 
# Jellyfish

#

By

K. G. Lawrence

# Book 3 of the Proteus Group Series

#

Smashwords Edition

Copyright 2016 K.G. Lawrence

Cover Design: S.L. Gillies

***

Discover other titles in the Proteus Group Series by K.G. Lawrence:

Wear Something Red

Rembrandt be Damned

***

This eBook is licensed for your personal enjoyment only. This eBook may not be re-sold or given away to other people. If you would like to share this book with another person, please purchase an additional copy for each recipient. If you're reading this book and did not purchase it, or it was not purchased for your use only, then please return to your favorite eBook retailer and purchase your own copy. Thank you for respecting the hard work of this author.

Acknowledgements

To Sharon for everything you give to me.

To Frank, Alex, Ursula, Isabelle, Paul and Tiggr for everything they gave me.

Table of Contents

Chapter 1

Chapter 10

Chapter 20

Chapter 30

Chapter 40

Chapter 50

Chapter 60

Other Books by K.G. Lawrence

Wear Something Red

Rembrandt Be Damned

About the Author

# Chapter 1

Vlad Drăculea was dead, but that was not the end of him.

Father Antonio Rossetti, a loyal servant of God and the Vatican for forty-one years, chaffed in the heavy white robe he was required to wear as he looked down at the pieces of wood on the table before him. Hewn from the mountain forest behind the monastery and constructed with lengths of thick, rough planks in accordance with exact directions provided by the codex, the table sat in the front chamber of the monastery. It would require the whole brotherhood to move it to any other location. It was, therefore, immovable because most of his brothers had been sent away, a precaution to prevent the complete annihilation of his order.

Rossetti finished his second glass of wine and looked to the entrance door. Father Bernardo Alessandro was late.

Held hostage by the Ottomans for most of his adolescence, tortured for his constant defiance of them, Vlad had grown into a hard, vile man, but no man had been more justified in his behavior. And he had been an effective soldier against the Turkish horde in the service of His Holiness. The time had come for the Holy Order of Loyal Pius Brothers to honor the agreement between House Drăculeşti and Pope Pius II.

At thirty-six, Alessandro was the youngest of them and had been a priest for less than a year. He was to bring it from the Piazza Santa Maria La Nova under escort of six soldiers of the Papal army assigned to the Catterdale de Santa Marie Assunta church. He should have arrived hours ago.

The hooded white robe, the red sash around the waist, bare feet and no hair anywhere on the body were the required vestments for this mix of holy and pagan consecrating ritual. They had also been required to adorn their flesh with symbols.

Father Rossetti looked down at Christ's cross on the top of his right foot, the sacrifice on the path to God. He had forbidden the addition of the dagger to that image. On the left foot, each of the brothers had painted a date tree to symbolize their toil on earth. There were to be no symbols on their bare faces and heads.

The chalice for Christ's blood was drawn on the back of his right hand. Looking at it caused his heart to thrash about like a bird trying to escape its cage. But there was no escape from this unholy ritual. The image of the box designed and constructed by Andrea Alonso for His Holiness—the box that now lay in pieces before him—was inscribed on the back of his left hand. He was required to carve symbols on each piece before putting the box back together.

Both hands trembled when he poured and drank his third glass of wine.

Younger, steadier members of the brotherhood were more capable with the chisels, but he was the head of the order. This part of the ceremony was exclusively his responsibility. If he failed, his order failed. The agreement would not be honored. Vlad would be betrayed again by those he served.

Tonight, though, even three glasses of wine couldn't bring the tremors under control.

He picked up a chisel and grabbed the first piece of wood. The prescribed order in which the specific symbols for each piece were to be carved was listed on the vellum pages of the codex that lay beside his empty glass. Each page contained a vivid—garish—illustration of a symbol.

Two priests entered the chamber the moment he began his work. They stopped at the other end of the table.

Father Buonfiglio Napoli and Father Camillo Vincenzo had been reluctantly sent from the Vatican to assist with this detestable but obligatory ceremony.

Father Napoli, forty, a short, furtive man, whispered, "Do we have to go through with this abhorrent . . .?" A man of slight stature, Napoli presented a frail, stooped and insignificant character. How had he become involved in something like this?

"Pay no attention to him," Vincenzo said. "He has been complaining since we left Rome."

No two men could be such opposites. Father Vincenzo had been a soldier before coming to Christ. A head taller than any of them, his shoulders almost twice as wide as and far more muscular than the measly Napoli, Vincenzo was hard, direct, fierce, loyal, composed and resolute. Every move he made was deliberate and strong. Vincenzo had exhibited the steady hand to outline in ink each symbol on each section of the box that he was required to carve.

It was a pity Napoli was unable to draw upon some of Vincenzo's strength for himself.

Of all his outstanding features, and that aura of strength about him—he might be able to move the table by himself—his eyes were the most disturbing. They penetrated and dissected and mocked every time they took hold of someone. Father Vincenzo gave all the appearance of someone preternaturally possessed of both this earth and some mysterious knowledge of the ages beyond what mortal man could comprehend.

Wondering again if Vincenzo was possibly an angel sent to see through to its end this obligation left to them by His Holiness Pope Pius II, Father Rossetti poured more wine into his glass, adjusted the two large candles to bring their flames closer, adjusted the reflective glass to better illuminate the pieces before him and continued with his work. "His Holiness decreed that he may rest in the Piazza Santa Maria La Nova. But his heart must be returned to his homeland."

"But, Father Rossetti," Napoli whispered, "it is a dark ritual older than Christ himself." Napoli had barely raised his voice above a whisper from the moment he arrived. "This man was a demon, Father. I would rather his heart were impaled for all to see the same way his victims were cruelly displayed to the world."

Vincenzo took hold of Napoli by the back of his neck. "Look there, Father. Perhaps it will help you to remember what this man did for us." He turned Napoli toward the wall of skulls. Nameless heroes, the Vatican's holy fallen warriors, rested in niches carved into the mountain stone that made up the rear wall of this lonely and vulnerable monastery.

Rossetti started on the fourth symbol. Carving had done what the wine couldn't. His hands had become steadier with the wood, chisels and knifes in them. Another consideration passed through his mind and his beliefs. Was Vincenzo exerting some influence over him?

Father Napoli was only expressing the doubts Rossetti had experienced as well. The Drăculeşti Codex from Vlad's homeland was written near the end of Christ's life. It dictated what they must do to properly honor the agreement. It contained the symbols he was to carve onto the pieces of the box and identified which ones went where. The codex had been written by the first priests of Wallachia to accept the word of the one true God and the sacrament, and had then had folded this new enlightenment into their existing pagan beliefs.

How many generations of such distortions would it take to completely obliterate the Son of God's original message, and in the process create an enduring and apocryphal legend for the brutal man they were attending to tonight? At best, he could only hope the correct man was remembered to have had love for all in his heart.

Once released from Vincenzo's grasp, Napoli came to him mewling, "We should not be doing this."

"I am but a loyal servant of—"

The doors to this old Franciscan monastery creaked and scraped and began to swing open before them. Twice, it stopped before opening completely to reveal the two wounded men at its threshold.

"My God, what has happened?" Vincenzo rushed to Father Alessandro and the wounded soldier holding him up.

Father Rossetti and Father Napoli remained at the table.

Alessandro clutched the leather sack under his right arm. His left was draped over the blood-covered soldier as they staggered together into the great hall.

Vincenzo took Alessandro from the soldier, who then fell to the stone floor holding his left side. Half of an arrow shaft protruded from the soldier's lower chest.

"Help him," he whispered to Father Napoli.

Napoli bowed and shook his head. "We should abandon this folly. They will surely have followed them. We will all be killed."

Rossetti poured another glass of wine for himself. "We must perform the ceremony before they get here, then. Do as I ask, Father, please." He drank the wine in one swallow and began assembling the box. The carvings weren't complete, but they had no more time.

Napoli, a completely ineffectual man, staggered over to the soldier as if also wounded. One step away, he hesitated, convinced he would be struck down once he touched the man.

Father Vincenzo brought Father Alessandro to the opposite end of the table.

Rossetti remained where he was and pulled up the hood of his robe once the box was completely assembled. He then pulled out the key and opened the lid. "Do you have it?"

Alessandro nodded weakly and came along the edge of the table with Vincenzo's help. He held up the leather sack with its round object inside. Blood seeped from a wound on his neck.

"The Black Army's Elite Guard of the Holy Crown of Hungary ambushed us. He does not want it returned to Wallachia." He proffered the sack to Father Rossetti.

Rossetti averted his eyes and made only the minutest nod of acceptance.

The aroma of honey wafted out of the sack when Alessandro placed it beside the box.

"We must hurry," Alessandro said. "They will be here soon." He sagged into Vincenzo's arms.

Vincenzo set Alessandro down onto a chair and returned to Rossetti.

The box was simple enough, carved out of a block of Wallachian oak—Vlad's favorite wood for making the stakes he impaled his victims on—and then intricately cut by Alonso into the segments of the puzzle he'd just completed. The hinges and lock were of brass. The curved lid was unadorned with jewels so as not to detract from the elegant carving of the winged dragon crouching atop it that also served as a handle.

A gift from Pope Pius II before His Holiness died, it had been used to deliver the ransom paid to free Vlad, had been emptied of Drăculea's family heirlooms. Now it would hold for all time the darkest part of him.

"Father Rossetti," Vincenzo said and tugged on his sleeve, "let us be done with this and get it away from here as quickly as possible."

He glanced at Alessandro struggling to take his last few breaths. Father Napoli had remained where he was to pray while the soldier died on the floor at his feet. They were all going to die for this disgusting man.

"Yes, let us do exactly that." He held his hand out to Father Vincenzo.

Vincenzo handed over the small leather pouch he had been commissioned to bring with him.

Rossetti opened it as Father Alessandro died and slid off his chair. Napoli had fallen to his knees before the dead soldier and was still praying over him.

"Leave him," he said when Vincenzo started for their fallen brother. He didn't look into the small pouch; he just turned it upside down, poured out the soil into the box and placed the other key into the brass lock once the pouch was empty. He didn't raise his voice when he said to Napoli, "Bring me your charge and we will finish this."

Unable to control his shivering, Napoli looked up from the soldier, his head shaking, his mouth opening wide to cry out his protests once more. Before he could, they heard the horses galloping into the monastery's courtyard.

"Hurry." He held out his hand to Napoli. It was trembling again.

Father Buonfiglio Napoli started crying. "Please, Father Rossetti, we must flee."

"Bring me your charge, you pathetic man."

Napoli rose to his feet and scurried back to the table. He handed over the amulet given to His Holiness by Vlad's daughter.

Rossetti set the amulet into the box. "Now the last of it." He glared at Napoli.

Shrinking back, Napoli struggled to push the large leather sack over to him.

"Give it to me."

"No, I can't." Napoli covered his face and turned away. "I won't."

With a moue of distain on his face for his companion from Rome, Vincenzo took the heart from the sack and handed it to Rossetti.

Outside, monks screamed as they fell to the soldiers. They had no weapons or fighting skills. All they could do was put themselves between the attackers and the monastery doors.

He placed the heart into the box, grateful that he had been spared the need to recite any of those vile words, closed the lid and locked it. "Take it."

"But Father, you are supposed to return it." Vincenzo pulled out a sword from beneath his robe. "Go, I will hold them off for as long as I can."

"I have no doubt you could give me ample time, brother, but I am too old to make the journey. I will remain here. Take it now and leave. You must hurry."

He closed the codex and bound it with the two leather straps attached to it. He then handed it and the pouch that now contained the keys over to Vincenzo as well. "You must complete the ritual before it is assigned to its place of keeping. Remember to return the keys to where they belong and keep them separate."

Brother Vincenzo placed the box, the pouch and the codex into the sack blessed to carry them. "God be with you, Father Rossetti, I will not fail you."

"It will not be me you fail, my dear brother. God be with us all."

Vincenzo crossed himself before fleeing through the hidden door at the back of the monastery to join the escort of six men waiting in the woods to the north.

When Napoli started after Vincenzo, Rossetti called to him. "Come stand beside me, Father. We are in _His_ hands now."

The last of his brother's fading moans in the courtyard could barely be heard over Napoli's whimpering as he squirmed over to him.

Three soldiers of Matthias Corvinus' Black Army entered the monastery. To show their respect they had sheathed their swords.

The Captain made the sign of the cross and asked, "Father, where is it?"

"It is gone." Father Rossetti put his arm around the small, shivering man beside him, took a firm hold of Napoli's shoulder and fixed his gaze on the Captain's eyes.

Those eyes would be no match for Vincenzo. The ritual would be completed, the agreement would be honored.

The three soldiers drew their swords.

His legend, and his curse, have begun, Rossetti thought, may God forgive us.

# Chapter 2

Jacqueline Yvette Duquesne entered her penthouse apartment in Vancouver's West End just after midnight to find the message light on her phone blinking. Algernon had insisted she keep a landline. He was the only one who would use it to leave her a message.

"Merde!"

She took the time to put her suitcase in the bedroom, undress, relieve herself and get into her bathrobe before she returned to her phone and played the message.

Algernon Devries' crackling voice said, "Jacqueline, _ma chère fille_ , get your lovely ass down here to San Francisco as fast as you can. I've sent my jet to YVR to pick you up."

Algernon knew the International Air Transport Association codes for every major international airport in North America and Europe, and most of the ones in Asia.

"Merde!"

Algernon Devries had been her employer and her mentor, but he was no father figure. He was, in fact, quite the lascivious old creep at seventy-three. She had been with him for twelve years and had sampled—been a victim off, actually—his proclivity for sexual games involving audience participation. That one time had been enough to lead to an ultimatum of understanding between them of just what she would and would not do for him from that moment forward.

He had accepted her terms without reservation. "I apologize for misinterpreting your enthusiasm for experiencing new adventures. I did not expect such reticence. Again, I am sorry for misreading you."

Algernon's apologies, gracious on the surface, always hit like a major insult.

He had never before summoned her like this while she was already on assignment for him. He couldn't suddenly be impatient to get the pistols; that wasn't Algernon's way. He preferred the anguish of anticipating her arrival and any new gift she was bringing to him. But even narcissistic Algernon Devries, with his perfect alabaster skin, knew that time was running out on him. He was becoming more impatient to fill his bucket before he kicked it.

The thing to do after a message like that was to just get her lovely ass to YVR as quickly as she could. She was already packed, _but_. . . .

She used her landline to call Algernon. He'd be up at this time of night because the man was part vampire and rarely went to bed before sunrise.

On the third ring, Algernon answered, "Are you on your way?"

" _Ralentir, vous vieux fou_." Slow down, you old fool.

"Your accent gets sloppy when you're tired. Are you on your way?"

"I just got in after fourteen hours in the air on one commercial flight after another because you needed your jet for something else. " _Je suis épuisé_." I am exhausted.

"Nonsense."

"They weren't where they were supposed to be. I had to go to Belgium, and there was only one pistol left. I'm still looking for the Chamberlain manuscript, but I have information that indicates it might be in Leeds."

"Forget those. I need you here by morning. Get your firm little butt to the airport, _ma chère fille_."

"I need some sleep."

"Sleep on the plane. You will arrive at five-fifteen. There will be a taxi waiting for you. Being Saturday, there won't be much traffic. It will take another forty-five minutes to get to my house at that time of morning."

Algernon always had to verbalize all the timing details even though she was every bit as adept at calculating things like that after years of weary travelling on his behalf. For Algernon, however, it was some part genius, some part autism and a big part obsessive-compulsive. He could no more keep quiet about such details going through his head than she could just stop breathing once and for all.

"Algernon, what is it?"

"We acquired the amulet a few months ago and that led us to someone who knew . . . never mind that. I don't want to talk about it over the phone. We've got it now; that's all that matters."

"We? Who else—"

"See you at six, do not be late." He hung up.

"Merde! Merde! Merde!"

Working for Algernon had made her wealthy. He'd left her to her own methods to accomplish what he asked of her, but his one inviolate rule was that she came immediately when he summoned her. He was even sending his jet for her.

This last assignment had taken her to her birthplace, Montreal, then to Reykjavik, Riga and Belgrade before ending up outside Bastogne on the Ardennes Plateau to acquire one of Algernon's priorities for the past three years. It was late November. The clothes in her suitcase were for the snowstorms she'd encountered in Europe. Algernon's jet would just have to wait.

She showered and then put on clothes he would certainly notice. Then she removed her winter clothes from the suitcase and replaced them with more appropriate wear for November in San Francisco. There wasn't that much difference between what came out and what went in.

She also removed the one pistol she had purchased. The pair had belonged to some obscure member of the aristocracy at the time of the French revolution. The aristocrat was actually from Spain, one Manuel de la Rosa, who had killed seven men in duels with them and then had used them to unsuccessfully defend his family during a robbery by the revolutionary rabble in Paris. She had failed to find Clive Chamberlain's original 1668 manuscript about the true age of dragons in England, rumored to have been commissioned by— _that_ _idiot_ , Algernon told her—King Charles II.

Packed and closed, she took her suitcase back down to the lobby to wait for the cab. She boarded the Gulfstream G450 at 1:48 am.

She was grateful for the adventures and for the wealth that twelve years with Algernon had brought her. She would help find the manuscript if Leeds provided anything she could work with. She would see what it was that excited him so much, but she was finished with all these treasure hunts. She would tell him exactly that the moment she entered his mansion. And this time, she would make him listen to her.

# Chapter 3

As Jacqueline Duquesne was taking off from YVR in Algernon Devries' Gulfstream G450, Special Agent Brian Laskey was parking his black Ford Expedition in the parking lot of the San Francisco Coast Guard Unit's Seizure Pier. His field office had received a call about the Coast Guard bringing in the MV Viaje Costero—Costal Journey—a thirty-meter cargo ship out of Tijuana found drifting near the Farallon Islands with a dead crew aboard. As strange as that was, it was what condition they found the crew in that was even stranger.

The caller had provided no details over the phone other than to say, "You won't believe it even after you see it."

He wasn't going to find out what that was any time soon, however. When he got to the gate, it was closed and locked, with two extra wraps of locked chains around it and two Army guards posted at it. Four army vehicles were parked on the other side of the gate.

He approached with his FBI badge out. "I was called in about a ship full of dead people."

The Viaje Costero was being sealed with plastic sheets over every opening. A base of operations was being set up by army personnel.

The guard on his left, a sergeant, said, "You can't go in, Sir. Both the ship and the pier have been quarantined. No one is admitted.

"What happened?"

Unable to keep the tremor out of his voice, the sergeant replied, "USAMRIID is in there now, Sir."

"How did they get here so fast?"

"It is my understanding Colonel Thorpe was already in Frisco, Sir."

"Can I talk to Colonel Thorpe? I have to tell my boss something."

The sergeant looked through the chain link fence at the activity taking place on the other side as he talked quietly into his radio. After receiving a response, he said, "Just wait here, Sir."

"You have children, don't you, Sergeant?"

He nodded. With the temperature near freezing, sweat still ran down from both temples. "I do, yes, two boys."

"They look like they know what they're doing in there."

The sergeant looked again and wiped his brow. "I hope so, Sir."

A person in a hazmat suit emerged from a tent that had plastic corridors running from it up the gangplank to the cargo ship as well as to three other tents. In a matter of seconds, the woman had her helmet off. She gave instructions to two other members of the team, patted the closest one on the back and then started walking toward the gate. Her strides were strong and quick. Her brindle hair hung straight down to just above her shoulders.

The two guards saluted her. She saluted back.

He raised his hand and showed his badge. "Special Agent, Brian Laskey. We got a call about a ghost ship."

"Colonel Cynthia Thorpe. It's a ghost ship all right, but it's also much more." Her clear, confident eyes were dark brown. Her nose was thin with small nostrils below a slight upturn at the end. The hazmat suit made any observations about her physique impossible.

"More than what?"

"It appears there was a toxic spill of an unknown substance on board. When the Coast Guard crew entered the control deck, they found a grey powder on the floor and all over the crew's clothes."

"How are they?"

"None of them are showing any signs of infection or exposure to toxin poisoning, but we will keep them in quarantine and under observation for the next while."

"You were already in San Francisco?"

"I'm here for a NATO conference on respirable toxins. My CO relayed the call to me when it came in."

"What happened?"

"The Coast Guard got a call from a US Fish and Wildlife Services research team on Southeast Farallon Island after they spotted the Viaje Costero drifting four miles to the south. When they went to investigate, they found seven of the crew dead. They appear to have either come down with something or been overcome by something. Three other crewmembers are missing."

Behind her, other members of the USAMRIID team, also in hazmat suits, were bringing body bags out through the sealed plastic corridors. "What happens now?"

"I'm sending everything to our new level four biosafety lab at the Rocky Mountain Laboratories facility in Hamilton, Montana. A team from Fort Detrick is already on the way. I've talked to Dr. Vincent Needham at RML. He thinks he knows what might have turned the crew into mannequins."

"Mannequins?"

"Their skin is stretched all tight and smooth. It looks like mannequin skin . . . plastic and with no variation in color tone. Every pore appears to have been plugged and covered over. All their hair is gone. We found it mixed in with that grey powder." She shook her head. "I've never seen or heard of anything like this before."

"Was it an attack?"

She shrugged. "It could have been. If it was, it was a concerted attack by more than one person. The crew was strewn all over the ship."

"Why attack a cargo ship out of Tijuana? Were those three missing crewmembers part of the attack?"

"That is your job, Special Agent Laskey. From what they tell me, the Viaje Costero was converted from a single hold to a dual hold cargo ship with a capacity of four-seventy-five DWT, dead weight tonnage. It also has six cabins for passengers. We don't know if they had passengers on this voyage or if some of the crew were using the cabins."

"This could go right past me if you guys are involved. What's the cargo?"

"I haven't had time to go through the hold or the manifest yet, but we did find aerosol dispensers near the crew, the kind used to spray perfume."

"Is that how they were attacked? Can anyone actually do something like that?"

"It's certainly possible. It would be cumbersome if it's a respirable toxin to do it that way because you would have to get very close to your target to deliver it, which would put you at risk as well unless you'd been inoculated against it or were wearing protective gear. If you were wearing protection, I would think your targets might see you coming and get suspicious."

"Where are the attackers now? How did they get off the ship? Was the attack part of a bigger plan to have the ship brought in to a populated area? Is there more of that stuff or something else on board that poses a threat?"

"I'm here to contain and investigate whatever happened on the Viaje Costero from the perspective of a possible new toxin spill or intentional weaponized use of such a thing." She raised her headgear to put it back on.

"I can't go away emptyhanded."

"That can't be helped until we are sure there is no longer any danger. Any evidence that can assist in your part of this investigation will be sent on as soon as possible, I promise." She put her headgear back on. Her muffled voice sounded like it was coming from a breathless young girl. "Give your card to the sergeant. I left one of mine for you with him. My contact number at the conference is written on the back. My mobile number is on the front."

"Aren't you going to Hamilton with the . . . ?"

"I'm the head of the American delegation to the conference. I have to be here." She pointed to the other people in hazmat suits. "If this is a bioterrorism threat, we will be the first responders."

"It's a good thing you're here."

"If this _is_ a bioterrorism threat, already being here could be irrelevant." She returned to the Viaje Costero and helped her crew bring out more body bags.

# Chapter 4

Being summoned to Timothy Bartholomew Chase's home on the Potomac near CIA headquarters in Langley at 3:30 am was nothing unusual. Frank Gillett was used to being summoned at any time for his assignments. That's the way he'd operated for the past five years under Chase's covert directions. The unusual part was how easily Chase had been able to contact him. His assignments took him all over the world. The usual way they communicated was via specified contact points that he checked with in accordance with a prescribed schedule. Chase had simply called him this time.

It could just be that he was between assignments and Chase knew he had returned to his Central Park West apartment for a few days of rest. He put it out of his mind as he approached the two agents guarding the front door. After giving him a thorough looking over, the man to his right knocked on the door three times.

Chase rather than his aide, George Radner, opened the door. "Come with me." He led them to his study and poured them each a glass of Elijah Craig 21 year old single barrel bourbon. "There's been a plane crash in the Sierra Nevada Mountains just west of Yosemite. I want you there as quickly as possible."

The hardwood floor creaked when Chase brought over his drink because Tubby Chase—though few dared call him Tubby to his face—was 6'5" tall and close to 350 pounds.

He took the glass of bourbon. "So? There's been a plane crash. I usually don't do anything _after_ the plane crashes."

"This isn't like that." Chase finished his generous amount of bourbon in one swallow. "We have credible reports of a possible domestic terrorism threat. The plane crash could be linked to that. It could be linked to . . . _them_."

"Was there someone who matters on board?"

"It was a cargo plane. NTSB has already sent a Go Team. I need you to insert yourself into their investigation. Gather all the intelligence you can and report back to me."

"Why don't you just get NTSB to report to you? You have the authority." He held out his glass for another drink. "This isn't what I normally do."

"Normally, I would do just that, but this is one of those situations where we need to contain the flow of information while we determine what is going on."

Chase took Gillett's glass and refilled it. He also refilled his own, but he just sipped the bourbon this time after he handed back Gillett's glass.

"He's resurfaced and could be up to something that is linked to the crash."

Frank placed the glass on Chase's massive desk. "And what would that be?"

"Knowing what Harvey Weinberg is up to is like trying to figure out some origami puzzle. It's impossible to determine how his thoughts are folding and in what directions they are going, whether they overlap with some insane motivation or just tuck in neatly with his own peculiar logic. But if he is behind it, it's bound to be big and outlandish. You know how crazy that bastard is. Remember what he did to you and Hobbs."

"I might not be your best choice for this assignment."

"You look good, Frank. It's hard to see the scars anymore. I can't tell where the synthetic stuff covering the burns ends and your real skin begins." He took another sip of bourbon. "Don't be offended, but I've always been amazed at how they got that dark brown color of your skin so accurate."

He picked up his glass and finished his drink. "How do you know Weinberg might be involved?"

"We suspect he's working with them again, but we don't know what it is." After another sip, he added, "He got away."

"Petit screwed up again, didn't he? If you knew where he was, that's when you should have called me in."

"Petit didn't screw up, his crew did."

"What happened?"

"First of all, they arrived at the wrong place. They went to the main facility grounds, but Weinberg and his team weren't there. They were at the annex two miles south of that."

"Weren't they properly briefed and prepared?"

Chase just shrugged. "Harvey left the four of them behind, no doubt to mock me. Two of them had plastic skin. They were incinerated on scene by clean up."

Weinberg was certainly capable of doing that to a person. His own skin was proof of Weinberg's twisted genius.

"The other two had their heads bashed in; no doubt another comment from Harvey."

"Don't send mindless automatons after him. When did all this take place?"

Chase checked the screen of the tablet on his desk. "A week ago; he was in Widow Creek."

"That's hilarious, Tim. What was he doing there?"

"He was working at Karyon Research using a new legend."

"Have you told Rowe yet about your trip to Widow Creek just before the Crowley Farm Massacre?"

"It was a failed mission. There is nothing about it that would help her task force."

"You really are full of it every second of every day, aren't you? Why are you bringing me in now?"

"You are _not_ a mindless automaton and you have unfinished business with Harvey. This is our chance to get more information about who he's working with. We might even identify a few of them on this one. Rowe's task force has lost any momentum it had after the Remington Bakersfield Draper case. They've been floundering for over a year now." He finished his bourbon. "And I thought you might like another opportunity to find out what happened to Maggie." Chase pointed to his glass. "One more for the road?"

Frank shook his head. "I should get going."

"There is a jet waiting for you at Dulles. It will take you to McCarran in Vegas. A Cessna will take you from there to Mariposa-Yosemite. I've ordered a truck for you. You go in completely dark. You must not let anything or anyone stand in your way. Find out whatever it is Weinberg wants and recover it before he gets his hands on it. If you encounter Weinberg or any of his people, eliminate them. I'm not interested in finding out what his grand scheme is anymore. I just want him gone and those people stopped."

"But I can beat any information I might want out of them first, right?"

"I can't possible see what you do in the dark."

A moment after Chase was finished with him Frank heard the helicopter start up behind the house. A moment after that George Radner appeared at the door to the study.

"This way, sir," Radner said in a deep baritone and led him through the house to the French doors at the back. He opened them for him.

Frank always wondered if Chase kept Radner as his ersatz valet and personal bodyguard because of his resemblance to Basil Rathbone. "He's very agitated tonight."

"Yes, sir, he is." The 'sir' was a reflex response from years in the military, not graduation from butler school. "Harvey has that effect on him."

"He has that effect on everyone who knows him."

"Be careful, sir." Radner closed the doors, locked them and drew the drapes as soon as Frank was outside.

Weinberg was putting Chase's house in lockdown.

Frank caught glimpses of two armed guards patrolling the grounds as he made his way to the helo pad. He spotted two more patrolling near the shore of the Potomac as the helo lifted off.

Those people Chase hadn't wanted to name belonged to the Proteus Group, a tangled mess of suspicion, supposition, theory and guesswork. The Crowley Farm Massacre of an FBI unit three years ago, the Colter Militia Incident in Dominion, Oregon two years ago and the Remington Bakersfield Draper case in NYC last year were the three highest profile occurrences to date of the Proteus Group at work.

They were a shadow syndicate and likely one of the most dangerous organizations they faced. They were patient and meticulous. They used independent cells to maintain their impenetrable anonymity. The few who had been caught offered very little value or revealing intelligence on who was running the show.

FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, Nyla Rowe had been _baptised_ in the RBD case. She had probably been too inexperienced to go undercover then and the mistakes she'd made had almost ruined the whole operation. Since its resolution, however, she had been put in charge of the Proteus Group Task Force. It had the power to insert itself into any investigation or mission the Proteus Group might be involved with. That was the reason Chase wanted him dark on home soil.

He had met Rowe while working another case. He respected her. She was intelligent and growing professionally, but she had the most difficult job anyone in law enforcement or national security could have. Her task force had so far been unable to penetrate the barriers that protected the identities of the people running the show, but they had constructed a scenario of how the PG operated. They recruited from all levels of society. They worked with the disaffected and crazy, the Colter Militia Incident was a prime example of that. The people involved with any Proteus Group operation, high and low, weren't aware of what role they were playing or who they were working for. Specific details were scarce.

The helo set down at Dulles.

Frank transferred from one flight to the next without any delay. Within two minutes of entering the Lear jet 75, he was heading for Las Vegas and his thoughts returned to the scarce details Rowe was sifting through to get to the heart of _them_.

One of the most dangerous to those details was Harvey Weinberg. Brilliant scientist and madman extraordinaire—a once in a millennia occurrence, according to him—Weinberg had often worked with the Proteus Group over the past ten years or more. He had done that as Chase's main undercover operative to infiltrate PG's earliest scientific research.

One of the most shocking details Rowe would be surprised to learn was that Chase had become aware of the Proteus Group, though none of its members, when it was just an inchoate force building inside the USA long before anyone else in security or law enforcement had. Weinberg had provided him with the intelligence. Chase had attempted and failed to prevent the Crowley Farm Massacre, the Proteus Group's earliest largescale operation. He would likely be the most effective and meaningful witness for Rowe if she could ever force him to reveal what he knew, including that Weinberg had gone over to the other side while on assignment under his command.

