Origin (5 page)

‘No,’ Jacobs answered, equally directly. ‘The body has been secured at our Nevada facility, and everyone outside of the organization has been neutralized.’

‘Except for Dr Edwards,’ interjected Sergio Molina, the Italian motorsport kingpin.

Jacobs adjusted himself in his club chair before he answered. ‘It is true that we have yet to find Dr Edwards, yes. But the operation to locate her has just begun.’

On the screen, he saw Yuri Andropov, the owner of Russia’s largest media concern, lean forward. ‘And if she talks beforehand?’

‘It will not come to that, I am sure,’ Jacobs replied and took another sip of tea. ‘Besides, she knows very little. If she surfaced, what would she say? Nothing that people would believe, anyway. And let us not forget that our organization controls eighty per cent of the world’s media. The story would be killed in any case. But put yourselves in her place – she feels someone is trying to kill her, which is why she contacted her ex-husband rather than the authorities. It’s highly unlikely she will want to bring attention to herself. No, ladies and gentlemen, I think we are safe for the time being.’

‘How much longer do we need?’ asked Lord Thomas Hart, the longest serving member of Britain’s House of Lords.

Jacobs turned his eyes to the image of Professor Philippe Messier, the Director General of CERN, the nuclear research centre and particle physics laboratory near Geneva, Switzerland. ‘Professor?’ he asked, passing the ball along.

Messier cleared his throat. ‘Things are progressing well. We should be ready to test the device before the end of the month.’

There were looks of great satisfaction on the faces of all the assembled leaders, even hints of excitement. The dream was close to being realized.

‘We can’t afford to take any chances,’ said Tony Kern, special aide to the President of the United States. ‘Do whatever you have to, Mr Jacobs. Just make sure Dr Edwards is taken out of the picture.’

Jacobs nodded his head. Taking out Dr Edwards wouldn’t be a problem. The wheels were already in motion.

Matt Adams stretched as he got out of the searing hot taxicab, straight into the frenetic, bustling metropolis of Santiago, Chile.

The population here was predominantly Amerindian, and Adams’ classically Lakota features blended in perfectly. It was like a home away from home.

Adams had his own passport but he knew it wouldn’t be long before his name would be out on the wire. The agents wouldn’t report back, and the powers that be – whoever they were – would immediately assume he was on the run, possibly attempting to meet Lynn at the unknown location. And while they obviously had no idea where this was, which would limit the coverage they would be able to put out, they would certainly be able to make life hard for him.

But Adams was not without his own resources. He had flown in from Mexico just an hour before, after first visiting an old friend of the Tohono O’odham Nation, a vast tribal land that bordered Mexico.

He had borrowed a passport and some cash from the man, careful of what he had told him. It wasn’t that he thought his old friend would be loose-lipped, it was rather that the less he knew, the safer he would probably be – after all, his friend was still employed by the federal government. Adams had used the borrowed passport to travel from Mexico to Chile, the photograph being close enough in appearance to arouse no suspicion and as he adjusted quickly to the new environment, he set off in the direction of his rendezvous.

Once he had regained sufficient strength after the fight at his house, Adams had searched the bodies. Unsurprisingly, there was nothing to be found. No ID, no jewellery, no tattoos, not even any labels in their clothes. The only distinguishing factor was that all four men had been packing identical Sig Sauer P229 .40 calibre semi-automatic handguns, held in spring-loaded belt holsters. The guns were sold at a thousand dollars a unit, and their presence told Adams a great deal.

The team was professional, so much so that Adams had to conclude that they were government operatives. But which government? The lead interrogator had spoken with an American accent – possibly a Brooklyn base, but smoothed out over the years by travel until it had picked up something of West Virginia. He suspected the team operated out of Washington, and this had been borne out when he found their car parked four streets over. It was a metallic grey Ford sedan with civilian plates, but Adams knew the type well enough. Classic government undercover issue. Again, it was scrupulously clean, but for Adams this only confirmed his suspicions. Only an elite government agency would be so careful.

