Protocol 7 (22 page)

“Oh, that doesn’t sound good,” Andrew said. “Not good at all.”

Samantha heard a door slam, then saw a flash of movement beyond the great room’s windows. She stood up and peered out, into the night.

“Look,” she said. The others joined her at the window, just in time to see Simon disappear into the darkness, still calling Leon’s name, then reappear almost immediately, grim-faced as ever.

A moment later he was back in the great room. He turned to Hayden and said darkly, “I might be a while. Help them set the rendezvous coordinates for the Munro and then everyone— all of you—try to get some rest. We have to be down by the dock before five a.m.”

Ryan looked at his watch. It was half past one. He rushed over to the digital display and began to monitor the Munro’s activities halfway around the globe.

Simon left without another word. There was only one more place to look—the one place he had been thinking about and avoiding since the moment they’d set foot on Corsica.

Oliver’s private study.

He began to climb the stairs to the second floor as quickly as he could. Then, unaccountably, he found himself slowing, moving just as he had as a child, almost tip-toeing to the upper landing, creeping down the hall, and pausing before the study doors, his eyes locked on them, his heart pounding.

They were stout double doors made from oak, thick and lovingly crafted. The knobs were huge and ancient; the brass locking plate below polished and free of the slightest fingerprint.

An envelope was pinned to the center of both doors. Even from a distance, Simon could see what it displayed.

After ascending a few more steps closer to the door, eyes locked on the envelope, he recognized it. It was an unusual geometric symbol he had seen before. It looked like some sort of insignia.

He had not seen it in years. When he first noticed the geometric symbol at eight years of age, it was on Oliver’s briefcase. He had asked his father what it was, but had only gotten a vague response. For years it had remained in the vast pages of his childhood’s unresolved memories.

He felt something cold and hard sink in his stomach as he slowly approached the door. Each step felt like a dream as fear began to grip his body. Even his own legs seemed to weigh him down as he inched closer to the door. Simon, stop the paranoia, he told himself as he covered the last few steps. It’s time. It has to be time.

The wooden floor beneath his feet announced his approach with each new creak. For a moment—just for a moment!—he was absolutely positive his father was waiting on the other side of those doors, that he would open them and find Oliver Fitzpatrick sitting behind his massive oak desk, grinning and congratulating him on a job well done.

But that’s a lie, he told himself. He wanted it so badly to be true, but it wasn’t. His father was thousands of miles away, trapped in the loneliest continent on Earth. His father was waiting for him there, he knew—counting on him.

He stopped two feet from the double doors and gazed at the brass knobs…and saw, to his amazement, a small key inserted into the right lock—a key bearing the same insignia as the envelope he had not yet taken as his own. His heart started pounding. That key was never there before. That key granted him the access he needed. That key could open the doors to a secret fragment of his childhood that had haunted him for years.

He reached out and touched it, his stomach cramping with tension. He closed his eyes and knew the unknown world he longed to discover was only inches away.

Then, instantly as if controlled by some outside force, he opened his eyes and found himself staring at the note pinned in front of him, between both doors. He paused, staring, almost hypnotized.

Then he let go of the key and reached for the envelope, tearing it free of the two pins that had pushed it deep into the wood. He ripped open the envelope even as he heard Hayden’s voice from downstairs: “Rendezvous coordinates laid in. We’re good to go.”

The note was written with an unfamiliar hand and obviously in some haste. The work was messy; the lines a bit crooked. But none of that mattered. He read:

This door leads to more than you are ready to embrace. Oliver knew this and kept it from you. He knew you would enter when you were ready, but that time is not tonight.

Things reveal themselves to us when we are destined to see them, and not before. Inside those doors you will not find what you are looking for. If you must enter, then that is what fate has written for us all. But I will not be here to witness it.

I leave you with this choice, Simon. The key is in your hand.

Farewell,

Leon

Simon was speechless. He stood in front of the door to his father’s study and looked back at the tiny brass key inserted into the lock. He dropped his head and closed his eyes as he thought of Leon’s words.