The Proteus Group was to be feared, but their association with Weinberg over the past decade had helped them establish their base of operations in this country and made them a deadlier enemy than Rowe and her people could imagine.

He took a martini from the male flight attendant, a freckled young redhead with a holstered gun hanging from his belt.

The man asked, "Don't suppose you could use a second on this one, could you?"

"Doing penance, huh?"

"Shit, yeah. Do you know Boyd Petit?"

"Yes, I do."

"I wish I didn't."

"Sorry, this one is a solo. You will have to wait for something else to get you out of Tubby's doghouse."

"Fuck." The man went to the back of the jet and took a seat.

Chase was worried this time. There was increased security at his house. He had unleashed his big dog to go after Weinberg even though he knew the risk of complications that doing so presented to the mission.

Weinberg had butted in to his skin graft treatments after the fire and had brought with him every outrageous and ingenious innovation he could think of to save his life. He had succeeded where every expert, including Dr. Maggie Hobbs, had told him he would fail.

Frank had never forgiven him for that. 

# Chapter 5

When Jacqueline entered the three-storey mansion on Castaneda Avenue near Path Street in Forest Hill, Algernon floated into the entrance hall in his royal blue master's robe. His pale skin, blemish free everywhere—she had firsthand confirmation of that—was translucent, almost glowing. When he opened his mouth to greet her, she could swear she saw a beam of light project from it. She closed and rubbed her eyes.

She hadn't seen him this excited even that one time in his games room with her naked, secured in place and surrounded by all his eager guests.

"What is it?"

"Dracula's jewelry box, the coffin for his heart, it's taken almost six years to get it."

"I've never heard of it."

"Very few people have. Rosalie is the real expert on it, but once she told me about it, I just had to have it."

How many times had she heard him say that?

Algernon finally noticed her clothes: running shoes, faded blue jeans and a black sweatshirt under a red parka. He gave her his perfected scowl of disapproval for not looking her absolute best when she was with him.

Prends ça, vous sangsue pâteuse. Take that, you pasty leech.

"Briefly, dear Jacqueline," he said, "we received—"

"Wait." Algernon was rarely brief. "Can I at least come in and sit down? Some coffee would be appreciated."

She dropped her suitcase at his feet, left pale, luminescent Algernon with his sparkling mouth gaping and entered his study. A silver tray with a pot of freshly brewed coffee, containers of cream and sugar and two cups on it was sitting atop his antique Georgian Mahogany Partners Library Table, circa 1814, near his fireplace. His working desk was an 1878 French _Directoire_ of _Acajou_ _moucheté_ wood, 'plum pudding' mahogany. He polished the brass trim on it every day.

The coffee would have been cold by the time Algernon had finished being brief. The cream and sugar were mandatory touches of hospitality, but they both took their coffee black.

Algernon glided in behind her just as she had finished pouring out the two coffees. He swooped over to her with his right hand holding his robe closed, though its rope belt was likely tied with three knots as always. Algernon was a master with ropes and knots. His left hand was in the robe's pocket. It was fidgeting with something.

He took a dainty sip of coffee before taking a deep, enthusiastic breath. "This jewelry box was rumored to have held Vlad Drăculea's heirloom jewels that his daughter, Maria, took with her when she fled to Naples. In fact, so Rosalie tells me, Vlad actually sent the jewelry on ahead in a very plain leather satchel carried by secret courier, who was in turn guarded along the way by two of Vlad's most trusted captains. The box was made in the Vatican by Andrea Alonso for Pope Pius II years before."

He kept his eyes fixed on her and finished the rest of his hot coffee. "You really must talk to Rosalie to get all the wonderful details of the story."

She took a third sip of her hot coffee before refilling Algernon's cup when he deftly slid it back onto the tray, a tacit notification that he wanted more.

"Most people believe Vlad was killed in battle in Wallachia, but recent historical and archeological evidence indicates he may have been taken prisoner by the Turks. The story goes that Maria paid a ransom of the family jewels, plus some money received from the Vatican for Vlad's help in fighting off the Muslim horde, to have him released."

Algernon was winding himself up. He talked with the hushed, excited energy of a teenage girl spreading the latest shocking gossip while huddled with her clique in a high school washroom between classes.

"Vlad came to live with Maria in Naples. He died there and was subsequently entombed in a church cemetery. His daughter rests beside him, or so the researchers claim. But, according to mythology, Vlad's heart—preserved in honey—and some soil from his native Wallachia were placed into the box and returned to Transylvania. Rosalie knows all the other good parts of the story. What matters now is that we have it at last."

"We? Who else is involved?"

"Luther has it."

She said slower than she'd intended, "You let Luther have it?"

"It's not what you think. We worked together to get it. He completed his task of personally recovering it, but I own it. That was our agreement."

He took his hand out of his pocket. "Let me show you something first." He placed a large locket onto the silver tray holding the coffee pot. "Isn't it beautiful? It was supposed to have been placed in the jewelry box on top of Vlad's heart, but somewhere in the journey between the monastery in northern Italy where the ritual was begun and the box's final resting place in the mountains of Transylvania, it disappeared. This is what finally led us to it."

About the size of her palm, the locket base was made up of a gold, eight-pointed star. A two inch square silver box rested in the center of the star. Its lid was completely covered by an oval ruby. It opened easily to reveal the compartment within.

Algernon said, "It was supposed to have held a piece of Vlad's robe that had been stained with a drop of his blood when his heart was removed, as well as a drop of blood from his daughter. Rosalie calls her Maria, but I believe there is a debate about whether or not that was really her name. It contained a different little treasure within when we found it. I will show it to you when you get back with the big prize."

Four tiny pearls sat at the corners of the lid to surround the ruby, four more were centered along the sides of the box.

"Here's the tantalizing part. If you research Vlad, you will surely find the picture of him wearing his crown. Is this locket patterned after an identical cluster on the crown, or is it that part of the crown removed for secret and safe keeping? One contact claimed this is a replica crafted by a man named Aurelio Beniamino, which is interesting because you could interpret his name to mean the Golden Son of the Right Hand of God. Rosalie claims it _is_ from the crown and used to have six large pearls, about the size of big marbles, forming a pyramidal clasp for the locket to attach to a thick, ornate necklace. Unfortunately, the clasp and necklace are both lost to history."

" _C'est vraiment belle_." It's truly beautiful.

With a ham-actor's flourish, Algernon snatched the locket back when she reached for it and then withdrew a piece of paper from that same pocket. He handed her Luther's encoded message. "Read it."

"To glorious Thor's day." She sighed. "You two and your silly codes. Do I have to stand on one foot and touch my elbow to my nose to decipher what this one means?"

"Just read it."

Their word play usually came from the works of Edgar Allen Poe or Shakespeare or the Bible. This note used lines from Poe's _The_ _Raven_.

"Once upon a midnight dreary, while I pondered, weak and weary, over many a quaint and curious volume of forgotten lore. This refers to all his research and work to find the box."

" _Our_ research and work, _ma chère fille_ ," Algernon corrected.

" _Bien sûr_ ," she said and continued reading the note. " _Suddenly, there came a tapping, as someone gently rapping, rapping on my chamber door_. You two are getting far too literal. Those old brain cells of yours don't work so well solving puzzles anymore, do they?"

"Read on, my darling imp."

"I flung the shutter, when, with nary a flirt and flutter, in there stepped a stately Raven of the saintly days of yore. Poe is turning in his grave, but I get it. The package arrived at midnight Thursday."

As per their agreement, Algernon was to now dispatch an emissary immediately to come fetch it. That last part wasn't in code. Luther had simply instructed Algernon to: _Please_ s _end over at your earliest convenience that delightfully beautiful and supple woman you have working for you to retrieve your box_.

The last part of the note made her wonder if Algernon confided in Luther the details of what they had done that one time in the dark and crowded intimacy of his games room. Though Luther Bourque and Algernon Devries had been intense rivals for every last obscure historical or mythological object they could pursue, they were also friends when such pursuits weren't coming between them. The last part of the note also made her once again feel like a golden retriever, an insidious feeling that had refused to leave her alone for twelve years.

"Why did you have me come here? You could have retrieved it yourself."

Algernon grimaced. "You read his note. He wants you."

"I'm not doing anything for him or to him. I'm only going to fetch your _Precious_." She did a decent imitation of Gollum.

"You are too suspicious, _ma chère fille_. I just wanted you to be included in the final acquisition, too."

Algernon rarely left his mansion anymore. He wasn't agoraphobic or even anything close to that. Here was where all his toys were and he wasn't about to leave them unattended for any longer than he had to, which always meant not at all. But asking him such a question was one of the few ways she could make him squirm when he had to come up with some rationalization that, to him at least, sounded reasonable.

"Can I pee first?" That would get him cranked because if he agreed to that he would have to wait. Algernon didn't appear to have any wait left in him this morning.

"You can do that as soon as you're back with the box." He smiled. "It will only take you twenty-seven minutes to get to Nob Hill, take possession of it and return."

She could hardly refuse the man who had used her for over a decade and had also made her rich along the way. Algernon's estimate of the time it would take her to complete the job was accurate. He had also exhibited the good sense to not start timing her.

"When I get back, I am going to soak in your tub for hours. Then I'm going to sleep for a whole day. And I want you to leave me alone while I do." She stopped at the study doorway. "Then we're going to have a long talk about what I am going to do with the rest of my life."

" _Oui, ma chère ange_." Yes, my dear angel.

" _Vous serez la mort de moi, vous vieille chèvre_." You will be the death of me, you old goat.

"I am not that old."

"Just go call a taxi while I go pee."

"Certainly, my dear, whatever you say." He bowed and hitched his robe closed.

That brought a pause to her heart and her thinking. Dracula's jewelry box must have some magical power indeed if Algernon was willing to obey _her,_ dressed as she was, to get it.

# Chapter 6

Her NTSB Go Team landed at the Mariposa-Yosemite airport at 4:15 am, loaded their gear into the two Chevrolet Suburbans waiting for them and headed out along Highway 49. Two hours later, after they had turned off Mosner Road and drove up along gravel access roads onto plateaus looking over valleys southeast of the Merced River; they descended to the floor of a shallow but wide valley running west to east and arrived at the crash site. The plane had gone down inside the western edge of Yosemite National Park. The final telemetry of the flight and where it went down had been incorrect.

Anisha Wong, the human performance specialist of the group, rode in the lead Suburban driven by the Investigator-in-Charge, Carlita Espinoza, who would also handle the preliminary investigation of air traffic control, weather and survival factors because Charlie Mitchell had come down with the flu and they couldn't get someone else on short notice. The structures specialist, Luciano Baratelli, drove the second suburban with Moses Duval, the engines and systems specialist, as his passenger.

She would investigate the crew's performance and any factors that might have affected them, such as fatigue, alcohol, drugs, medical histories, training, workload, equipment design and ergonomics, and their work environment. She would look for any obvious signs of drug or alcohol use during the flight or any other potential human error indicators before returning to Washington to continue her investigation of the crew. She would also investigate the operations of the plane and crewmembers' duties for as many days prior to the crash as was relevant. Her part of the investigation was sometimes known as the Finger of Blame.

The plane had crashed on the north side of the valley. Across from the crash, perhaps a mile and a half wide where they were, two steep, granite bluffs to the southwest stood out against otherwise gentle slopes leading back up to the plateaus. If the plane had struck one of those cliffs, they might not have been able to get to all of the debris.

When she took another look at the bluffs after exiting the Suburban, something at the top of the shorter one glinted in the sunlight that had just come over the peaks of the Sierra Nevada Mountains. She held up her hand and squinted against the glare but could see nothing reflecting the sunlight when she took a last look at the bluff.

She shivered. At least get the investigation started before you get that feeling you are being watched.

Anisha Wong did not consider herself to be a religious person, but she did acknowledge a spiritual component to life. Investigating plane crashes always kept front and center in her mind the people who had died. If they were watching her from somewhere beyond, she owed it to them to do the absolute best job she could on their behalf, for their loved ones and for the safety of all other travellers in the sky.

Investigating crashes hadn't made her afraid of flying in great big metal cans far heavier than air and incredibly fragile to the forces that could come to bear against them. She was just intensely aware of every second that passed while she was up in one. No matter how much she tried not to, she always took a deep breath once the damn thing was back on the ground.

If we were meant to fly. . . .

She joined Baratelli and Duval to gather around Espinoza.

A Fire and Rescue crew of seven had put out the fire easily enough and were in the process of withdrawing from the scene to avoid trampling on the evidence any more than they already had.

Carlita pointed out the extent of the debris field. "I'd say we could be here for at least forty-eight hours before we move off site. Let's review what we've got so far."

Anisha, at least six inches shorter than everyone else there and barely over a hundred pounds, waited for the usual joke about her looking like a child wearing pajamas inside her orange coveralls but it didn't come. Carlita's presence may have had something to do with that.

Luciano said, "It's a modified Cessna Grand Caravan EX owned by Simple'N'Quick Deliveries in Dallas. It was modified by the company from a ten-passenger configuration to six in order to add more cargo room. The modifications were approved." He took his notepad out of the back pocket of his coveralls and flipped through a number of pages. "It left Dallas-Fort Worth at two forty-five pm, stopped at Albuquerque for just over an hour to pick up a special delivery intended for San Francisco and then continued on its way."

Anisha checked her information. "Only two were on board. The pilot was Freddie Krueger, co-owner of the company."

Moses chuckled. "He must have had fun as a child with that name."

She continued, "His crewman was, Jake Long, his partner. They usually worked together on the overnighters."

Luciano said, "They were to deliver their cargo and return to Dallas-Fort Worth with crates of California wines purchased by a number of restaurants in the area."

"Per Albuquerque air traffic control," Carlita said as she reviewed her notes, "just before they were to hand them off communications between them and flight DFW Ten-thirteen became garbled for about twenty seconds before contact was lost." She looked at the wreckage. "Clearly communications wasn't the only thing to go wrong considering we are about seventeen miles east of where it was supposed to be."

The leader of Fire and Rescue came to them. "We're done." He shook his head. "I don't know what you're going to learn from this one, but I would be interested in seeing your final report. Was this an experimental flight?"

Carlita asked, "What do you mean experimental?"

"Could it have been a remote control test? Was someone testing a flight navigation program or automated guidance by satellite? Was this supposed to be some kind of drone?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Take a look for yourself. The crew and passengers are all mannequins."

# Chapter 7

The coordinates for the crash site that Chase had provided were wrong. Upon his arrival in Mariposa, a flash of his DHS badge at the Sheriff's Office, a couple of concocted answers to Sheriff Badger's questions about why he was there and he had the new location.

He concealed his rented pick-up truck a mile away once he spotted the smoke rising from the valley. Sneaking past Fire and Rescue had been easy. One crew was busy putting out the burning Cessna. The other team was making sure the fire didn't spread into the scrub and trees hugging the shore of the shallow creek that emptied into the Merced River. Even the recent heavy rains had added little to its depth. Crossing it had barely created any splashes.

The lowest bluff was the easiest to scale and offered the best vantage point to watch what was happening on the other side of the valley.

He had just raised the binoculars for a look when the NTSB Go Team arrived. Two women exited the lead Suburban, a Hispanic woman driver and a small Chinese woman passenger. Two men got out of the trailing Suburban. The passenger was African-American like him.

The Chinese woman appeared to look straight at him for a moment after she closed her door.

He ducked back and lowered his binoculars. When he looked again, the Go Team had gathered around the Hispanic woman to compare notes.

His phone began vibrating right after the leader of Fire and Rescue came to the Go Team.

He kept watch on the site through the binoculars and put the phone to his ear. "Everyone died in the crash. I don't see Weinberg anywhere, but I do see his work in this. There are cargo containers littering the site. A couple have spilled their contents. From here they look like packages of cigarettes, but I'll bet Weinberg—"

"Harvey wasn't on that flight," Chase said.

"Then why send me here?"

"I needed to confirm that he is up to something again. The containers are that confirmation."

"I can easily get a sample of what he's up to."

"Never mind that, I'll get someone else to take care of it. I've just found out Weinberg was dealing with a man named Anthony Vargas."

"What does he do?"

"He hunts down rare antiques, historical artifacts and archaeological junk for Algernon Devries, an obsessive collector living in San Francisco."

"Is Weinberg looking for something old?"

"You know what he believes himself to be. We need to find out what it is that brought him to Vargas and why he wants it."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"Why would you think I'm withholding anything from you?"

"How long have I worked with you? Is any of this going to get me closer to finding out what happened to Maggie or was that just more phoney bait to reel me in?"

"Get to San Francisco as fast as you can. I'll find out where Vargas is and let you know."

"I will find out more about what Harvey is up to if I stay here. They might be surprised, but they won't question why a DHS agent is on the scene once they find—"

"I said forget the crash. Your assignment is Weinberg." Chase terminated the call.

It was over 170 miles to San Francisco. While he was stuck on the road, Weinberg could implement whatever he was planning, and only Weinberg knew what that was and how many people were in danger because of it.

If he tried telling anyone who wasn't in the trade what atrocities Weinberg and those people he frequently worked with were capable of—and had perpetrated so far—they wouldn't believe him. If he tried telling them who Weinberg claimed himself to be, they would only doubt his sanity.

Chase had told him Weinberg knew what happened to Maggie Hobbs, which meant Chase probably had some knowledge of what happened to her. If he had played a role in her disappearance, Weinberg wasn't going to be the only one held accountable.

He packed up his gear and climbed down the bluff. Using the trees and shrubs near the edge of the creek for cover, he snuck closer to the main wreckage area where Fire and Rescue and NTSB were inspecting the fuselage and the ground immediately around it. The leader of Fire and Rescue was doing most of the talking and pointing.

The two women talked to each other after each thing was pointed out to them. They both shook their heads repeatedly. The Chinese woman was filling her notebook. The African-American member of the team was recording video of everything.

The only words he caught when they came close enough to him during their preliminary survey came from the Chinese woman. "There were only supposed to be two on board."

The leader of Fire and Rescue went back to his unit as the Go Team gathered around the front Suburban. The Hispanic woman assigned areas to each member of her crew and sent them on their way.

The Chinese woman came toward him once the team dispersed.

Crouching down, he snuck along the edge of the creek until he reached a copse of willows, cottonwoods, pine trees and laurel. He had to proceed slowly along the creek bed to avoid disturbing the rocks and being heard.

The Chinese woman came across the creek to his side and emerged from the trees at its edge just as he ducked into the thicket to shield himself from her view. She took another look at the bluff he'd been perched on before going about her work. She resembled a child in pajamas in her loose-fitting, orange coveralls.

His truck was east of his position near the access road on the other side of these trees. There was no clear path ahead of him, and he was only a hundred yards or less from the two teams and the plane. If he used the road, they could easily spot him. The Chinese woman would have a direct line of sight if she looked east once he was out in the open.

A DHS badge would get him out of lengthy explanations, but they would be right to ask why he felt compelled to hide in the bushes and spy on them first rather than just come forward and introduce himself. This was not the way government agencies were supposed to behave toward each other no matter what their respective responsibilities were. Reinforcing a ridiculous stereotype of secret service agents would only make his questions seem more paranoid and sinister to them.

But Chase had changed his orders. He needed to remain hidden, get back to his truck and then get to San Francisco as soon as he could.

Pushing branches aside or ducking under them, he made his way through the dense growth of trees and understory. The sound of footsteps on gravel approaching from behind stopped his progress just as he was about to step over a recently fallen cottonwood.

The African-American man, with the eyepiece of the high-definition video camera held up to his right eye, had followed a debris trail to the eastern edge of the trees near where Frank was headed.

Frank crouched down against the fallen cottonwood and watched the man come closer.

His gaze and his camera were fixed on the debris on the ground. He wasn't likely to see anyone hiding unless he searched in the trees.

Frank put his hand on the tree trunk to slip over it. Two spindly branches sticking up had to be bent out of the way first. On the other side of it, he could look out at the crash site from a well-concealed position between two mature willows.

The NTSB investigator followed the trail of debris back to the SUVs with his gaze and camera still focused on the ground.

Once the man was back at the vehicles, and far enough away to not likely notice movement in the trees if he looked back, Frank turned to continue on his way. He kept checking behind for anyone to be coming closer to him. On his fourth stride, his left foot kicked something heavy and rubbery. He went down on top of it.

First, he checked to see if anyone from NTSB or Fire and Rescue was coming his way. After confirming no one was nearby, he got up and looked down at what had tripped him. The sight of it made him stagger back and step on something else. He would have gone down again if the trunk of the fallen cottonwood hadn't stopped him.

A torso with one arm still attached and part of a red and blue plaid shirt on it had sent him to the ground. It was plastic like a mannequin, but it wasn't hollow. It could be mistaken for a section of one of those plastic cadavers used in medical schools except for the real damaged and bloody organs inside of it.

What he had almost tripped over while stepping back was the plastic head of a man. Mannequins always looked so inhuman because their expressions were vacuously fixed and because their dead, staring eyes weren't real. This one had a fixed expression—one that would terrify almost anyone who saw it—but the eyes were real, wide open and glistening. Blue eyes stared up at him, a plea to remember that the thing he was looking at used to be a real human being.

Raising his arms to protect his face, Frank Gillett crashed his way out of the grove of trees and ran back to his truck.

# Chapter 8

Luther Bourque and Algernon Devries shared a passion for collecting, but they were not identical twins in that regard, or fraternal twins, or very much alike at all. In the twelve years she'd been with Algernon—to say working for him didn't quite cover it— she'd experienced a lot of surprises, but the biggest of them all was to find these two working together.

She got out of the taxi in front of Luther Bourque's Victorian house on Jackson Street, one of the few in Nob Hill. At the top of the five stairs to the front porch she found the door ajar. Even if Luther was expecting her, someone like him wouldn't leave the front door open. In terms of their homes, their giant reliquaries of oddities, novelties and exotica, Luther and Algernon were identical twins. Their homes, their castles, were secure fortresses against intruders.

Luther leaving the front door unlocked and ajar to let even her walk right in was like Satan leaving the gates of hell ajar to let someone walk right out. It went against the laws of the universe.

She stopped one step inside the entrance still holding on to the door knob and called, "Luther, I'm here for the box."

Though he was as equally capable of a theatrical entrance as Algernon, Luther did not come in response to her greeting.

She sighed. " _Je suis fâché par deux vieillards gâtés_." I am vexed by two spoiled old men.

Was Luther out back in his flower garden?

"Impossible. Luther!"

Luther Bourque was sixty-seven, an inch or two below six feet tall, but only about 115 pounds. Whereas Algernon's profligate and voluptuous life required he deny himself nothing, Luther's greatest other vice was abstinence. He'd been dangerously anorexic his whole adult life.

Algernon had frequently recited, "I'm afraid my good friend will one day just blow away in a strong breeze." If Algernon had had the lung capacity, he might have even tried such a feat himself during one of their frequent competitions to collect something before the other one got his hands on it.

Luther's office was at the back of the house on the right. Its door was also ajar.

She'd only been inside Luther Bourque's house twice before. Neither time was because Luther and Algernon were working together or cooperating in any way. She had been required to act as emissary to prevent any escalation of hostilities between them. Each time she'd been here, Luther Bourque had been a scrawny, antagonistic _le cul de cheval_ , horse's ass, and the thick oak door to his office had been closed and locked.

" _Le monde doit être touche à sa fin_." The world must be coming to an end.

Inside the office—not as ascetic as one might expect after seeing Luther's emaciated figure—she found the center drawer of his antique desk unlocked and open. Not to be outdone by Algernon, Luther had an antique French mounted-pedestal desk of the same plum pudding mahogany but with ormolu mounts for the gilded brass drawer handles and matching ormolu trim on each end. The top still had its brown hide writing leather with gilt tooling. Algernon had been required to restore the top on his desk. Bull nosed edging with a fine line of brass around all sides finished the top. As fascinating as these details would be to a collector, however, they receded into the background once she spotted what was on the floor under the open drawer when she came closer.

"Mon Dieu!"

Luther was sprawled face down on the floor. His left foot rested on one of the legs of his leather executive chair.

"Merde."

She withdrew her cellphone from her bag as she walked over to Luther. No obvious sign of what killed him was visible. But then, she had to admit to herself, she wouldn't know how to be sure he hadn't died from starvation or some other complication from his condition unless she could see a wound.

No jewelry box sat on top of the desk. The screensaver on his laptop was cycling through some of the treasures he possessed and items he had been currently pursuing. She looked around the office but couldn't see the box anywhere. Only when she looked back down at Luther did she realize she had put her phone to her ear without placing a call to the police.

" _Ce salaud m'a bien formé_." That bastard has trained me well.

She was still looking for the box with Luther crumpled at her feet because unconsciously she knew Algernon wouldn't let a minor inconvenience like Luther _étre_ _morte,_ being dead, delay or prevent the retrieval of his _precieux_ _nouveau_ _jouet,_ precious new toy. They had reached an agreement and he was entitled to the box. That was all that would matter to him. The antique clock in his head was accurately ticking away the time it was taking her to return with it.

She looked around the office again, spotted an original Howard Carter painting of a lion, complete with cartouche down the side, and a Henry Ryland full nude—very rare—but still no jewelry box. This search also ended back at the desk, where she had presumed Dracula's jewelry box should be. One hypnotic cycle through Luther's screensaver did not include an image of any jewelry box.

"Merde!"

When she looked into the open drawer once more, she spotted a notebook inside it. It was open to a page covered in scribbles and stained with Luther's blood. The scribbles were the symbolic code Luther and Algernon used to send messages to each other. It was made up of mathematical and geometric symbols, Greek letters and a squiggly cuneiform of their own design, though, to her, the squiggly lines did seem a bit derivative. Algernon had a custom-made keyboard with their symbols on it to speed up the process of creating their silly missives. Only three people knew how to use the code, which led to another code. She was one of them.

Luther's blood on the notebook created a trail up and over the edge of the drawer where Luther had held onto it. Some of the blood had dripped onto the floor. She spotted the pool of it beside Luther when she looked down to see where the drips would have landed. The blood appeared to have come from his head.

" _Il est toujours là_." It's still here.

The obvious conclusion to be drawn, though not necessarily the correct one, was Luther had been killed during the theft of Dracula's jewelry box, which was only going to perpetuate the curse associated with it. But Luther had already concealed the box and had survived long enough after the attack to write out two lines of symbols as a clue to where he'd hidden it.

She stepped over Luther to read the cypher. It only took two minutes to decipher the symbols into the other code and realize a dead man was on the floor between her feet.

" _Merde_." She read the code aloud, "To look up is to see heaven, but to keep one's gaze fixed on the ground is to never lose sight of the path one needs to take. _Merde_."

She stepped away from Luther and came around to the other side of the desk to put him out of sight. She dialed Algernon's landline. After seven rings, a digital female voice instructed her to leave her name, phone number and a brief message.

"Luther is dead. The box is gone. I'm going to call the police now."

She then called Algernon's mobile phone's number. After four rings she was sent to his voicemail. She left the same message and then added, "Algernon, stop whatever you're doing and call me _tout de suite!_ "

She left an identical text message, but that was useless. Algernon did not know how to text, did not respond to any that popped up to annoy him and handed his mobile phone over to her every time she visited to _deal with them_.

Where was he? He should be pacing about in his royal blue robe and miserable bliss of anticipation while waiting for her to call once she had the box. That was his way. He should have answered one of his phones immediately.

Had Luther and Algernon really been cooperating? Was Algernon behind the killing? Did he already have the box? Was he setting her up for threatening to leave him once and for all, as she had been doing for the past two years?

"Vous ne pouvez pas être sérieux." You can't be serious.

Algernon's previous responses to her threats had always been to deflect them with another assignment, dismiss them as just whining because she was tired after a particularly arduous scavenger hunt or else he just refused to discuss the matter.

Algernon was devious and had the scruples of convenience that made him so effective at acquiring what he wanted. He had never resorted to eliminating the competition in the past, though. If the treasure was important enough to him, however, he might be capable of killing to get it, especially now that he saw eternity catching up to him and his kinky thread of life getting rapidly shorter. But he'd been unable to hide his excitement and impatience when she'd arrived at his mansion. She'd seen him in that state enough times before. His behavior was genuine this time as well.

Algernon did not have the box. Whoever tried to rob Luther didn't have the box. It was still here, in this room.

She started to call Algernon again, but canceled and instead took another look around the office. "But to keep one's gaze fixed on the ground is to never lose sight of the path one needs to take. To look up is to see heaven."

She looked up at the ceiling but only saw an exquisite Danville Chrystal chandelier descending from it. There was no secret cubbyhole or panel above her. There was no heaven up there.

If she called the police, they would probably arrive before she ever found the box. She would never see it and Algernon would never get it within his acceptable timeframe. When the police got there didn't matter. They could just as easily come after she was gone.

"Dont les scrupules sont maintenant en pratiques?" Whose scruples are being convenient now?

She looked down at the carpet laid out over the oak floor unable to decide what to do next. Her gaze began drifting over the images at her feet.

The carpet was one of the few things in Luther's office that wasn't antique or smuggled out of some Persian palace in the eighteenth century. Luther had likely designed it and then had it custom made.

High quality materials and excellent craftsmanship had woven an intricate tapestry of the trading of goods in the Old World. There were scenes of people travelling roads, crossing deserts, sailing the seas, using camels and oxen, horse-drawn carts and wagons. People carried loads in bundles and baskets on their backs, or they balanced them on their heads. Every method of transportation and delivery from the Old World was depicted on the carpet. Given how Algernon and Luther both viewed the world, and their exalted positions in it, this was symbolic of the old things they collected. It told some story, fable or legend perhaps only Luther and Algernon knew, or else had concocted for their own self-glorification.

In amongst that busy motif, a cobble road stood out because it was empty. Every other vector on the carpet exhibited a parade of transport and delivery from specific eras, but not the cobble road. It started at the corner of the carpet by the door and wended its way across the rug and the room, crossing other paths, roads and trails, twisting and turning but never carrying any traffic wherever it went. It ended at the edge of the carpet three feet from the window beside the French doors to the patio and Luther's luscious flower garden of pinkish-white Manzanitas, purple California Lilac, yellow Monkey Flower and orange California Fuchsia.

" _Pourquoi pas_?" Why not?

Following the cobble road, she walked over to the window and stood at its terminus. Below the window, a small, rectangular antique writing table with caryatid legs carved out of white marble rested at an acute angle to the wall rather than parallel to it or up against it.

Luther would not tolerate something askew like that.

She knelt down, careful to remain on the carpet at the end of the cobble road, and looked at the dark oak floor below the table. She touched it and immediately felt something wet and sticky: Luther's blood. A closer inspection of the carpet revealed drops of blood creating a path almost exactly along the cobble road back to the desk. Had Luther intentionally left another clue or was he just staggering about after the attack?