But if an agency of the
US
government, then which one? CIA, FBI, DEA, DIA, NSA, Department of Homeland Security? There was a veritable alphabet soup of organizations that could be involved. It could even be NASA, as Lynn seemed to suspect, although Adams wasn’t aware that the space agency had any direct action wing. Still, nothing would surprise him any more.

He had decided to use the car as far as he could, and after packing a small bag and gathering his meagre savings from a strongbox under the kitchen table, Adams had travelled north out of the reservation. He drove as far as Bismarck up in North Dakota, where he had abandoned the car and bought a Greyhound bus ticket to Winnipeg, Canada.

Instead of getting on the bus, though, he had trekked further into town and hitchhiked his way back down south. The subterfuge wouldn’t last forever, but it might waste some of his enemy’s resources and give him a window of opportunity to reach his real destination.

Within twenty-four hours he was crossing the Mexican border on foot, on one of the countless unmanned trails he had discovered when he had worked in the area years ago – before the ‘incident’, before the nightmares, before his life had gone to hell.

Boarding the plane at Mexico City, he had suddenly been overcome with a terrible fatigue. It was the aftermath of adrenalin, a backlash of the parasympathetic nervous system creating the powerful desire for sleep.

He recognized the gift for what it was, and as he took his seat in the cabin, he allowed himself to close his eyes and relax.

And at last, mercifully, he slept.

Adams took the bumps slowly along the desert road in his Toyota Landcruiser, taking the twists and turns at under five miles per hour; no matter how hard he pressed the accelerator, the vehicle would go no faster.

He looked through the windscreen up at the burning sun, and looked away, his head aching.

He pulled over to the side of the road. It was no use. He’d been on the truck’s trail for three days now, and was no closer to catching it. He needed a rest, just half an hour to shut his eyes. He’d been here before so many times, knew what the consequences would be if he fell asleep, and yet he was powerless to resist. He had to carry on, had to try and get there in time, at least once, at least this time. But he was so tired . . .

He was in the desert, on foot now, tracking the tyre marks that had gone off the road just half a kilometre from where he had been resting. The sun was lower in the sky, several hours having passed. He cursed himself, knowing what that would mean. He would find the truck like he had a thousand times in the past, open the doors, hoping that this time it would be different. But he knew it wouldn’t be different, and yet still he soldiered on, tracking the tyre marks for another mile over the dusty terrain, until he found the truck lying there deserted in the dying rays of the afternoon sun.

He edged closer to the truck’s rear doors, one hand on his pistol while the other reached out for the handle, the metal searing hot.

Taking a deep breath, hoping beyond hope that it
would
be different, he yanked the doors open.

And again, like every time, he stared at what lay in the back of the truck, opened his mouth, and screamed.

Adams woke with a start, the hand of the female passenger next to him resting on his shoulder, rocking him awake.

He looked at her through half-closed, confused eyes.

‘Are you OK?’ she asked him, a concerned look on her face.

Adams tried to smile at her. ‘Sorry,’ he mumbled. ‘Just a bad dream.’

The lady nodded her head in understanding. ‘Wow,’ she said, obviously moved by what she had seen. ‘It must have been
really
bad.’

She put her hand on his, and Adams was grateful for the contact. He smiled at her properly this time. ‘Yes,’ he said, not knowing what else to say. ‘It was.’

‘What?’ Jacobs exploded down the telephone, his cup of tea spinning on its saucer.

‘They’re dead,’ the voice on the other end of the line came back. ‘Three out of four anyway. The other was incapacitated, in the hospital now.’

Jacobs didn’t ask for details. They had underestimated Adams, plain and simple. He was known to be a recluse but they had had his file, knew his background. They should have been more careful.

‘Where is he now?’ Jacobs asked. It was imperative that they find him. If he made it to Evelyn Edwards, then one more person would know what had happened at the Pine Island Glacier, what had been discovered. And then more people would find out; it was inevitable, once a secret had been shared.

‘He caught a Greyhound bus up to Canada, got into the depot in Winnipeg late last night.’

‘Get our people at NSA checking the station’s CCTV feeds, then track his movements through the city.’