Simon wanted more than anything to enter that room. More than anything. He touched the knob again, thinking with all his might, trying to understand his father and his fate as he never had before. He gripped the key, crushing it between his fingers.

Then, he released it and looked at the note one more time. He folded the note, and was ready to put it into his jacket when he caught a glimpse of something written on the back of the notepaper.

His heart raced. He held it up, turned it in the light, and saw three lines written in Leon’s hasty, crooked hand:

-73 degrees South

-82 degrees West

-10,022 feet

His eyes lit up. Coordinates, he knew. What we really need. Without another thought, he turned his back on the mysterious study and ran downstairs to join the others.

* * *

He found three of the team members huddled around Ryan’s display, waiting for the final course-alteration confirmation from the Munro. Samantha had curled up in the huge armchair and fallen asleep.

Simon stood waiting as Ryan entered the coordinates for where the team would rendezvous with the Munro. “Port Williams, Chile it is,” Ryan said as his fingers shook on the keyboard. “When we leave Corsica, that’s where we’ll reconvene. Donovan and the S.S. Munro will be waiting for us there.”

Simon walked closer to Ryan’s screen and said, “Check these other coordinates for me will you?” He recited the West and South numbers he had read on the note and memorized, but he kept the final line—the “-10,022 feet”—to himself.

Hayden raised an eyebrow. “So you found something?”

“I’m not sure,” he replied absently, then put a hand on Ryan’s shoulder. “Hurry.” He repeated the figures.

“Okay, okay.” Ryan’s fingers danced over the old-fashioned keyboard. He was almost used to the ancient tech by now.

After a moment, Ryan’s face grew pale. He looked like he had seen a ghost. “Son of a bitch,” he said. “Look at that.”

The display was showing a specific location on the Antarctic continent—an outpost marked as “Station 35.” Simon froze for an instant and his heart began to race; this could be the coordinate of Oliver’s location.

“How did he know?” Simon whispered and then stopped himself. Leon’s note was carefully folded and stored in his jacket pocket. No one else needed to know about it quite yet, he decided.

He thought about Leon for a moment, and chills went down his spine. He leaned forward and peered at the monitor, double-checking the numbers he had recited. Ryan was right.

Hayden couldn’t keep curiosity to himself. “So?” he asked Simon. “You discover anything else up there?”

Simon thought about telling him the whole story, but only for a moment. Then he just shook his head and said, “Not really. Not much up there.”

Ryan didn’t seem to hear him. “These are still pretty coarse as locational coordinates go,” he said. “And the UNED maps don’t show any stations or outposts near that specific area.”

Simon knew why, and that was why he had kept the last part of the coordinates to himself. “Still,” he said, “This is where we need to go after we get the Spector—Station 35.” He tapped the digital map on the screen, and wished that Leon had given him more.

Hayden scowled at him, skeptical as always. “Are you sure?” he asked Simon. “Are you 100% positive?” For a brief second Simon thought to himself, how can I be sure? Leon must know something or he would have never given me the coordinates. It’s better than nothing. This must be why Dad wanted me to see Leon.

“I am,” he said, knowing deep down inside that Leon must have known all along.

Andrew shrugged. “All right then,” he said. “Let’s start packing up. We’ve got a boat to catch in a couple of hours.”

Simon got up, deep in thought, and walked to the window. He looked out at the moonlit landscape, still tortured by the night wind, and wondered if he would ever see Leon again. Or if he would ever have a chance to enter that study.

The image of the wooden door had permanently embedded itself in his mind. For an instant, he thought of throwing caution aside and running back upstairs, fast as he could, turning that key and throwing open those doors—

“Here.”

He turned in surprise. Andrew was standing there, a glass of scotch in his hand.

“Here you go, mate. Won’t have much time for this in the near future.”

Simon looked down at the fine crystal glass and then took it from his friend. He turned it in his hand, marveling at the rich, luminous color, thinking of his father. He looked back at Andrew and somehow managed to construct a smile. “Dad’s favorite,” he said. “Glenlivet 18.”

