Matt Drake 11 - The Ghost Ships of Arizona (15 page)

Drake winced. She had him there. In the wake of Kennedy’s death he had degenerated into a whisky-swilling piss-head. True sobriety was undoubtedly the way to go in the long run. But Karin hadn’t grieved openly even for just one night. Didn’t she need to let it all go?

“One drink,” he said.

“You really want to help me? I might have an idea.”

It was everything he’d been hoping for. Disturbing memories of Ben Blake, Karin’s parents and Komodo assailed him from a dark corner of his mind. After Kennedy’s death he had sworn not to promise anyone
anything
anymore, and it had worked.

But this . . . this was entirely different.

“Tell me.”

Karin lifted her head up. “I want to be trained up. Like you. As a fighter. I want you to train me up to be a soldier.”

Drake drew a breath. It was the last thing he had expected. “Say again.”

“I have the experience. Some even in the field and under fire. I can fight already, but yes I understand that my civilian training is of little use. I’m an office baboon, but I want to be a field expert. I want to honor Komodo and Ben and my mum and dad. I want to do it my way.”

Drake watched her as she spoke and, at that moment, couldn’t speak if he wanted to. What he saw in her was an awful lot of Ben Blake’s youthful enthusiasm. The young lad’s drive and cheeriness shone through in his sister, almost as if Ben spoke to him from beyond. Drake felt a string of words choke in his throat.

“Will you help me?” Karin leaned forward in earnest.

He thought about all the promises he had made to Ben Blake. “Yes,” he said finally. “Trust me. I will get you to where you want to be. I promise.”

Another vow broken.

Karin put an arm around his shoulders. The sun turned to a deep crimson before them as Jenny finally returned. It was going to be a long night.

CHAPTER TWENTY ONE

Hayden woke with a start, quickly reaching out for Kinimaka’s reassuring bulk at her side. The Hawaiian grunted and rolled, slipping an arm around her. Hayden didn’t like to struggle away but something was definitely bugging her. Some kind of intuition. Sunlight flooded through the closed hotel room curtains but that didn’t mean it was late. A quick glance at the Pulsar on her wrist told her it was a little after 7 a.m. Knowing Mano was difficult to wake at the easiest of times she slid backwards in the bed until she sat upright and surveyed the room.

Shit, perhaps it was Tyler Webb’s stalking back in DC or getting their butts kicked twice already, or even the reports of the ghost ships that Drake was tracking through the desert, but an unsettled sensation stole over her. Kinimaka snored, face to the pillow. Hayden slipped out of bed, suddenly feeling exposed in her underwear, and shrugged on a bath robe. Water dripped in the shower. Traffic roared outside the slightly cracked window. Someone walked noisily past along the hallway. All normal and natural noises for a middle-of-the-road hotel room, nothing sinister. But having reviewed all forms of stalking she knew that the worst and most dangerous forms were those where the victim wasn’t entirely sure if it was happening. The ones that haunted people, made them edgy for no obvious reason.

Why were the hairs on the back of her neck standing up?

Were her clothes piled differently than she remembered? Her pants folded along a new crease? Her shirt arranged so that the arms were flung up in a classic “hands high” pose? Or did she leave everything that way? Was that bathroom door left wide open last night? Because she knew damn well that she’d closed it to reduce the noise from the dripping tap. Maybe Mano had—

Wait. That wasn’t right.

Hayden padded over to the bureau. Sure enough her Glock sat in the center of the desk. The problem was, she always slept with it under her pillow, ever since her father explained it was the only place in the room she could reach it easily and a perp might not be able to steal it away as she slept. Old fashioned, yes, but as true as the coming of night and day. There was nothing subtle about this situation now.

“No!” How could this keep happening? And in such a random hotel room. Shivers crept up and down her spine. She knew very well that Webb possessed endless and multi-layered connections. It wouldn’t be too tricky for a man of means and he clearly got off on the danger.

Kinimaka was struggling toward consciousness. “Wha—”

“It doesn’t matter,” Hayden said. “Get dressed, Mano. We have a job to do.”

