Park Skarda-April Force: Emerald Part 10

Belisarius made no attempt to hide his scowl. "I didn't fail you, General. The bombs failed you. The bombs whose payloads were calculated by your scientists. Don't forget-I have as much to gain from melting the ice as you do."

Saltykov lifted his shoulders in dismissal. Either way, the outcome was the same, but he was going to blame the American. "And I hope you will not forget that a great deal of our country's funds have been made available to you so that you will be able to realize this gain."

Belisarius' eyes were chips of blue iron. "I'm also not forgetting that the Russian navy would cause a major international incident if it were caught sinking those bombs. You were paying my people to run a risk you couldn't afford to take."

The point struck home. After a quick flare of anger, the Russian gave a slight bow of defeat. His lips parted in an arid smile. "Now the question is, how are you going to remedy the situation?"

"The bombs weren't powerful enough to melt the ice themselves, and they failed to ignite the dormant volcanoes." Belisarius mimicked the general's smile. "That puts the situation squarely in your lap. We need a more powerful explosive. Come up with new calculations and we'll try again."

The general studied him, his eyes constricting to thin slits. "I have been briefed about your mythical Vril..." He let the sentence drift off so that it formed a question.

"It's hardly mythical, General."

"You have found the source of this substance?"

Belisarius shook his head. "Not yet. When I do, I'll expect to be paid well for it."

For a few deliberate moments Saltykov fixed him with a hard stare. Then he came to a decision. "I will provide you with new calculations. But this time there will be no failures."

___.

Outside in the rain-soaked parking lot, Belisarius climbed into the rear of an idling limo, waiting for the driver to slam the door shut. Then he glanced up at the third floor and smiled.

What they didn't know was, he'd already found the Vril. And he was going to make them pay dearly for it.

But right now there was a bull-necked dominatrix waiting for him above a back-street bar, ready to beat him into paste for the price of a steak dinner.

TWENTY-ONE.

Woods Hole Oceanographic Inst.i.tution, Woods Hole, Ma.s.sachusetts RACHEL frowned. She had to report back to Tomilin, and she knew he didn't like being told that the experts didn't know the answer to his question. But then that's why she'd driven up to Woods Hole from Was.h.i.+ngton in a miserable rain-to hopefully dig out in person something her phone call had failed to reveal.

"We used to think Gakkel Ridge was non-volcanic," the man walking beside her said. His name was Dr. Adrian Hatcher, head geophysicist for the Inst.i.tution. He was in his early thirties, short and stocky, but with a long-strided, loping walk that made her scramble to stay up with him. "We're talking two, two-and-a-half miles under the Arctic Ocean, where the water pressure and water weight are mega heavy-duty. We didn't think volcanoes could form there, or if they did, the pressure would be so great that the CO2 gas and magma couldn't blast outward."

Pus.h.i.+ng open the door to his office, he showed her in. Books spilled out of a makes.h.i.+ft bookcase and papers and print-outs littered the desk and floor. Hatcher scooped up an armful of papers to clear a chair and waved at it with a flourish.

"Have a seat. Sorry about the mess, but I always have other things on my mind."

Rachel sat, crossing her legs. She wanted him to keep talking, so she didn't say a word.

Hatcher tapped at his computer keyboard, then turned the monitor so she could see a schematic map of the Arctic Ocean. "See? This is the Gakkel Ridge, right here." He ran his finger along the east-west angle of the formation. "It's pretty awesome. Basically it's a giant crack in the ocean crust where two rocky plates are pulling apart very, very slowly-maybe a centimeter a year. You've got some big volcanoes down there-some of them are more than a mile around. We're talking bigger than the Alps."

He swung the monitor back around and leaned back in his chair. "So as I was saying, we used to think Gakkel was non-volcanic. But then in 2001 we found evidence of hydrothermal vents, and in 2007 AGAVE-that's the Arctic Gakkel Vents Expedition-sent a robot down and found evidence of a huge volcanic eruption. I'm talking layers of ash, pyroclastic rocks thrown for five miles over the sea floor, talus, the whole works."

Rachel switched the cross of her legs. "So is that what happened? It was in the same area."

Hatcher frowned, then sat forward, grabbing a pencil and drumming it against the desk. "Has to be. We have a seismometer drifting on the ice floes, but we lost the signal when the volcano went off."

He frowned again and she leaned forward at a sharp angle, a new question in her eyes. "Is something bothering you about it?"

The drumming increased in tempo. Then abruptly the scientist became aware of what he was doing and tossed the pencil away. "The only ones near that area now are the Russians-some kind of political thing going on-so we have only one source for data. These things aren't easy to measure, you know. I took a look at what they sent through to us, and to me, it looks-well, doctored."

"You mean faked?"

Now the frown was deepening into a scowl. "Faked? I never thought of it that way. Sure. I guess it could have been faked. But why would they want to do that? It's a volcano. Scientific data. Why would they want to fake that?"

