Endwar_ The Hunted Part 5

As Brent neared the guy he suddenly raced to the wall- "No, no, no!" screamed Brent as the thug simply threw himself off.

Brent darted to the wall and watched as the guy plummeted toward the mounds of weed-encrusted rocks below.

"Oh, man, Captain," called Schleck over the network. "He's on the ground. No movement yet."

"Of course he's not moving. He just took a G.o.d-d.a.m.ned nosedive off this castle." Brent winced. Everybody back home had just heard him say that.

And he might as well have cued her. Major Dennison appeared in Brent's HUD. "Captain, Voeckler reports from inside that Andrei Eskov was shot and killed. We're not sure if the Green Brigade Transnational thought the Snow Maiden would be here, but I'm certain they were targeting her cousin for payback. You're sitting in the middle of an international incident, and I want you out of there right now, lest the JSF be implicated in this mess."

Brent was already heading toward the tower door. "Ma'am, you'll get no argument from me. Would've been nice to take one of them alive-or at least question Eskov."

"Just get to the airport."

"Roger that."

Brent shot out the lock on the tower door. Still locked. He fired again. Still locked. He swore. Dead bolt, maybe. "Schleck, I'm stuck up here. You see another way out?"

"Sir, the blueprints are available via your Cross-Com."

"Schleck, I don't want to think right now. Just find me a way out!"

FIVE.

Banyan Tree Seych.e.l.les Resort Mahe Island Republic of the Seych.e.l.les The Banyan Tree Seych.e.l.les was a five-star resort situated on the southwestern coastline of Mahe and offering breathtaking views of the Indian Ocean. Chopra had reserved one of the sixty pool villas perched on the hillsides. The brochure had described the rooms as combining contemporary, colonial, and plantation decor with sweeping ceilings; large, open verandas; and ethnic woven textiles, and every villa was equipped with all the modern conveniences.

Although Chopra hadn't seen them yet, he'd read about the indigenous arts and crafts gallery, the spa, the health club, the library, the tennis courts, and the mountain-biking trails. Upon first glimpse, it was easy to see why this place was worthy of the young sheikh's presence.

Within an hour of his arrival, Chopra met up with Harold Westerdale in the Banyan Tree's La Varangue for an afternoon c.o.c.ktail. The private investigator's tropical-print s.h.i.+rt was soaked, his short, gray hair plastered to his head. The breeze had died off, and stepping onto the veranda was like stepping into a loaf of warm bread. Chopra took the bar stool beside the man and ordered a drink while staring out into the turquoise waters.

"It's been a long search," Chopra muttered.

"And we've had a lot of false leads," the man grunted in return.

"But this time you're certain."

"I've already spoken to Warda. She knows you're coming. She's willing to meet with you."

"You made contact?"

"I did."

"You fool. They'll run now. We'll lose them."

"No, she's scheduled a meeting for later today."

Chopra recoiled in confusion. "Why aren't they scared? Why aren't they running? They They scheduled a meeting? I'm confused ..." scheduled a meeting? I'm confused ..."

Westerdale pulled a handkerchief from his pocket and dragged it across his brow. "I don't know why they did this."

"You should've asked."

"It didn't occur to me. I guess I was too shocked."

"I don't like it."

"I don't like this place. b.l.o.o.d.y hot here! Maybe the heat has gotten to this family."

Chopra shrugged.

Hussein Al Maktoum had three older sisters: Ara, Kalila, and Warda. Hussein's father, it seemed, had kept having children until he'd produced a son. Warda was the oldest of the group, twenty-four now, and the woman with whom Westerdale had made contact. They, like their brother, had done a remarkable job of hiding themselves from the powers that be via a well-trained and well-paid staff.

So what had changed? Maybe they were running out of money? Or perhaps the young sheikh had just grown tired of hiding? That seemed more likely. Was he aware of the dangers of revealing himself, especially now? The Russians would want to capture him, influence him, take control of the oil. There was already a huge price on his head as the sole heir to Dubai.

The more Chopra thought about it, the more tense he became. "I need to meet with Warda right now."

"They said no."

"Because now they're running, you fool. Why do I pay you? Where is she?"

"She said she would come down to my villa. We'll wait for them. Do as they say. I trust them."

Chopra stiffened in anger and glowered at his drink. He remembered an eighteen-year-old Warda arguing with her father over her extravagant spending on clothes and jewelry and her father's grief over the ma.s.sive phone bills she was incurring by calling friends all over the world, all the time, at all hours. Chopra smiled inwardly; the family had more money than they could ever spend in a thousand lifetimes, but her father had been trying to teach her responsibility, and it seemed that their world of lavish homes and exotic cars had made it nearly impossible to do that, unless he became much more of a disciplinarian. Nevertheless, Warda's father was a push-over when it came to his daughters. They'd beg, and he'd give in.