" _Qu'importe_?" What does it matter?

She moved the small table aside and felt along the hardwood next to the wall until she touched more sticky spots of blood.

One spot of blood, about the size of a quarter, had been cleaved in half along a join between two pieces of the three-inch strips of oak. It had seeped into a crack in the floor. She felt along the crack with a fingernail for three feet before coming to a corner. A ninety-degree left turn allowed her to follow another crack for two feet. She had to move the writing table farther out of the way and roll back the carpet to complete her trace. Two thirds of the door to a compartment below had been covered by Luther's depiction of Old World trade.

The trapdoor was obvious now that she had uncovered it and registered the tracing of it in her mind, but she saw no cord or latch or handle with which to open it.

"Merde."

She ran her hands over the door, scraped at and tried to grab its edges. Over and over and over again she would try one side then another and another and another. She tried to pry up a corner, wedge it open at a crack with her fingers. She broke two fingernails. Her left middle finger was seeping a small amount of blood and bruising under the damaged nail.

"Merde! Merde! Merde!"

Jacqueline licked away the blood, shook her hand against the stinging, stood up and stomped on the barrier.

It creaked and cracked its irritation but also its determination not to yield. She was not going to stomp her way through it to get at what was inside the compartment below.

It had to be Dracula's jewelry box. How had it ended up hidden under the floor?

After pacing the room and stopping to press or stomp on the door three more times, she took out her phone. " _Laissez la police comprendre_." Let the police figure it out.

She pressed 9 . . . 1 . . . but then put her phone away, knelt down at the door and ran her hands over it again, pressing everywhere against the oak strips. She felt nothing that would indicate a concealed latch or handle or strip of oak that could be removed.

"This is getting me nowhere."

She ran her fingers slowly along the edges again. Near the middle of the side normally hidden by the carpet, the fingernail of her trailing baby finger snagged on something about an inch from the edge. She pried up a six inch square segment of the oak flooring to reveal a metal panel five inches square. The panel contained a key slot and a two inch by four inch LED screen to the right of the slot.

Holding the piece of oak, she followed the cobble road and the trail of Luther's blood back to the desk. She looked down at Luther, resisted the urge to move him from his crumpled and uncomfortable position, and then checked the blood-stained notebook for any additional clues other than the code.

The biggest of the six blood stains on the notebook, the one that had led a trail of blood to the edge of the drawer and then to the floor, left a fingerprint; from its size a thumbprint. Luther had held the notebook to place it into the drawer but he had died before he could close the drawer.

The key to the drawer and the trapdoor was likely in one of his pockets.

She sighed and started to kneel down. When her right hand took hold of the open drawer for support, it slipped on the blood and knocked the notebook aside to expose the bloody set of keys underneath it. To be precise, it was two identical keys covered in Luther's blood and held on a simple circle of wire.

She snatched up the keys, wiped off the blood on them with tissue from a box of Kleenex on the desk and returned to the writing desk, this time taking a direct shortcut across the carpet rather than following the meandering cobble road. She had already trod on too many drops of his blood.

Both keys fit. A turn to the right with the second key lit up a LED keypad on the screen. She had to key in a combination to unlock the door.

" _Juste un truc infernal après l'autre avec ces deux_." Just one infernal trick after another with these two.

Given both Luther's and Algernon's penchant for antiques, the keypad was incongruous at first glance. Why would Luther settle for a very modern digital combination lock rather than some set of ancient knobs or dials that had to be turned to properly align figures or squiggles to unlock his treasure chest?

" _Vous perdez temps de s'interroger sur les bâtises comme ça_." You are wasting time wondering about such nonsense.

Luther had conceded that modern technology was more effective and expedient. He might have been unable to find such an antique locking device. He certainly would have considered it fraudulent and a betrayal of his values to make a replica.

"What would the combination be?"

If all this had happened at Algernon's house, she could probably figure out the code quickly enough, but this was Luther Bourque's home. She knew next to nothing about him except for the few eccentric traits he had in common with her employer.

"Can I use those common traits as a guide?" She looked around the room and tried to piece together what she knew with what might have happened.

Luther had placed Dracula's jewelry box into his secret compartment below his office floor. He knew she was coming to take possession of it. Did he also know someone else was coming or had he been surprised by an intruder?

If he knew the other person, then it was possible Luther was reneging on his deal with Algernon. Even God couldn't anticipate what minor irritants might pop up between those two that would create a rift lasting for years. If that was what was happening here, why would that person attack Luther?

If the attacker was an intruder, then it was possible a third party was after the box. Luther could have been aware of the third party and hidden the box as a precaution. Was the killer really gone? Was he biding his time somewhere in the house watching her now?

She shivered and shook her head. " _NO_!"

If the killer hadn't left, he would have observed Luther's behavior after the attack because Luther had left that trail of blood on the carpet after the attack.

Luther had unlocked his desk's center drawer, written the coded message in the notebook and had hidden the keys under it before he died. He had also left a bloody trail along his cobble road to the secret compartment under his office floor. He would have known she could decipher the codes, but he wanted to leave bloody bread crumbs as a backup.

"But how does all that tell me what the combination is?"

The code was the hard part. Once the first drop of blood was found, though the carpet overall was dark—the cobble road being dark shades of brown and grey—the trail would be easy enough to follow to its end.

The combination had to be equally simple. Luther was honoring his agreement and he knew she was coming. All of this was for her.

She glanced down at the glowing keypad. "His birthdate?"

One of the weakest and most obvious combinations that people used as passwords was their own birthdate or that of a child. Luther had no family.

One of her two previous visits to soothe the ruffled feathers of _deux_ _corbeaux de vieux_ _grincheux,_ two cranky old crows, was to deliver a birthday present to Luther as a peace offering. It had been the Rumal of a Thuggee leader in nineteenth century India that Algernon had beat him to. The date had been September 17th. Luther was sixty-seven. It was reasonable to think the code would be something she could ascertain.

She keyed in the year, month and day of Luther's birth as the six-number code and pressed enter.

The keypad flashed and beeped but nothing happened.

She turned the key back, the keypad went off. She turned the key to the right again and the keypad came back on.

"This is it, Luther. I haven't got all . . . sorry."

She keyed in Luther's date of birth as day, month and year with year as four digits and pressed enter.

The keypad blinked and beeped three times. The door began to vibrate and rumble as something inside it moved. A loud click and a mechanical gasp as the door popped its airtight seal confirmed it had unlocked. A T-shaped rod about three inches long popped up from the metal plate that housed the lock and keypad.

Jacqueline took hold of the handle and pulled. The door didn't budge.

"This is ridiculous." She stood up, straddled the door, bent over, took hold of the handle with both hands and lifted with her legs.

The heavy two foot by three foot covering wasn't hinged to open. It tilted first and then lifted off from the metal compartment below. A metal box housing the machinery of the lock was fastened to the underside of it. From each side of that box three metal rods protruded to fit into the holes of a metal frame attached to the subfloor. The whole thing was a custom-made safe built to fit into the opening cut out between the floor joists.

Luther was no match physically for anyone over fourteen years of age. It was hard to imagine him getting the cover off without a struggle.

Dracula's jewelry box, an unadorned half-barrel treasure chest shape as long as a loaf of bread, twice as wide and twice as high, was the only thing in the safe.

After removing the box, she called Algernon again but he still didn't answer. " _Merde_."

Back at the desk, she set the box down and inspected it. A crouching serpent dragon on the top, its wings folded over its back and down along its sides, acted as a handle. She could only get three fingers through the gap below the folded wing on one side and the tips of them hit the folded wing on the other.

Four of the carvings on the outside of the box were Aristotelian alchemical symbols for air, a triangle with a horizontal line through it; fire, a triangle; water, an upside down triangle; and earth, an upside down triangle with a horizontal line through it. The other symbols carved into it meant nothing to her. If Algernon didn't know what they were for, Rosalie likely would.

She held her breath and slowly opened the arching lid. No vampire materialized out of ash, earth or a fog suddenly rising up from within the box. Vlad's heart was missing. The interior was an empty, clean and polished compartment of lacquered oak, darkened over time. It revealed no obvious stains or scratches to indicate it ever held the amulet Algernon had shown her, soil from Transylvania or a heart that had been preserved in honey.

The exterior of the box hadn't held up as well over its six hundred and seventy years or more of existence. Large cracks had formed in the sides that would one day split the box into pieces. It had all the appearance of someone's small toy box having been left out in the backyard for too long, all in all a very unimpressive collectible.

Once she delivered it to Algernon, her responsibility and commitment to him would be over. She could call the police once she was back in a taxi and be gone before they arrived, get this hunk of splitting hollow wood back to Forest Hill, then return to Vancouver as quickly as possible and get on with the rest of her life.

The brass catch of the blood-stained latch didn't click when she closed the lid. It had been damaged, but that was Algernon's problem now. When she wiped along the latch plate with a tissue to remove Luther's blood, she felt a small bump. She felt it again with more pressure and a bare finger. It clicked and depressed.

A shallow drawer popped open from the base below the latch plate. Inside the drawer, contained within a formed plastic holder lined with black felt, were three sealed ampules containing about ten cubic centimeters of liquid in each, one red, one blue and one clear.

Approaching sirens quickly got louder.

She carefully slid the drawer closed and picked up the box. She reached the front hall just as two SFPD patrol cars arrived outside.

" _Ce que vous deux idiots m'as en ce moment_?" What have you two idiots got me into this time?

Her phone began ringing.

# Chapter 9

They were human remains not parts of mannequins, and there were five people on board flight DFW1013—all men—not just the two owners of the company. That discovery only made the scene that much more lurid. Her whole team and Captain Patrick Hightower took an hour together to do a preliminary inspection of the scene before Luciano and Moses started their inspection of the Cessna.

Hightower accompanied her and Carlita back to their Suburban.

He asked, "What could do that to a person?"

"I will assume," Carlita replied, "that was a rhetorical question for now."

"No, not really. We could have all been exposed to whatever that is." He returned to his squad. They didn't leave, but they stayed out of the way.

Anisha said, "He does have a point, Carlita. Maybe we should call in the CDC."

"I will put in the call, but we've been here for over an hour. Patrick and his team have been here for much longer than that. Believe me, Anisha, I'm as frightened as everyone else, but I think whatever it is appears to no longer be active."

"Albuquerque reported garbled conversation, right?"

"Yes, they were about to leave their air control range. Up to that point the communication had been routine. Then Krueger started coughing when he tried to say good-bye. Three seconds later, Albuquerque tower heard what sounded like a cry of pain, then static and then flight ten-thirteen out of Dallas-Fort Worth was gone."

"Weather?"

"It was clear for over two hundred miles in every direction with a full moon overhead. Winds were less than three knots from the northwest."

"Krueger and Scott had flown to Oklahoma City, then to Little Rock and back to Dallas-Fort Worth the day before. It was a long haul, but they had adequate rest before taking off for Albuquerque. There is no evidence at this point of them doing anything else but that."

"Fatigue wasn't likely a factor, then."

"What happened to them could be the cause."

"That could have happened after they crashed."

"They were torn apart by the impact. I think they were affected before the crash. It would be hard for whatever that phenomenon or substance was to affect all the parts dispersed all over the place the way they are here. The transformation, for lack of a better term at the moment, is on all the parts we've found so far. That wouldn't likely be possible if the transformation happened after the crash. Granted, some of the organs appear to be only partly affected, but. . . ."

"Sometimes, Anisha, you really gross me out. Could a drug have affected them like that?"

"I've heard of getting stoned but not of being turned into plastic."

"See what I mean about you?"

Moses came back to them. "There is no record at Dallas-Fort Worth or Albuquerque of three passengers being on the flight. They did have to wait for over an hour at Albuquerque for their special cargo to arrive."

Carlita said to her, "Expand your search west toward those two bluffs. I'll see what Moses has." She said to Moses, "How do you miss three passengers? What special cargo?"

"Albuquerque doesn't know," he said as they headed for the plane wreckage. "They have lost. . . . They are reviewing their paperwork and video surveillance records now to. . . ."

She kept her gaze on the ground as she crossed the creek. Rocks made the footing uneven. Stands of trees dotted the edges of the creek along both sides. Understory vegetation was light in the thicket she passed through once she was on the west side of the creek—itself ranging from fifty to sixty feet wide and only a few inches deep at most. Little of the heavy rain for the past two weeks had made its way here.

She pictured in her mind the grid they would eventually set up. She would work her way back through it from the base of the bluffs. She never reached them.

What at first appeared to be a natural path between two sets of laurel bushes leading to the bluffs became a gouge in the ground when she got closer. The cause of the gouge was a grey container the size of a standard cooler for drinks but made of a single piece of reinforced, stamped and formed aluminum rather than plastic. The container appeared ready for some business to spray it with the company colors and then stencil on the logo. The hinged lid had popped open to spill out some of its contents.

She picked up a small but hard white, unmarked box just a bit larger than a package of cigarettes with the same flip-open style blue lid. The spot of glue that held the lid had given way on impact. The box was made of a thick plastic shell, perhaps two millimeters, with a plastic liner another one millimeter thick protecting a soft foam interior with three recesses in it. Each recess held a sealed ampule about two inches long containing about ten cubic centimeters of clear, green liquid.

Her chest pinched, her breath caught as she looked around at the spilled contents. There were dozens of packages scattered around her. Over half of them had broken the seal that kept the lid closed.

She took a deep breath before she could stop herself and began trembling. "It's okay. Just take it slow. Remember your training, stay focused." She closed her eyes and held her breath for a count of five. "What do you see?"

She could find no broken ampules nearby. There were no pools or stains of green liquid on the ground or on any of the plants nearby, No green mist hovered near the ground, lingered in the understory or floated above her. No toxic green cloud was coming from or heading toward the point of impact and her colleagues.

She slowly took another deep breath and then exhaled as quickly as she could. Though she felt slightly dizzy, that was probably her own doing not from something she might have inhaled. She flipped the lid of the package closed and headed back to the crash site.

Carlita, Luciano and Moses were standing at the front of the Suburban again.

Carlita spotted her first. "Did you find anything in their flight plans about picking up three passengers somewhere along the way?"

"Only cargo." She held up the box with her thumb firmly keeping the lid closed. "They were inside an unmarked aluminum container that was tossed from the plane in the crash."

Luciano said, "There were four of those containers in the cargo hold. They appear to have survived the crash intact."

Carlita said, "Check the cargo manifest."

"I already have," she said. "There isn't supposed to be anything like this on the plane. The manifest, inspected and signed as it should be, records only cartons of balloons for Rippington Party Supplies in San Francisco and empty crates for the wine they were to pick up."

She removed her thumb, carefully opened the lid and drew out the foam containing the ampules of green liquid. "I think I've found what they picked up in Albuquerque."

Her teammates all backed away from her.

"They are intact," she said, though her voice trembled.

Carlita, Luciano and Moses looked her over from head to toe.

"I didn't step in any of it. I didn't get any spilled on me. I don't think I've breathed any of it in. If I did, I don't think it's active anymore." She looked to Carlita and added, "As you suggested earlier."

There was, she knew, no reason for them to find her words reassuring.

"You are probably correct," Carlita said, though her voiced trembled, too.

"The report from air traffic control indicates whatever went wrong inside the plane happened very quickly. I've been around this stuff for close to thirty minutes now. I feel fine."

The trio stepped back to put more distance between themselves and her.

From their gathering spot, Fire and Rescue started for them, but Carlita signalled for them to remain where they were.

"I don't blame you for being cautious." She took two steps back. "I feel fine. I did not find any broken vials where I picked this up. But I will keep my distance."

Luciano checked himself for any of the green liquid. "I was crawling around in there for twenty minutes." He began frantically wiping himself off as if fire ants were crawling all over him.

Carlita said, "What do you think it could be?"

Anisha took another three steps back and raised her voice to be heard. "It could be a new designer drug for the street, but I don't think so. The alternative scenarios are even scarier to consider."

"Whatever it is," Moses said and wiped his brow, "we could be looking at what brought down flight ten-thirteen. With a cargo like that and three mystery passengers and what they are now, I would say we are looking at some sort of illegal activity behind this crash."

Carlita started for the side of the Suburban but only continued after Anisha took six more steps back.

She opened the driver's door and reached in for the radio. "I'll call the boss and let her know this is probably a hazardous materials criminal investigation." She then said to Anisha, "We will get you some help, I promise."

There was, she knew, no reason for her to find Carlita's promise to be reassuring. "I will go back to the container I found."

Carlita, Luciano and Moses all flinched, but not one of them insisted she stay there.

If the green liquid inside these vials was what turned five people into mannequins, that could be her fate now, too. She still felt fine and what she had said about the event on the Cessna happening rapidly seemed the most plausible interpretation of the evidence they had found. Out in the open, though, the process could take longer because she hadn't breathed in enough of the toxin. It might only be partially effective in an open space or else too dispersed to be effective at all. If the molecules of the toxin were large enough, they might be too heavy to remain aloft for very long without some force propelling them.

Hightower and his team had been here for hours. They were all still alive and none of them was complaining of unusual sensations or changes or feeling ill.

She headed back to the container to wait for CDC and FBI to respond. She was probably in no danger, but she did have to consider the possibility that she was returning to the container to die alone as another mannequin- _itis_ victim, a little, plastic China doll in orange coveralls.

"Dammit." Sometimes, she grossed herself out, too.

# Chapter 10

She took a quick glance at the caller ID before answering her phone as two of the uniformed officers approached the front door that she had left wide open. The other two officers were going around to the back.

"Luther's dead," she said. "I think he's been murdered. Why didn't you respond to my earlier calls? Where are you? What are you doing? The police have just arrived. _Vous avez à moi sortier de ce bourbier_." You have to get me out of this quagmire.

"Jacqueline, slow down."

She had backed up to Luther's office. "He's dead. He was dead when I arrived. Why didn't you answer my calls?"

"Unexpected company arrived. Do you have the box?"

" _Oui, j'ai voitre boîte stupide_ ; _cesser d'être aussi égoïste_." Yes, I have your stupid box; stop being so selfish.

She stepped back into the office and closed the door as quickly and quietly as she could as the two officers entered slowly through the front door. They had drawn their guns. She did not lock the office door.

"You don't have visitors."

"Despite what you believe to be true about me, I have one now."

"Who is it?"

"You must get the box to me as soon as you can. Do not let the police take it."

"Have you finally lost your mind? How am I supposed to do that?"

"Do not worry, Jacqueline," Algernon said in a whisper she could barely hear. He then terminated the call.

" _Vous lāche tas de._ . . ." You cowardly pile of. . . .

She reached for the doorknob but stopped short of turning the center latch to lock it. It was going to be bad enough when they found her in the room with Dracula's jewelry box tucked under her arm and Luther dead on the floor without making them have to break down the door.

Algernon, _vous être mieux appeler tout le monde que vous savez dans San Francisco avec connexions dès maintenant ou je vais casser cette boîte antique sur vous une tête antique_. Algernon, you had better be calling everyone you know in San Francisco with connections right now or I'm going to smash this antique box over your antique head.

She backed up to the desk, called Algernon's landline again and again got shunted to the answering machine. She wished the voice had at least been Algernon's rather than the cold pre-recorded female voice that came with the phone. Calling his cell phone just sent her to his voicemail.

His unexpected guest was keeping him from answering even after what she had just told him. Who was it, foreign dignitaries trying to sell him a throne from their country's days of monarchy rule? With Algernon's capricious swings in enthusiasm for collectibles, had the throne suddenly replaced the jewelry box as the must-have item in his life? He had abandoned items that he coveted in the past when something more compelling to him came within reach.

She left the same warning on both, "The police have entered the house. You better get me out of this fast because the longer it takes the more likely they are going to ask questions you don't want me to answer. Your company can wait."

Algernon had always been meticulous in his approach to acquiring his collection. Being extremely private and careful was the name of the game in his world. Even the source of his enormous wealth was well concealed. It had something to do with Silicon Valley and the development of drugs for the treatment of various human diseases, but in her twelve years with him, that's as close as she had come to his secret empire.

The police were still proceeding slowly, but they were coming straight to the office. She could steal a few more moments if she locked the office door.

Why do you think of getting more time in terms of stealing? What good would two more minutes do you?

While camping near _Lac_ _Matagami_ in Quebec when she was eight years old, she had taken a walk by herself along the bank of a rapidly flowing creek. Her family camped there every summer. The creek created three pools of water along its way. Everyone swam in them.

But that year spring had been cool. The snow melt had come late. Near the end of June the rushing water was higher and faster than usual. She walked out into the cold water until it was up to her thighs, her ritual for getting used to the icy flow before swimming in the last pool, the shallowest of the three. It spilled over into a waterfall. Before she could turn around to walk back out this time, the current knocked her off her feet.

If not for a group of teenagers swimming near the falls, she would have been carried over a drop of eighty-nine feet. It had been blind, stupid luck, but getting saved had altered her. Since then she had been resolved to do whatever she wanted regardless of any fears standing in her way because curling up into a shivering, terrified ball again for the rest of her life was an unacceptable alternative.

Meeting Algernon Devries in Paris while she was travelling after graduating from McGill University fit right in with her philosophy. She hadn't looked back or questioned where her life was going until two years ago after barely escaping one violent assignment in Libya with _only_ her life to bring back to Algernon. Was the gaining of wisdom just a matter of losing one's nerve or finally understanding the fragile and singular nature of life?

With Luther at her feet, this was like being back in that creek. No matter how much she braced herself against the desk, her legs wanted to give out under her. If she tried to move, she would go down onto Luther and be washed away into the SFPD investigation. If she had been set up, she would, at the very least, be implicated in a murder and attempted robbery.

"Merde."

A current of frantic thoughts just kept battering her. Where the hell was Algernon? Why wasn't he calling her back? Had he abandoned her? Would he deny any knowledge of the box and what she was doing here?

" _Calmez-vous et pense que cela à travers_." Calm yourself and think this through.

She sat on the corner of the desk, set down the jewelry box, put her hand over her heart and took slow, deep breaths.

There wasn't enough time to return the box to the compartment in the floor, replace and lock the heavy lid, and then put the carpet back into place. She wasn't familiar with the office, so couldn't think of somewhere else she could hide it.

Why try to hide it, though? What good would that do her? It could just as easily be the evidence that gets her out of this mess.

It was Dracula's jewelry box. She was just here to pick it up for her boss. Algernon had not abandoned her. He had certainly not abandoned the box no matter what obsession his guest was now dangling in front of him. That was not Algernon, not this time, anyway. He would verify her story easily enough once he had finished with his guest. There was nothing unusual about why she was here, except for Luther being dead and the ampules of red, blue and clear liquid in a secret drawer.

"Merde!"

Could forensic science determine if her fingerprints on the box and anything else she'd touched in here come after Luther was dead?

The footsteps stopped on the other side of the door. One of the officers spoke but she couldn't make out what he said. The knob began to turn.

Jacqueline grabbed the corner of the desk to keep from going down as she turned to run for the French doors, but she still stumbled with her first step. When her left knee struck the end of the desk, the ormolu lacework on it snagged the edge of her parka. A quick yank freed it but she went no further. The two other police officers, a Hispanic man and an African-American woman, both with their guns out, were approaching from the flower garden.

# Chapter 11

Luther was beyond caring, but if he were still alive, or if this was Algernon's house, both of them would be aghast at the prospect of a Hispanic man and an African-American woman entering either sanctuary.

Algernon Devries and Luther Bourque both fancied themselves as San Francisco royalty—snobbish royalty, to be precise—and as such their genteel bigotry manifested itself in euphemistic terms meant to disguise their prejudice. 'Those of the rising sun' or 'ones enslaved by their passions' or 'good working stock migrating from the south' had led to another ultimatum from her to stop using those disgusting phrases in her presence or she would not continue to work for such a _vieil âne flatulent_ , flatulent old donkey. In retrospect, much of her relationship with Algernon had been framed by a series of ultimatums. It had been the only way to get through to him most of the time.

" _Pourquoi êtes-vous penser des choses comme ça maintenant?_ " Why are you thinking of things like that now?

The two uniformed officers stopped before they reached the French doors, stepped aside and let an inspector pass between them. The door to the office opened. The two other uniformed officers, both of them Caucasian men, came into the office with their guns aimed at her.

Jacqueline sat on the corner of the desk and raised her hands.

The inspector signaled to the two policemen. The pair immediately went back into the hall to stand guard at the open door. He then stepped up and tapped the glass. He pointed to the locking bolt above the brass handle.

She walked on wobbly legs to the doors, unlocked the bolt and opened both sides.

He held up his SFPD badge as he came in. Just over six feet tall, with short, light-brown hair, strong shoulders, big hands and powerful strides, his flick of a smile conveyed equal amounts of threat and reassurance. "Inspector Scott Kozlowski," he said. "Who are you and where is he?"

"Jacqueline Duquesne." She led him back to Luther, stepping over the cobble road on the way.

As he knelt down to check Luther's wound he asked, "What are you doing here?"

"My boss sent me to pick up that." She pointed to the box on the desk.

Kozlowski looked up at it and then at her. His pale-blue eyes seemed less ambiguous than his smile. "And what is _that_?"

"Dracula's jewelry box," she replied and stepped to the other side of the desk to put it between her and Luther's body. "It has a curse on it."

He stood up. "Come again?"

"Are you going to arrest me, Inspector Kozlowski?"

"We'll get to that. What about the box . . . and the curse?"

"Shouldn't we get out of here so we don't contaminate the scene, or whatever it is we might do to destroy vital evidence?"

"We'll get to that, but first tell me about the box."

"And the curse, of course. According to my boss, Algernon Devries—"

"The guy who owns the Devries Gallery and Museum?"

"The very same. Algernon and Luther—"

"The guy on the floor."

"Yes, Inspector Kozlowski, the _guy_ on the floor. May I continue uninterrupted or would you rather slap on your handcuffs and take me downtown where there is more glare to the lights?"

He flicked that smile again and nodded for her to continue. The smile overruled any friendliness in his eyes.

" _Vous êtes trop gentil, inspecteur_."

"I detect some sarcasm in that, Ms. Duquesne. And I'm not very kind at all."

"You speak French?"

"Poorly, I assure you. I played some junior hockey in Quebec City before attending the University of Michigan. _Se il vous plait continuer_."

"Very poorly, indeed, Inspector. Algernon Devries, the owner of the Devries Museum and Gallery, and Luther Bourque, the _guy_ on the floor, worked together to acquire Dracula's jewelry box. I had never heard of it, or of them ever cooperating with each other. According to their agreement, Luther somehow acquired the box, but Algernon was to take possession of it. I assume that was permanent possession because I can't imagine Algernon ever giving up or sharing something like that once he had it."

"Could Luther Bourque have changed his mind? Could Mr. Devries have come here and done this on his own?"

"Anything is possible between those two, but I do not believe anything like that happened. Algernon gets up at precisely five-fifteen every morning as long as he goes to bed before then. I arrived at his home in Forest Hills at six-fifteen precisely. He wouldn't have had the time to kill Luther and get back to greet me in his usual manner."

"He could have gotten up earlier. You said anything was possible between those two."

"Anything within the scope of their respective idiosyncratic and compulsive range of behaviors is possible. What you're suggesting falls outside that range." She chuckled. " _Pas avec ce vieux croulant_."

"Why not with that old goat?"

"Everything in Algernon's life is precisely planned and choreographed to get him through each day. It takes him exactly fifty-two minutes to prepare himself in the morning. It is simply not possible for him to rise earlier or be quicker, even if he intended to murder someone. He would have to have done this last evening. That would be the only time he could have fitted a murder into his daily schedule, just before bedtime. He would have had to forego his nightly snack to do that, however, so . . . ?"

She rubbed together the tips of her fingers that had touched Luther's blood. "You would know better than I, but I believe _le gars à l'étage,_ the guy on the floor, was murdered recently." Her breath caught. She sat down in the guest chair by the desk. " _Mon_ _Dieu, je suis d'être horriblement insensible_."

"You are not being horribly insensitive, you are just in shock." He poured some water from a pitcher on the desk and offered the glass to her.

She hesitated taking it at first.

"Tell me what you saw when you got here."

"The front door was open when I arrived." She indicated all the artifacts in Luther's office. "Luther would never do that even if he was expecting me, which he was."

"Anything else?"

"Of course there's more, Inspector Kozlowski. Does aggravating your witnesses usually produce the most useful information?"

He opened the lid of the box and looked inside. After closing it, he ran his fingers along the latch. "Could there have been something inside?"

She took another drink of water. "Luther didn't respond to my call. When I came to his office, that door was open as well, something else Luther would never do." She pointed out the three deadbolts on the door. Two of them had no key slot on the other side to unlock them.

She said more to herself than Kozlowski, "Luther must have brought his attacker in here, which means he knew him and wasn't afraid of him or he was caught by surprise and forced back into his office." Luther had received unexpected company, too. "I suppose he might have left the door to his office unlocked for the few seconds it would take him to see who was at the front door." She gasped. "He could have thought it was me."

Had Algernon opened his door to unexpected company because he'd thought it was her returning with the box? Her heart fluttered.

"Are you all right, Ms. Duquesne? You just turned red."

She drank some more water. "I'm just in shock."

"All the things you've suggested are valid possibilities to consider." Kozlowski turned the box around, picked it up and inspected the bottom of it.

"Algernon would never do anything that careless. He would always lock his study door. _Always_."

"You think Luther Bourque would do the same?"

"I didn't know him, but I suspect that level of caution is prevalent in their circle of collectors."

"How much do you think the stuff in here is worth?"

"This is just for display purposes, the tip of it all . . . bragging rights. It tells others of their ilk that he is a major player and the real treasures are securely hidden away somewhere only he can get to . . . _could_ get to. What's in here would fetch only ten to twenty million dollars at most."

Kozlowski whistled. "Only ten to twenty million, huh?" He arched his left eyebrow, then picked up the jewelry box again and shook it vigorously.

There was no rattle. The vials were securely padded and braced inside. Was it really Dracula's jewelry box or was that just a cover story for what was inside the drawer?

The two cops inside the house stood outside the open office door with their backs to them. Of the two cops outside, the woman stood guard the same way at the French doors. The man was searching through the flower garden.

"Are you going to arrest me now or just take me in as a material witness?"

"Did you kill Luther Bourque?"

" _Je n'ai pas_." I did not.

"Did you see who killed him?"

" _Je n'ai pas_." Are you going to let me take the box?"

"It's evidence, Ms. Duquesne."

"Algernon will not be pleased to hear that."

"I'm sure he will understand."

"You clearly do not know what kind of people you are dealing with."

Kozlowski was never going to let her go if she kept saying stuff like that. But just looking at his smirk and all the power over her it conveyed brought it out of her. She did not need another man doing that to her.

"I don't suppose I do, Ms. Duquesne, but right now I'm only concerned with catching whoever killed Luther Bourque."

"Can I go, then? I've already told you I didn't kill him."

"I believe you, but I was told you can help me find out who did kill him."

Was that part of Algernon's elaborate betrayal of her? "Who told you that?"

"Luther Bourque."