Like most cities, Winnipeg had its share of CCTV cameras littering its streets. By entering certain parameters, facial recognition software could track a person’s movements from camera to camera.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And find out if they’re having any luck tracing the movements of Dr Edwards.’

The most concrete thing they had was her location over four days ago, a cybercafé in Punta Arenas, in the south of Chile. By the time a team had arrived, she had been long gone, and who knew where. She was a resourceful woman, that much was certain.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘And let me know how they’re doing on cross-referencing both of their files. The answer to the location of the meeting place might be right there, just waiting to be found.’

People often reverted to familiar places, and this was certainly indicated by the urgent email sent by Edwards. The question was whether the information was on file somewhere. If it was, the NSA supercomputers would find the answer sooner or later. It was just a question of crunching the data for long enough.

‘Yes, sir.’

‘OK,’ Jacobs said in dismissal, replacing the receiver.

He picked up his tea again, but then the voice of his immediate superior, loud and clear inside his head, caused him to spill it across the desk.
Damn!

‘Problems?’

‘No,’ Jacobs intoned clearly. ‘Nothing to worry about.’

‘We cannot afford any problems. Not now, when we are so close.’

‘Leave it to me.’

‘Yes. There is nothing else we can do. But do not let us down.’

Jacobs swallowed hard. ‘I won’t,’ he said finally, filled with the conviction that came from being the leader of the world’s most powerful organization. ‘Our dream will be realized, you can all count on that.’

‘Yes,’ the voice replied. ‘And then you can take your rightful place among us.’

Jacobs smiled at the thought, and knew that he would do whatever it took.

Santiago held special memories for Adams, and as he stood in the middle of the Parque Metropolitano at the summit of San Cristobal, looking down over the smog-hazed city below him, the past came vividly back to him.

It was here that he had proposed to Lynn all those years ago, after riding the funicular to the top of the mountain, hand in hand. Happy. So blissfully happy.

He had stared into her eyes, gone to one knee, and asked her. And she had said yes. It had been the happiest moment of his life, and he had known that she had felt the same way.

‘Hey.’

Adams’ head snapped round at the voice. He had been so absorbed in his thoughts and memories that he had never noticed the lone woman detach herself from a group of tourists and approach him from the side.

Lynn.

Despite the years, she hadn’t changed one bit. If anything, she looked even better now than she had done the last time he had seen her. She was obviously under a great deal of stress, but although she looked as if she hadn’t slept properly in weeks, her underlying beauty shone through her exhausted features.

There was no doubt it was her, Evelyn Edwards, live, here in the flesh. So the email was true, and she did need his help.

‘Lynn,’ he said finally, taking her in his arms and embracing her for the first time in fifteen long years.

‘S
O HOW ARE
we looking?’ asked David McNulty as he drove the ball three hundred yards across the fairway. Semi-professional in his younger days, McNulty still found time for eighteen holes on a weekend, even now he was the President of the United States.

‘Good,’ Tony Kern replied. ‘The trade delegation is due in Beijing tomorrow morning, and we think the Chinese are going to go for it. The—’

Kern was cut off by the shrill ring of his cellphone. Staring at the screen, Kern answered it instantly, despite President McNulty standing right beside him, waiting for an answer to his question.

‘Yes,’ he answered simply, and then hung up. Ignoring the president, who still waited expectantly next to him, he then speed-dialled a number on his phone, turning away from McNulty.

‘News from the NSA,’ he whispered. ‘Santiago, Chile. Parque Metropolitano.’ He nodded his head. ‘Yes,’ he finished, and hung up.

McNulty stood there, hands on his hips, staring at his assistant. ‘Sorry, Tony, am I disturbing your business?’

Kern couldn’t miss the acid tone in McNulty’s voice, but it was of no concern. Despite being President of the United States, McNulty was not one of the chosen. And it would not be long before their roles would be reversed, and McNulty – and all others like him – would be crushed to dirt under the feet of the world’s true elite.

‘It was horrific,’ Lynn explained when they were back in the twin room she had booked at the Hostal Americano. A cheap, basic hotel in the downtown area of Santiago, it was nevertheless good enough for their purposes.