s records and it said the place was scheduled to be demolished later this year but the original contractor hired for the job had to file for bankruptcy. Nobody else bid it out and it fell through the cracks. Typical government efficiency.” He gave a wheezy laugh at his own joke. “So as far as I can tell, that building is sitting there with a bunch of top secret stuff in it and nobody knows about it except me. And now you.”
Troy nodded, his mind already leaping ahead to next steps. He perused the rest of the papers, then paused. “That’s actually the second most interesting thing on this piece of paper.”
The contact looked at him, confused. “What’s the first?”
“Look at who signed that memo.”
The man glanced back down at the paper, focusing on the typed name beneath the scrawled signature. Congressman Daniel Wharton.
When the memo was written, the name wouldn’t have meant much to anyone. But it did now.
He was the current Vice President of the United States.
***
“Wait here.”
Troy watched as the man walked away with the gun hanging loosely at his side. Hushed voices came from the room behind him. The longer he was here, the less sure Troy felt about getting out safely.
He had entered confidently, having watched the building the entire day. Located at the edge of an industrial wasteland, it was another in a long line of dilapidated warehouses seemingly held together only by their vast windows of broken panes. It was clear that the bored and disaffected youth of the area had spent the last few years launching rocks, bottles and other debris into the glass for amusement.
The sun was strong in a cloudless, smoggy sky as Troy sat in his Ford Focus on a sidestreet. He parked his car in the front of a long line of old vehicles. Workers of every ethnicity poured into a small ceramics factory at the end of the street early in the morning and didn’t even emerge for lunch. Troy’s vantage point gave him a perfect view of the majority of the building. As the hours ticked by, he waited for any sign of activity but saw none. Other than the occasional homeless man shuffling past the padlocked doorway, nobody seemed interested in the place.
Dusk fell and whisked away the factory workers. As the shadows became longer, the area became deserted. At one point, there was a burst of movement from a corner a couple of blocks away. Troy watched as a tall, wiry man held court for several youths. By the quick movement of his hands and the furtive looks of his visitors, the guy was a drug dealer making a flurry of transactions. He disappeared after about a half hour’s worth of business, walking away with what Troy assumed was more than he made in his book royalties for the past year.
Troy keyed his ignition to life and drove away from the buildings. Swinging on to a sloping boulevard, he ascended into an undeveloped area of small hills dotted with towering redwood trees. He parked the car on a dirt road just off the boulevard, pulled his dark jacket on and began picking his way through the brush. After a brisk ten minute walk, he found himself on a small rise staring at the back of the warehouse. A chain link fence surrounded the property, the ground beyond it littered with trash.
The back of the building was clearly the office space. The windows here, smaller and closer together, were a bit less damaged than those in the front. He watched them for a flicker of light or any hint of movement for a full twenty minutes. Glancing up to see the first stars poke through the sky, he decided it was time to go in. As he began his descent, he paused upon hearing a low rushing sound. Following it with his eyes and ears, he saw a large drain pipe jutting out from underneath the chain link fence. The huge, yawning blackness of its mouth had a steady trickle of dirty water falling from its lip and on to the ground below. Some sort of drainage for the place, Troy noted.
He trudged on, a pair of wire cutters emerging from his coat pocket. Neatly clipping a small hole in the chain links, he wriggled through and clung to shadows. No alarm announced his arrival. The rushing sound caught his ears again and he scanned the area for its source. Near the side of the building was the large black circle of an open manhole, the rusted cover resting nearby. Water was cascading down the roof and splashing on to the ground, eventually wending its way into the hole.
Swiftly crossing to a small metal door on the back right side, Troy pulled a slim lockpick from his pants pocket. As he raised it, he saw that it was unnecessary. The metal handle hung limply from the door, neglect or an intruder having rendered it useless long ago. The door swung open soundlessly and Troy entered. Moonlight filtered in from outside, illuminating a long hallway lined in gray carpet and cobwebs. A small utility room lay on his left, filled with dirt-caked mops and a few overturned wastebaskets with candy wrappers clinging to their surface. Dark office doorways stretched down the length of the hall in front of him.
