4 Rainy Days and Monday Page 2
The room was almost completely unadorned. A desk. A small leather sofa against the wall. He had taken a nap there. Three office chairs. A small speaker. Some books on a shelf. He had ignored these. He hated to read books in English. They made him feel stupid. He was far from it.
Someone knocked on the door. He sat bolt upright, startled.
“May I come in?”
“Of course.”
It was Special Agent in Charge, Calvin Royster. He deemed himself important. Certainly, from his title and bearing, it would seem a fair assumption.
Royster had taken much and given nothing. Eilif wanted just one nugget of information. Something to encourage him. Something to let him know he had done the right thing.
“I see they brought you a change of clothes.”
“Yes. Thank you. I would also request an opportunity to shower if that would not be too much trouble.”
“I will see what I can do,” Royster said. He did not look at Eilif. This was probably a lie. He could count on a shower in the next few hours as much as he could expect any other form of leniency. He could not shake the feeling that perhaps he had chosen poorly.
“Tell me, Mr. Royster: what are your plans for my release? I have given you all the information I have regarding The ViVeri Consortium.”
Royster turned toward him, his eyes unblinking.
“Have you?” He asked.
Eilif blinked in confusion. He panicked for a moment.
“Of course I have. I volunteered it. I gave you times and locations to the best of my memory...”
“That is just it, Mr. Nicholaison. Your memory has proven faulty. We have decided to use other forms of gathering information. I trust you will be just as helpful.”
“I don’t know what you mean? What faulty information?”
“It does not matter,” Royster continued. He appeared disappointed. “The point, Mr. Nicholaison, is that we have scheduled an appointment with a memory specialist for the morning. She tells me that we will need to ensure that you are well rested and have had plenty of fluids.” He glanced at the couch against the wall.
“Has your arrangements been comfortable? Have you been able to get some sleep?” Royster asked. His tone was almost mocking.
Eilif knew the room contained hidden cameras. Why would they not?
“I have not slept much. I am too concerned about my daughter.”
Royster appeared not to hear him.
“If you would like, I can have someone bring you a cot. Would that help, Mr. Nicholaisen?”
Eilif bit his tongue.
Royster was getting under his skin.
“Am I a prisoner?”
Royster raised his eyebrows and nodded.
“I suppose that would be an accurate description. You did turn yourself in, did you not? That was how I interpreted it. That would mean that you are under scrutiny as a criminal.”
“Under what charges?”
“I suppose we can start with threatening national security. Or perhaps we can pin the President’s assassination on you?”
“The what?”
Royster blinked rapidly and smiled.
“Have you not heard? President Vine was shot by his wife.”
The air completely went from Eilif’s lungs. He slumped in the chair, his hands on his head.
“You cannot be serious,” he mumbled.
His emotions were scattered. He was happy the man, his nemesis, was dead. He was sad that he had not been able to do it himself, directly. He was disappointed that he had not witnessed it. He was scared of anyone powerful enough to pull it off.
His wife?
“I can see that you are surprised. I assure you I would not joke about the death of our President, Mr. Nicholaisen. We are in a transition period in our country. We are very vulnerable. All threats must be eliminated with malice.”
Eilif was not sure, but he did not detect anger from Royster. He did not seem to be emotional at all about President Vine’s assassination. He seemed cold. Untroubled. Calculating.
He did not trust Royster at all. He was cold-blooded. He was a snake.
“What does that have to do with me?” Eilif asked.
Calvin Royster sighed.
“I suppose it will not be harmful to give you notice,” Royster said.
“Of course not. Please, share.” He could feel a knot in his stomach. He had a sudden premonition that something monumental was going to be foretold.
“Your daughter, Giselle, is missing.”
“Missing? What do you mean?” He had already considered her lost. The Mystery Man wanted her. He could tell. He had assumed that she was his toy by now.
“I mean that someone has abducted her,” he replied.
“How is this important?”
“You must know that she is valuable to national security.”
“How?” Eilif could not mask his surprise.
Royster’s thin smile got under his skin. He turned his back to Eilif. Paced the room like he was beginning a story.
“Giselle was an experiment. She is property of the Department of Defense.”
Eilif held back for a moment. Submitting Giselle to the Sychol treatments and subsequent programming was his idea.
Wasn’t it?
“As such, her disappearance is as concerning as any other piece of classified weaponry that has fallen into the hands of our enemies,” Calvin continued. He turned and considered Eilif with eyes full of mirth. “I can see you are conflicted. Can I ask why?”
Eilif decided to choose his words carefully. He fought to control his voice, to keep the hate and the hurt from bubbling to the surface.
“It’s just that I cannot understand why my daughter would be working for the United States Department of Defense. I thought she worked for Sinegem? I am a major stake-holder in that company and I was assured she would have a position there.”
Royster nodded. Walked over to the empty desk and ran his finger across the top.
“Yes. You are correct. She was our spy inside Sinegem.”
“Your spy?” He could not help his reaction.
“You had a brilliant idea to subject your daughter to the Sychol treatments. However, it was the Department of Defense that perfected the Overmind chip.”