She stood up, her legs felt solid again. "Inspector Kozlowski, for twelve years I've had to endure Algernon's secretive coyness. I do not appreciate—"

"He called nine-one-one before he died. He only identified his attacker as a man but did not provide a name so I presume he did not know the person. He also told the dispatcher he would be dead before anyone got to him. He must have died just before you arrived."

"What did he say about me?"

"He told us if we came quickly enough we would find someone here who could help us. He had to be referring to you."

"And how am I supposed to help?"

"There is a recording of the attack on his laptop. He gave a hint in code."

" _Je suis tourmenté même de la tombe_." I am tormented even from the grave. "What is the hint?"

Kozlowski took out his notepad and read the code out loud, "One plus two, first one dozen forward, then a baker's dozen backward. It is me and mine. That was the last thing he said."

"It's his password. The hint is part of a code Luther used when communicating with Algernon. One plus two is their code for first and second." She came to the desk drawer and flipped back one page of Luther's notebook. "Luther's birthdate, September seventeenth, nineteen-forty-eight, is part of his password."

"How did you get his birthdate as part of his password out of that?"

"It is me and mine. The 'me' part of it is his name and the 'mine' part of it is his birthdate."

"Then what are a 'dozen forward' and a 'baker's dozen backward'?"

"Can I use this notebook?"

"Sure. I don't think his attacker touched it."

"He didn't have time to get complex. A competent code cipher would have figured this out quickly, but he knew I would be here and he wanted us to see what had been recorded as soon as possible." She wrote out LUTHER BOURQUE and then 17/09/48. She then turned the notebook to Kozlowski.

"And?"

"His first name has six letters and his birthdate has six digits. The 'dozen forward' is his first name with the numbers of his birthdate between each letter."

"How would you know that?"

"Because his hint says me _and_ mine, which means we are to put them together rather than his name and then his birthdate or vice versa. I know their code and how they present it."

"Then the 'baker's dozen backward' is his surname backward with his date of birth also backward. But would he just reverse the day and month or the whole date?"

"The whole date because he wanted to be simple with both his hint and his password."

"He was sure that."

"I detect a hint of sarcasm in what you say, Inspector."

She clicked on the window containing the video. When the request for the password appeared she keyed in: L1u7t0h9e4r8e4u8q0r9u1o7B.

"Why capitalize only the first and last letters?"

"Because Luther would; it's the proper spelling of his name. He was determined to use a cipher I could easily decode." She pressed enter.

The recording was a split-screen video feed. One feed came from a camera directly above the desk, likely secured to the chandelier. The second feed came from a camera above the door. It spanned across the desk and the room to the French doors and a view of the flower garden. The images were high resolution but only black and white.

The man with Luther was four to five inches taller, trim, perhaps in his late forties, with receding hair combed back from a prominent forehead. The two men were talking but there was no sound on the recording.

"Do you know him?"

"This is the first time I've seen him."

Luther remained near his desk on purpose to stay in view of the cameras. The man with him only turned once for a good shot from the camera above the door. Their conversation became quickly violent once Luther shook his head at the man for the third time. Twice, Luther managed to slip out of the man's grasp and get back to his desk after being dragged out of view of both cameras.

The assailant came back into view when he lunged at Luther, grabbed him and tossed him into his chair. Rather than try to continue their conversation or force Luther to reveal the location of the box, however, the man instead smashed down onto Luther's forehead with something thick and dark in his hand. He then returned it to his jacket pocket.

With Luther slumped back in his chair, the man moved in and out of view as he searched through the room.

Kozlowski said, "I'll give him points for neatness. Could he be like Bourque and your boss? Does he revere all this stuff the same as they do?"

"I think he was just being methodical. It's hard to search through a mess."

"Did he want Dracula's jewelry box?"

"I can't be certain, but I don't think it's a coincidence that Luther Bourque finally gets it and the next day he is murdered. Nothing appears to be missing."

The man searching the room stopped and turned toward the closed office door. He walked slowly over to it, opened it just a crack and cocked his head. He then quickly left through another door concealed behind drapes at the end of the bookcase behind Luther's desk.

She pointed to the dark-blue drapes. "I didn't know that was there."

Kozlowski went to the drapes, slid them aside and opened the door. "It leads to the garden at the side of the house and a passage to the garage. The attacker must have heard someone."

"No one else was here when I arrived except Luther."

The display showed Luther drop from his chair to his knees and touch his wound. He then took a set of keys out of the left pocket of his pants, unlocked the desk's center drawer, opened it and took out his notebook before the video ended.

"That video won't be as helpful as I'd hoped. What is so special about Dracula's jewelry box?"

"According to legend, it held Dracula's heart at one time."

"How did you find it?"

She pointed out the metal compartment in the floor and the cover she had left leaning against the wall beside it. "Luther left another coded message for me. It's on that blood-stained page of the notebook. He must have written the message before he placed his call to the police."

"Was there anything else in the box other than Dracula's heart?"

"There was supposed to have been soil from Transylvania and an heirloom locket. Algernon has the locket. He told me it was what finally led them to the box, but he did not elaborate. I'm sure he would be more than willing to answer any questions you have for him. As a matter of fact, he could probably keep you captive in his study for hours, if not days, regaling you with all the mythology around it. _Et il y a encore une foise cette malédiction_." And there is that curse again.

"There's that sarcasm again." He looked down at Luther. "Do you believe Dracula's jewelry box is cursed?"

One of the cops standing guard in the hall grunted and fell backward into the office.

# Chapter 12

The second policeman ducked back into the office and returned fire. He was struck in the right arm when he tried to pull his partner out of the doorway.

Kozlowski pushed her down behind the desk as bullets raked the office, hitting walls and pieces of Luther's collection.

"Uzis," Kozlowski said.

The second policeman was still returning fire, which appeared to be keeping the attackers from charging into the office. The woman officer was next to them quickly with her gun out. Her partner was crouched behind the leather chair Jacqueline had sat in but he was looking for better protection.

The woman said, "There are four of them." She fired four rapid shots to reinforce her colleague at the door.

Her partner fired six shots.

The cop at the door fired again, only to be struck by a fusillade of gunfire in return. He fell over onto his partner.

"Get her out of here," the woman said to Kozlowski. "SWAT is on the way. We've got this."

That didn't seem possible. Two uniformed officers with standard issue firearms weren't equipped to hold off four attackers with Uzis.

This firefight was quieter than she'd expected. Too many action movies to pass an evening while she was on assignment for Algernon had left her expecting a louder confrontation. This one was still as deadly, though.

The woman emptied her handgun, shoved in a second magazine and opened fire against the spray of countless bullets chipping away at the desk.

Her partner crawled over to them and joined her in returning fire.

Kozlowski grabbed her by the shoulders again. "This way."

"The box."

"Leave it."

"We can't."

A bullet chipped off splinters of wood at the edge of the desk inches from Kozlowski's face, forcing him to duck away. He pulled out his revolver and fired back.

While this firefight was quieter than what watching movies told her it should be, the number of bullets being fired at them was unbelievable.

"Yes we can." He fired four more times before having to reload.

"NO!" She bolted up and across the desk, grabbed the box and glanced at the two downed officers.

Kozlowski and the woman pulled her back to cover before continuing to return fire.

"I'm almost out," the woman said.

Her partner said, "If we could just get to our cars."

Kozlowski grabbed her shoulders once more and this time pushed her hard toward the door behind the drapes.

The woman and her partner started backing up to the French doors. They continued firing.

As Kozlowski opened the door and pushed her through, the woman grunted, grabbed her leg and went down.

"GO!"

Kozlowski pushed hard on her ass, which sent her sprawling, but he grabbed her around her waist and almost carried her through an exterior walkway bordered by trellis work and covered by a roof. Her feet barely touched the ground as they went.

Before she could get her feet planted under her to help with their flight, Kozlowski had them through the door into Luther's garage.

The shooting inside the house was subsiding.

The woman and her partner hadn't likely made it back to their patrol car.

Kozlowski finally let go of her. "Over there."

He slipped around Luther's vintage British Racing Green Jaguar XKE to a door beside the garage's car door. It resisted his tugs for a few seconds before opening. The bottom of it scraped against the concrete floor. Not all of Luther's possessions were in _mint_ condition.

The shooting in the house had stopped. Had the attackers seen them duck through the door? Had they heard the door scrape against the concrete?

"There's a green space across the back lane."

He tried to grab her again, but she jerked away from him and went out through the door first.

"Why couldn't we leave the box?"

"There's a path right there."

She ran across the back lane to an asphalt footpath set between two houses. It was bordered by chain link fences on each side and was just wide enough for two people to walk along it side by side. It took them into a small park.

"I bring my dog here all the time," Kozlowski said. "It used to be a meth lab house. Once it was torn down, the neighborhood successfully lobbied to make it an off-leash area."

"Civic action at its best."

Thick hedges of Monterey Carpet and Brewer's Quailbush surrounded a copse of chestnut and acacia trees twenty yards ahead and to their right. They could hide there and watch for anyone coming after them.

Inspector Kozlowski must have been thinking the same thing. He took her by the elbow, guided her along a curving path, pushed aside branches and guided her into the thicket. They ducked down behind a hedge of Monterey Carpet and waited.

She couldn't see as far back as Luther's garage because of the plants in her way and because the curving path had taken it out of her direct line of sight. She finally caught a glimpse of one of the attackers when Kozlowski pointed out a man dressed all in black and wearing an unbuttoned overcoat coming slowly along the path. He held his gun inside his overcoat.

_Ainsi, ils ont vraiment le faire_. So, they really did do that.

Their priority was retrieving Dracula's jewelry box and what was inside it. All other considerations didn't matter. They were willing to open fire even in a public place and they had hundreds of rounds of ammunition to help get their job done.

And she was hiding crouched down behind Monterey Carpet with their target clutched under her arm, its hard edge pressing painfully against her ribcage, and only an SFPD inspector and his pistol to protect her.

_Pourquoi ne pas lui dire sur les flacons_? Why didn't you tell him about the vials? What about Algernon and his guest?

Once the man cleared the path, he stopped to look around for signs of which way they had gone. Did he really know they had come this way? Could he smell them? Did he have a device that could detect body heat to locate them? The hedges weren't going to do them any good if he did.

It was a sunny morning and warm for November after two weeks of steady rain in northern California. That bit of recent weather history had been provided by the taxi driver on the way to Luther's. Why weren't more people out for a walk with their dogs? _Lâches et de paresseux_. Lazy slackers. She looked behind them for a possible escape route.

The man had no fancy high-tech device to aid in his search. He was becoming frustrated over his inability to find them. When he touched his ear and started talking, he turned his back to them to shield his face from the breeze he had encountered the moment he entered the park.

Kozlowski gently tapped her shoulder. "Come on."

They pushed their way through the tangle of branches surrounding them to an exit from the park that led down a slope of grass to Hyde Street. From there, he took them across the street and into an alley between two restaurants.

After waiting for two minutes to see if they were followed, she asked, "Now what?"

"I have to call in. Then you can explain to me who those attackers were, why Luther Bourque was murdered, and why four of my colleagues were shot for an old box you couldn't bring yourself to leave behind even in the face of such intense gunfire."

# Chapter 13

Inspector Kozlowski checked across Hyde Street again and ducked them back.

A man was coming out of the park at the same spot they had. He wasn't the man in the overcoat, but Jacqueline was struck by a sense of familiarity about him as he passed. He walked down the same slope of grass they had and continued on his way along Hyde Street.

" _Je dois finalement pendre mon esprit_."

"Why would you think you were finally losing your mind?"

"Shouldn't you be calling for reinforcements or something?"

Kozlowski checked one more time before taking them out of the alley and into the diner to their right. He sat them at a window booth that provided a view of the park.

"Won't he see us?"

"He'll be looking for us to be hiding. This way we'll see him first."

"Then we'll be cornered in this diner. Are you going to call your captain?"

"First, you're going to tell me something interesting about that box."

They ordered coffees and bagels when the waitress came to the booth.

Once she was gone, Jacqueline lifted the box off the bench seat and placed it on the table with the latch facing Kozlowski. "Press on the latch plate."

"What is going to happen?"

"It won't explode, but it is just easier to show you. You'll feel a slight bump along the top edge of it. Press that."

Kozlowski leaned back and jabbed the latch plate without bothering to first feel for the bump. It clicked and the drawer popped open. He slid it all the way out.

"What the hell are those?"

" _Comment diable le saurais-je_?" How the hell should I know? "But those men might not be after just this box."

"How did they get there?"

"I have no idea."

"Who put them there?"

" _Encore une fois, aucune idée_. Again, no idea."

"Who are those men?"

" _Votre supposition est aussi bonne que la mienne_."

"I don't like guessing."

"I don't either, Inspector Kozlowski."

"Would your boss hire men like that? Would his competitors hire men like that?"

"Algernon would never involve himself with such violence. He would have no compunction about coming in at the end of the violence to claim his prize, however. In the twelve years I have worked for him, he has never hired men like that to get what he wanted. In this case, there was also no need. He would have acquired it once I retrieved it without having to kill Luther first. As for his competitors, I am unaware of any who would hire men like that. If we go to his place, you can ask him about the box and the vials yourself."

He closed the drawer and slid the box over to her when the waitress came with their orders.

"That's beautiful," the waitress said. "Where did you get it?"

Jacqueline just looked up at her because nothing would come to her as an alternate answer to the truth.

"Yard sale last week," Kozlowski said. "There were three more just like that. The guy's retired. He makes them as a hobby. You should see what he does to make them look so old."

The waitress' eyes opened wider until they appeared to be bulging out of her head. "Where? I gotta get one like that."

Kozlowski rattled off an address to her in the Telegraph Hill area. "Not this Sunday but next he'll be there. He'll start at two hundred dollars, but you can negotiate him down. Make him show you how he does it."

She smiled, "How much?"

Kozlowski held up his hands to her. "I can't betray him that much, but don't be afraid to bargain hard."

"Thanks." She sashayed away as if she'd just got her biggest tip of the day.

"You are cruel."

"And how does retrieving old, cursed jewelry boxes with sinister vials of colored liquids in them usually go for you?"

He called his precinct and put his phone on speaker with the volume turned down.

"Scott," a woman said when she answered, "what happened at the Bourque place. Witten called in SWAT. They say it's a bloody mess there."

"Denise Bridges," he said to Jacqueline. "We were attacked, Denise, by four men with semi-automatics."

"Wait, Calhoun is coming over."

"Kozlowski," Captain Calhoun said, "where are you?"

"What's going on at the Bourque place?"

"I was going to ask you the same thing."

"I just told Denise. Four men attacked us. They were well trained and well equipped. How are they?"

"All four of them are wounded. Frye and McLean are in serious condition."

"The attackers."

"According to SWAT, there is no sign of them. What's your status?"

"We're okay."

"We?"

"Jacqueline Duquesne was at the house when we arrived. She is a material witness to the murder of Luther Bourque and the attack. We have what they were after."

"What is it?"

"Dracula's jewelry box."

Jacqueline held a finger to her lips and pointed to request that he not mention the drawer and the vials. She whispered, "Please."

Bridges said, "You're kidding."

"It's a rare . . . um . . . artifact." He shrugged at her. "I'm told it's very valuable."

Captain Calhoun asked, "Valuable enough for someone to send four well-trained mercenaries to retrieve it?"

Jacqueline nodded and held up all her fingers three times.

"Ms. Duquesne tells me it would sell for up to thirty million dollars." He smirked at her the way he had in Luther's office.

She scowled back at him.

"Shit," Bridges said. "For that much money, it better be magical."

"It is cursed. One of the men followed us." He provided a detailed description of the man and precise directions for how to get to the park.

Calhoun said, "There's a black and white and two uniforms there already looking around."

Bridges said, "I didn't know you'd sent more black and whites. You should have told me."

"I don't have time to verify with you every order I give, Inspector Bridges. I hope that doesn't offend you." Calhoun then said to Kozlowski, "They reported finding no one."

"I can come get you," Bridges said.

"That won't be necessary," Calhoun said. "Take Ms. Duquesne back the way you came. The officers in the park will pick you up and escort you in."

"They should stay where they are, Captain. I can pick them up."

"They're safe. Those men are long gone."

"Why don't we redirect the black and white to pick them up?"

"Stop arguing everything. They will be all right."

"What about Algernon?" She picked up the box.

"What was that?"

"Ms. Duquesne expressed concern about her employer, Algernon Devries, owner of the Devries Museum and Gallery."

"I'll get a black and white there right away." Calhoun ended the call.

Inspector Kozlowski put his phone away and said, "Jeremiah Calhoun is a prick."

"With a name like that, how could he be anything else?"

He flashed a quizzical look at her.

"I've been told I have a bizarre sense of humor, which only gets worse when I'm stressed."

"Why would you be stressed now?"

"You have one, too, then?"

"So I've been told."

"It still doesn't make us allies." She slid out of the booth. She hadn't eaten any of her bagel, though she was very hungry.

Kozlowski put some money on the table and slid out. He stopped her from exiting the restaurant until he checked outside first.

"The other three probably picked him up when they left. If they are well-trained mercenaries, they would know SFPD SWAT was on the way. They would probably have a pretty good estimate of your unit's response time."

He looked around again before signalling for her to join him on the sidewalk. "That is what I'm afraid of."

They crossed Hyde Street quickly and retraced their way through the park. They did not find two police officers waiting for them. They did find the man who had followed them into the park lying dead where they had hidden behind the Monterey Carpet.

Inspector Kozlowski cursed a number of times, took out his gun and checked the man. "He's been struck on the head from behind."

"Like Luther?"

"I don't know. He's also been stabbed in the back."

"Would SFPD officers do that?"

"No. And that's enough with the sarcasm, Ms. Duquesne."

"Where is the rest of his team? Did something happen to them, too?" She moved the box from her right arm to her left and cleared her throat. "There is something I haven't told you."

Kozlowski muttered more curses as he led her out of the thicket. He held his gun ready. His phone chimed right after she stepped clear of the Brewer's Quailbush.

He checked it before showing her the text message from Inspector Bridges: Calhoun behaving strangely. Locked himself in his office. No b&w sent to park. No b&w sent to Devries house. Be careful. WKYUTD. DB.

"That last part?"

"Will keep you up to date." He texted back to advise that the man following them had been killed in the park. "What haven't you told me?"

The question triggered the revelation. " _Merde_! I didn't recognize it at first. When Algernon called me back, he was speaking in code." She nodded as she replayed in her head what he had said to her, ". . . believe to be true about me. He was telling me that he was indeed in trouble." She slapped her forehead. " _Je suis un tel idiot_." I am such an idiot.

"What is it you believe to be true about him?"

"He would never tolerate someone just dropping by. The only way anyone he knows would get in to see him is by invitation that would specify date and time. And you had better not cancel or arrive late if you don't want to end up banished to the wilderness outside of his social circle."

She told him about Algernon not answering her calls at first and then telling her he had unexpected company. "He told me not to let the police take this box and to bring it to him as soon as possible. Could they be holding him hostage until they get the box? They know he sent me to retrieve it. They might be the ones who killed Luther or sent those men."

"I guess we go to your boss' place."

"How do we get there?"

He took them along the curving path to the back lane, from there to Hyde Street and then along Jackson Street to his car.

SWAT and three ambulances were at Luther's house. A crowd of people had gathered to gawk.

"Wait here."

Kozlowski left her at his car while he went to the SWAT commander. They talked for a few minutes before he checked in at each ambulance.

When he returned to the car he said, "Played it straight up. Told Wilson about the dead guy in the park and that you are a material witness. I'm taking you back to the precinct for a statement. It jibes with what I told Calhoun should he check."

"How are the officers?"

"Frye has a chest wound, but he had a vest on so it didn't go deep. He'll survive. Mclean is the worst. She was hit twice in her right leg. They shattered the bone above her knee. Witten and Alvarez have minor wounds. Whoever attacked us may not have wanted to kill any of us only disable us."

" _C'est une telle pensée réconfortant_." That is such a comforting thought.

He opened the front passenger door for her. " _Je peux me tromper_." I could be wrong.

# Chapter 14

Overreaction, impulsive decisions fueled by anger and impatience had brought him to this point, but Tubby had discovered his disguise and his lab in Widow Creek and had dispatched one of Petit's pathetic units to nab him. He had been forced to leave bodies behind that confirmed his position and also left a faint trail. Better operatives available to Tubby would have little trouble picking it up again. In hindsight, he should never have used Anthony Vargas as an unwitting courier.

He returned to Bourque's neighborhood just as the two squad cars arrived and four police officers got out. Within seconds of their arrival an unmarked police car arrived and a male inspector got out. He took the woman and her partner to the back of Bourque's house after instructing the two other officers to enter through the open front door.

Eleven minutes later, a black, windowless van wearing phoney Texas plates arrived. Four men dressed all in black and wearing balaclavas jumped out and launched their attack. Petit was at it again.

The shooting was louder because the front door remained open. During the firefight, the inspector and Jacqueline Duquesne escaped through the backyard. Duquesne, an associate of Algernon Devries, a smart, beautiful, talented woman with far too much curiosity, had the box tucked under her arm. Her chestnut hair was the wrong color and too short—barely down to her shoulders—but he could understand why Algernon would have had trouble making up his mind.

The shooting ended soon after the pair escaped. One of the men, his balaclava removed, snatched an overcoat from the van and pursued the inspector and Duquesne on foot. The other three attackers returned to the van and drove away as more sirens approached.

He trotted into the back lane and headed for the dog park against the flow of a growing parade of people rushing to Jackson Street to see what was happening. He chuckled when he entered the park.

The man was looking the wrong way and didn't see what he saw when he reached the end of the asphalt path. The inspector was taking Duquesne and the box through a thicket of trees and shrubs to the east side of the park and Hyde Street.

He let the angry man complete his report before sauntering into the park and approaching him.

The man didn't recognize who was coming toward him.

Chuckling again, he pointed and said, "I think they went that way."

The man scowled at him. A mercenary brought in for the assignment, and bold enough to attack a squad of police, he was considering whether or not to kill the witness who had just helped him. He was wondering how much the witness had seen.

"It was a man and a woman you were chasing, I believe. The woman was carrying a wooden box under her arm."

The man's scowl deepened, his coarse, steroid-distorted features hardened.

"You must be a cop or a federal agent, is that right?"

"Yeah."

"I heard shooting when I came out with a bag of garbage." He smiled and pointed over his shoulder toward the back lane for emphasis. "I saw those two coming out of Luther's garage and take the trail to the park. Then the shooting stopped and you came running after them. When I noticed the box, I thought they might be thieves. I know Luther is a collector. He's shown me some of his stuff. It's quite fantastic. Did anyone get hurt?"

The man said, "A few cops."

"Oh, my God, that is just horrible. Nob Hill is a good neighborhood. Luther is such a nice man. I didn't see him that often, but he always had a wave and a smile ready for a neighbor. I hope he's all right."

"Which way did you say they went?"

"That way, to Hyde Street, I imagine."

The man looked into the thicket.

"They went right through there. You were just looking in the other direction or I'm sure you would have had them. I would have called to you, but, you know, I didn't want to get shot."

The man stepped up to the hedge and inspected it. Did he expect to find torn bits of clothes or flesh dangling from the branches? Mercenaries were brutal, violent, stupid bastards.

"They were hiding right behind you. They fled when you reported in. Did I say that right?" He shook his head. "I probably didn't. I watch too much television. It has greatly diminished my vocabulary."

"Thanks." The man began to slowly push through the shrubs to enter the thicket.

He took out his antique cudgel, slipped the four-edged dagger out of it and stepped up behind the stupid mercenary as the man stopped to unsnag the right sleeve of his overcoat from a branch of Monterey Carpet.

The blade went in between the third and fourth rib below the mercenaries raised right arm. It penetrated the full six-inch length of the tapered, cross-shaped blade to the hilt.

The man grunted, but before he could react, the cudgel struck the back of his head.

He pushed the mercenary into the dense growth, withdrew the blade and nudged him to make sure he fell forward. The thicket would conceal him from view for a while.

He wiped the four edges of the blade on the back of the man's overcoat before reinserting it into the hole in the fat end of the cudgel. This weapon had been made over six hundred years ago for use by the assassins sent out to eliminate heretics and enemies of the Holy Roman Empire. To the modern eye, it would look like a small bat about nine inches long carved out of a single piece of oak from Romania. The thick section had a bronze ferrule around it with small bumps and points protruding from its surface. The ferrule was a dull patina of green and grey now, but still as effective. The narrow handle was three inches long, having been made for smaller hands. Its original, supple leather strap still wound tightly around it provided a good grip. A hole had been drilled into the thick end to sheath the blade and its round wooden handle. The handle was carved from the same block of oak because that was how it was ordered done.

As an antique, it was quite valuable. Either Luther or Algernon would have paid a considerable amount to add it to their collection. For now, though, it was more valuable in his hands.

He returned the weapon to the inside pocket of his jacket and went after the box.

The east side of the park descended eight feet down a gentle slope of grass to Hyde Street. He stood at the top of the rise and watched the inspector looking out from the alley across the road. He didn't try to hide. He was nothing to them. Seeing him would cause them no concern.

He remained where he was until they and the box came out of the alley. He started down the incline to give the impression of being out for a walk when the inspector checked his surroundings again. Careful not to overplay his role, however, he didn't wave to them. He walked along the sidewalk to the bus stop at the corner of Hyde and Jackson. He looked back only once to confirm they had entered the diner.

Along the way, the van from the Bourque house drove up Hyde Street. It slowed as it reached the diner across from the park but kept going.

"Such is the capricious fortune for both good and evil."

All three men were likely looking for their associate. Not one of the idiots thought to look in any other direction but at the park.

There was nothing to do for the moment. He sat on the bus stop's bench and waited. When the pair left the diner, it was just a matter of following them back through the park. As anticipated, they were returning to Luther's house. It was what the inspector would do. His car was back there. Reinforcements would be there by now.

They found the body easily enough because they took the same route back. The inspector took out his revolver and checked the wounds as Duquesne told him something that clearly angered him. He took them out of the thicket before answering his phone. After showing Duquesne the text message he'd just received, he responded to it. After another exchange of words, they continued on their way.

She was being loyal to Algernon even after what had happened. She was releasing information to the cop in small bits the same way Algernon would.

Back at the Bourque house, the inspector left Duquesne at his car while he went to talk to the SWAT commander. Except for their bulletproof vests and insignias, the SWAT unit was dressed the same as the mercenaries. After a brief discussion, which included the inspector pointing numerous times to Duquesne or the box or both, he returned to his car, spoke briefly to Duquesne and then opened the door for her.

Though he had retrieved one of the items he required, the box and its contents still eluded him. _Remember your sloppy haste in Widow Creek_. _For now, just follow the box_. He waved for the van to come pick him up.

# Chapter 15

Two Hussar lieutenants escorted him. The three elite guards at the entrance remained outside when the lieutenants brought him into the tent. General Napoleon Bonaparte turned from his table of maps, smiled at them and waved a piece of paper over his head.

"She is coming," he said. "My beloved Josephine has left Paris to join me in Milan." He came over to the trio, his mouth stretching ridiculously wider. He was more than a head shorter than his captive. "I am told that you are an alchemist and a physician."

"I am." He could speak all the major languages of Europe fluently and without any trace of such a boorish accent.

"Dr. Dowid Gallus Koertig," Bonaparte said and held out his hand to him. "I am very pleased to meet you."

He shook the little general's hand.

"That is an impressive Prussian name you have. Did it suit your responsibilities with General Bianchi?"

"I was his physician and advisor."

"You were much more than that." Napoleon returned to his table of maps and picked up a sheet of paper. "Lieutenants Pierre Renaud, on your right, and Lucien Baptiste have provided me with a detailed account of how you inconvenienced us at that little skirmish in Lodi three days ago."

He rattled the paper and made an exaggerated display of perusing it from top to bottom. His brow furrowed, his lips pursed, his eyes widened. "Doctor, those explosives were spectacular. Perhaps something more than the usual ingredients found in naphtha to make them burn even hotter. And you were the one who made them?"

"I was."

"You were also a formidable opponent on the battlefield. My two most trusted lieutenants beside you, men whose word I would not question, report here that you killed twenty-three of my army in combat before they were able to subdue you."

"I counted thirty-nine."

Bonaparte laughed loudly and let the paper drop back down onto the table. "You are a remarkable man, Dr. Koertig. Do you happen to remember the names of the sixteen men we have failed to account for?"

"I did not bother to ask."

"It occurs to me that you were attempting to escape your conscription when you were captured."

"I had completed my service to Bianchi, General."

"My men caught you walking among the dead and wounded gathering blood from every man you came upon. Please explain to what purpose you were serving with this action."

"I was helping where I could and gathering samples for research where I couldn't."

"What research would that be?"

"You would not understand."

Napoleon's face flushed with the first stages of rage, but rather than bluster and demand an answer to his question, he closed his eyes, held the note regarding his wife to his heart and nodded. "Please, Doctor, do your best to provide me with an explanation I would understand."

"The future of man, General, I am conducting research into the future of man. I hope to one day understand what our true potential is, what we can ultimately become. Can we one day rise above this insane repetition of wars?"

"You don't believe we should defend ourselves?"

"Warfare is obsolete. It is a needless waste of resources and lives. There are better ways to conduct ourselves and settle disputes. I intend to find the mechanism of that better way and apply it to all mankind one day."

Lieutenant Renaud stepped forward. "This is how you justify your gruesome violations of the dead and wounded?"

"I did say you would not understand."

Napoleon laughed for a good length of time before straightening his clothes and smoothing his hair, grand gestures from a beetle standing on its hind legs.

"A noble aspiration to be coming from a man caught draining the helpless of their blood. But, Dr. Koertig, please explain why Lieutenants Baptiste and Renaud reported seeing you drinking from these samples you were taking."

"They were mistaken."

Renaud drew his sword. "You are a monster, sir."

Baptiste restrained him. "We both saw you drinking blood. It was on your lips when we captured you."

"Splatters of blood landed on me during the fight. That is all. I did kill thirty-nine of your men."

Napoleon asked, "You insist that is all there is to the blood on you?"

"I insist. There is no need to doubt their word, General Bonaparte, only their powers of observation under the strains and distractions of battle."

Renaud pointed his sword at Koertig. "He is lying."

"Enough." Bonaparte stood between his lieutenants and his captive. "We are finished with this for now."

Lieutenant Renaud saluted, returned his sword to its scabbard and said, "General, we should place this man in irons. If, as he claims, he killed thirty-nine men, he is too dangerous to be left unshackled in your presence."

Bonaparte waved Renaud off. "Nonsense, Pierre. This is a man to be admired, not imprisoned." He looked at Lieutenant Baptiste. "I will presume you hold the same grave concerns in your heart, Lucien."

Baptiste replied, "I do, General, yes."

Bonaparte chuckled and scratched his chin. "You see, Dr. Koertig, I have only the most loyal of men about me, men completely and utterly concerned with my welfare."

Baptiste said, "You are too valuable to be exposed to the danger this man brings with him."