He took a slow sip, savoring the taste and the memory alike. The scotch blossomed like a lovely fire in his chest. He looked at Hayden, Andrew, Ryan, and Samantha and made himself smile. He was grateful to be here—with them, in this place, at this time.

He just didn’t know if they could endure the treacherous journey ahead. No one knew.

THE ISLAND OF CORSICA

The brutal chill of the morning air was painful to Simon. He hunched down inside his coat and pressed his arms tight against his sides, trying to trap even a fraction of the heat from his body.

It was pointless. The constant breeze and the driving mist off the ocean cut right through him as he stepped away from the rental car and walked toward Slip 9, where a mid-sized yacht was waiting. Samantha slipped out of the passenger seat and joined him. The panel truck carrying Andrew, Hayden, and Ryan pulled in close behind.

They gathered in a tight group at the entrance to the dock.

“We have thirty-two hours. This boat will take us to Malta. From there we’ll travel on different routes to get to Santiago, Chile.” Ryan said. “We’ll meet at a warehouse in Valaparaiso—you’ll find the address in the packets you receive. And then—Port Williams. I’ve got it all set up; we’ll get the paperwork, tickets, and passports at the next stop. But just to reiterate: everyone has a separate route—everyone, this time, Sam. Even you.”

“I know,” she said.

“This is the last time,” Simon said to them. “We had to be all together for the hijacking. Next we’ll meet for the rendezvous. And after that—”

There was a deep, fuzzy roar from the yacht that Ryan had chartered. Simon turned and picked it out of the tangle of vessels at the far end of the dock. It was an older boat, over forty feet long, but still capable of making the journey to Malta safely, even swiftly.

Four men in heavy wool sweaters and scuffed black work boots swarmed off the yacht and hit the dock with a single thump. They looked at Simon’s team with identical expressions—a combination of amusement and disdain. Simon raised a hand to them, and the one in front nodded briefly.

“All right,” he said, low and hard. “As we said last night: no talk of the mission—none at all—while we’re on board. We don’t know who is listening; we don’t know who they report to.”

“Got it,” Andrew said. “Loose lips sink ships.”

“Quite literally,” Ryan agreed.

They were carrying an annoying amount of luggage this time—some of the primitive cyber-equipment had to come along if they hoped to maintain their remote control of the Munro, and beyond that, they had begun to collect the cold-weather clothing they knew they would be needing, sooner rather than later. All that gear was universally bulky and heavy.

The crew gave them poisonous looks when they saw the small mountain of suitcases, bags, and crates. They actually muttered curses under their breath when they realized how heavy some of the articles really were.

The sun rose as the last of the luggage was lifted on board, but the morning light brought no real heat with it. It was still achingly cold and quiet as the top of a mountain. All Simon could hear was the distant cry of seabirds and the constant, hollow slap of the Mediterranean Sea against the pylons of the dock.

Soon, he knew, the Munro would reach the Straits of Magellan. They needed to rendezvous with it before that happened, or all of this would be for nothing. They had to reach Santiago in thirty-two hours or they would never be able to reach the Munro on time.

The captain of the yacht—its name was obscured by barnacles and moss—was a fair-skinned Greek in his fifties with a charming smile and a gentlemanly demeanor. He shook hands with Ryan, kissed Samantha’s hand, and invited the team into the main cabin where he had prepared a light breakfast.

He murmured commands to the four-man crew as he led the team below. Before the last of them were fully below deck, the yacht had cast off and was chugging away from its mooring.

The captain puttered with his small cups for a moment. Then he turned and addressed Samantha—the only woman in the group. “You like the Greek coffee?” he asked in a thick Greek accent. He pointed to little espresso cups sitting on the table next to a platter of cut fruit.

“Yes,” she said, rather charmed in spite of herself. “Thank you.” He offered her a cup on a chipped saucer with undisguised pride, and she took it gratefully.

“Beautiful morning in the Mediterranean Ocean,” he said and awarded the rest of the team with cups of their own. “Beautiful day to come!”

After their meal, some of the team went topside, if only for the air. It was a brilliant morning; sunlight glinted off the chop as if there were mirrors floating in the sea.