"Maybe they had something to hide."

Hatcher laughed. "Like what? A bomb?"

Rachel stood and put out her hand. "Thank you for your time, Dr. Hatcher."

TWENTY-TWO.

The Island of Gozo, Maltese Archipelago "HER name is Jasmine Penz," Skarda said.

He was reading a message on the Stealth screen, a response to the blonde woman's physical description he'd texted to Candy Man. "Goes by Jaz, J-A-Z. Age twenty-eight, born in Los Angeles. Four years in the Army, now a professional mercenary. Hires out to the highest bidder. History of steroid abuse. Psychological profile is sociopathic. Considered lethal and dangerous."

Flinders s.h.i.+vered. "You can say that again."

They were sitting on the terrace of Skarda's villa on Gozo, the northernmost of the three Mediterranean islands that form the Maltese archipelago. Built from local Coralline limestone and mortared boulders, the house consisted of a main building that faced a vista of carob groves and undulating farmland, with a clear view of the distant strait and the blue-hazed hump of rock that was Malta. At right angles to the house a series of tiered terraces led to a tiled courtyard with a fountain shaded by palm trees. Below this level a pool deck b.u.mped up against a honey-colored limestone cliff that dropped precipitously down to the turquoise and cobalt sea below. Steps cut in the solid rock wound down from the main terrace to a stone jetty and boathouse and a small private beach.

They hadn't been stranded at the Oracle for long. OSR had chartered a helicopter to take them from Siwa to Alexandria, where Skarda rented a private jet for April to fly them to Luqa Airport at Malta. Here they'd boarded the Cirkewwa ferry to Gozo. By the time they'd arrived at the villa they were hungry, but too exhausted to enjoy a full meal, so Skarda brought out a plate of peppered gbejna cheese with local bread and fresh tomatoes and opened a bottle of Brunello di Montalcino.

And now the bottle was almost empty.

"I've got more in the wine cellar," he said, and disappeared into the house.

Taking her gla.s.s, April pushed away from the table, crossing the flagstones of the terrace to lean against the bal.u.s.trade. Down below, two sailboats glided past, heading for Mgarr Harbor.

For a while Flinders sat in silence, sipping her wine, stretching her legs out in front of her. Then finally she said, "This Brunello is very good."

April's head gave a little nod of acknowledgement, but she didn't turn around. "The man knows his wine."

"He seems like a nice guy."

"He's a good man to have at your back."

Flinders let another few seconds slide past. Then she asked, "I'm just curious. Are you and he-?" She broke off, letting the rest of the sentence hang in the air.

"No."

"He's very good-looking."

Suddenly April spun around, her eyes blazing with a ferocity that made Flinders shrink back. "When his wife died, the man's heart was ripped into a million pieces. I don't want him getting hurt again."

Flinders gaped at her, her mouth dropping open. Bright spots of color rose in her cheeks. "I'm not going to hurt him."

Her body rigid, April stood in place, her black eyes like gun muzzles. Then she moved her head, and some of the hardness drained out of her expression. "I believe you." But her voice still held an edge of steel. Crossing to the table, she lowered herself down, her gaze fixed on Flinders' face. "I apologize. You have to understand, I'm very protective of Park. It's going to be a long time before he heals."

"It's cool. I understand." Flinders fought to find a smile. "It'd be nice to have someone who cares about me that deeply."

There was a noise at the open French door and Skarda stepped back onto the terrace, holding up the second bottle of Brunello. "Last one! Got to order another couple of cases!" If he had any inkling of the tension between the two women, he didn't show it on his face. Pulling out the cork, he asked, "So what do we know for sure? Time to figure out our next step."

April had instantly regained her normal composure. Popping a slice of tomato into her mouth, she chewed on it thoughtfully. "We've got Jaz and a bunch of Bad Guys, and the Mi-25 Bad Guys, all looking for the Tablet."

"Which proves Flinders is right," Skarda said. "The Tablet must give the location of the source of the orichalc.u.m."

Still a bit shaken by April's reaction, Flinders covered it up by concentrating on spearing a hunk of cheese with her fork. "I've been thinking about that," she said. "There are several stories in ancient literature about meteorites falling from the sky and being wors.h.i.+pped as magical objects of power sent by the G.o.ds. They were kept in shrines in Greece, Italy, Egypt, and Asia Minor, to name a few. So why couldn't the orichalc.u.m be some kind of metallic element that fell down from s.p.a.ce in a meteor, like what we were talking about before? It's what the inscriptions say on the Pillars."

He thought about it for a moment, then snapped his fingers. "I remember reading something about this. Something about supernova explosions making heavy elements that aren't found naturally on Earth."

April frowned. "But Jaz told you this thing is about oil. What do meteorites and supernova elements have to do with oil?"

Skarda shook his head. "No clue. But we need to find out. Fast."