Chopra took a sip of his drink and felt a little better. Let the alcohol relax you Let the alcohol relax you, he told himself. If it was meant to be, it would happen.

Across the bar sat a lean woman with short, dark hair. She wore a low-cut sundress, and when he looked at her, she averted her gaze and checked her watch. Women that beautiful were always waiting for someone-a man twice as handsome as Chopra, no doubt. He sighed and took a longer pull on his drink.

It was nearly sundown when Warda arrived at Chopra's villa. She was accompanied by a large black man whom she did not introduce and whose job was obvious. After exchanging a tearful h.e.l.lo, they sat on Chopra's veranda and spoke for a few minutes about the war, the bombs, the loss of her parents, and Chopra expressed his most sincere condolences. The children had been smuggled out of the country during the first indication that missiles might be launched. Their parents had been trying to escape not long after, but the sheikh's plane had been targeted by Iranian fighter jets and blown out of the sky.

Warda nodded and pulled back her long, black hair. She was a painfully beautiful woman, a flower who'd sprouted up from the heaps of debris that was now her country. "My father trusted you very much, which is why I agreed to this meeting. He once told me he loved you like a brother. He told me he had never met a man as smart or as loyal as you. He told me I should marry you."

Chopra blushed. "That's rather shocking."

"Because of the age difference?"

"Because I'm a Hindu."

She nodded her understanding. "He'd had some wine. I think he meant that I should marry a man with your qualities."

"Well, I hope you find him."

"Given the way I must live my life now, that is very, very difficult."

Chopra nodded. "You've done a remarkable job of hiding. It's taken me this long to locate you-and all I want to do is help."

"There are so many who want to manipulate us, especially my brother."

"I need to speak to him."

"Why?"

"Because it's time for him to lead your country back from the ashes. I want to return to him what is his, and I want to help him rebuild your nation. It's the least I can do to thank your family for all you've done for me. That's all I want. I have no other motivation. I have all the money I could possibly need. This is not about that. This is about restoring a family, an ideal ... a country."

Warda began to choke up. She grabbed his hand. "I believe you, Manoj. I believe you."

"Then take me to him."

"Unfortunately, he's not here."

Chopra sighed deeply in disappointment. "According to the information I had-"

"He was only here for a few days. A short holiday. He just returned to London. He's been attending a private prep school there, at my insistence. My other sisters have a place nearby."

"Excellent. He must continue his education."

"He doesn't exactly agree. I think you'll find him an interesting-and challenging-young man. That's all I can say about my brother. We disagree over many subjects."

"I understand. Well, then, can you give him my contact information? I'll leave for London in the morning." Chopra reached into his wallet and withdrew his card.

She rose and accepted the card. "I will. I'll have him call you. It was wonderful to see you again, Manoj. And I hope this dream of rebuilding our country comes to pa.s.s. I'm tired of hiding."

He glanced around. "It's not entirely unpleasant."

"No, but the company ..." She glanced at her bodyguard and rolled her eyes.

He smiled wanly. "I see."

She offered to have dinner with him, but he declined. It would be a form of torture he could not endure. He left and returned to his villa, where he sat in the living room, computer balanced on his lap, and began the process of chartering a private jet back to London.

[image]

A short time later, Chopra had dinner with Westerdale and shared the good news. The Brit reminded Chopra of the bonus attached to his contract, and Chopra a.s.sured him that he'd receive it. Westerdale had been scanning the news, and by his second gla.s.s of wine he'd launched into one of his trademark tirades about world events.

Argentina's new offsh.o.r.e oil discoveries, with the aid of Russian technology, were a windfall of the highest magnitude for the Russian Federation. The thick ooze pumping out of the Argentine ocean bed wasn't the sweet crude of the Middle East, but in a world starving for oil, the industrial world's lifeblood, there'd be no difficulty pa.s.sing the excessive refining costs on to the Europeans. So yes, Westerdale, said, the Russians had found yet another way to screw over the Brits. The new fields kept product moving through the world markets, filled Russia's coffers, and reduced the demands on Russia's own oil production and reserves.

The Russian Federation's growing financial power unnerved Westerdale and Chopra and increased Chopra's sense of urgency in helping the young sheikh put Dubai back on the map. The Russians had no idea how vast Dubai's secret reserves were, and Chopra wished he could see the look on President Kapalkin's face when some of his European clients began to turn away oil sales in favor of doing business with Dubai and the other emirates.