*

With the CIA’s and NSA’s mega-boffins investigating the inner workings of the Z-box and studying what the Pythians were trying to achieve by so rapidly targeting energy facilities, the proactive competence of Hayden’s team was severely limited. It was with exultation then that they received the best guess of the NSA—that the third and final facility to be assaulted would be the electrical grid and major substation of Sierra Nevada.

Hayden immediately jabbed the ongoing call onto speakerphone and motioned at Kinimaka and Dahl. “We have a lead,” she said, as she walked along the sidewalk to their vehicle, shop fronts to her right. “They’re saying Sierra Nevada will be next.” She paused, then stared at the phone. “How can you possibly know that?”

A small voice hissed from the microphone. “Deduction and possibility. We weighed the options. Nothing endgame has materialized as yet so that means these people do not have everything they need. Perhaps they need as many as three entry points, then—”

“Entry points?”

“Ways into the main system. Yes, they have been gaining access to substations and taking nothing away. That means they’re leaving something behind. But why?”

Dahl coughed. “We were hoping you might tell us.”

“Yeah, the question was a rhetorical one. We believe they’re creating a back door—a way into the system but we don’t yet know how. Quite probably something to do with these Z-boxes. Anyhow, both San Jose and Silicon Valley were primary junctions for the electrical grid. The only other one in your area is Sierra Nevada.”

Dahl flung open the door. “We’re on our way. Let’s hope this time we can beat them to it.”

Hayden ran around the other side, giving Kinimaka the back seat. “A plan would be useful.”

“I have a plan. Take down any motherfucker toting a gun near an electrical substation.”

Kinimaka checked his weapon. “I can get behind that.”

Hayden thanked the NSA techie and hung up. She stared through the windshield as Dahl pulled into traffic, wondering if even now they were being observed. Dahl questioned the whereabouts of the Sierra Nevada plant and Hayden looked it up. With a few jabs she programmed it into the satnav. Then her cell rang once more.

“Jaye.”

“This is Robert Price.”

“Mr. Secretary. What can I do for you?” She was relatively pleased he had come back to her without needing to be chased.

“You have your reinforcements. I’m sending a large force your way, formed from various military divisions. I left the dispersal in their hands, but I’m guessing—contact in four to six hours.”

Hayden was grateful and said so. “The Pythians seem to be throwing everything they have at this so it’s good to have the backup.”

“Use it well, Miss Jaye. We’ll speak the next time you’re in DC.”

Seeing that as a dismissal, Hayden severed the connection and looked around. “I wonder what that’s supposed to mean.”

“He’s not Jonathan,” Kinimaka said. “But then nobody could be.”

“His way of ending a conversation and moving on to the next.” Dahl shrugged. “Impersonal, but effective.”

“We might never be in DC again.”

“There you go.”

Hayden checked the nav for the arrival calculation. “Forty two minutes. Step on it, Dahl. We have to beat the asshole brigade this time.”

“The foot is down.”

CHAPTER TWENTY TWO

Tyler Webb considered the evidence that lay before him, sheaves and sheaves of paper and thick manila files. The man he had chosen to use was the man he was most wary of, but even that development piqued his excitement. Out of all the ideas offered by the new Pythians, Julian Marsh’s proposal was the most devastating. It also coincided beautifully with Webb’s final launch of the Saint Germain operation.

Marsh entered and sat down. Again, Webb was struck by the oddity of the man. One trouser leg was immaculately pressed whilst the other was hopelessly creased. Were the socks different colors? Crazily he thought the hands might be different shades—one more tanned than the other—but thought it best not to stare.

“I like your plan, Marsh,” he said agreeably.

“Thanks, man. I’ve been liking yours so far.”

“Well, they’re not all mine.”

“Oh.”

“I’m going to give you the green light,” Webb said quickly, deciding he wanted shut of Marsh in a hurry. “Bring it up to speed and implement it within the next few weeks. This will be the last before Saint Germain kicks off.”

“Sounds like you’re going to be playing the truant, Mr. Webb.”

Perceptive bastard. “I have two vital components to pick up from Ramses’ arms bazaar. As carefully guarded as that will be nothing involving terrorists is ever straightforward or without risk. I’ll be taking Beauregard, of course, but still . . .”