"Am I now?"

Both lieutenants snapped to attention and saluted. They said in unison, "Yes, General, you are."

"Tell me, Dr. Koertig. Were you as loyal to General Bianchi as my men are to me?"

"Did I not prove that thirty-nine times even after the battle was lost?"

Bonaparte nodded and chuckled. "I quite like you, Doctor. Might I anticipate such loyalty from you one day?"

"I am an exemplary alchemist and physician, General. You could have asked General Bianchi yourself if you had not had him shot. As for any advisory role I might play in your service, I was privy to many of the political and military strategy meetings that set the framework for countering your aggression."

"Splendid." He reached into his vest pocket and brought out a locket, a simple heart-shaped pewter design with three tiny diamonds forming a triangle on it. It hung from a delicate gold chain. "I believe this belongs to you."

Renaud and Baptiste quickly confronted him with pistols aimed at his heart when he stepped forward and reached for it.

"Perhaps it is a family heirloom?"

"It is that and more."

"A keepsake from a loved one; does it open?"

He did not answer that question.

Bonaparte tried to pry open the locket, but he was unable to figure out the way it was latched. The pipsqueak withdrew a key from the same vest pocket. "Would this unlock it?" He inspected the locket. "Ingenious, Doctor, I cannot find any place a key this size would fit."

Two pistols and two of Napoleon's most loyal lieutenants could not prevent him from retrieving the locket or tearing that scarecrow's head off if he chose to do so. But now was not the time for such actions. Based on the information his spies had brought to him at Lodi, he had another role to play at the moment.

"As you surmise, General Bonaparte, it is both a family heirloom and a private, emotional keepsake. It belongs to my beloved wife. As for the key?" He smiled and shrugged.

Bonaparte returned the key and unopened locket to his vest pocket. "I shall respect your privacy, Doctor. You have an aristocratic bearing about you that reminds me of my very own Josephine. I would wish for us to one day share with one another our stories of life."

"I believe, General, that both of us would find such an exchange illuminating."

"Dr. Koertig, you could prove valuable to me as a physician, philosopher and advisor. The challenge for me, as I am sure you will appreciate, is how to confirm for myself that I can trust you before I assign such a role to you."

A gust of wind buffeted the tent. Rain started pattering against it.

Renaud said, "General, Sir, you cannot trust this man. He is a savage ghoul dressed in fancy clothes. We do not know he is a doctor. We do not know if anything he tells us is true."

"You will meet heavy resistance in Caldiero. The Austrian army is well reinforced under the command of Josef Aloma, but you can still win a final victory."

"Why should I believe you in this matter? The Austrians have been of little bother to me and my men."

"You must appear to be driven back at Caldiero in order to foster overconfidence in the forces opposing you. I assure you such a feint will guarantee their eventual defeat."

Baptiste said, "This is madness. Under your command, we need fear no army before us."

"I also advise you not to harm the Pope in any way despite the wishes of the godless members of your Directory. Take what spoils you want from Rome, but leave His Holiness alone. The Catholic Church will provide the stability you and France require once you have subdued your enemies."

"You have sympathy for the Pope, then, Doctor?"

"I did not say that, but harming him would only inflame resentment among the faithful."

"Do you count yourself as one of the faithful?"

"I am indifferent to religion other than for the control it brings over those who do believe."

"You do not believe in God."

"I am indifferent to Him, too, General."

"Dr. Koertig, you are a fascinating man, and your view of religion's place in this world is very much akin to mine." Napoleon poured four glasses of wine and nodded for the trio to come to his table of maps. "I give you Dr. Dowid Gallus Koertig."

The two lieutenants only reluctantly participated in the toast to avoid infuriating their general. The pattering of rain became faster, heavier and louder.

"But as valuable as your military advice might be, it is not what I had in mind to prove your loyalty to me. I am sure you understand the difficulty I face. I do quite like you. I am convinced you will be of immense help to me. But you killed thirty-nine of my men in the service of my enemies."

"What is it you have in mind?"

"Ah, now there is a clever fellow, a brother in intellect. You have anticipated that I have already thought of something."

"You are General Napoleon Bonaparte, are you not?"

Bonaparte poured another glass of wine for himself and one for his guest. At a glance and a nod from him, Renaud and Baptiste backed up to the entrance of the tent.

After finishing his drink, he asked, "You are married, then?"

"I have a wife, General, but our marriage, while robust with love as well as consumed by yearning as a result of our prolonged separation, it is not quite as young as yours."

"Then you know something of the feelings that persist in me every day of this campaign."

"I have endured the unendurable. Life is too brief to have to suffer the intense emptiness and heartache that such separation brings. I would rather drink poison than maintain the thought of never seeing my Grace again."

"We are simpatico, my good fellow."

Renaud and Baptiste were becoming more distressed. They had no idea how to prevent their worshipped leader from pricking his finger and entering into a contract with this mellifluous demon in his tent.

The plan was unfolding as it should. "That locket, that connection to her heart, is all I have had to comfort me for over a year now."

"Do you not receive correspondence from her?"

"Alas, General, in these warring days such missives are but double-edged swords, are they not?"

"Indeed they are, Doctor. I read every cherished word over and over until my chest aches beyond life itself and my tears stain the paper they are written on. What would my men think of me if they should see me in such a state?"

"Then you will understand my intense need to have the locket and key returned to me."

"And in that, Dr. Koertig, we have a basis for proving you can be trusted."

He poured them more wine and dismissed his lieutenants.

It would do no good to tear off this jabbering insect's head in the middle of his camp. He would be caught and murdered himself before he made it to the horses.

Renaud said, "We cannot leave you alone with this man."

"I am in no danger. Do I have your word, Dr. Koertig?"

He looked at the two distraught lieutenants, enjoying their alarm, and said, "You have my word, General."

"Now leave us." Napoleon handed him his glass of wine. "Come, sit with me. I have an incredible story to tell you."

Napoleon set himself on a meridienne covered in cushions. He offered him a simple wooden stool to sit on.

"As I told you earlier," Bonaparte said, "my dearest Josephine is on her way. I am filled to bursting with joy." Bonaparte threw him a cushion.

"And all the more full of generosity in turn, for which I am grateful." This grotesque Corsican grasshopper was intent on devouring all of Europe, but it would only spoil inside him soon enough. "I must thank your dearest for my fortunate circumstances when she arrives."

"You will get your chance, but there is something you must do for me first." Bonaparte finished his wine and set the glass on a small, ornate table. This grandiose slug then leaned over conspiratorially. "Do you know the legend of Vlad Tepes, the famous Wallachian prince and soldier?"

"I have heard of his exploits on behalf of the Holy Roman Empire, as well as those legendary tales of his barbaric treatment of his defeated enemies."

"He was a remarkable man, courageous, cunning, a fierce warrior, and perhaps one of the cruellest, most brutal men ever to serve Rome. The rumors and legends about him are justified, wouldn't you say?"

This dancing, posturing bug was scrabbling his way through Europe because he believed in the destiny of his Roman Empire heritage. He should fall below his notice, but Bonaparte did somehow command an appreciation few in the world could ever hope to deserve. This mongrel of affected power was going to be a man of legend himself.

"I would agree those lurid stories appear most justified in the case of Vlad Drăculea."

"My agents have located a most interesting object connected to him. It is secure in a monastery in the Carpathian Mountains of his homeland. It is said to have once held his heart."

"Vlad Drăculea's jewelry box, the coffin for his heart; I have heard this tale as well. He did not die at the hands of the Turks as most believe, but was ransomed by his captors to his daughter in Naples. The Holy Order of Loyal Pius Brothers, a sect of priests within the Papal hierarchy who were still loyal to Pope Pius II and his visions, had sworn to honor his agreement with Vlad. When he died, they allowed him to be buried in Naples, but his heart was removed, placed in the box and returned to his homeland. I was unaware of precisely where it was sent."

Bonaparte sat back. "I have discovered where it is. What is more, I wish to present it to _mio dolce amor_ when she joins me in Milan."

"You do not have much time to retrieve it, then."

"No, Dr. Koertig, _you_ do not have much time to retrieve it. Bring the jewelry box back to me for presentation to my dearest Josephine and I will return your locket and key to you. One gift for another; I would call that a fair contract."

"General Bonaparte, you are the only one here in a position to determine what a fair contract is."

"Good." Bonaparte got up and took him to the entrance to the tent. "Dr. Koertig, if you succeed in this task, I think I will call you David. I believe that is the translated version of your first name, is it not?"

"It is."

"Dr. David Gallus Koertig, alchemist, physician, advisor to General Bonaparte; that would be your title, but only between us. We must keep secret your orbit around me from those who would try to turn it against either one of us. You don't mind, I'm sure. My dear Rose didn't mind when I insisted on calling her Josephine instead. She has taken the name to her heart and adopted it as her own."

"If that is your wish, General, I have no objections."

"Would you have anything that can settle an irritated stomach? Mine has been bothering me since I had to leave my sweet wife for this campaign. I'm sure that is the cause of my discomfort, but anything that would soothe it until she is once again in my arms would be more proof that you can be trusted. My two physicians are excellent at treating the wounded on the battlefield, but they are all but incompetent on matters of internal disorders."

"If you will show me where your surgery tent is, I will see what I can do."

"Splendid."

Renaud and Baptiste stepped back into the tent. They were soaking wet.

"My two lieutenants and three of my best elite guard—if you will allow my conceit in front of such an outstanding adversary as yourself—will accompany you. You will have my fastest horses and my most capable men. You will take what you need there and back under authority of France and my command. You will let nothing stand in your way. Lieutenants Renaud and Baptiste only will know the exact location of the monastery. Now, Dr. Koertig, if you will excuse us, I have something private to discuss with my lieutenants."

The three elite guards were waiting for him when he exited the tent. They wore the same Hussar cavalry uniforms to match the ones Renaud and Baptiste wore. He had killed nine men dressed in those same uniforms.

The little tyrant was clever. He had whipped up jealousy, suspicion and distrust in Renaud and Baptiste by excluding them from their conversation. Now he was excluding him from hearing what orders he was giving them. It wasn't difficult, however, to discern what he was likely telling them.

Renaud and Baptiste remained in the tent only briefly before exiting.

Renaud said to him, "Only one of us knows. The General thought that was a better idea."

Baptiste said to him, "Your mission is clear, Dr. Koertig, as are our orders. If you deviate in the slightest from your responsibilities, we will kill you and bring the box back to the General with _your_ heart in it."

Renaud put his hand on the hilt of his sword. "You are to mix up a draft for our commander, but I warn you. Do not attempt to harm him. If he suffers in any way, I promise you will suffer even more.

"Shall we get in out of the rain?"

# Chapter 16

Captain Jeremiah Calhoun stood in the doorway to his office watching Inspector Bridges texting on her phone. He'd been told she would do that.

Once she was done, she put her phone away and came to him. "That was Scott. They found the man who was following them dead in the park. There is no sign of the black and white that's supposed to be there."

"They are reporting directly to me. They spotted a black van. I sent them after it."

"What black van?"

"It matches the description Kozlowski gave us."

"I don't remember—"

"Bridges, he said they drove a black van when he was describing the attack. You just missed it."

"How would he have seen a black van? They escaped out the back way."

"Is he on his way in?"

"Yes. He talked to Wilson. Wilson confirms he and Duquesne started back right after he checked on his team."

"Come get me as soon as they arrive." He stepped back into his office and closed the door. He called the number he was given earlier this morning as he sat down at his desk.

Chase answered, "Where are we with this?"

"Kozlowski is bringing Duquesne in as a material witness. Who were those four men?"

"As I warned you earlier, he just told you that to put you off. Those men must be connected to Kozlowski and Duquesne. We do not have all the details yet, but the Duquesne woman, Algernon Devries and Luther Bourque are all part of some domestic threat. Inspector Kozlowski now appears to be a part of it was well."

"He can't be."

The more he thought about it, the less he could believe anyone under his command could fall into the holes Chase had described to him. It just wasn't possible . . . not here . . . not his people . . . not _him_. "Scott couldn't be part of something like that."

"We've had Duquesne, Devries and Bourque under surveillance for the last three weeks once certain information came to our attention. We have traced phone calls and text messages between Duquesne and Kozlowski. That is why he was so quick to insist he go by himself when the Bourque call came in."

"But you have nothing between Scott and either Devries or Bourque."

"Duquesne could be acting as a buffer between those two and Kozlowski and his people."

"His people? You never revealed any other connections before."

"And you know why. It is a fluid situation at the moment. We are constantly getting new information as we get deeper into it. This is exactly what we talked about when I first called you. Our intelligence is sound or I wouldn't have called you directly."

This was impossible . . . it had to be. "Maybe Duquesne and Kozlowski just know each other."

"The nature of their calls and messages would indicate otherwise, Captain."

"I've had cops under my command with drinking and gambling problems before. They've got themselves into trouble, sure, a rare few of them have ended up getting into something so deep that they betray their badge and break the law. But Kozlowski doing something like this is just not—"

"Captain Calhoun, I quite agree that your inspector might not be involved in any way with the threat other than as a desperate and clueless—shall we say ignorant—collateral player. But our intelligence indicates he has participated in the process of moving the threat forward. He has worked with Duquesne to bring something into play. They are still acting together."

"But you don't know what that is yet."

"Kozlowski could believe he is only participating in a slightly illegal undertaking to deliver some exotic and restricted collectible for a fee large enough to clear his debts. Nonetheless, he has fallen in too deep at this point."

"He may have no idea what he's doing. They could be playing him."

"That is possible. If it weren't for the extreme threat to national security that his actions have helped to create, it would be only a matter for SFPD to deal with."

"Scott is a good man. He and Denise have been my two best detectives for the past three years. If we explained to him what kind of trouble he's in, we could turn him and use him to stop the threat. I know he would cooperate. Let me bring him in on my own. Denise and I will talk to him. I'm sure we can—"

"Inspector Bridges might be involved as well."

He hammered on his desk with his fist. "This is bullshit."

He and Bridges had history. Denise was forty-six, trim, fit and tough both physically and psychologically. They had been partners early in his career. He'd been typically young, brash, conceited, impetuous and ambitious: an egotistical prick. With six more years on the job, and a quick riser herself, she sorted him out within the first few weeks of them being put together. Two of those corrective actions had ended with her knocking him on his ass in the locker room with colleagues looking on. Once had been saving his life when they went up against a major drug smuggling ring moving in from Mexico.

His ambition had never left him. She couldn't knock that out of him. When he went on to become a captain, she remained _where she belonged_. His first act was to request her transfer to his precinct to effectively become his second in command.

Now Chase was telling him Denise Bridges might also be involved. Less than two hours after coming in to work, after talking to Chase only twice, his two best cops had become threats to national security.

"According to your own SWAT commander, the Bourque house is riddled inside with bullets, all four of your uniforms who went with him were wounded, but Kozlowski and Duquesne escaped without being hit. With that much shooting, what are the chances they could do that? And they manage to escape with the box, Captain, the very thing Duquesne was after."

"You are suggesting the attack on the Bourque house was a smoke screen to help them get away with the box. God Almighty, what is happening?"

"It's possible Kozlowski and Duquesne betrayed Devries and Bourque, and, again, they might have been forced to do that."

"My SWAT commander reported Scott advised him he found one of the attackers dead in a nearby park. He took the time to check on his wounded colleagues."

"He could have killed the man himself. Checking on his colleagues is a good feint against any possible suspicion about him."

"What is in that box? If you would only give me more information . . ."

"You have all the information you need, Captain, but I can give you one more bit of evidence. Check your cell phone."

Calhoun took out his phone and called up the text message Chase had just sent to him.

"We intercepted this from Bridges just two minutes ago. She sent it to Kozlowski."

The text read: Calhoun behaving strangely. Locked himself in his office. Be careful. He's on to us. WKYUTD. DB.

"Kozlowski and Duquesne are not returning to the station. They are on their way to the Devries mansion. I did tell you they would not willingly come in."

"I'll send some cars."

"Let it play out to see where it goes. They might lead us to their associates. I fully expect Kozlowski will contact you again with some plausible story for not returning to you. When he does, arrange a meeting with him and Duquesne away from the precinct. Tell him DHS is after them. Let me know where and when. I will send reinforcements to help bring them in. Take Bridges with you. And, Captain, be very careful."

Chase hung up.

Another text message appeared on his phone: _We might have to eliminate Calhoun_. _SK_.

# Chapter 17

He had spent most of the morning at the field office on Golden Gate Avenue briefing his commander Special Agent-in-Charge, Josh Skinner, again and again on the Viaje Costero and USAMRIID's involvement.

"Mannequins?" Skinner said the word with the same incredulous tone that had been running through Laskey's own mind when he thought of what Thorpe had described to him.

"It's the toxin," he said for the umpteenth time. "It does something to the skin, possibly other parts of the body as well. Everything's been sent to the Rocky Mountain Laboratory in Montana. Colonel Thorpe will let me know what her team finds out as soon as she knows anything more."

Special Agent Florence Engel joined them.

She asked, "How are you feeling?"

"Like I'm walking through a nightmare."

"I meant—"

"I know what you meant. Colonel Thorpe said whatever the toxin is, and I'm not sure that is the right term to describe it, it seemed to dissipate quickly or lose its potency shortly after being released. She believes it became an inert grey powder on the ship. Whatever happens to it, she was sure I was not at risk or I would have been quarantined."

Special Agent Marquis Richardson, 6'4", 225 pounds, a former USC wide receiver who joined the FBI right out of university rather than play in the NFL, came to them with a fax in his hand. "We've got another case of mannequin fever. A call just came in from Quantico. NTSB is investigating a plane crash in the Sierra Nevada Mountains just inside the western edge of Yosemite north of Mariposa. They found small boxes containing three ampules each of clear, green liquid and parts of five dead people in the same condition as the crew of the Viaje Costero. There was only supposed to be two people on the plane."

A lot of agents kidded Engel and Richardson about their differences in size. Florence was exactly ten inches shorter and half his weight, but she always pointed out that she was the much better shot. The clear message was make the jokes when and where she couldn't hear them.

Skinner said to him, "Get out there as quickly as you can. Take Engel and Richardson with you. Call Thorpe first and see what USAMRIID is doing about it."

Engel said, "I will arrange for a helicopter."

Richardson dropped the fax from Quantico onto his desk and said, "I will go make out my will."

He had to wait on hold for close to ten minutes before he was given another number at the convention center to call and told, "Colonel Thorpe is still in a session. It should be ending very soon."

He called the new number and had to wait an additional five minutes. Twice while he was waiting, he read the details that had been faxed to them about the plane crash. After each perusal, he checked his hands and his arms to see if there were any patches of skin turning plastic on them.

"We've already been told," Thorpe said when she came on the phone. "A team is on its way."

"What about the cargo ship crew?"

"My team in Hamilton is keeping me advised of their progress. What details have you received about the crash?"

"According to NTSB, none of them have shown any signs of being . . . affected. The Fire and Rescue team has been on site even longer and they are just fine."

"That is consistent with what we found on the ship and have learned since. As we suspected last night, the toxin is short-lived once it is released, only a matter of a minute or two at most, maybe not even that long. It appears to be respirable as well as effective upon contact with the skin. It kills three ways."

"A triple threat."

"We don't know the components or the mechanism of how they work together yet. This is going to be a terrifying and fascinating learning experience. And we have to figure it out fast because this stuff was designed and manufactured. We do not know how much of it could be out there."

"Who could do that?"

"There are no laboratories that we are aware of working on anything like this. Frankly, there can't be many with this capability."

"You said it has a three-pronged attack for killing."

"Keep in mind, Agent Laskey, what I'm about to describe is supposition and conjecture until my team can complete its analysis."

"Understood, but I need some idea of the danger we're facing."

"We caught a break. Dr. Needham had been researching related scenarios at the CDC before coming to RML. He developed a baseline of data to start our analysis from."

"Lucky us. What have _we_ got?"

"Initially, we believe it catalyzes myosin binding and the hydrolyzing of ATP to ADP cycle, which in turn causes the myosin to accelerate its effect on actin. The result is rapid muscle contractions that would present themselves as tremors."

"Would you consider tremors a first indicator of exposure to the toxin?" He held out his hand. It was as steady as he could reasonably expect it to be.

"I think that would be a fair assumption for now."

"This myosin and actin are in the muscles, then."

"Actin is the most abundant protein in our cells. It is a crucial part of the cytoskeleton and muscle tissue. Myosin is a motion protein that converts the chemical energy of ATP into movement. Google it or check a first-year biology textbook if you want more information."

"The second prong of the attack is?"

"It polymerizes actin filaments. Vincent and his collaborators at the University of British Columbia, the University of Toronto and John Hopkins discovered a certain strain of _E_ _coli_ that releases a toxin that does just that."

"Is this _E_ _coli_ part of the cocktail?"

"We're investigating that possibility now. But in this case, the polymerization runs amok. Actin is a globular protein that combines to form filaments. Think of it as a long string of sticky beads that bind together and twist. Based on what we know about other toxins and what our autopsies have revealed so far, it's likely this toxin attaches itself to the membrane of skin and muscle cells or punctures the membrane or creates openings—pores—in the membrane or forces open any number of the channels present in the membrane and then starts the uncontrolled polymerization chain reaction. I'm sorry, I'm sounding redundant."

"The mannequins."

"Yes, the filaments just keep growing and spreading throughout the skin and muscle tissues. They also enter the cytoplasm and destroy the mitochondria. We are checking now to see how they affect the organs. I expect to receive confirmation of the same result."

"Jesus, whoever made this thought they needed a third component?"

"Terrifying and fascinating at the same time, as I said, yes. The third strike is a neurotoxin that paralyzes breathing as well as shuts down myosin action in the muscles completely, causing the body to seize up, so to speak. At first, you tremble and then you go stiff as a plastic doll and suffocate if you are not already dead at that point."

"And we had two vectors bringing this crap to San Francisco, one by sea and one by air. Is there one on its way here by land?"

"Brian, I think you should consider the possibility that the land delivery has already been made. Whoever is sending it here understands the extreme danger involved. Two of the deliveries didn't make it."

"What's it all for? Who could be the target?"

"President Trotter is coming to the Moscone Center to give the opening speech tonight at the International Conference on the Health and Welfare of Children. She arrives at four o'clock today. We have already advised the White House of both incidents and what it could mean. I talked to Carol personally and told her everything we know."

"She has to be stopped from coming."

"That goes against our policy of not letting the threat of terrorist acts affect the President's behavior. They will increase security and take the steps we have advised them to take to lower the risk."

"But they can't eliminate it."

"No, Brian, only we can do that. I will get any updates we have to you as soon as we get them. Be as fast as you can at Yosemite, but be careful."

"Do you want to come with?"

"I would love to, but I need to stay here. I'm the liaison with the President's people. My team contacts me every half-hour or as soon as they learn something new. The other team will keep me in the loop about the plane crash. Call me once you're there."

Engel and Richardson came to his desk.

Engel said, "The helicopter is ready and waiting. Josh suggested Marquis fly us there to keep our team small until we can be certain . . ."

Richardson said, "Are you sure you weren't exposed to any of that junk? You look a bit ill."

# Chapter 18

If Algernon Devries wasn't so reclusive, the Forest Hill neighborhood of San Francisco might have been unable to cope with his eccentricities, being a world-class champion in that category of human behavior. Algernon belonged to the homeowner's association, as was required when residing in Forest Hill. He paid his annual fee for neighborhood maintenance without fuss. But he took little interest in Forest Hill activities, neighborhood projects or homeowner meetings.

The only time Algernon had ever stuck his head out of his mansion was three years ago. He led a petition-signing campaign to prevent the removal of two old trees near his house. The rumor was a number of his neighbors were never the same again after their involvement with him. Two years later, the trees had to be removed once they were confirmed to be dead and full of rot. The other rumor was that a number of those neighbors described Algernon the same way.

As soon as they reached Algernon's curving front driveway, she knew Forest Hill residents were not going to have to worry anymore that Algernon Devries would ever again inflict his presence, desires and unique peccadillos on them.

The front door was ajar the same way Luther's door had been.

" _Pas_ _encore_!" Not again.

On the way back to Forest Hill, she had convinced herself that if she hadn't been set up by either Algernon or his cohorts, he would insist on her promptly returning the box to him. It's exactly what he told her on the phone. Algernon considered Luther his fiercest competitor and his best friend at the same time. But Luther was dead and nothing could be done about that. The priority was getting the box. He had ridded himself of his unwanted visitor and was impatiently waiting for her unacceptably late return. That was Algernon Devries.

But her ridiculous conviction had been wrong. Her original suspicion, once it had grown large enough to be clearly recognized, was correct.

"Devries would never do that, either, I'll bet."

"He was worse than Luther." It had happened here, too. "I was too slow. I let preconceived notions about him blind me. I didn't recognize his coded message for help in time."

"This is not your fault. Someone had been up to something very complex in the planning before you got caught up in it."

Once they were out of the car, Kozlowski took out his gun and led the way up the stairs into Algernon's house.

They found Algernon, still in his robe, on the floor at his desk in a similar position to Luther's except Algernon's study was at the front of his house not in the back and his leg wasn't all tangled up with the leg of his chair. The wound on his pallid forehead was identical to the one on Luther's, and the one on the man they found dead in the park.

The difference was the huge hole in Algernon's chest from a gunshot. One of his antique pistols lay on top of his desk. He had always insisted the pistols be in working condition and kept some of them loaded. Every now and then, he would see what kind of damage they could do. There were a number of holes in the walls of the house. All of them were covered by famous paintings. Algernon wouldn't get the holes fixed because every now and then he wanted to peek behind the paintings he'd spent millions of dollars to purchase to admire his handiwork.

Algernon's pale, translucent skin had turned a dull, ghostly grey that would give Jacob Marley a good scare. The red message-indicator light on his desk phone was not blinking. He had listened to her messages, but he had only been able to return her call before he was . . .

A chill scurried through her.

After a quick check of Algernon and the study, Kozlowski said, "I'll call this in."

"To your captain?"

"No, to Denise." He stepped out into the front hall to make his call.

After setting Dracula's jewelry box on the desk, she walked away from it and looked around Algernon's study. It was full of arcane and fantastic stuff. He had a collection of bowls made from stone, ceramic, wood and pewter. Two bowls made of gold were protected inside thick, secure cubes of glass. They were Mayan, Aztec, Incan, African, Persian and obscure. They had held baptismal waters or the blood of the sacrificed. In the center of his study, three sturdy legs of stone held a large community bowl. Weaved out of strips of bark and wood from palm trees, it was more of a basket than a bowl. It had belonged to a tribe of cannibals in the South Pacific. Before they went extinct, it had held bits of the wayward explorers they'd had over for dinner.

"Bon appétit."

All kinds of geometric shapes and iconographic inscriptions on tablets, papyrus and parchment, the symbols of the centering and concentrating of the forces of the universe, were also present in this room.

Algernon had insisted he felt them affecting him, energizing him every day, keeping him healthy and alive, interested in the world and whatever was beyond. If Algernon could have collected and retained the extra dimensions theorized by physicists, they would all be paperweights on his desk.

Much of it wasn't even supposed to exist except in the mythology of collectors, antique dealers, believers in mystic artifacts with hidden magical powers, and maybe a few secret service agencies. None of it had been able to stop a lead ball fired from an old dueling pistol.

She picked up the glass display box that held the Taskmaster's Triangle. A length of gold bent into an isosceles triangle with the third, bottom side not quite reaching the first. When struck, it was said to vibrate with the purest tone in existence, the resonance frequency of the universe or of the beginning of the universe or of the end of it depending on which side of the triangular mythology one believed.

When Algernon had struck it with the little golden hammer that came with it to demonstrate its melodious perfection to her, the stupid thing had set her teeth vibrating. The Taskmaster's Triangle could be used by any dentist to find whichever tooth needed a root canal.

Taskmaster was an anglicized version of the original title, which had been translated from the cuneiform alphabet of Akkadian or Sumerian. The original _Eastern_ title—older than anyone can know, according to Algernon—was lost in the numerous translations leading up to that time. Most believed it to be a reference to God.

Algernon called it TOG: The One God. The One God everyone lost track of as new religions splintered off and evolved through a series of misguided or stupid misinterpretations of Original Wisdom to the laughable and deadly mess that existed throughout the world today.

She set the display case back on its podium and picked up the Elixir of Eternal Life flask resting on the stand beside it. A thick crystal decanter with a round base and a long neck stoppered at the top by a wad of yellow wax, it was supposed to contain within its murky green soup a sample of the beginning of life on earth. It could bring immortality and unlimited powers of transfiguration to anyone who had the courage to drink it, but there was a catch.

To break the seal would immediately and completely dissipate the miracle of its contents.

" _Est-ce pas toujours la façon dont avec ces choses?_ " Isn't that always the way with these things?

All of this was little more than a lingering figment of human imagination concocted from primitive superstitions and wishful thinking. Traipsing all over the world to fetch these items for Algernon had left her with little more than material wealth, a sense of something missing in her life and a conviction that the punchline, when it did finally come, was going to be a doozy.

Algernon and Luther were dead because someone coveted a stupid jewelry box—a bland, cracked, hollow rectangle of wood with little to it but a slightly interesting carving of a crouching dragon on the top of its lid—even more than they did and wasn't going to let anything stand in the way of retrieving it. Granted, it was more likely they coveted the vials of liquid inside its secret drawer rather than the box. Nonetheless, Algernon and Luther had gone after one too many unicorns.

Inspector Kozlowski came back into the study. He held his mobile phone up to let her read the text message he had just received from Denise Bridges.

Have to be careful, he's keeping a close eye on me now. He knows you are at Devries house, but not sending anyone. He's ordered you to call him to arrange a meeting. Kicked me out of office when I argued, immediately got back on the phone. Be alert.

Jacqueline said, "I think the time has come for us to hide somewhere."

After checking Algernon again, he checked the top of the desk. Referring to two lamps on it designed to resemble crystal balls, he asked, "Do they do anything?"

"They glow . . . when you turn them on. Does he have Vlad's locket with him?" She turned away. "It would be in one of his pockets."

Kozlowski went through all of them. "Nothing. What is Vlad's locket?"

"Either an original part of Vlad's crown or a replica. That's all I know about it."

He looked at the shelves of books behind Algernon's desk. "What is all this?"

"Just what it looks like, shelves of old books. A few are originals, historical tomes from both famous and obscure intellects, some are incunabula, but mostly they are just very old books, a dusty celebration of the greatest invention of all time."

"I thought that was the microwave oven."

"What are we going to do? Don't you think we should hide?"

The oak floor directly above the study, her room when she stayed in San Francisco, creaked. The creak was quickly followed by a footstep and then another before all noise stopped.

"Is that your captain?"

"Even if he was coming, he couldn't get here that quickly."

" _Merde_. Did he send someone? He called someone after talking to Bridges about your call."

"We should leave. Do you want me to carry it?"

"I'll take it." She retrieved the box from the desk, careful not to look at Algernon. It felt heavier than when she'd been carrying it before.