Westerdale and Chopra finished dinner, and as Chopra was about to leave, he spotted that same woman again: lithe, muscular, short black hair. She was eating alone this time. Oh, how he wished he had the nerve to go over and speak to her. But he was leaving in the morning. And nothing would come of it, of course. She was probably a full head taller than him, and he was at least ten years her senior. He sighed as she took a phone call, then bid Westerdale a good evening. With a full belly and a renewed longing for female companions.h.i.+p, Chopra began the uphill hike for his villa.

The Snow Maiden could have abducted her prey within the first hour of his arrival in the Seych.e.l.les, but she planned to study him for a while. What was he doing here? What did he want? She wasn't foolish enough to blindly take orders from her employers. She was ever the opportunist.

Patti had said that Chopra was the key to getting them inside Dubai's vaults. The Ganjin Ganjin wanted the locations of Dubai's secret oil reserves and the gold stored in one of the vaults. That was simple enough, but the Snow Maiden believed that Chopra was involved in something else that both intrigued and unsettled her. wanted the locations of Dubai's secret oil reserves and the gold stored in one of the vaults. That was simple enough, but the Snow Maiden believed that Chopra was involved in something else that both intrigued and unsettled her.

She'd already dusted his villa with nan.o.bots so she'd be able to track him; consequently, she would keep him on a leash for a while, let him wander, let him provide a few more answers that could prove useful. She'd been in the hills near his villa and had electronically observed and listened in on his meeting with the woman. She had learned via a surveillance photograph sent back to the Ganjin Ganjin that the woman was Warda Al Maktoum, daughter of the royal family of Dubai. Now Chopra was heading back to London in the morning to continue his mission to restore the old Dubai. It was hard to fathom that he had no ulterior motives. Those kind of people rarely existed in the Snow Maiden's world. At once she admired and pitied him. that the woman was Warda Al Maktoum, daughter of the royal family of Dubai. Now Chopra was heading back to London in the morning to continue his mission to restore the old Dubai. It was hard to fathom that he had no ulterior motives. Those kind of people rarely existed in the Snow Maiden's world. At once she admired and pitied him.

And she resisted the temptation to move in now. Let him go to London. Let him make contact with the young sheikh he'd been struggling to find all these years. And certainly any more information about him was better kept from the Ganjin Ganjin.

She leaned back on the sofa of her own villa, staring at the signal superimposed over the satellite map on her computer. With a click she brought up views from the micro cameras she'd planted in his villa. Chopra was still there, preparing to settle down for the night. She would do the same. She'd already hacked into his computer and had his itinerary. She could relax for the moment. She closed her eyes, and they were there. Always there. Her husband. Her brothers.

And now her cousin Andrei.

He was too young and just a victim, and she was entirely responsible for his death. They killed him to hurt her, to demoralize her, to weaken her ... so they could move in. But they had no idea what they had just done. Her rage was now a fiery maw that would consume them.

Oh, yes, she felt certain the Russians had hired the Brigade. The terrorists had become too good at tracking her. Izotov was training and equipping them, letting them get their hands dirty while the smug b.a.s.t.a.r.d sat in his office and stuffed his face with gourmet food.

Revenge would not bring back the dead, of course. Revenge was foolish, she knew. So she no longer called it revenge. She called it justice-for the future generations of Russia. The richer her nation became, the more corrupt grew its leaders. It would end. It must end.

She was with Nikolai again, holding his hand while he lay in that hospital bed. The chemotherapy had turned him into a pale skeleton, but behind those sunken cheeks and hollow eyes was the man she loved.

"Don't cry," he'd told her.

"They did this to you."

"No, I did this to me. I chose. But it's okay. This life is only temporary, and we'll be together again."

"They knew this would happen. They didn't care. They sent my brother in there. And they sent you to clean up the mess."

"Don't be angry. You have a beautiful heart. Keep it warm for me."

She laid her head on his chest and cried.

The Snow Maiden took in a long breath and opened her eyes. Her winegla.s.s was nearly empty. As she sat up and reached toward the bottle, the door to her villa smashed open and was split in two.

The man who appeared behind the shattering wood was a stocky German wearing a broad grin. That he had found her here was a testament to his tenacity because she'd been excruciatingly careful.

But here he was, nonetheless, Mr. Heinrich Haussler, old GRU colleague and double agent, new nemesis, with a suppressed pistol pointed at her head.