“Understood.”

“Hopefully Bell and Bay-Dale will return soon armed with all the spare money we need for the final push. The greater times are upon us, Julian.”

“I hope to further enrich those words, sir.”

“I’m sure you will.” Webb rose and extended a hand, pleased that he prevented a wince as the decidedly darker left shot out for a shake.

“Thank you, sir.”

“Just don’t fuck it up.”

Marsh nodded and walked out. Oh hell, the man was limping slightly now. Webb would bet his life that he hadn’t limped
into
the room or at any time before. Webb also imagined that the man used a different cellphone for every day of the week, each programmed to call forward to the next.

Weirdo.

Webb shrugged it off and took a quick look out of the window of his hotel room. Hayden Jaye’s vehicle was gone now. He wondered where she was and wished he’d had the chance to plant a tracker on her. Or that muscle-bound walrus she slept with. Last night’s escapade had been stimulating to say the least but soon the real fun would begin.

Soon . . . like now. Today.

Webb pressed a button on his cellphone and told the man who answered to come straight in. Eight seconds later the door opened and a lithe figure slipped around, approaching softly.

“Beauregard Alain,” Webb said. “As you know we must soon leave for—” He left the destination unsaid, mindful that even the loyalist of accomplices might one day turn against him. “The bazaar. Prepare for at least three days there, in constant danger, and possibly more if we get invited back to Ramses’ . . . castle. I need to be at ease, able to make my decisions and locate the best components, and that’s why I have chosen you as my bodyguard. I take it you understand the honor?”

Beauregard nodded in that complacent way of his. Webb never understood if the man was being subservient or arrogant but his prowess spoke for itself. There were none better in the known world.

“But first . . .” Webb allowed the biggest of smiles to break out across his face. “First I have a new job for you. And what a grand exploit it will be. The best yet.”

Beauregard angled his head to the side. “Sir?”

“The stalking of Hayden Jaye is about to pass its zenith. I will need you for the fallout.”

“When?”

“Tonight. For as long as it takes. Now, sit down. I need to talk to you. We should plan this together.”

Webb underwent a swift makeover in his soul. Gone was the Pythian leader. Gone was the multi-millionaire company boss. Everything that was left was all that he was, all that he wanted to be, and it was the stimulated, aroused youth who had become a menacing stalker, the portentous haunter of the shadows.

Thrilled, practically overwrought, he explained the plan to Beauregard.

CHAPTER TWENTY THREE

Drake ruminated as they crawled northeast across the desert, occasionally passing within a few miles of small towns or asphalted roads but ignoring them and keeping to Jenny’s take-it-or-leave-it style instructions. Drake took it, but with every bouncing, juddering mile he regretted it that little bit more.

Even more so with Smyth’s growling tracery of complaints trickling through the two-way. “Even my ass-crack has sand in it. This air-con’s too friggin’ cold. Whoa, was that a roadrunner?”

Eventually even Lauren had reached her limit. “Shut the hell up.
My
ass-crack has sand in it but you don’t hear me complaining like a six-year-old on a road trip!”

“It does?” Smyth said into the radio. “Want me to get that for you?”

“Gross!”

“Ha, says you. The New York—”

“The New York
what?
”
Lauren’s voice dipped dangerously.

“Umm, shit, hey these radios are open. Fuck.” Smyth turned back to his irascible ways.

Drake watched as Yorgi drove. Truth be told the sighting of a distant town or twisting back road was the only brief variation to their constant monotony. So far though, there had been no sign of gun-toting mercenaries—a sign Drake took as entirely positive.

Whilst partly feigning a toilet break he wandered off into the desert during a short halt and made a phone call. His contact was an old friend, stretching all the way back to the days of Wells and Crouch, Sam and Jo. The world had seemed quieter, more innocent then. But all that was mostly down to youth and inexperience and the lack of a properly functioning Internet.

“Fort Bragg.”

“Could I speak to Colonel Rudd please?”

“On what business?”

“Tell him it’s Matt Drake and it’s personal.”