Kozlowski pulled out his gun when the footsteps started again, but he was too close to the bookshelves recessed into the wall and struck one of them with his left elbow.

The shelves, though solid pieces of wood and laden with books, rattled loudly. The noise reverberated behind them.

The footsteps had left her room, but paused for a moment when the shelving rattled before continuing to slowly approach the top of the stairs.

"What's on the other side of this wall?"

"A closet, I think, yes, the entry hall closet."

The top stair creaked as someone started down. Unlike the four men who had attacked at Luther's, this intruder was being cautious.

She asked, "How many?"

"Sounds like only one, two at most." He pushed on the bookshelf. It scraped along the floor. "Maybe not just a closet."

He pushed harder. The shelving rattled louder, scraped louder, gave way and swung open into a dark corridor proceeding for six feet behind the entry hall closet to a very conventional white door with three locks securing it.

# Chapter 19

First they find a door behind drapes at Luther's and now a door behind bookshelves here. " _Je ne savais pas ou l'autre de ces hommes_." I did not know either of these men.

Three lights recessed into the ceiling came on one after the other to illuminate the carpeted path leading to the locked door. There was no cobble road on this carpet, or yellow bricks, either.

Kozlowski closed the shelving unit as quietly as he could. It latched with a soft click. He slid a bolt on the back of the unit into place.

"The door doesn't look that solid," she said, "but the locks definitely are."

Whoever was in the mansion with them had reached the bottom of the stairs and was coming across the entrance hall toward the study.

"It sounds like two sets of footsteps, but I can't be sure." Kozlowski tapped the door with the handle of his gun. "It's a metal shell over a metal core." He checked each lock. "I can't shoot them or break this down without making a lot of noise. And I still might not get it open."

The intruders had entered the study and were looking around. There was definitely more than one set of footsteps.

"Do you think there might have been something like this below Bourque's safe?"

The question slapped her. She blinked rapidly back at Kozlowski as far too many thoughts, feelings and curses were knocked loose and sent tumbling. "For all I know, he could have had a flying saucer or the leftovers from that alien autopsy under his house."

They both fell silent and just listened to the footsteps circling the study.

"Any ideas about this door?"

One set of footsteps had come over to the bookshelves. They had trapped themselves in a corridor barely six feet long and three feet wide: coffin size. The only way out led back to at least two intruders who were prepared to kill them. If the intruders found a way to open the bookshelf door, she and Kozlowski were dead unless. . . .

"My brooch, Algernon gave it to me and always insisted I wear it when I came to visit."

She took it out of her bag. A series of three gold, heart-shaped lockets were fastened together in a line. Each locket was topped with a ruby. Ugly and far too large to wear on a blouse or a lapel, she had removed it the moment she'd left Algernon's house to go to Luther's place. She did that so automatically now that it obviously no longer registered with her brain.

She exhibited it to Inspector Kozlowski.

"Well," he said, "it's big. Is it some historical artifact worth thirty million dollars, too?"

"Algernon described the three pieces as the keys to his heart, to his secrets and to his despair. I dismissed that as more of his eccentric whimsy, but Algernon also spoke in code when he was trying to reveal and conceal information at the same time."

"Like when he called you."

"His heart, his secrets and his despair, that's how he always described each one in turn."

She examined the stones in their settings. " _Mon Dieu, parfois je suis se aveugle_." My God, sometimes I am so blind.

The intruders had started tapping on the walls, likely with the handles of their semi-automatic weapons.

"Who had the box before Bourque got it?"

"I don't know. The relationship between Algernon and Luther was complex. It and this box were only two of a very long list of things in his life that he excluded me from."

"More of his code?"

"No, he just didn't confide in me about Luther. They could have been lovers at one time. Algernon was bisexual. Luther was gay."

"He was open, straightforward and forthcoming about that."

"No, I learned that from personal experience. Algernon had a proclivity for intense variety in the games he played."

"Now _you're_ speaking in code."

"You know that mantra of people who believe they are liberal minded and adventurous. This brooch and what I went through—more precisely what it went through—to get it bestowed upon me was my once."

The tapping had reached the bookshelves. The bolt Kozlowski had slid into place rattled again. It might as well be pointing at them and calling to the two intruders in the study.

She unfastened the needle. Silver, barely thicker than acupuncture needles and three inches long, it glinted when she held up the brooch to Kozlowski. "Algernon once tied me up and stuck this through my left breast so he could pin it closer to my heart."

She unscrewed it. "Watch." She screwed it into another threaded hole on the back of the brooch. "As he shoved this into my skin, he told me it was just a matter of knowing how to properly apply leverage to get what you most desire."

Once the needle was screwed in tight, she held the brooch up again and wiggled the needle. The three lockets popped open to reveal three keys. "I've never known what these were for and he wouldn't tell me other than recite that idiotic phrase every time."

One of the intruders had stopped tapping on the bookshelf and was now pushing and pulling on it. That same reverberation they had heard when Kozlowski had struck the shelf with his elbow was painfully louder inside this confined space. If the intruders wanted to, they could just knock the books aside and fire at them through the flimsy plywood backing of the bookshelf.

All sound from the study stopped.

"They might have heard us."

Her hands trembled when she tried to take the keys out as quickly as she could. She lost her grip on the brooch.

Kozlowski caught it before it had dropped a foot.

" _Merci_."

Matching the keys with the locks was a simple matter because each had the different manufacturer's name stamped into it.

The bookshelf door creaked as both intruders pushed on it. The bolt rattled again.

"They will be cautious," Kozlowski whispered, "because they don't know what's on this side."

She placed the keys in the locks and turned them. Another numbered keypad lit up.

"There is no end to them."

"It is okay this time," she whispered back and took a key card out of her bag. She pointed out the slot on the keypad and then swiped the card through it. The bolts unlocked and the door popped open.

No overhead lights on the other side of the door turned on this time.

Kozlowski reached through the doorway to her left and flipped a switch. A thirty-watt bulb hanging down three feet above them provided dim illumination into a stairwell. The moment it came on, the three recessed ones went off. He took out a small flashlight.

She retrieved the three keys and returned them to the locket and the locket to her bag. She then took out a penlight. The jeweller's loupe wouldn't be of any use to her in this situation.

The bookshelf door creaked again but still resisted the harder pushes and the banging from the other side.

It would be just like Algernon to install some elaborate security device in the door that increased its capacity as a barrier once he was on this side of it. She could imagine metal rods or bolts ejecting from it into the floor and jamb.

She shone her light onto stairs descending through a steep tube of stone. Had Algernon been preparing her for one day coming down these steps into his inner sanctum? How many of his special guests would have been invited to that event?

She stopped Kozlowski when he moved toward the stairs.

"What is it?"

"Just be careful." She scanned the stairs again.

The first three steps were made of wood to both descend to the stone ones carved out of the cave wall as well as bridge the gap between the stone stairs and the small landing on this side of the door. The wood was thinner than normal for risers and runners by half.

With both beams of light focused on the same thing, Kozlowski tested the top step. "Despite how flimsy they look, it feels solid." He tried to move the step with his foot but it didn't budge.

The intruders began pounding on the bookshelf door. They were trying to break it down. The next step could be shooting it to pieces.

Kozlowski stepped onto the top stair, counted to three with his fingers, then stepped down the other two until he was on the top stone stair at the entrance to the tube. He held out his hand to offer support.

She adjusted her grip on the box, reached out to take his hand and went down the three stairs. As soon as she reached the top stone one, the metal door closed and the three electronically controlled bolts slid back into place.

"Look." Kozlowski aimed the beam of his flashlight at the cave wall.

Another of Algernon's elaborate security devices, a lever was attached to a metal lattice fastened to the stone wall. The lattice was also attached to the three wooden stairs. Pull the lever and the three stairs detached and could then be folded up like a patio chair. They were made to be light enough so Algernon could carry them down with him, leaving a dark gap that was nearly impossible to gauge for size by anyone following who didn't have a good flashlight. That was why there was only a thirty watt bulb above them.

"I don't think the Forest Hill Homeowners Association would have approved this modification."

# Chapter 20

"I thought," Kozlowski said, "there would only be conventional stairs to a basement."

"This house is built against a mound of rock near the back. There is no proper basement, only a small cellar below the study with stairs to it from the kitchen and an entrance from the outside. Algernon probably has some secret door from the cellar into whatever is below us."

Kozlowski shone his light down along the carved stairs. "I count twenty and it's a steep descent." The light barely seemed to go far enough to reveal what was waiting for them at the bottom.

Gunfire started at the study end of the corridor, as well as what sounded like kicking.

She was surprised she could hear it.

Kozlowski said, "They're trying a more violent approach now."

A bullet struck the other side of the metal door at the level of her ear. Kozlowski grabbed her to keep her from falling when she ducked.

"We know what's back that way," he said and shone his flashlight along the stairs again.

Another bullet pinged off the metal door.

The stairwell, a straight, descending tube of black rock barely tall enough to avoid bumping her head on and barely wide enough to prevent scraping her elbows against, just squeezed in on them a bit more.

She shifted the box to hold it in front of her and pulled her arms close to her sides. She aimed her penlight in the same direction to reinforce the illumination from Kozlowski's flashlight and they started down.

Behind them, having been sufficiently riddled with bullets, the bookshelf door creaked, cracked and splintered into pieces. The intruders quickly ran the length of the corridor and began their banging and probing for any way to open the thrice-bolted metal door. The racket the intruders were making attenuated to almost nothing by the time they reached the bottom of the tube to find themselves in a rectangular cave about eight feet by six feet with a ceiling at least three feet higher than the one in the tube.

An arched opening six feet wide and rising all the way to the ceiling stood across from them.

They remained in the darkness at the bottom of the stairs but no lights came on. The muted noises they heard now that they weren't moving indicated the intruders still hadn't had any luck getting through the three locks and the door.

She exhaled the breath she'd been holding. The air wasn't as musty as she had expected. Just another case of normal expectations being manipulated by Algernon's compulsions; cool, dry air was being circulated down here.

"You can wait here," he said. "I'll take a look ahead."

"No."

As he did on the stairs, Kozlowski took the lead and stepped through the opening. She followed one cautious step behind. Once on the other side, she had to remind herself to breathe again as they took another step together.

Three loud beeps reverberated around them. A few seconds after the last of it died away, equally loud metallic scraping started above them.

Both of them shone their lights up to see what appeared to be a garage door sliding along and then down its tracks to close off the arched opening. As soon as it settled into place, other noises indicated bolts and clamps were sliding or closing into position to secure it.

Kozlowski said, "Your employer really didn't want anyone to get in here."

Lights came on to reveal a circular antechamber three times larger than the vestibule at the bottom of the stairs. The cavern had probably started out as a natural geological formation that Algernon had enlarged and shaped into this dome. It could explain why he hadn't wanted those diseased trees removed; his work below them wasn't yet finished. A chandelier dangling above them, still swinging from the vibrations caused by the sliding door, provided the illumination.

"I suppose there was no room for it in the house."

She couldn't see the ceiling of the dome above the chandelier. " _Ce est ce que ce est_." It is what it is.

"And I suppose those are examples of his secrets."

The chamber was cluttered with all manner of devices and furniture, both ancient and modern, designed for use in sexual activities. They offered support for specific positions, holes and straps and chains for securing and suspending and presenting, in some cases numerous people at once.

She recognized one of them. Heat spread up along her thighs and from the back of her neck to her flushed cheeks. Had Algernon intended to introduce her to the others?

Even with the garage door sealing them in, it was still possible to just hear the intruders shooting again at the metal door at the top of the stairs.

She asked, "Do you think they brought explosives with them?"

"If they did, they would likely only have ones intended for use against people: grenades, tear gas, flash and smoke. They might need a major supply of high explosives to get through that door. Devries knew exactly what he wanted."

She pointed out lighted niches carved into the stone walls. "Always."

Skulls and bones and fossil fragments were highlighted around the chamber.

"Those ones are human," Kozlowski said.

"Algernon funded a number of archeological and paleontological digs. I'm sure he negotiated privileged considerations for his financial support."

"Money really can buy almost anything."

"In Algernon's world it could."

"They can't all be from digs."

"Algernon reached out to a myriad of potential sources for his wants. He had a taste for mementos of famous and infamous people. If he was to be believed, those could be skulls from mass murderers from all over the world, brilliant scientists who donated their remains, assassinated politicians and royalty throughout the ages, some of the Nazi elite after they were executed, and a few from Auschwitz."

Some of those bones could have come from that huge community bowl in his study. She wasn't going to check any for bite marks, though.

"That is illegal."

" _Il est en haut si vous voulez discuter ce point avec lui_." He is upstairs if you want to discuss that point with him.

She walked over to a display of predator skulls: lion, tiger, a Nile crocodile, a great white, a prehistoric raptor, a saber-tooth tiger.

"Is this Egyptian?" Kozlowski was standing beside a mummy on display.

"That one appears to have come from South America, possibly Peru. He told me he had at least one from Egypt, the Americas and China."

"Who are they?"

"Algernon loved to brag about his collection, but he would never identify who or where he got them from. And before you ask, he would only collect things like this if he could verify their authenticity."

"Wouldn't other collectors challenge his claims?"

"Algernon wouldn't care if anyone believed him or not as long as he was satisfied with the proof."

"How many of these did you help him get?"

"I was not his only agent. Others helped him acquire these objects or else he negotiated the transactions himself, which he frequently did with the more sensitive and confidential pieces."

"By that you mean the illegal stuff."

"I would only work on acquisition assignments that had a mostly legitimate historical record of possession."

"Mostly?"

She held up the box. "Sometimes that was all we had to work with. This part of his collection was too far across that very blurry line for me. I am seeing most of these things for the first time myself."

"Is this his whole collection?"

"Hardly, Algernon was . . . insatiable."

The faint noises above them had stopped.

She asked, "Have they given up?"

"They could be trying to find another way in."

" _Je leur souhaiterai pas de chance_." I will not wish them luck.

"There's another opening this way."

They exited the antechamber through another arched opening onto a ledge to face another set of steep stairs carved out of the stone along the side of a curving section of cave wall. This set of stairs was wider than the previous one by about a foot, but was just as steep. Three fluorescent lights suspended on chains from above, each one lower than the previous one, provided ample illumination. A thick rope was strung through metal loops imbedded in the stone to act as a safety tether.

"There are a lot of them." Kozlowski turned off his flashlight. "I stopped at thirty-five. At least they're well-lit and we have something to hang on to."

Algernon hadn't seen fit to place something of his collection in a passage this big. It was hard to imagine him being down here in his glory and unable to see at least some part of his collection at all times.

Because they couldn't see very far even with the ample lighting, the descent seemed to take a dangerously long time to complete. The rope felt too slack to provide any safety for them. Her left hand began to burn as she slid it along the thick cord. At the bottom of the stairs, they found another rectangular, dimly lit vestibule carved into the rock and another closed metal door blocking their way. It had also been imbedded and secured into the wall.

Kozlowski said, "That looks like it came from an old submarine."

"Then it probably did."

"I can't wait to see what's on the other side." He stepped up to the door. "Might as well give it a try." He took hold of the wheel and yanked hard.

The wheel turned easily. The metal bands retracted from their slots.

Kozlowski pulled it open and they stepped through.

"Wow!"

# Chapter 21

While Inspector Kozlowski used an iron bar left on this side to secure the submarine door, she looked out at the size of Algernon's obsession.

"It's simple," Kozlowski said, "but it should hold. Now, what about this? I don't see a flying saucer, but there could be one somewhere in here."

Descending along another curving wall, metal stairs attached to the stone circled down to the floor of a domed cavern perhaps ten times larger than the chamber they had just come from.

" _Il y a certainement assez de place pour l'un_." There is certainly room enough for one.

The moment Kozlowski had opened the door, bright arrays of lights came on overhead, along the wall next to the stairs, and on poles and along strings of lights at the floor of the cave.

Of all the things she saw before her, the incongruous thought that popped into her head was how odd it was that Algernon had not obsessively insisted the stone of the whole chamber, his showpiece of self-indulgence, be chiseled, sandblasted smooth and polished to a shining, obsidian finish. He surely would not have wanted to be outdone by the pharaohs. Though he didn't have the slave labor they'd had, he did have access to more advanced technology and machinery to do them one better.

"I would say your boss is the unanimous choice for the Crackpot of the Century trophy. Do you think he dug this out of the rock?"

"I think he found these chambers and then enlarged them. Perhaps Barbary Coast pirates had found them or blasted them out in their day."

"Either way, this is one impressive man cave. I'm not counting those," Kozlowski said of the steps that would take them down sixty feet or more to the chamber floor.

She could see the ceiling in this chamber because it was so well illuminated and because they were standing on a rock outcropping just below it.

Below them, three white cinderblock domes resembling igloos glowed with even brighter lighting inside them. They formed a triangle with corridors of opaque white plastic stretched over arching ribs connecting them. From where she stood, it resembled a miniature set in one of those campy science fiction movies that actors in monster costumes stomped through.

Kozlowski put his ear to the submarine door, a useless gesture. He checked the door to confirm the iron bar he'd slid through the wheel handle kept it from turning.

"Shall we?" He put his gun back in its holster and started down.

She glanced at the jewelry box in her grasp and for a moment considered just tossing it over the ledge. But what would the liquids do when the ampules broke open?

" _Merde_." She followed him down.

The metal stairs provided wide, solid footing. The problem was the occasional protrusions from the stone wall to their left that seemed determined to push them off. There was no safety rope or handrail to hold on to. Algernon would like the idea of one more challenge of descending these apparently safe stairs before finally reaching his treasure trove.

The domes were larger than they appeared from the top of the stairs. The floor was actually closer to one hundred feet below the submarine door not sixty.

They entered the closest dome to find the rest of Algernon's collection of mystical devices and symbols and receptacles. Triangles of brass and silver and gold, spheres of crystal, gems and stones, settings of gems—ruby, diamond, emerald and the like—various sizes of pyramids and cubes were all displayed in their own cases or on shelves behind bulletproof glass.

Recherché and mythical and apocryphal, most of these items were far too large to have been kept in his study. Some of them might have been on display in his museum at one time. Two mummies were suspended in their cases above her and illuminated to give the illusion of floating. Algernon knew how to set up a display for maximum effect.

The environments in these domes were controlled to exact tolerances.

Inspector Kozlowski came back into the dome. She hadn't noticed him leave.

"You have to see this." He led her through one of the plastic-wrapped passages out of the first dome and into another. It contained only one item.

"I know that isn't an alien, but do not try telling me she is the real Sleeping Beauty."

" _Il ne peut pas étre_." It can't be.

On top of a catafalque of polished green marble with symbols and hieroglyphs and some of Luther and Algernon's unique squiggly code carved into it, lay the body of a perfectly preserved woman resting on three purple cushions inside a thick glass case.

Kozlowski's comment made sense because she was wearing a dress designed to replicate the one from the fairy tale.

"Do you know who she is?"

The woman was modern not ancient. Her eyes were closed. Her face was smooth and composed with a trace of a smile on it as if she were having an enjoyable dream. Though beautiful and flawless, there was a plastic uniformity to her skin that masked any sense of human identity. Was she really human or just a magnificently detailed depiction of one? Her hands were neatly folded over her chest and held a locket, her keepsake. Algernon would have insisted on that. Her blonde hair, wavy and long, was spread out around her head and shoulders forming a golden halo. Algernon would have insisted on that, too.

She wore earrings, lipstick, red fingernail polish to go with the lipstick—Algernon's favorite color—and a ring imbedded with three small diamonds on her left ring finger.

Jacqueline shivered. Algernon had not just acquired this woman but had actually arranged to have her prepared this way and delivered to him. Sleeping Beauty was a custom order. Had he considered this woman to be in some manner his lover or his wife? He loved performing rituals of his own creation, but surely he wouldn't have gone this far.

"Ms. Duquesne . . . Jacqueline . . . do you know who she is?"

"She looks familiar, but no. If she were alive, if I could see her eyes, I might. . . ."

"I am not surprised after all you've been through this morning."

"I supposed this is routine for you."

His laugh escaped through the circular opening at the top of the cinderblock igloo to echo throughout the chamber. " _Vous avez un merveilleuz sens de l'humour_." You do have a wonderful sense of humor.

"Hello, Jacqueline," Algernon said from behind her.

A small scream escaped before she could cover her mouth. The edge of the jewelry box dug into her ribcage again when she clutched it tighter.

Kozlowski was next to her quickly, took hold of her arm and pointed to one of the three entrances to the dome. Speakers perched on stands stood on each side of it.

Had Algernon planned to one day conduct guided tours through here?

From the speakers, he said, "Do not be distressed, _ma chêre fille_. It is only the latest in facial recognition software that has allowed the security program to know it's you. Only the best for me, as you well know. I am glad you finally made it down here, though I must conclude the reason for your visit is not in my best interest."

"Algernon, how . . . ?"

She could almost see that impish smile spreading across his face when his voice responded, "Rest assured, dear Jacqueline, I am not talking to you from the beyond, not literally, that is. It is all part of the security program installed to protect my collection."

She looked at the entrance, but Algernon did not suddenly step through with that smile on his face to confirm this was all just another of his complicated practical jokes.

"Unfortunately, my dear sylph," his voice was sounding a bit more digital and disconnected now, "I am talking to you because someone has found their way past me into my treasury. I cannot allow that."

"This is Inspector Kozlowski. He's with me. We're investigating. . . ." She wiped tears from her eyes.

"I don't mean you or the man with you, but you must hurry. You only have two minutes before all of this becomes a spectacular conflagration. You need to know you were very special to me in more ways than you can imagine and I do not want you to perish in this cavern. There is a way out, but you are going to have to be clever and quick to get to it in time. Before I give you the clue, I will leave you with all my best wishes and one last bit of wisdom. You can trust Rosalie and what she tells you, but do not trust that other one."

Kozlowski said, "Where is the clue?"

A section of the catafalque lit up with Algernon's code.

" _Je suis pris au piège dans un monde de fous._ " I am trapped in a world of lunatics.

She ran to the catafalque and began decoding the message. "A trickle becomes a torrent flowing to the edge of the shore only under the splashing boots of man."

"What the fuck is that supposed to mean?" Kozlowski checked his watch. "We have just over a minute to go."

"Storm drains. There must be a tunnel in here that leads to the storm drains."

A bullet zipped in through the entrance to the dome, just missed her left shoulder and struck the glass case. The lights went out.

# Chapter 22

She felt the darkness on her skin as it solidified around her and prevented her from moving. It covered her eyes with spectral lids that left Sleeping Beauty floating before her. It reached inside for her heart with frigid claws. Her ribs creaked when she took a sudden deep breath. She couldn't scream or swear.

Another round of bullets flew into the igloo trying to find her.

"Jacqueline." Kozlowski clamped onto her arm and pulled her to the other side of Sleeping Beauty before firing two rounds back through the entrance.

Emergency lights came on, bathing the igloo in a dim red glow that blinked away what was left of the countdown.

He ducked back when they returned fire. "Why aren't they charging in here? I can't match their firepower. I only have a few rounds left." He fired again. "Isn't there some ancient secret weapon in here that could help us? Some orb of something, a decanter of _midi-chloreans_ sealed with wax from Yoda's ears, a magic wand that actually works, maybe a unicorn horn that explodes on contact with cinderblocks?"

"Those three keys from my brooch were all the magic he left me."

"That figures." He aimed his gun again but didn't pull the trigger.

More shots came in from outside. They were hitting everything rather than all being focused on Sleeping Beauty.

"We may not need any of those things." She pointed to the symbols illuminated on this side of the catafalque. "It's directions."

It would be just like Algernon to do something like this, his last trick. " _You will have to be clever and quick_."

A fusillade of bullets struck the glass case but only ricocheted off it into the dome. If they fired enough bullets into this igloo, they could probably erode away the cinderblocks.

Kozlowski fired three more rounds back. "Two left and about forty-five seconds if your former boss was punctual. Those lights are giving me a headache."

"He was. One must understand hell first before one can appreciate heaven."

" _Merde_! Couldn't he just said go right, then left and open the goddamn door?"

"Here." She pointed out two levers at the bottom of the catafalque. They were designed to be pressed on by a foot.

She pushed down on one. Kozlowski stomped on the other.

More bullets struck the case and ricocheted, the illuminated symbols went out, but nothing else happened.

"We have to go down before we can go up."

"I get that." He put his shoulder to the catafalque and pushed.

She pushed, too.

The display slid easily to reveal a shaft lined with a metal tube. A metal ladder was attached to the tube.

He fired one more shot. "You first."

She didn't hand him the jewelry box when he offered to take it. Being defiant enough to wear running shoes after Algernon had summoned her to San Francisco was proving to be a fortuitous advantage over what she would normally have worn to keep him happy. She started down the ladder.

Kozlowski shone the flashlight down to help with her penlight. A few seconds after he started down, the catafalque smoothly and silently returned to its original position.

Glowing red dots flitted about her stinging eyes.

The intruders would immediately know they had found an escape. Unless the two levers had locked, it would be easy enough to come after them. Unless Algernon had some other trick prepared. . . .

"Time's up, hold on."

She looped her free arm around the rung of the ladder and grabbed hold of the one below it. She squeezed her eyes shut, which crushed away the last few of those pestering dots.

A series of muffled explosions began above them.

" _One must understand hell first before one can appreciate heaven_." Algernon hadn't just meant they had to go down before they could go up.

The explosions came closer. The ladder and metal tube began to vibrate. The vibration became violent shaking in only seconds.

"GO! GO!"

She climbed down as fast as she could. After a descent of another twenty rungs, her feet landed on solid ground. Above her, the circular opening began to glow red around its edge. She backed up just in time to avoid being crushed when Kozlowski dropped the last six rungs to get down.

He quickly scanned their surroundings with his flashlight, turned her around and pushed hard. They got through another submarine door just before fiery debris began falling through the tube.

Kozlowski closed the door and latched it. "Who the hell was Algernon Devries?"

" _Un monde à lui-même_." A world unto himself.

"I understand he crawled to the shake of a different baby rattle, but, shit, he booby-trapped his own collection. There had to be millions and millions and millions of dollars of investment up there."

"Algernon would think that perfectly logical. As obsessed as he was about his collection, he was more obsessed with making sure it remained only his."

"If he can't have it, no one can." He looked around another cave illuminated automatically by two hanging light bulbs when they entered. "I guess I should be grateful for his insane selfishness or we would have been trapped."

"Beyond that obsession was his obsession to live forever. He could start his collection over again once he'd escaped. For Algernon, there were still countless mysteries and objects out there to be tracked down. He could still end up with more of it than anyone else if he just lived long enough."

"But it's all gone now."

"Algernon would be satisfied with that. He was the last one to possess all of it. In his mind, once he ended, it all ended. It might have always been his intention to blow everything up at the moment of his death. That demand might be in his will."

"So, what's with you? Monday through Friday wasn't good enough for you? You had to work for the Lord High Mental Case of San Francisco?"

" _Il semblait une bonne idée a l'époque_." It seemed like a good idea at the time. She scanned the cubicle they stood in. Algernon no doubt had it chiselled out to exacting measurements that were meaningful to him.

Despite Algernon's penchant for encryption, mystery and games, they found their way out easily enough. After walking along a rising corridor carved out of the stone, they found another submarine door that led to another shaft lined with another metal tube—also likely from a submarine—about twice as long as the one they had descended. They climbed the ladder to a simple manhole cover that opened into a section of Forest Hill green space where the two old trees had stood. They were well concealed by the trees and bushes still growing there when they came out of the ground a block away from Algernon's burning mansion.

She could see flames rising through the roof.

"This way," Inspector Kozlowski said and took her by the arm.

"Where are we going?"

"Back to the car."

"There will be firefighters and cops all over the place."

"Another cop won't be anything special, then, will he?"

He called Captain Calhoun on the way and told him most of what had just happened. He offered as an explanation for their change of direction a phone call to her from Algernon about an intruder that sounded similar to the one Luther had made to SFPD before he died.

Kozlowski then asked, "Who is after us?"

She could hear Calhoun's voice getting louder but she couldn't make out what he was saying.

"We'll be there in ten." He put his phone away as they came around the corner to see the chaotic scene at Algernon's mansion. "We're to rendezvous with Jeremiah and Denise at Hawk Hill Park."

"Why there?"

"It's a good location, a sand dune slope, no easy public access. Calhoun made his name in the department there when he solved the Hawk Hill Park murders four years ago. Three women working for the same escort service had been murdered and dumped in the park. They all looked like the work of the same psycho, but Calhoun proved it was part of an intimidation campaign by a new gang moving in with their own sex trade workers. We were able to shut them down before they ever got a foothold."

"He's comfortable with the park."

"He told me DHS agents are looking for us. There are two of them at the station now, but they won't tell him anything. He wants to bring us in under SFPD protection and try to find out why DHS is involved before we talk to them."

"Do you trust him?"

"No, but he has information we need and he's bringing Denise with him and we're meeting in a public park in broad daylight."

"Not a place to spring an ambush, despite our suspicions about your commander? You do still remember what we've just been through at Luther's and Algernon's."

"I have two more magazines for my gun in the car."

"I still can't shake the feeling that—"

"I can't either, but I don't see what other choice we have."

Three fire trucks had arrived at the mansion. Three patrol cars were parked on the road.

Kozlowski did the same thing he did at Luther's. He left her behind at his car while he went to talk to the officers. He pointed to her frequently as well as at the mansion. He shook hands with the oldest of the uniformed officers and returned to her.

"We're in luck," he said, "none of the fire trucks have blocked us in."

They drove out along the curving driveway. Kozlowski stopped at the end of the drive to reload his revolver before heading for the park.

# Chapter 23

She hadn't gone with Scott in response to the bizarre call from Luther Bourque because she'd been busy taking statements from two witnesses for another case they were working on. Scott had volunteered to go by himself with two patrol cars to back him up. Everything had just gone crazy after that.

She came out from the interview room to find everyone talking about the joint notice from FBI and USAMRIID about the Viaje Costero, a cargo ship brought in last night by the Coast Guard, and a plane crash just inside the western edge of Yosemite. Both might or might not be the result of the same infectious or toxic agent.

Then Scott reports an attack by what he described as something like a special-forces unit or highly-trained mercenaries determined to retrieve something from the Bourque place called Dracula's jewelry box that could be worth thirty million dollars.

"Yeah, right, just another day at the SFPD," she muttered.

And then Captain Calhoun starts lying to Scott and begins behaving strangely. If she didn't know him better, and at the moment she wasn't sure she knew him at all, she would suspect his behavior was bordering on dereliction of duty if not criminal negligence toward a fellow officer. And he was still doing it right in front of her.

"I said DHS is looking for you. More precisely, they are interested in Jacqueline Duquesne. Two agents are at the station now, but you know what those bastards are like. They won't share anything."

Denise looked out of Calhoun's office but saw no one there who wasn't supposed to be there.

Calhoun held up his hand to stop her protests and questions. "I've stalled them for now until I can bring you and Duquesne in under SFPD protection."

