Reckoning (41 page)

THIRTY-NINE

Sarah kept her eyes closed, listening. She remembered waking and, as if in a fog, she remembered speaking but she couldn't recall what she had spoken of, or to whom.

It seemed like a distant, surreal dream experience, a childhood nightmare that had left an imprinted moment of terror so real it was branded upon her conscious mind. She couldn't recall much of what had happened to her in recent days, but she felt the ghostly tendrils of a drifting fear, like tattered clouds clinging to the side of a cliff, and she recalled
... danger, yes, and men with guns ... killing ...

Father
!

Sarah took in a pained, sharp breath, rolling her head to the side. She was lying on something soft. Carefully, finding a
desperate but complete control, she opened her eyes.

Veiled light.

Shadows.

Gray somber hues outside the curtained windows
…

Moving stiffly, Sarah raised herself to
an elbow, gazed around.

She was in a small bedroom, fully clothed, her right forearm lightly bandaged with a strip of white gauze. Instinctively she touched the taped adhesive, eyes narrow, remembering.

The cabin, fighting, blood, terror ... Gage ... gunfire and Kertzman and her Father.

She closed her eyes, bowing and shaking her head at the memory. Malachi had said that he was alright, but she knew he was badly injured, perhaps even dead by now.

Emotional pain blended with physical fatigue to smother her mind in a gray-black wave of swelling exhaustion. So much had happened, and so fast.

She looked at her wrist. Her watch was gone. Mind awakening, she searched the room. No clock. She might have been unconscious for one day or three. There was no way to know.

Grimacing in pain at her stiff muscles and joints, she moved quietly off the bed, walking awkwardly to the door, listening. She reached out to place a hand on it, tentatively, wondering.

It opened.

Sarah stepped back, breath catching.

A tall and distinguished man, the man from the cabin, entered, leaving the door open behind him. He approached her, his gaze kind and gentle, the demeanor of a gracious and considerate host.

"Good evening, Ms. Halder," he said.

* * *

Gage buried the chute beneath a rock, checked himself for injury. Found none.

Remarkable, considering the landing.

He had pulled a HALO at 200 feet, and six seconds later he had crash-landed, hard, sprawling wildly down a narrow ridge, still carrying much of the momentum from his 10,000-foot free-fall before the chute canopied. But he had avoided the larger rocks that would have broken a leg, or his back. Now, shielding his eyes against the descending sun, he estimated the time remaining before nightfall.

Two hours. Maybe less.

It would take another three hours to reach the mountain, five hours to climb to the tomb. He could reach it in early morning, if everything went well.

Gage pulled the straps of the backpack over his shoulders, hitched the
waist belt tight, then the sternum strap to hold the shoulder straps in place. Mentally he ran a final inventory: Hi-Power on his left ribs, three extra clips strapped to each ankle for a total of six reloads; MP5 inside the backpack with five extra clips; six antipersonnel grenades, two stun grenades. A pound of C-4 and three detonators were also in the black Lowe backpack. The knife, Dragon, was sheathed and duct-taped to his right thigh, the pocket of his pants cut out to allow quick retrieval of the weapon. The night visor, fully powered with two extra battery charges, was within easy reach inside the pack.

He wore heavy North Face mountaineering gear, and the internal frame pack held the gloves and facemask that he planned to use at higher altitudes. Crampons and a small ice-ax were strapped to the outside of the pack for easy accessibility, and a small medical kit was inside, with suture materials and adrenaline and morphine injections prepped. Also, he had packed an extra change of civilian clothes and boots, two extra pair of woolen socks, one day's worth of climbing food, and a pack of Energy bars.

Gage didn't plan to do any serious climbing, but he had prepared for it with a handful of pitons, carabineers, chocks, and a 150-section of rappelling rope. If he was forced onto the rock face in a high-incline combat situation, at least he would be able to deal with it.

Famished and exhausted after the confrontation at the cabin, he had managed to eat two meals and snatch some sleep on the eight-hour flight, knowing he would need the energy. He had awakened one hour before the jump to complete a last-minute routine equipment inspection. And now the standard rules for covert operations blitzed through his mind, despite his will, training asserting itself.

Equipment. Take care of your equipment.

Gage shook his head; it was enough.

Focusing, he looked at the snow-cloaked mountain in the distance, a pale stark fear gripping him. Something told him that the odds were long, exceedingly long, that he could pull it off. He was in a bad zone, maybe the worst he had ever seen.

New York, at least, was fairly neutral territory, no clear
advantages to either side. But this was their home ground. He had no support, no backup, no way for a quick extraction. He had no guarantee that Kertzman would even make it for the final showdown, no guarantee that he would be able to provide cover during the ex-change. Already, the Pentagon cowboy might be neutralized by heavyweights in the State Department or Justice. He might even be in jail. There was no way of knowing what had come out of the fiasco at the cabin.

Gage shook his head, tried not to think about it.

When Kertzman had insisted on coming along for the show-down, Gage had, at first, not even considered it. But now, alone in a foreign land after almost four years out of the flow, he wanted the backup, needed the backup. Now, he couldn't imagine going into the final conflict without Kertzman's presence.

Once more, he measured the distance to the mountain, as it laid by foot.

Long
, he thought.
At least 15 miles. And 15 miles in these mountains would seem like 50 in the flatlands
.

But he had jumped as close to the mountain as the pilot could get without arousing attention. The last-minute flight plan carried him almost directly across Merano, where he bailed. Then the DC10 landed minutes later at Bolzano with its misdirected load of farming equipment. After refueling it would take off again for a layover in Germany. Gage would call when he needed a pickup, but there would be a two-hour delay.