“You mean the programming insert? The chip in their back or their leg?”
Royster nodded.
“Yes. Now that technology is in the hands of the Consortium.”
“You are assuming this, or you know for certain?”
“Educated guess. They also happened to kidnap the only man left alive today that understands genetic coding. He, coincidently, happens to have worked directly under the inventor of the Overmind as well. We are afraid that perhaps his innovations will be even more beneficial given some time to tweak his device to our specific needs.”
“You mean Dr. Gary Forsythe?”
Royster shook his head. His look of distaste demonstrated his low opinion.
“No. Forsythe is our asset, sadly. No, the inventor of the Overmind died of natural causes. He was almost eighty. It was his life’s work. Doctor Forsythe was too engrossed with his research to finish what Dr. Bradley had started. The doctor that has been taken is Dr. Matt Spreckles.”
“Great grandson of the sugar baron?”
“Yes. German born, American bred. Until recently, he was an unknown asset. He assisted in the research with GIG that led to the coding for chromosome replication in 2014. He then worked alongside several genetic and genomic inventors to perfect a genetic programming replicator in Germany.”
“I heard about this. How does that relate to Giselle?”
“The chip she wears and the way it works is a miniature version of that machine Dr. Spreckles worked on in Germany. We can feed it code and the antibodies we create enhance certain aspects of memory and block others. It is the catalyst for the Sychol. The drugs and
the memory therapy alone can be overwhelming for a subject. That is why you have noted so many failures.”
Eilif could feel himself sinking into the chair.
“What you are saying is that every subjective memory patient that succeeded were implanted with these chips?”
Something in Royster’s eyes betrayed his pleasure at Eilif’s discovery.
“That is correct.”
“But that would mean...”
“Yes. Monday was our asset all along.”
Eilif was stunned. The implications were astounding. Was it the US Government that had set him up? Was Galbraith that corrupted? Was Sinegem? What had they done? It was all a trap.
Eilif blinked and looked away. He had to think. He had to connect the dots.
“Let me help you, Mr. Nicholaisen. I can see your gears turning. In this battle, there is really only two players. Everyone else is being used. Sinegem. Galbraith. The US Secret Service, the NSA, and even the President of the United States. There is only ViVeri and us.”
Alarm spread across his limbs. He was in danger here. He had walked straight into the den of the wolf, thinking he was the wounded predator. Instead, he was the willing sacrifice.
“What kind of game are you playing, Royster?”
He tilted his head to the side, a slim smile plastered to his handsome face.
“Who’s playing? We are completely serious.”
“Who are you?”
“The new world order, Eilif. And you could have been on the wrong side this whole time. We have saved you. Honestly, I don’t know why. The only thing you have ever done right is father a daughter.”
“Then why am I here? Why am I still alive?”
Royster approached him and laid a hand on his shoulder.
“Because, Mr. Nicholaisen, you still have a role to play.”
Eilif felt more than heard the presence of the person behind him. Before he could turn, he felt the prick of a needle in his shoulder.
He whipped around and tried to stand. Royster held him down with one hand, as strong as steel.
“Hold still, Eilif. This will only take a while. We have more than a dozen of these chips. Do not worry. You are going to help us get your daughter back. After that, I cannot guarantee your safety.”
“You are sick!” Eilif managed.
He felt himself slipping. He caught a glimpse of the nurse that had injected him. He recognized her. She had worked for him for several years at his residence in California. He remembered that she had always smiled at him. She did not smile at him now. He realized, as he slipped from consciousness, that appearances were deceiving.
Chapter Three
Seven Devils
The hallway was dark and the dust thick upon the stone. Andronicus trudged through the gloomy and damp castle. This feeling was completely foreign to him. At sixty-five, he had lived a life dedicated to hard work and secrecy. Most people thought he looked forty. They would not be far off, in truth, as science had prolonged his life and reversed many of its effects upon his body (and, more importantly, his mind).
Andronicus had not tasted failure since he had slipped on a roof when he was fourteen and fallen fifteen feet. He had survived, bruised and tender. His father’s punishment for failing to maintain his balance was more traumatic than his fall. The lesson was that failure was unacceptable.
The feeling in the pit of his stomach was unbearable.
Perhaps worse than this feeling of dread and failure was his escort.
Hooded and slim, Abd-al-Aziz had served the Consortium for almost two decades. His dark, gnarled hands had personally killed more than a thousand victims. The brightly decorated saifani handle of the curved janbiya dagger at his side was enough of a threat to most people who understood Abd-al-Aziz’s role here.
Aziz also wore a beaded scarf across his face. He was a devout Yemeni soldier who found a calling here amongst the Consortium. He believed in their cause and offered his janbiya in service to leaders as an exacter of justice as well as a personal bodyguard.
The Consortium attracted thousands of individuals like Aziz who served under principle more than pay. Andronicus firmly believed that the Consortium collectively took these people for granted.