What the hell did that mean? If Duquesne was wanted in connection with something to do with national security, SFPD would either step aside to let FBI or DHS take over or would immediately hand over Duquesne.

"Get to Hawk Hill Park. Denise and I will meet you there. We'll try to figure out what is happening before we face DHS together." He held up his hand to stop her from interrupting again and nodded at what he was being told. "See you in ten. And, Scott, be careful."

"Jeremiah, what is going on here?"

"You've seen me on and off the phone all morning, I know you have."

"Yes."

"I've been talking to a DHS supervisor in Washington. Your partner may have just walked into the middle of a domestic terrorism threat."

"Does it have anything to do with that cargo ship or the plane crash?"

"Washington is only telling me to hand Scott and the woman over to their agents."

"There aren't any agents here."

"They are on their way. They should arrive within the hour. Scott will tell Duquesne what I told him. She might be more willing to tell us something about what's going on if she thinks DHS is already here."

"I researched both Devries and Bourque. They kept a pretty low profile, but they were both known for generous charity work in the city, Bourque's famous wines, the Devries Gallery and Museum, and for their spectacular private collections. While some of the stuff in their collections, including that jewelry box Scott told us about, is rumored to have been acquired via unusual means, there is no evidence of illegal activity by either one of them."

"The one thing Washington did tell me was they have evidence Duquesne, Devries and Bourque got themselves entangled with someone while trying to collect something. It put them under the influence of this someone. It could be that box. It also appears that we are once again the last to know. It's happening in our city and every other agency in the federal alphabet soup knows something of what is going on but us. I don't think we would have been told if DHS could have gotten to Bourque's house before we did."

"Was that unit part of DHS?"

He shook his head. "Washington only told me the attack is consistent with the methods used by that someone and their associates. He didn't identify who they are."

Jeremiah Calhoun and Scott Kozlowski were good cops. She considered herself fortunate to have Scott as a partner and Jeremiah as a commander. Sure, Calhoun had been a grandstanding, macho, chauvinistic jerk when they first teamed up. The thought of working with him every day had almost made her put in for a transfer a half-dozen times. But he had surprised her after a few necessary sessions in the staff locker room and matured quickly on the job. He had become an excellent station commander. She admired him, which made all the jokes about being his 'work wife' only a trifling nuisance.

None of this domestic terrorism bullshit made any sense. Nonetheless, it had trapped the three of them in a situation that she suspected was going to inevitably force her to choose between those two.

"Why don't we bring in our SWAT? If the three left from the attack at the Bourque place are still in play, they could track either us or Scott and Duquesne to Hawk Hill Park."

"We need to keep this small and manageable. The fewer people involved the—"

"Not if that group attacks at the park. We would be outgunned. And there could be civilians in the line of fire."

"Stop arguing everything. We have to get to the park as quickly as possible."

"I'll just get a few extra magazines, if that's all right with you, Captain."

"I'll meet you in the lot." He went back on the phone as she headed for her desk.

Once she was sure Calhoun was preoccupied with Washington again, she veered over to Inspector Trent Baylor's desk.

He greeted her with, "Crazy day, huh?"

"I need a big favor and I need you to keep it to yourself, okay?"

"What?"

"Find out all you can about the cargo ship and the plane crash in Yosemite. Contact the FBI agent investigating them and tell him we may be dealing with something connected to them. Text me as soon as you have all that."

"What's in it for me?"

"You'll find out tonight if all goes right."

"Do you want me to back you up?"

She spotted Calhoun getting up from his desk. "No. Just do what I ask and don't tell anyone else."

She returned to her desk before Calhoun exited his office, took out a Smith & Wesson M&P9c and shoved it into her bag along with two magazines of twelve rounds each to go with her holstered Sig Sauer P229. She glanced once at Trent before joining Calhoun on the way out to his Ford Taurus.

# Chapter 24

For a man who made as much money as Anthony Vargas did, he was certainly keeping a low profile during his stay in San Francisco. The information Chase had provided brought him to the Bayview-Shoreline Motel in Bayview-Hunters Point. Vargas was staying in suite 208.

Frank backed his truck into one of the motel's parking spots so he could face the two-storey building. Suite 208 was at the end of the top floor to his left. A set of stairs at the end of the building descended from the front balcony toward the back of the motel.

Vargas would have to come around from there to the parking lot at the front.

Blinds were closed in the one window facing the parking lot. Vargas could be gone by now or he could be peeking out a small crack between sections of the blinds. If Vargas was keeping watch, he'd be spotted the moment he got out of the truck. He would have that level of experience and suspicion from his years working as the dark agent of Algernon Devries, the one who didn't care how he got what he was sent to get.

Based on what information Chase had sent him, it was inevitable Vargas would be the intermediary between Weinberg and those two collectors. But something had gone wrong here or Tubby wouldn't have redirected him from the crash site.

Frank just kept watch for another five minutes. No further information about Vargas or the situation came in from Chase, nothing happened in or around suite 208 during that time.

He got out of his truck.

The door to suite 208 opened. Vargas came out carrying his suitcase.

That coinciding action brought him to a stop at the front of the truck. For a count of three he and Vargas looked straight at each other.

Vargas didn't completely close the door to the room and kept his hand on the knob. The man was about six feet tall, three inches shorter than him, and maybe one hundred eighty pounds, a good sixty pounds lighter.

He was probably faster than Vargas, too, who appeared to be about ten years older than him on either side of forty. But Vargas had three escape routes if he needed them. Or he could just duck back into 208 and wait with a gun aimed at the door.

Frank turned and headed for the motel office, swinging his keys around on his finger as he went. Turning his head just enough, he watched Vargas approach the stairs and begin his descent. The moment Vargas turned the corner and couldn't possibly see him, Frank jogged over to suite 108 and approached the end of the building. He let Vargas take two steps into the parking lot before coming up behind him and pressing the Beretta against his ribs.

"Harvey sent me."

"I don't have it anymore. He knows who has it now if he wants it back."

"Let's talk first." He took the key from Vargas and walked him back to his room.

Inside, he let Vargas throw his suitcase onto the bed before sitting down next to it.

Frank sat in the only chair in the room after moving it closer to the bed.

"Why'd you do it?"

"I thought it was okay. It was why I was there."

Vargas had a thick black beard to go with his dark Mediterranean complexion. The thick beard, his bushy eyebrows and his tangle of long, black hair did a good job of hiding his facial features. A police sketch artist would have a problem not making Vargas look like an angry Sasquatch based on any description of him with that beard.

"What happened?"

Vargas scowled. He was wondering who this man with the gun really was. He was wondering if he could take him.

"Harvey didn't tell me much."

"How did you find me?"

"First, you tell me what happened."

"I'm looking for this item because this guy I work for wants it. He's been looking for it for something like his whole life, or so he tells me."

"What is it?"

Vargas chuckled and said, "Dracula's jewelry box." He laughed out loud when he saw Frank's expression. "Yeah, that's what I thought, too. I mean, shit, what the fuck is Dracula's jewelry box? I'd never heard of it and I've been in this business for fifteen years."

"Your boss found out Harvey had it."

"No, I did. It took me three years, but I tracked it to Weinberg. Then it took another year before I found Weinberg in Widow Creek."

"Oregon?"

"Yeah, didn't you know?"

"We communicate, but we don't keep in touch."

"I know what that's like. He works at Karyon Research. Well, he did until last week."

"I heard about that."

"Anyway, I go there and I find him and make the offer. And what do you know, he accepts. Just like that he accepts."

"You weren't expecting that."

"God, no! You have to understand what these guys are like, man." He poked his temple with his finger. "They are batty in the head for their collections. Those guys want everything that comes within sight of them, the weirder the better. They don't just give it up because someone from the same looney bin offers them more money than the Bank of America has on deposit. To them, that would be the same as tearing off their fingernails and just handing them over to whoever asked for them."

"How much?"

Vargas put his hands on the bed and leaned back. "I am not at liberty to disclose that information."

Frank cocked the Beretta. "I _am_ at liberty to shoot you."

"Eighteen million."

Frank whistled. Vargas probably expected a response like that.

Vargas nodded and opened his eyes wide. "Yeah, man. Only old, rich, crazy bastards would pay that much for a six-hundred-year old wooden box, right?"

"Did something go wrong?"

"Yeah . . . well . . . no . . . not at first it didn't. I get to Widow Creek at noon like I'm supposed to. I check into the motel like I'm supposed to. If you think this place is a dump, you should have seen that one. Then I just wait like I'm supposed to. He calls me at eight that night and tells me to come to Karyon and gives me directions to get there and instructions on how to get in once I'm there. This security guy, maybe a bit bigger than you but not as dark or as solid, takes me to the north wing of this giant cross-shaped building and then he takes me to a secure elevator behind like, maybe, six locked metal doors, and sends me down God knows how many floors below. There was no number readout, just one button for up and one for down. Shit, I half-expected to be greeted with flames when the doors opened."

"Weinberg had the box in his lab?"

"That's what I said, isn't it? What do I care where he kept it? I knew this guy who kept these little bobbles worth over six million inside one of those Ziploc freezer bags stashed in his bathroom toilet tank."

"Did Weinberg meet you?"

"No, it was one of his team. He had five other guys with him. They all wore those white lab coats. Weinberg was playing with his chemistry set when we got to his laboratory. It was big and they must be doing something dangerous in there because it has all these signs and warnings everywhere. For a moment I wondered if I was going to get out of there alive." Vargas scratched the calf of his right leg, his right forearm and then under his chin. "It still makes my skin crawl at the thought of what all those chemicals could have done to me."

"What was Weinberg doing?"

"Two of the other guys in coats were standing back; the other two were beside him. I don't know if they were helping him, shielding what he was doing from my view or just watching him work. Weinberg had a small box or something and he was closing the lid on it, sliding it closed when I came in. He then did something odd."

He'd never know Weinberg to do anything other than odd.

"He put the small box inside the jewel box. He must have been practicing some slight-of-hand trick for a staff party or something because when I get to the counter, the lid of the jewelry box is still open but there's nothing inside." He shrugged. "He could have palmed it."

"How did you end up with the box?"

Vargas pointed to the back of Frank's left hand. "Burn?"

"Yeah."

"Firefighter?"

"Journalist."

That response seemed to give Vargas more confidence. "What's with the bandage?"

Frank held up his left arm. "Ran into a tree."

"A tree, huh? Hmm."

"Yeah, that's what I think of it, too." Frank pointed the Beretta to remind him not to get too confident. "How did you end up with the box?"

"The guy who brought me to the lab had left. I didn't notice at first. In my line of work, I've become really good at reading people. I can tell you the other guys were all agitated, all except Weinberg. He gave me the impression nothing would make him nervous."

"That's a good read, but you still haven't answered my question." He lifted the gun.

Vargas held up his hands. "I'm getting to that." He pulled the suitcase a bit closer but he didn't open it. "The two guys with Weinberg, they kept checking the time and looking at each other. But Weinberg, he shakes my hand like I'm his long-lost little brother or something."

When Vargas glanced at the gun aimed at him, he smiled and pulled the suitcase a bit closer.

"Is there something in there that you want to show me?"

"We'll get to that. So, okay, Weinberg's all charming and brotherly love while those other guys are skittish and clenched like they're trying to hold eggs between their cheeks."

"You completed the transaction, then?"

"Weinberg got paid, if that's why you're here. I took the box because that was what I was there for. Weinberg and my employer had a deal. We don't roach on deals, that wouldn't be honorable. Once I had the box, I sent the code to have the funds transferred. It was all legit, man, I swear."

"I won't ask again." He aimed the Beretta at Vargas' head.

"Right, gotcha, how did I get the box? Yes, we completed the transaction. Weinberg was happy. I was happy. My boss would be happy. But those other guys were terrified little children. Then the fifth guy, the one who met me at the elevator, he comes rushing back into the lab like something's after him and yells at them, 'They are almost here.'"

Vargas patted his suitcase. "That's when all hell, ya know. I mean, it was a fire drill then. Weinberg was barking orders at them to stay calm and stick to the plan. While he's doing that, he closes the lid to the jewelry box and shoves it my way. I took that to mean I could have it."

"Did Harvey see you out?"

"Shit, no, he completely ignored me at that point. They all did. I just took the box and went back the way I came. That big security guy wasn't even there when I left. Look, if I wasn't supposed to take it, he should have stopped me. He should have said something. I wasn't trying to pull anything on him. He did get his money."

"No one pulls anything on Harvey Weinberg. You then returned to San Francisco and delivered the box to your employer."

"I delivered it to his friend, Luther Bourque, like I was supposed to. That was the end of it for me until you showed up."

"When was that?"

"Two days ago."

"Why are you here?"

"Bourque told me I should make myself scarce for a few days. Fuck! I knew I should have gone straight back to the airport."

"Weinberg wanted the box in San Francisco. He only agreed to the deal to get it here. You were just his high-paid courier."

Vargas brightened at that. "Then my part is done."

He lowered the Beretta. "Yeah, you're done with this. Now—"

Vargas threw the suitcase at Gillett's head. When he ducked away, Vargas kicked the gun out of his hand. Another kick to his left shoulder sent him to the floor.

Frank rolled and jumped to his feet.

Vargas was ready for that and flew at him with kicks and punches. He had some martial arts training and he was fast.

Frank blocked every kick and punch that came at him. Though fast, Vargas didn't have enough power behind his blows to cause any real damage. At the speed he was going, Frank only had to keep up his defense until the idiot wore himself out.

Vargas bounced back and came at him again with a kick aimed at his head.

Frank blocked the kick, grabbed Vargas by the ankle and swung him into the wall.

Grunting and groaning, he slumped to the floor, but sprang to his feet and launched another attack when Frank stepped forward to check him.

Frank deflected the punch, grabbed Vargas by his forearm, pulled him closer and stepped into him with a palm thrust to his chest.

Vargas fell back into the same wall and crumpled again to the floor. This time he stayed down. His left hand went to his chest. He started coughing and licking his lips and gasping for air.

"If you keep flicking out your tongue like that, I'm going to start thinking of you as a snake. I hate snakes."

Vargas didn't go pale so much as he turned grey. His dark complexion took on the appearance of turning to stone, except it got slacker and his mouth gaped even more.

"You heard me. Just keep it tucked inside unless you want me to cut it out." Frank retrieved his Beretta and put the safety back on. "Now listen carefully."

For an idiot, Vargas quickly grasped that his opponent was not there to kill him and was actually about to help him get out of this threat. He quit licking his lips and nodded.

"I am only interested in retrieving what he placed inside the box. What you have to understand is Bourque was right. You are in over your head on this one. I'm proof of that. The people who sent me want you gone. I am going to give you a chance to be exactly that but your way. I presume you are experienced at vanishing."

He nodded again and rose slowly to his feet. "I've done it before."

"This has to be a championship effort on your part. You need to go away and stay away. Change your identity and stay off the grid because if you don't they will find you and you will vanish for good their way. Now get lost."

Vargas picked up his suitcase and fled the room. He left the key.

Frank sat back in the chair and waited a half-hour before reporting in.

At the end of his report, Chase asked, "Is he done?"

That question told him what he wanted to know. "I had no choice. Who did you send to Widow Creek?"

"That doesn't concern you, Frank. You have different targets now."

"Why did you send me after Vargas? He had nothing helpful."

"He confirmed Harvey placed something inside that box."

"You should have seen what I saw at the crash site. It was gruesome, Tim, even by our standards."

"Forget that. Clean up and get out of there. I'll send you the info you need in about fifteen minutes. It should take you straight to Harvey. Then you can find out directly from him what happened to the woman who saved your life after you tried to immolate yourself with fire."

# Chapter 25

She didn't die. She didn't feel any strange tingling or stiffness spreading through her body. Her skin was still skin. None of her joints had seized up. To any bird flying overhead, however, she would appear to be suffering from intense and uncontrollable muscle spasms because she kept kicking out every few steps as she walked around and because she kept rotating and shaking and flapping her arms like she was trying to fly.

She had removed her boots and socks. Every so often, she would stop her silly dance and wiggle her fingers and toes. Every part of her still worked as it had before she found the carton of vials, except perhaps for her brain.

Though she was isolated from her team members she wasn't alone. As time passed and none of them experienced any symptoms of exposure to the toxin, each team member took a turn coming to see that she was all right.

Moses came to her first with apology rife in every word he said, "How are you feeling?"

"I'm fine. You?"

"We're all good."

"Yes we are."

Luciano emerged from the trees on the other side of the creek as Moses returned to them. He just nodded and waved to her, said something to Moses that made him nod as well and then both men returned to the main crash site.

Her lungs didn't feel congested. The vague pain in her lower back and buttocks was from alternating between sitting on boulders or ground or else doing her silly dance.

"It doesn't last long," she whispered to herself.

Whatever the toxin was, it lost potency quickly once it was released. Its effectiveness, though clearly horrible and rapid, relied on instantaneous and concentrated exposure either by inhalation or contact with the skin. Even if her earlier supposition that she hadn't breathed in enough to be fatal because she was out in the open was correct, she was experiencing no effects at all. She was going to live.

She closed her eyes and took a few slow breaths. When she reopened them, Carlita was crossing the creek to get to her.

"You know," Anisha said, "a year ago, I had a chance to become Vice-President of Operations at United Airlines, where the only plastic I would have to worry about would have been those little, tasteless tomatoes we put in our in-flight salads."

Carlita hugged her. "Fire and Rescue have gone. They are all just fine."

Luciano emerged from the trees again. This time he came all the way to her. "FBI just arrived."

"That was quicker than I expected. Come on, you two."

"I better hang back until you explain everything to them."

"They're tough guys, they can handle it."

"All the same, I would feel better if I knew I wasn't causing anyone else anxiety. And I need to put my socks and boots back on."

Carlita started to protest again, but then she just sighed and nodded. "Come back, but keep out of sight until I signal you."

Once Carlita and Luciano entered the thicket, she put her socks and boots back on and crossed the stream behind them. She stopped at the edge of the trees and watched from behind a mature cottonwood as Carlita approached the three agents. They were all wearing gas masks.

Luciano veered off to go stand with Moses. They sat together on a boulder and soon started making wisecracks to each other about the trio; children whistling in the graveyard.

Just over an hour ago, those two would have given their right arms for gas masks. Of course, a few hours ago, none of them had any idea they were going to encounter vials of green liquid that turned people into mannequins.

She smiled and went back to watching Carlita with the FBI.

Carlita was pointing to the wreckage and her team as she explained to the leader why they had been called in and what the current situation was. She pointed to the gas masks and shook her head.

The leader of the unit looked at his two men in turn and nodded. All three of them then took off their masks at the same time. All of them took deep breaths and held them while they waited to see what would happen.

Moses and Luciano were as amused by that behavior as they had been by the gas masks.

Carlita hadn't stopped briefing them while they performed their own checks of the air. Her hands kept moving and pointing out various parts of the plane wreckage as well as the mannequin parts no one had touched. She was explaining what preliminary assumptions and conclusions they had made so far about what happened to the flight.

The leader turned his head and stepped closer as if to hear better what Carlita was saying.

Carlita dropped to the ground, leaving a clear view of the FBI leader holding a pistol equipped with a silencer.

The other two agents produced Uzis from under their parkas and opened fire on Moses and Luciano.

"Oh, God." She ducked behind the tree, crouched down and watched as the phoney FBI agent shot Carlita two more times to make sure she was dead.

Moses and Luciano never had a chance to escape. The other two men just kept firing at them. For a few seconds, it appeared as though the impact of all the bullets hitting them were actually preventing her colleagues from falling. The two killers began laughing while they continued firing. It had become a contest to keep their targets upright for as long as possible.

Finally, Moses fell forward to the ground, Luciano fell backward into the boulder they had been sitting on and rolled off it onto his left side. The two men stopped shooting, but continued laughing and arguing over who had won.

"Oh, God. Oh, God."

The leader touched his ear to report what had just happened and to get more instructions. That was what he'd been doing when he had turned his head. He hadn't been trying to hear Carlita better. He'd been receiving orders to kill everyone.

"There should be another one, a Chinese woman." He touched his ear again and barked at his men, "Find her!"

She looked up. Was this site under observation? She snuck back deeper into the trees. Three men with Uzis were looking for her and they were spreading out. She couldn't likely circle around them and make it to the Suburbans. Even if she did, she didn't have the keys. What options did she have?

Would they keep looking for her until they found her? Were they under some time constraint that would force them to gather up the cargo—surely what they had come for—and abandon their search?

One of the men had stopped searching the wreckage and was coming toward the creek.

Carlita may have told them about a fourth member, but she clearly hadn't told them where she was. If Carlita had told them of her possible exposure to the green liquid, they might expect to find a corpse.

The man splashed through the few inches of water at the center of the creek. He wasn't trying to be quiet.

Keeping as low as she could, she ran through the trees and bushes along the edge of the creek. Quick glances kept the man crossing it behind her in view.

He cleared the rocky creek bed and headed west toward the two bluffs. Had there been someone up there relaying information to them? Was that the person talking in the leader's ear?

There couldn't be anyone up there in command. They would have had a clear view of her and would have advised the trio on the ground by now. They would know exactly where she was and what she was doing.

Anisha slowed to a walk when she saw a piece of red and blue cloth on the ground twenty feet ahead. A plastic torso with one arm still attached and then a head came into view once she had climbed over a fallen cottonwood.

"Hey," the leader called to the man on her side of the creek, "give us a hand with this stuff."

Shocked blue eyes stared up at her. Anisha Wong bent over the tree trunk and vomited as the man crossed the creek back to the main crash site.

The three killers began unloading cans of Avgas from their black van.

"I'm so sorry. I'm so sorry." She struggled to pick up the heavy torso and almost toppled when she then bent back down to get the head. She again staggered when she straightened up. "Should have done it the other way round."

A quick peek confirmed the trio were still bringing in cans of fuel.

Despite the weight of the torso and arm, and the head, adrenaline helped her make her way back to the clearing where she had found the open cargo container.

Her plan might work if the man who had crossed the creek hadn't yet noticed the container. He had been looking for a human, any motion in the area, hiding spots to check.

She ducked behind two boulders just a bit shorter than her and set the remains on the ground. She then took off her orange coveralls and her white T-shirt.

The torso belonged to a man who would have weighed about 165 pounds. She had difficulty stretching the T-shirt over it, but she did finally get it on.

"Please forgive me, but I don't know what else to do." She wiped her eyes and paused a few seconds. "I am so sorry for this."

She placed the torso into her coveralls and pulled the straps up over its shoulders. Pieces of the organs inside it slipped out into the lower section of the coveralls.

"Oh, God." She swallowed bile and checked back along the way she had come to look for any trail she might have inadvertently left. She could see no trail of blood or pieces of. . . .

The trio was still bringing in cans of fuel from their black van. How many did they think they needed?

Crawling on her side, she dragged the torso, now in her T-shirt and coveralls, over to the open cargo container. Tears blurred her vision and again she had to take a few seconds before crawling back to the boulders to get the head.

The men had finished unloading the fuel cans. The leader was assigning areas for each of them to search the way Carlita had instructed her team when they first arrived.

Once the head was as close to fitting against the torso as she could get it, and in a stable position on the ground as if looking at the open container, she placed the arm so the hand was pointing to the container.

That man was coming back across the creek.

After shoving some rocks into the legs of her coveralls and straightened the fake body as best she could, she took off her socks and boots and placed them at the ends of the legs. Keeping as low as possible, she then crawled over to the cargo container, took out one of the cartons of ampules and removed all three of them.

The breeze was blowing toward the man crossing the creek.

She placed the empty carton near the hand, snuck back behind the boulders up wind and tossed each ampule at the arm.

Two of them broke to leave green stains on the ground. The third one landed on a leg of her coveralls and didn't break, though it was quite visible against the orange.

Anisha held her breath, covered her mouth and peeked out at the man retracing his steps. No cloud of green mist was blowing toward him.

The man stopped and began coughing.

Was the cloud colorless?

He came two more steps closer and stopped again. He also coughed again. Squinting at what he was looking at, he ducked his head and said into the transceiver on his left shoulder, "I think I found her. She's already dead."

The leader replied, "What happened?"

"She's next to one of those containers. It's open." He reached for his gas mask but didn't put it on.

A pair of small binoculars protruded from a front vest pocket. If he used them he would spot the ruse easily enough.

"Bring her and the container back here."

"Fuck you, mate." His Australian accent got more pronounced as his deep, gravelly voice got louder. "A couple of them bloody vial thingies broke open, mate. I can see the stains on the ground. I ain't going any-fucking-where near that."

"We're supposed to get all the containers."

"You want the fucking thing, you come get it." He reached for the binoculars, but instead brought out a package of cigarettes from another vest pocket. He lit up. "Me and me mate are taking a break."

He unzipped his pants and started peeing on the rocks, aiming at one and then another.

The leader cursed him using every vile word he could think of. After exhausting his vocabulary, he gave up and said, "Fine. Just burn it all."

"Finally, you're making some fucking sense, mate."

The man dropped his cigarette, pissed on it and then took out a grey can from a side pocket of his backpack. He flipped something on the top of the can and tossed it toward her fake self.

A pop like a piece of fireworks ejecting its colorful flare preceded a bright flash that set her orange coveralls on fire. The container was just out of range of the explosion.

"Motherfucking piece of shit." Still peeing, the man took out two more cans and tossed them.

One landed on her burning decoy and blew it into fragments. The other landed in the container. The loud, intense explosion sent it soaring straight into the sky as a fireball.

"That got the fucker." Laughing as he had while murdering her colleagues, he finished his target practice with the rocks, tucked his penis back into his pants, zipped up and trotted back across the creek.

Anisha remained crouched behind the boulders watching the fireball rise up into the sky and then return with an almost equally straight trajectory. It landed only a few feet away from its original position right on top of the largest piece of her burning coveralls.

The three men were laughing and joking on the other side of the creek.

In only underwear, she snuck back to the trees along the edge of the creek using every bush and boulder she could find along the way as cover. Her efforts to conceal herself hadn't mattered.

The trio was confident they had eliminated all of their targets. They were busy completing the remainder of their mission. The man who had thrown the incendiary grenades, the largest of the three men, was carrying Carlita toward the wreckage when she regained sight of him. He placed Carlita into the fuselage and then dragged Moses and Luciano over and placed them inside too.

The leader had brought a dolly from their van and was returning with it loaded with containers. Though it was equipped with large wheels, he struggled pushing it.

When the container across the creek exploded again, the three men took only a moment to look before continuing with their work.

The third man was pouring accelerant all over the site and the NTSB vehicles. The odor confirmed that it was Avgas.

Once they had loaded all the containers they could fit into the van, they placed the ones they had to leave behind into the fuselage. Once they completed pouring the accelerant everywhere, they gathered together to talk for a bit—a very relaxed exchanged, given what they had just done—before splitting up again.

The Australian took four fuel cans back to the van and started it. The leader tossed a grenade into the fuselage, picked up a couple more cans and headed for the van. The third man set the two SUVs on fire just as the fuselage went up in flames and then picked up the remaining three empty fuel cans.

The van spun its wheels in the gravel as it sped away.

Anisha Wong shivered when the breeze picked up. She wiped away tears and looked down at the sealed, blue and white carton she held in her left hand.

# Chapter 26

Inspector Kozlowski parked his Taurus near the end of Castenada Avenue. From there they entered Hawk Hill Park using a narrow footpath at the end of the street. The path wended its way through a grove of chestnut and palm trees and brought them to the edge of Herbert Hoover Middle School's concrete playground. He then took them uphill through more trees along another narrow trail beside a chain link fence blocking access to the schoolyard from the park. They emerged at the other end of that path between a retaining wall with the school's name painted on it and another retaining wall uphill from it that was covered in graffiti.

He pointed to that wall. "Jeremiah found the first victim in those bushes near the end of it. The other two were found a week later. They were buried in shallow graves dug in the sand on the other side about sixty yards to the west and farther up the slope."

"We are hemmed in here."

"Yeah, we are, but this is where Calhoun insisted we meet."

"Why?"

"Don't know."

"And your partner has been texting you messages about him behaving strangely. Yet she hasn't texted anything to you since you and your captain agreed to meet here."

"No."

"Where are they?"

"They should be here soon."

"Why didn't we just go to the station?"

"Now you want to go to the station."

" _Je veux juste sortir de ce bourbier_." I just want to get out of this mess. She held out the box to him. "At the station I can give my statement where I am surrounded by lots of cops with guns."

He didn't take the box. "They're here."

Calhoun and Bridges had used the same trail and came out of the trees behind them. Calhoun led the way.

He pointed to the box. "That is what's caused all this violence and intrigue?"

"Yeah," Kozlowski said.

Denise Bridges stepped out from behind her captain. "It's been a hell of a day. First there was the cargo ship, then the Bourque and Devries attacks and now a plane crash."

Jacqueline asked before Kozlowski could, "What cargo ship? What plane crash?"

Kozlowski said to her, "Last night, the Coast Guard brought in a cargo ship drifting near the Farallon Islands. According to the alert sent to us, the crew had been exposed to a toxin that turned them into mannequins."

Bridges said, "While you were at the Bourque place, we received another alert about the crash of a cargo plane in Yosemite. Its crew had been exposed to the same toxin. And there was a cargo of vials containing a green liquid on board that wasn't on the manifest. NTSB, FBI and USAMRIDD are investigating both incidents."

Captain Calhoun pulled out his revolver. "Hand over the box, Ms. Duquesne, please."

"Captain," Bridges said, "what are you doing?"

"It's not the box that's causing all the trouble, it's what it contains."

Jacqueline proffered the box. "Take it. I'm glad to be rid of it."

"Are you now?" He aimed his gun at Bridges and waved for her to stand beside Duquesne and Kozlowski.

"Captain," Kozlowski said, "what is going on?"

Jacqueline asked, "How do you know there is something inside the box?"

"I know a lot of things about the box, about Devries and Bourque, and about what all of you have been planning."

Bridges said, "We aren't planning anything, Captain."

"It doesn't matter what you think you know." Jacqueline stepped forward with the box. "Just take the damn thing and get me out of here. _J'en ai marre de toute cette foile_." I've had enough of all this insanity.

"We're not going anywhere. In a few minutes, agents from DHS will be here to take possession of the box and arrest all of you." He aimed his gun at each of them in turn. "Now, Ms. Duquesne, please put that on the ground and step back. You two drop your guns to the ground beside it and step back as well."

"Captain, Denise and I have nothing to do with any of this. We're as new to it as you are. And from what I've encountered, I don't believe Ms. Duquesne is anything other than an innocent caught up in it all. What has DHS been telling you about us?"

" _You've_ been telling me about the three of you. They intercepted your text messages and relayed them to me."

"Jeremiah," Bridges said. "Who have you been talking to? Let me see the text messages I'm supposed to have sent. The only one that should have caused you concern is the one I sent to Scott about you behaving strangely. But now I know why it looked like that to me. This guy in Washington is manipulating you."

"Why would he do that?"