Troy flicked on a small flashlight and made his way down the hallway. A quick sweep of the beam into the doorways revealed empty office after empty office. He found a government-issue metal desk and file cabinet in one and swiftly rifled through it, finding nothing. There was a trash can beneath the desk, stuffed to the brim with shredded paper. He picked up a handful but nearly all the words had been blacked out.
He moved on to the next office, where two tall file drawers stood next to an industrial-strength paper shredder. Nothing but empty manila folders lined the drawers. More pieces of sliced paper littered the floor. Troy looked into the bagging section of the shredder, finding it filled with unreadable scraps. Standing up and peeking down the hallway outside the office, he saw the seemingly endless stretch of doors. He could be here all night without anything to show for it, a thought he didn’t relish. There was a dust-covered chair in the corner that Troy sank down into.
“Okay, if I was a piece of top secret government information, where would I be?” he mused aloud. He waited for the answer. Often, Troy pictured a large light bulb with a pull chain hanging over his head. It was corny, he knew, but usually ended up working. This time, the light stayed dark. He sighed and got up.
He froze. Had he heard something? He could have sworn there was a shuffling sound and then a metallic clink from somewhere far away. Thumbing off the flashlight, the room plunged into darkness. The only sound was his own breathing as his ears strained to hear the sound repeat. Nothing. The place must be filled with rats, he thought. Probably still feasting on the remnants of candy bars that he had seen-
The light bulb popped to life above his head.
He rushed back to the utility room and swept his flashlight across the walls. Hadn’t he seen…yes, there it was. A typed piece of paper that illustrated the hallway and its offices. Troy’s forefinger traveled its length until he found the name he was looking for: Takashi. Thank you, Mr. Organized Janitor. He noted the location and made his way back down the hall.
Finding the door closed, he pushed it open. At first glance, the office looked like the others that he had already visited. Large desk in the corner, file cabinet across from it. Troy ignored the file drawers, figuring they would be empty. Think like Takashi, he said to himself. He imagined himself as best he could in the scientist’s shoes. Probably the last to go, the most sensitive documents being the ones he’d hate to part with since they covered the work he’d been doing his whole time here. He wouldn’t trust anyone else to destroy them.
Troy moved to the desk and squatted down to peek underneath. There in the shadows was a diminutive waste paper basket, a slim personal shredder straddling its mouth. Troy smiled.
“Bingo,” he said aloud. Inside the trash can was a small pile of paper cut into ribbons. Using his forefinger and thumb, he gently pinched one, brought it to his eyes and shone the flashlight on it. All of the words were there, nothing blacked out. He caught “project” and “Wharton” before knowing he had hit pay dirt.
He removed a gallon-sized plastic bag folded in his jacket pocket and picked up the entire contents of the basket. Dumping them in, he smoothed the bag out to make it as flat as possible. As he sealed the bag and shoved it back inside his jacket pocket, he lifted his head at hearing something. He could have sworn he’d heard…
Yes, there it was again.
Voices.
Damn! He flicked off his flashlight, throwing the room into murky darkness. He crept towards the lighter patch outlining the office door and cautiously poked his head out. Empty. The voices crept closer with words still too muddy for Troy to make out. Slipping into the hallway, he padded back towards the door he had entered through when a cough from nearby rooted him to the spot. There was a shifting of shadows within the crack of light that shone from beneath the rear door, accompanied by the faint stench of cigarette smoke. Someone was now guarding it.
Options quickly becoming limited, Troy hurried the opposite way down the carpet as fast as he could. The hallway ended in an open floor dotted in places with the flimsy walls of cubicles. At one time it looked to have been filled with beige dividers but now most were dismantled in large piles to the side. Flitting from one stack of remnants to another, Troy made his way all the way across. There was a large window at the far end of the room that looked out on to the street in front of the building. If he could just make it-
Click. The cold sting of metal pressed against the base of his neck.
“Don’t move,” a gruff voice said behind him. “Now turn around and put your hands up.”