His fear of the consequences of his failure blocked his efforts to brainstorm a way for penance. Was it this way with common people? Did their fear of the unknown paralyze their efforts to overcome the present or plan the future? Was this a weakness or merely a human mechanism for survival?
He was determined not to succumb to repeating his past failure. First, he had to survive this meeting.
“This way,” his escort said in clipped French.
He could have spoken any of a half dozen languages and Andronicus would have understood.
He followed Aziz. The man’s shoulders were squared, his stance relaxed but wary.
Andronicus watched the man glimpse over his shoulder.
Maybe his reputation had preceded him. It was completely possible that he had overestimated the results of his failure. Wasn’t he convinced that not all was lost?
One piece of the puzzle still had fallen. The President was dead.
The problem was that Andronicus was no longer convinced that this served them as much as it did their enemy.
Aziz led him down a set of stairs.
This old castle had not been modernized. Lamps still illuminated the interior, sending out inferior light. Andronicus could feel the chill that the hundred fireplaces could not dispel. He could smell the burning of the lamps, the fires, and the bodies in the courtyard. The walls were slick with lichen and rotting tapestries.
The glory of a reign almost two centuries old was rotting around him.
That was the beauty and the weakness of the Consortium. Although they still held sway over the world, they were rising from the ashes. They were the proverbial underdogs. They had been the perennial conquerors.
Born of the blood of ancient kings, pharaohs, and rulers, he and his partners bore the standard left by ancestors long dead to take back what was rightfully theirs. For centuries they had worked to shape world history from behind the curtain. They had allowed their power to grow, but horded their wealth.
Aziz held open a door. Andronicus looked at the man’s face, trying to read his eyes. He saw that Aziz wore a long, graying beard, but his eyes were deep-set and bottomless. The eyes of a killer. The eyes of the convicted. The eyes of the merciless.
Andronicus had been wrong.
This man knew no fear.
The room he entered smelled of incense and cigars. It smelled of cedar and strong coffee. It was the breath of old money, old power.
In contrast to the rest of the compound, this room was lit by electricity. He could hear the faint hum of a nearby generator. He heard someone clear their throat.
The room was massive. To his left, a long oak table dominated the space. Five men and one woman sat at the table.
Beatrice Aristides lay her hands flat upon the table. Her dark Greek isle eyes betrayed her. She had been his lover for almost four years when they were younger. She no longer held any love for him. They had become bitter rivals in the Consortium. He had already tasted her distrust and lack of forgiveness. He would have no help there.
Rashidi Renihura’s face was grim. His skin was pocked with disease and age. Near death, Rashidi, known for his ruthless determination to see their ancestor’s dream realized in his generation, would not easily forgive his failure. It was Rashidi’s wealth and influence that had led to the terrorist diversions in the Middle East. He had no sons. Andronicus was his last hope.
Andronicus took in a quick breath. He saw only two friendly faces. He was outnumbered. Louis Villeneuve was an unknown. His family had taken on a new name almost a century ago. His family name was too recognizable to remain incognito. Louis had been elected to the inner council almost two years ago. His votes had been scattered. He was generally swayed easily by emotion. Andronicus hoped he could use that to his advant
age.
Lassiter and the Scot were too young to hold a grudge. They probably were confident enough of a recovery that they would be more forgiving.
The only rival at the table more opposed to him than Beatrice was his brother.
Most people would not recognize the resemblance.
Where Andronicus was tall and built like a mountain, Antiochus was slender. Andronicus was completely bald. His brother’s hair was dark and his curls framed a face that was fair and matched a thick goatee marked with a streak of grey.
Andronicus looked like a warrior and Antiochus a leader.
They both had deep grey eyes, but that was where the similarities ended.
Antiochus was curious, clever, creative, and his humor bitter.
Andronicus was completely humorless, boorish, and unimaginative. It was no wonder Beatrice had left his bed for his brother’s.
He glanced again at Beatrice. He noted the deep lines at her mouth, her raven hair, and the curves of her bare arms. He remembered his time with her with fondness. He had been foolish. If he were honest with himself, he would count this as his second failure since his father’s beating all those years ago.
“Nice of you to finally join us, brother,” Antiochus said. It galled his brother that he attended inner council meetings infrequently.
Andronicus bowed low and remained silent. He knew nothing would be gained.
“We understand things did not go as we had planned,” Rashidi said. The disappointment in his voice could melt the gold gorget at his neck.
Andronicus raised his gaze and looked directly at Rashidi. He knew that to avoid his stare would be an unforgivable error.
“That is correct.”
“You have failed, then,” his brother accused.
He flashed his eyes to Antiochus and kept the sting from his voice the best he could.
“That would not be entirely true,” he offered. His voice rumbled through the room.
His brother smiled thinly.
“The way I understand failure, brother—at least from the lessons we learned at our father’s feet—one either fails or does not. There are no half measures.”
The others seemed impressed by his brother’s clever turn.
He nodded.
“What I mean,” he explained, his eyes panning from Antiochus on his right to Beatrice on the left, “is that in some of our goals, we have failed. However, in others, we have been successful. The opportunity to gain traction and move forward is still available.”