Flinders blinked as a thought struck her. Her face brightened. "One thing I forgot to tell you-when you were out in the desert I sort of messed with the translation a little. A professional scholar would notice, but they wouldn't. It might be enough to throw them off the track, at least for a little while."

Skarda laughed out loud. "Beautiful! That tips the odds a little in our favor, I guess."

"We have another advantage," April said. "They think we're dead."

TWENTY-THREE.

Sackler Library, Oxford, England THE bell was insistent.

Dr. Thomas Kirkland frowned. The b.l.o.o.d.y noise was tugging at him, like a lifeline tethered to a diver, jerking him from the dark depths back to the surface.

"It's time, sir. The bell has rung three times"

The voice came from a pa.s.sing security guard. Very polite, but overlaid with a trace of impatience.

Glancing at his laptop's clock, Kirkland scowled. Ten minutes until closing and the woman still hadn't shown up. Not that he minded the extra money in his pocket, but he hated to wait. With a sigh he hunched forward, adjusting his gla.s.ses to better peer at the photographs of incised glyphs on his monitor.

Someone had made a mess of the translation. Not that he was an expert in Old European scripts, but he knew enough to know that this was a botch. He shook his head and rolled his shoulders, wincing at the pain of stiff muscles. Little hammers of pain pounded inside his eyeb.a.l.l.s. Maybe he needed new gla.s.ses. In this section of the library the lights were low, intensifying the glow from the screen. But he'd purposefully chosen to sit in this secluded corner, facing the wall, so that no one would bother him.

From behind him came the m.u.f.fled scuffle of a footstep. The b.l.o.o.d.y guard again. Well, he wasn't leaving until the last second. Too bad if the man wanted to get home. He needed his money.

A shadow, deeper than the gloom around him, enveloped him.

"I'm finis.h.i.+ng now," Kirkland said, not turning around. He let some exasperation leak into his voice, just enough to let the man know he was irritated. He knew how they were here-closing time meant closing time. It was aggravating.

Kirkland's fingers pecked at the keyboard, putting the finis.h.i.+ng touches on his version of the translation, flicking his eyes up and down to make sure he wasn't making his usual typing errors. He leaned forward, knitting his eyebrows in concentration.

"Done?"

Kirkland twisted around at the sound of the female voice. It was the muscle-bound blonde American woman he'd been waiting for.

He nodded. "I don't know who translated this for you, but they really b.o.l.l.o.c.ksed it up." He used the crude expression in the hope it would offend her, because he was irritated by her waiting until the last moment to show up.

But nothing registered on her face.

American, he thought. Can't understand the language.

"Did you get it right?" she asked.

"As much as I can. I also constructed the alphabet transcription you asked for, plus a basic dictionary." He tugged his gla.s.ses down his nose and stared at her. He was dying to ask where she'd come across such an important ma.n.u.script, but he didn't dare. He needed the money too badly. "If I were you, I'd consult Dr. Laura Carlson. She's undoubtedly the best in the world with these kinds of scripts."

"She's unavailable."

Kirkland shrugged and glanced at his watch. "There is the matter of my payment?"

The blonde woman tilted her head at an odd angle and grinned. Then she took a quick step to close the gap between them, reaching out with both hands to grab the sides of his head and twist. There was a sharp m.u.f.fled crack and one of Kirkland's vertebrae shot out of his neck like the point of an arrow.

He slumped, his sagging lips drooling bright blood on the desktop.

Jaz picked up the laptop and strolled away just as the bell was ringing for the final time.

TWENTY-FOUR.

Geneva, Switzerland THE sky was heavy with c.u.mulus clouds by the time April bought a tax vignette from the customs officer at Saint-Julien-en-Genevoisand merged the Aston Martin Vantage into traffic on the motorway into the city of Geneva. This was one of the fast cars she owned, housed in Skarda's eight-car garage on Gozo. Skarda owned several cars as well, including a Bentley Azure, but he hated to drive. Whether it had wheels, wings, or sails, he wanted only to be a pa.s.senger. Which was just one more reason he felt lucky to have been teamed up with April-she liked nothing more than to have the pulse of a big V12 pounding under her feet and the wind whipping her long dark hair into a frenzy.

It had been best to drive one of their cars, Skarda had thought, to keep their names off rental and pa.s.senger lists. As routine business, OSR's doc.u.ment division supplied them with pa.s.sports under various pseudonyms, but they couldn't fake their photos. And Flinders only had her own I.D. So they'd taken the ferry from Valetta to Pazzallo, on the southern coast of Sicily, and headed up through the boot of Italy to the Swiss border towards the CERN campus, where Candy Man had set up a meeting with a physicist friend he'd known at MIT.

Now to the southeast Skarda could see the television tower thrusting up from the summit of Mount Saleve, the first ridge of the Bernese Alps, and opposite, to the northwest, the distant humped blue shoulders of the Juras, their peaks whitened by crusts of snow. Deep under the ground, he knew, the seventeen-mile-long ring of the Large Hadron Collider lay buried, straddling the Swiss and French border.