He had never used this system before, but it was working beautifully. It cost him a fortune to put it in place, but he had done it, with money he took from a runaway program that was doomed from the very beginning to end in betrayal and scandal.

Gage had seen it from the first days, before he even signed on. Although he never anticipated that many of the missions would build an empire that he would one day attempt to destroy, he had always known that the program was too blacked-out for him to ever walk away from. He had discovered too much, questioned too much, and controlled too much for the Agency to let him go. Ever.

So he made plans, carefully and cunningly ferreting away a few hundred thousand here and there. And as the heat picked up and Iran-Contra began to get out of hand, tendrils of investigation spiraling everywhere, he discreetly liquified all of Black Light's assets in delayed closings, building himself a back door.

Then Israel. The last mission.

If it had waited two more weeks, he would have been gone. Vanished.

But it was too early to go under. The check-stops weren't yet in place. Loose ends still dangled that could lead to a thread of
information, a number or name, which might lead to another, and then another. And then they would have found him.

And now it had all come home.

Gage gazed pensively across the sky, the mountain. The river cut across the landscape with a vivid blue sheen, electric within iridescent flame.

He frowned, staring, felt the moment inside him.

He had come so close to escaping. So close. And now he was inside it again, deeper than ever, battling the most powerful enemy he had ever faced. And the game was against him. But he would play it out to the end. Because he wasn't fighting for his country. There were no orders, no nations. Not this time. No, this time he was fighting for something more. Something that meant more.

They had called him here, he knew.

And he had answered them, descending the mountain to meet them in the desert, where the battle would be waged, the bloodshed. And he knew, too, that life and death had brought him to this hour, to claim a freedom too long overdue. While deep in his soul, where desperate peace made war against guilt and regret, he knew it was finally time.

Time to put old ghosts to rest
…

* * *

"I hope you slept well."

Stern poured Sarah a glass of wine.

Despite a dry, rasping thirst, Sarah ignored the wine, kept her gaze focused on Stern. They had moved to the central and largest room of the sprawling estate house. Through the large windows she could see well-kept grounds, grassy despite the cold, professionally manicured.

Carefully, she shifted her eyes about the room, attempting to analyze the decor. It was a combination of rich and finely crafted work, with a trace of American culture. But it wasn't American. It was European, decidedly European.

She couldn't discern the country. Maybe Italy, or Spain. It was difficult to decide because of the confusing mixture of color and tone.

She turned her mind away from it. For now, it was enough to know she was in Europe.

"Why am I here?" she asked coldly.

Stern smiled graciously. "For safekeeping, Ms. Halder."

Remote and intense, Sarah held him in a cold gaze.

"You killed my father," she said.

Stern paused, stepped closer. "No, Ms.
Halder. Your father is alive."

She had no reason to believe him. Her thirst was overwhelming now.

"What have you done to me?"

Lifting his eyebrows, Stern looked at her curiously. He set his wine glass down with a polished poise.

"Strange," he remarked casually, "that you would experience aftereffects from the medication. Perhaps it was the combination we were forced to utilize. But in any case, the physical sensations will wear off shortly and then you will feel normal again."

Contempt controlled by a hard will passed beneath the mask of Sarah's face. Her voice was analytical, without emotion. "What did you give me?"

"Oh, a combination of various injections," Stern replied politely. "Nothing you would recognize." He shook his head, a condescending indulgence in his tone. "Certainly nothing you should be concerned about."

But Sarah was concerned. She remembered learning in
nursing school about a drug that intelligence services used to coerce illegal confessions. "Was it Sodium Pentothal?"

Stern laughed. "Oh, no, Ms.
Halder. Nothing so brutish as that. We are refined people. Sodium Pentothal is used by cretins of the CIA or KGB. We are beyond that."

He enjoyed his own amusement for a moment, folding his arms and staring placidly at her.

Sarah held her ground, refusing to react to either his amused manner, his courtesy, or his arrogance. She had asked a question. She let it stand.

Finally, Stern seemed affected by her coldness.

"If you must know," he said, "you were given approximately 130 CCs of Dipravan by intravenous drip. But you refused to speak. So we were forced to inject a rather heavy dosage of Ketamine with Valium. And, interestingly enough, you still refused to speak. Finally we tried heroin, and that was a disaster. In fact you became somewhat, ah, how shall I say, hostile." He chuckled. "You are quite a fighter, Ms. Halder. Very strong. Even when sedated."

He paused, as if remembering. "I must admit that I have never beheld such a rigid and unyielding unconscious will. But in the end, after we injected you with a
very-near lethal dose of Amidate and heroin you did, indeed, begin to crumble. And you told us all that you knew."

Sarah blinked, expressionless.

"I suppose," Stern continued passively, "that any physical discomfort you feel is from your physical attacks, your wrestling against the restraints, and perhaps withdrawal. Usually there are no side effects from the medications. That is why we use Amidate. But, then again, it is rare that we use it in such an overpowering, continuous dosage. So I was not certain as to what to expect. In any case it was, unfortunately, a necessity. And in the end, somewhat dangerous. You would have reached unconsciousness, but we administered an amphetamine line to keep you lucid enough to continue speaking."

Sarah's mouth was a grim line, her eyes glistening with pale green ice, and she suddenly seemed to grow more distant from the man in front of her. Her hands were empty, her stance relaxed, and she held Stern in a calculating, despising gaze. A wave of emotions flooded through her, hating and degrading, but she shut them down, one by one, until she felt nothing.