"I don't know. Maybe he's gone rogue. Maybe he's isn't DHS. Maybe he's part of all this. If we go back to the station, you can call him and find out what else he knows. I asked Trent to call FBI. He might have something for us now. Let me check in with him."

"You could have brought Trent into your operation." He aimed his gun at each of them again. "Please do as I ask. I don't want anyone to get hurt. We will do exactly what you're suggesting once DHS gets here. I won't let them take you away from me without a full disclosure."

"There's no one coming to help you," Jacqueline said. "It's all part of whatever is going on about the box. Don't you see, Captain? They've been feeding you partial truths and doctored text messages to turn you against your own people, to convince you we are all in this together. Those people could be the ones behind what happened at Luther's and Algernon's. Just think about it for a moment. Who would have the covert resources we've seen today?"

She set the box on the ground and stepped back.

"Captain," Kozlowski said, "we can use what's in there to draw out whoever is after it. Let's all go back to the station now. DHS can meet us there. If this guy in Washington is legit, he will send his people there to pick up the box and interrogate us. We will cooperate fully because we are not involved in any terrorist conspiracy. That is what you've been told, isn't it?" Kozlowski took out his phone and held it up to Calhoun. "You can see the exact texts as Denise sent them to me. We can compare them to what this guy in Washington sent you."

Jacqueline said, "Please, Captain Calhoun, look at the texts."

"I won't ask again."

Kozlowski took out his gun and set it on the ground. He then backed up to stand beside her.

Bridges stepped back when Calhoun aimed his gun at her. "I will go back to the station with you, Captain, but I will not give up my weapon. Too many strange things have happened. You must believe us, Jeremiah, we are not part of a terrorism plot. That guy in Washington might be; we aren't. I promise I won't use my weapon against you, but I will not give it up. You can trust me. You can trust Scott. You know you can."

Jacqueline said, "Doesn't it seem odd that Captain Calhoun's reinforcements aren't here yet? What else were you promised?"

Calhoun looked toward the schoolyard, a flat expanse of concrete on the other side of the chain link fence that would easily reveal anyone approaching from that direction. He looked at the wall uphill from them. A craggy slope of sand, rock and low shrubs behind it could hide assailants or reinforcements equally well, but it also presented a considerable challenge if either tried descending it rapidly.

There was no one else in Hawk Hill Park but them. While not completely secluded and hidden from view, someone would have to make an effort or know beforehand where they were going to be to locate them.

"Why did you pick this spot, Captain?"

Bridges said, "She has a point. This is a horrible spot for us."

He didn't answer as he checked his surroundings again. He lowered his gun a bit.

"Did your contact in Washington suggest this spot, or did he just tell you to go somewhere private and secluded. Did you tell him where we were meeting?"

He just stared at Bridges.

"Captain Calhoun, I know what you are going through. I worked for twelve years with a man who was very particular about exactly what information he would provide about whatever assignment I was going on. He would tell me only what he thought would keep me properly focused on the goal before me. I can't tell you how many times I went on one of those assignments only to find out how unprepared I was and how he was manipulating me for his purposes."

Kozlowski asked, "What harm is there in returning to the station? It is familiar ground. We have resources and support there. We can maintain some control over the situation there."

"You take possession of the box," she said. "Washington can't disagree with that."

Calhoun remained silent as he again looked for his reinforcements.

"Captain, you must listen to me, please. I always knew there was a hierarchy in the circle of collectors I encountered. I had believed Algernon Devries was at the top, but consider what has happened this morning. Obviously, there is a person or group even more powerful and resourceful and determined. Our lives are mere specks in their world. Do you think they would hesitate for a second to eliminate any of us?"

The longer they took to convince Calhoun to side with them, the more time it gave for the remainder of that unit from the attack at Luther's place to be redirected to their location.

"If anyone is coming, Captain, they are more likely coming to attack us than to reinforce you, just like at Luther's house. We are easy targets here . . . all of us." She looked at the school and then up the hill. She checked back along the path they had all used to get into the park. " _Nous sommes à court du temps_." We are running out of time.

Bridges said, "If you won't let me call Trent, call the FBI yourself. Special Agent Brian Laskey is in charge of their investigation. We can ask him what role DHS is taking in it. If the guy you've been talking to is clean, then it's reasonable to presume Laskey will know something about him. Jeremiah, it won't hurt to check."

She asked, "Did this man in Washington tell you the contents of this box are not vials of green liquid?"

Captain Calhoun lowered his gun. "Give me the box."

She stepped forward. Bridges and Kozlowski came with her. Kozlowski bent over to pick up his gun as she did the same to retrieve the box.

Calhoun raised his gun and shot Bridges twice just as Jacqueline took hold of the box.

Kozlowski returned fire, pushed her out of the way and got her running toward another path at the end of the higher retaining wall.

Bullets struck the ground near her feet as they jogged awkwardly along the narrow, slanted, uneven trail. The gunfire wasn't as frenzied as it had been at Luther's, but it still seemed like more than just two guns were being fired. The steady popping made her think of a bag of popcorn being prepared inside a microwave oven.

Kozlowski grabbed her by the arm and dragged her uphill. She stumbled when he stopped to fire more rounds at Calhoun.

"Bridges?"

"She's dead." He pulled her to put her in front of him and pushed her toward another narrow, meandering trail going uphill.

The path resembled the twisting cobble road on Luther's carpet, though it was little more than a runnel in the sandy soil. Low bushes and sporadic patches of grass around it provided no cover for them.

She glanced back to see Calhoun come around the end of the wall after them.

This was not going to be a sprint chase. The steep slope and the unstable footing on the trails meant all of them had to be careful with every step they took. This ascent required them to keep a close watch on the path in front of them and sometimes a hand on the ground for support. At least the firing had decreased to only the occasional wild shot as Calhoun's pursuit of them continued in slow motion.

Halfway to the top, she stumbled and fell when she took a chance to look back at Calhoun.

Kozlowski tripped over her and barely managed to keep from falling on top of her, though he did step on her right thigh when he stumbled away. He fired three shots down at Calhoun before replacing his empty magazine with another and helping her to regain her footing.

A bullet ricocheted off a protruding rock ten feet up the hill from her. It sounded like two balls colliding on a billiard table.

They crossed a path intersecting the one they were on.

"Keep going," Kozlowski said, "right to the top."

They were all staggering up an exposed slope. If reinforcements or that unit from Luther's were anywhere nearby, they would be spotted quickly. Neighbors had probably heard the shooting and were watching the pursuit. Some of them were probably uploading video of it onto the internet and had likely called the police.

Let SFPD bring them all in and sort out the conflicting stories. She could live with that. But if they surrendered, would Calhoun giver her that opportunity?

The loose, sandy soil beneath her feet gave way easily. Every step became slipperier as the slope of the trail increased closer to the top.

Kozlowski put his hand on her back to both keep her going and offer what support he could. Twice he lost contact with her when he slipped back.

They reached another intersection of trails near the top of the hill. In order to reach the yards at the edge of the park, they had to cross twenty yards of shrubs and grass and then climb over a rock outcropping that looked very much like a scab over the land.

A bullet struck the first clump of rocks she stepped onto.

Kozlowski returned fire with two shots. "I hit him. God, I just shot my captain."

He started down to Calhoun, but she grabbed hold of him, which almost pulled her off the rock. "You can't. Right or wrong, you've just played into the scenario your captain's been fed."

"Forensics will match the bullets to my gun."

"These are people who can convince an SFPD captain to turn on his own inspectors and help frame us, even if unintentionally, to suit their plans."

Kozlowski checked downhill. "He's moving but he's not getting up. He's holding his leg."

They continued up and then across the rocky scab and then into a backyard that had no fence to block their way. They walked beside a manicured hedge separating two properties and made their way to the street. They didn't try to conceal themselves. What would be the point?

"This is Twelfth and Ninth," Kozlowski said when they emerged at a corner. "Golden Gate Heights Park is at the end of Twelfth. I don't think we can risk going back for my car."

Finding Kozlowski's car would only add to the circumstantial evidence against them.

Sirens were approaching quickly.

"Police, ambulance and Fire and Rescue," he said. "Come on."

They walked along Twelfth Avenue to Quintas Street. At the corner, they waited for a fire truck and an ambulance to turn onto Twelfth from Quintas on the way to where they had emerged from Hawk Hill Park. Someone had given directions. Someone could have seen them come from the park and also provided a description of them to police. It didn't matter much if they had or not. An investigation of the scene would provide further evidence to support Calhoun's story if he was still alive to tell it. That bastard in Washington would back him up.

They walked to a bus stop. Kozlowski looked back the way they'd come and hesitated.

"Let's follow Algernon's last bit of wisdom. He said we could trust Rosalie. She lives in Pacific Heights on Vallejo Street near the Presidio."

They boarded the number 6 bus when it stopped.

# Chapter 27

Chase's next set of instructions were simple. "Get to Hawk Hill Park. Local police have set up a meeting with Jacqueline Duquesne, an associate of Vargas, and one of their own inspectors. Those two have what Weinberg wants."

"Duquesne worked for Devries, too, then?"

"Devries is dead, as is Bourque. Police report an explosion at the Devries mansion ten minutes ago."

"On my way."

"Forget Devries, get to the park."

"What aren't you telling me?"

"I'm telling you all you need to know. Duquesne and the cop will lead you to Weinberg."

"What's the cop's name?"

"Jesus, Frank, just do what you're told."

"If you know those two are together at Hawk Hill Park, then you know the cop's name."

"All right, it's Inspector Scott Kozlowski."

"Is he bad?"

"He's with Duquesne. They went to see Devries and then the house exploded. Duquesne was working for Devries, who was dealing with Weinberg."

Frank started his truck. "Who killed Bourque?"

"Who do you think?"

"How's this playing out? Did Duquesne double-cross Devries? Is she working with Harvey? Where does Kozlowski come into this?"

"We will know all that once you catch up to them at the park. Captain Jeremiah Calhoun has arranged the meeting. He's bringing Kozlowski's partner with him, Denise Bridges. We have a concern that she might be involved with the other two."

"That would mean you do suspect them of working with Weinberg or his associates."

"It's a possibility." Chase summarized the situation with Calhoun, Bridges, Kozlowski and Duquesne and the reason for the semi-secluded meeting. "Calhoun is outnumbered three to one. He needs you there to back him up."

He entered Hawk Hill Park into the navigation system of his truck. "I'll be there in a few minutes." He then entered Algernon Devries' address. It was on the way.

Fire and Rescue and three SFPD patrol cars were at the burning mansion when he arrived. The house was still standing, but it appeared to have been completely gutted by the fire. Hoses sprayed water into it from all four sides.

He parked on the other side of the barricade four houses away.

An SFPD cop had just returned to his patrol car when Frank reached the cordon-tape perimeter.

He held up his FBI badge. "Special Agent Adam Triplett, I was told this was likely related to the Bourque killing and a plane crash in the Sierra Nevada Mountains."

"What plane crash?"

"Are Kozlowski and Duquesne suspects in this, too?"

"I have no idea what you're talking about."

"It's a mess, I'll give you that. We got a call from NTSB about a plane crash. Turns out, there is a link between the plane and the guy in that house."

"Devries?"

"Yeah, that's the name."

"He can't tell you anything. He's dead. We dragged him out shortly after we got here. He's got a crack in his skull and a big goddamn hole in his chest."

"I was told Kozlowski would be here. He was investigating the Bourque murder. Did he get caught in the explosion, too?"

"No. He got out just in time. He told us about Devries still being in the house. He had a woman with him, a material witness. He took her in for questioning. Why would you ask if Kozlowski was a suspect?"

"Devries was caught in the explosion, though?"

"He was shot with one of his own antique pistols first. It left a hole big as a baseball in him."

"That fits with some of the information we got. What caused the explosion?"

The officer shook his head and wiped sweat from his brow. His shirt was soaked and sticking to him.

"Hey," Frank said, "sorry to be pushy, but this is urgent and I'm not sure anymore if we got everything right about this. Your comment about Kozlowski telling you about Devries and having a material witness doesn't jibe with some of the stuff we were told. There are some bad people out there and we think they're trying to get out of Frisco as fast as they can. Kozlowski was at the Bourque place before he came here, right? Tell me we at least got that part correct."

"He was there when they attacked, yeah."

"What attack?"

The cop chuckled a bit. "That's a good one. You guys usually know more than we do. Four guys dressed like commandos attacked at the Bourque place. Four of our people were wounded, but Kozlowski and his witness escaped."

"What about the commandos?"

"One of them was found dead in a park. He'd been stabbed. The other three have vanished."

"Any ideas what caused the explosion here?"

"Nobody knows yet, but I did hear Kozlowski tell the firefighters that it came from below. It might have been a gas leak or something. We've evacuated the neighborhood." The cop then said, "I know Kozlowski, Agent Triplett. He's a good guy, one of our best."

The patrol car radio crackled with an incoming message: "All units respond, officers down, Hawk Hill Park."

"What a fucking day." The officer got into his patrol car and sped away.

Within seconds the other two patrol cars were following the first one.

Smoke from the fire was thick in spots. Most of it billowed up over the mansion, but it also spread out sideways and swirled back down to the ground in places before dissipating, except for near a concentration of trees and shrubs a block to the west.

Puffs of smoke were escaping from the foliage as if someone was hiding in there smoking the largest cigarette in the world. Fire and Rescue was too busy with the house to have noticed.

He jogged back to his truck, retrieved his Beretta and continued to the smoking bushes. The manhole cover had only been partially replaced. He slid it aside and shone his flashlight down the shaft. The thick smoke rising up through the metal tube only got brighter. It revealed nothing. A swirling puff of it came up into his face.

He felt around inside the vertical tube until he found the top rung. The climb down, however, only lasted three rungs before the heat and smoke forced him back up and out. He properly secured the cover and started back for the Devries house.

Why hadn't Kozlowski told his uniformed colleague how he and Duquesne had escaped the explosion?

His cell phone rang.

Chase barked, "Where the hell are you?"

"The Devries house, he had a secret escape hatch."

"You were supposed to be at the park. Police report Bridges and Kozlowski ambushed the captain. Calhoun killed Bridges, but Kozlowski wounded him before he and the woman escaped."

"Why didn't you tell me about the attack at the Bourque house?"

"You only needed to know Bourque was dead."

"Who else have you assigned to this mission?"

"That wasn't us. And your only concern is Duquesne and Kozlowski, and Weinberg if you get a chance at him."

"You are full of shit. You were using them as bait. Now one cop is dead."

"I didn't want any of them hurt, only absorbed. Weinberg is in play here. They have what he wants."

"He wouldn't come out into the open like that."

"He would if he's desperate. You should have been there."

"What now? Those two are long gone from the park, which will be full of cops. I won't be able to get near Calhoun."

"I have another call. Just stay there until I get back to you."

Less smoke was escaping from the trees with the lid completely closed.

At the barrier, Frank held up his badge and signalled the first firefighter to look his way. The commander came to him.

"There is an escape hatch over in those smoking trees."

"Didn't do him much good, did it?" The commander shook his head. "Crazy rich people. Thanks."

Back in his truck, he watched a trio of firefighters split from the main group at the house and take their hoses to the trees. The smoke got thicker once they took off the cover and started spraying water into the shaft.

His phone rang again, but it wasn't Chase. He pressed the ignore button and drove away.

# Chapter 28

In all the thrillers she'd read while stuck in an airport or on a long flight, in all the action movies she'd watched late at night in hotel rooms when she couldn't sleep, she did not remember any of the protagonists ever using four buses of a local transit system to escape the danger they were facing. At the moment, though, she had to accept being so dumbfounded by what they were doing that her memory was unreliable.

Prosaic as their escape was, however, no police car had suddenly started its sirens and lights, raced up behind one of the buses they were on and pulled it over. No one had boarded any of the buses and pulled out semi-automatic handguns to take them out regardless of how many innocent bystanders might also be hit.

She had kept watching the other passengers on every bus they boarded to see if they recognized her or Inspector Kozlowski, to see if they took out their phones and started taking pictures, making calls or frantically texting to the police or the villains.

A tall, middle-aged man, his light-brown-almost-red thinning hair receding to expose a pale scalp above his prominent forehead, had joined them and two others at the stop just before the number 6 bus arrived. He transferred to every bus they did. She had watched him for longer periods of time with each successive transfer. He hadn't revealed any awareness of or interest in them other than to let her get on before him each time they boarded different bus.

Absurdity had also got on with them and had taken a seat next to the paranoia and lethal threat she was facing on her last assignment, an assignment for a dead man, an assignment she couldn't free herself from. Every man she saw seemed familiar to her or else reminded her of some other man she was supposed to have seen before.

" _Même dans la mort, il ne l'âchera pas de moi_." Even in death he will not let go of me.

"Who is Rosalie Timms-Beck?"

Concern about being overheard had kept them silent on the buses other than Kozlowski's instructions on what was the next bus they had to catch and where. They had twice let one bus go by before taking the next.

She couldn't fathom why one bus held a greater risk of being snagged than any other, but Kozlowski had insisted. He'd also insisted they keep out of sight as best they could while waiting between buses. They needed to keep a low profile in public by either staying imbedded in crowds or staying in the shadows. Between the third and fourth bus, he'd argued for them to return to the station and let the consequences unfold as they would.

"Somewhere along the way," he'd said, "the truth will come out."

"I can't believe I am saying this, but whose truth would that be?"

"We've done nothing wrong."

"Amazing, isn't it, how doing nothing wrong can be turned against you? You're the police investigator. Just in recent memory, how many cases have you had where you thought you had figured out the truth of the matter only to get kicked in the teeth? How many times have you resisted changing your conviction or the focus of your investigation despite what truths were staring you in the face? How many times has what you've known to be the truth in an investigation changed by the end of it?"

"Yeah, but—"

"As Algernon always loved telling me when I started whining to him about my next assignment: 'Yeah-buts are like statistics in sports, they are for losers.'"

He'd pulled her back to let a particularly suspicious looking bus go by. Absurdity, paranoia and lethal threat also waited with them under a palm tree for the next bus.

She'd said, "We return to your station and we tell our story, our truth. Your captain, if he's still alive, tells his story, his truth. That man in Washington backs him up and throws in a few truths of his own just for good measure; truths that we can't possibly anticipate nor likely counter. Then they find the vials that we didn't tell your captain about the first time you called him."

"That was your idea."

"Yes, yes, my bad; however, we are still stuck with that little bit of suspicious behavior protruding out of our true story like a knife with our bloody fingerprints all over it." Now she was in one of those thrillers. It was becoming easier to understand how people started saying outlandishly silly things when they couldn't get out from under the pressure. "And you shot your captain when, according to his story, he had good reasons, supported by Washington, to suspect you, me and your partner, maybe even half the people in San Francisco."

They had then gotten onto the next bus and rode it into Pacific Heights.

The polite man with the thinning, receding hairline had boarded as well, having waited to let the same buses go by as they had. That was why he was beginning to look so familiar and threatening; he just wouldn't go away.

When she pointed this out to Kozlowski, he only said, "He's probably just on his way to Pacific Heights same as us."

Once they got off the bus on Jackson Street, the man got off too, entered Alta Plaza Park and walked away to leave them alone on the sidewalk.

As they walked along Jackson Street beside the park, she said, "Rosalie Timms-Beck was Algernon's other main competitor in San Francisco. She was also Luther's other main competitor."

"Then why would he send you to her?"

"She used to be his lover and the curator of the Devries Gallery and Museum. She was his protégé."

"Like you?"

"I was an agent, one of many. Rosalie was being trained to take over his obsession. She comes from Birmingham, England with a Doctorate in Anthropology and Museum Curation from the London School of Economics. She has Algernon's passion for the history of what he goes after, but not his obsessive compulsion to collect."

"Was that the cause of their split?"

"She also has a larcenous streak in her as large as his was. The cause of their split was a few pieces of his collection that went missing shortly before she resigned her position at the museum."

"How much further is it?"

"It's another two blocks once we get to Scott Street.

At Scott and Jackson, Kozlowski took them into the shade of the trees at the corner of the park when he spotted a SFPD patrol car coming straight for them.

As the car went by, he asked, "Can we connect you to Timms-Beck?"

"You would know better than I, but it's possible. Her name would come up in any investigation of Algernon's world as frequently as mine."

They walked away from Alta Plaza Park along Scott Street. At Vallejo Street, they turned left and went uphill to Divisadero Street, crossed the intersection and started downhill toward Broderick Street. No patrol cars came past and there were no police cars parked near Rosalie's house. Nonetheless, Inspector Kozlowski stopped them only a few steps after crossing the intersection at Divisadero.

"I don't see any police."

"We might have bigger problems. Look."

"Look at what? I'm trained to spot phoney antiques not something suspicious in a neighborhood."

"Where is her house?"

She pointed to it.

"What is parked across from it?"

"A black Ford Explorer."

"What would you say was its most distinguishing feature?"

"All the windows are privacy glass but the front one. Algernon had privacy glass in his Rolls Royce."

"There is one man in the front seat just sitting there. And look a little farther down the hill. You will see a white commercial van parked at the corner on Broderick. It says Jupiter Home Entertainment Installations on the side of it."

"Two surveillance vehicles?"

"My bet is they are not together. This could get ugly and we could get caught in the middle."

"It's already ugly and we're already caught in the middle. And you're almost out of ammunition."

He revealed a small handgun in his jacket pocket. "Denise slipped me her Smith and Wesson and two magazines for my Sig while we were standing together at the park. I don't think thirty-six bullets can compete with what they have, however."

"If we assume the ones in the Explorer are the ones from Luther's place or another team assigned to Rosalie's place, then who are the ones in the van?"

"I would think one side made what's in the vials, but both sides want them."

"Do we just turn ourselves in to your colleagues and try going truth for truth or do we see what Rosalie has to tell us?"

Dark grey clouds coming in from the Pacific blotted out the sunlight. It began to rain.

"The ones in the Explorer are likely more dangerous than the ones in the van, but either way, I would rather not instigate a firefight in Pacific Heights by calling in a cavalry that might think we're with the bad guys. There's a school nearby. Let's go with just you and me and Ms. Timms-Beck for now."

They entered Timms-Beck's yard through a wrought-iron gate. A well-maintained hedge of bougainvillea grew on either side of the gate.

"That wouldn't stop the Explorer or the van, would it?"

"Not if they didn't want it to."

They went up the stairs to the porch of the narrow, three-storey, white stucco house.

Rosalie Timms-Beck opened the door before Jacqueline could ring the bell or knock, and before Inspector Kozlowski had withdrawn his identification from the inner pocket of his jacket.

"I've been expecting you." She looked past them at the Explorer and then down at the box. "Wonderful, you brought Algernon's puzzle."

# Chapter 29

Leaving two biologists behind at the Devries house was another mistake. They weren't properly trained or prepared for their mission, and they were cowards. They had guns that likely scared them more than anyone they pointed them at. Fear of him had kept them there but hadn't made them any better at what they were supposed to do. He should have sent them on with the others and remained at the house himself.

After his own failure at the Bourque house and then with Devries, and after having to kill one of those men, he'd kept track as best he could of the Duquesne woman and her SFPD bodyguard. When the Devries place exploded, he'd thought he'd lost it all, but then he'd spotted them coming out from that smoking grove of trees.

Following them was easy after that. Tubby's clumsy hand was clearly involved in the shootout at Hawk Hill Park. With Duquesne and the inspector watching out for police or those others to catch up to them, it had been a simple matter of joining them at the bus stop and accompanying them to Pacific Heights.

Once they boarded bus number 6, he knew exactly where they were going. Once they disembarked on Jackson Street ahead of him, he'd entered Alta Plaza Park and made his call. He could keep a safe distance and let them get out of sight because he already knew the way to Rosalie Timms-Beck's place.

Vargas had mentioned her numerous times during their negotiations as an alternative customer, and, in truth, she would have been equally acceptable for his purposes, but he knew Algernon Devries and exactly how important that box was to him.

The Explorer on Vallejo Street across from Timms-Beck's house was obvious and expected. Duquesne and the cop furtively watched the SUV for any attack coming from it as they went to the door. The way Timms-Beck surveyed the neighborhood when she greeted them confirmed she was aware of the danger associated with that part of the prize.

The only thing odd about this obvious surveillance was the men in the Explorer just continued monitoring the house. They didn't charge in the way they had at Bourque's even though they now knew the box and its contents were in there.

A silent count of thirty provided enough time for the crew in the Explorer to change their minds. When they didn't, he walked past the SUV, counted three men, one behind the wheel and two in the back where they would be better concealed by the privacy glass. None of them took any notice of him.

Chase and Petit were scraping bottom with these ones.

The four sent to Widow Creek had been comical to watch. Holtz had sent the alert as soon as they arrived at the wrong complex in the pouring rain. When they finally reached the annex, the driver could barely get the van's wheels out of the deep, slippery ruts of the gravel road and onto the short and equally slippery access road. The van had fishtailed and almost slid off the road.

With their night-vision headgear in place, the four men had looked like giant insects high-stepping through the flooded marsh that confronted them and the downpour that pelted them. Soaked green and brown camouflage clothing stuck to them like shiny exoskeletons.

What they couldn't possibly have known was all their attempts to conceal themselves was always going to be ineffective against him even before Holtz had sent his warning. No matter what Tubby had told them in their mission briefing, he hadn't likely told them all he knew about the _mad_ _scientist_ they had been sent to capture—not likely eliminate yet—because Tubby himself had trouble believing all that was there to see.

He was nothing like anyone they had encountered before. Thermal imaging could give them the others but he was invisible to such devices. Chase and Petit had sent their goggle-eyed insects to their deaths. Two were creative, elegant and a teasing presage; two were blunt-force messages.

At the Jupiter Home Entertainment Installations van, he stopped to check the laces of his running shoes and glanced back at the Explorer. Had any of that trio turned their attention to the pedestrian who passed by? Had any of them recognized him? If so, were they flummoxed by his brashness at walking right past them? Were they reporting what had just happened and requesting new instructions from Petit? What was Chase hoping to accomplish here?

This was the inescapable moment of high risk. If they were watching him, what he did next could tip the balance in their favor.

He opened the passenger-side sliding door of the van and stepped in to join his remaining colleagues who had fled with him from Widow Creek. "Bentley and Carruthers are dead."

Evan Fairholm, still wearing his white laboratory coat every day, sat on the floor near the rear door. "We should withdraw."

"Evan's right, Harvey," Roger Hildebrandt said. "It's too dangerous to continue this." He pointed to the Explorer. "What if they spotted you? We wouldn't last two seconds against them."

"I have to agree with you on that point, Dr. Hildebrandt."

Dr. Evan Fairholm, a microbiologist, Dr. Roger Hildebrandt, a biochemist, and Dr. Mathias Gibbs, a geneticist, were all he had against the men in the Explorer.

The man at the wheel of their van, Johan Holtz, a lab technician who had been with him the longest of any of them, was the most loyal and far smarter than any of the other three. Holtz wouldn't be any more squeamish about whatever they had to do to get the box back than he was.

He did have to concede, however, that as a team, they were hardly prepared or equipped to go toe to toe with the other team keeping watch on the Timms-Beck house.

No matter what was keeping the men in the Explorer from attacking, he couldn't just walk up to the door and knock. Their opponents would be forced to go into action then. Duquesne and her cop could get away again. He couldn't risk losing what they had with them. Stealth and patience was the best strategy here. Enough mistakes had been made this past week and he had to accept responsibility for most of them. He had to recover the box, but he had to do it at just the right moment or his plan would collapse.

"Do not lose heart, gentlemen," he said. "We only have to wait a bit longer."

He should have left all of them but Holtz behind in Widow Creek. The information they provided upon their capture would have revealed little that was useful about what he was up to because only he knew the complete plan. Even Holtz only knew what he needed to know.

If he'd been patient, the confrontation with Bourque could have been avoided.

"I appreciate your desire to have the box back," Bourque said, "but I'm afraid a deal is a deal. Algernon and I have negotiated in good faith, and as far as we are concerned, the transaction is complete. We wouldn't be collectors if we offer returns or refunds, would we?"

Bourque had chuckled at what he thought was a clever turn of phrase. The chuckle, coming from such an elderly, frail sack of conceit had been intolerable.

A smash to the forehead with his cudgel had ended any further chance of recovery. An unsuccessful search of Bourque's study had sent him to Devries with a level of desperation that he should have been able to control. He was doing that to Tubby, he shouldn't be doing it to himself.

Devries had been just as intransigent and mockingly smug.

"If you'd had such ambivalence about giving up such valuable prizes, Harvey, you should never have put them on the market again."

"Granted, Algernon, I was completely prepared to part with them. The problem is I was forced to place something inside one of them that I rather urgently need returned."

"And what would that be?"

"I assure you, my good friend it is nothing of significance to anyone but me. It is a modern product and would be of no interest to a collector. The box is yours. I just want what it contains. I am not trying to trick you out of a valuable collectible."

"And how can I be certain of that until I see what it is?"

"Algernon, you are forgetting I was the one who helped you acquire some of your most tantalizing possessions. I would hope that places our relationship in a more favourable position for what I am asking."

"That is in the past. One transaction in no way influences another." Then Devries did the same thing Bourque had done. He chuckled and said, "You should have known better than to leave them to our trust, Harvey. You know the agreement specifically stated purchase of the box, all its parts and contents. Why would you do such a reckless thing in the first place when you knew we were to take possession of it?"

The phone call from Jacqueline Duquesne had interrupted them. After four rings, her voice came over the answering machine, "Luther is dead. The box is gone. I'm going to call the police now."

Within seconds of her message ending, Algernon's cell phone began ringing.

"Let's see what she says this time, shall we?"

"Luther is dead. The box is gone. I'm going to call the police now. Algernon, stop whatever you're doing and call me _tout de suite_!" The phone beeped to indicate a text message.

"I'll get that for you."

It was the same message.

He always enjoyed watching sudden comprehension open people's eyes as wide as they can go. It was what he imagined idealistic teachers hoped to see in their students only to be disappointed time and again until they burned out and gave up.

"You know I don't deal with disappointment any better than you do. Why should you be surprised?"

Algernon backed up to his desk.

"I should point out that there is no need for our negotiations to end the same way. All you have to do is give me the one already in your possession and tell me where the other is."

"I don't have it yet. Jacqueline was supposed to retrieve it for me."

"I'm having a difficult time believing you, Algernon. Luther told me it had been sent on."

"He was lying to you."

"There is one way to find out. Call your lovely agent. Let us see if she has had any luck."

Luther called Duquesne on his cell phone.

"Luther's dead," she said. "I think he's been murdered. Why didn't you respond to my earlier calls? Where are you? What are you doing? The police have just arrived. _Vous avez à moi sortier de ce bourbier_."

"Jacqueline, slow down."

"He's dead. He was dead when I arrived. Why didn't you answer my calls?"

Luther's eyes squinted at him. "Unexpected company arrived. Do you have the box?"

"Oui, j'ai voitre boîte stupide; cesser d'être aussi égoïste. You don't have visitors."

"Despite what you believe to be true about me, I have one now."

"Who is it?"

He shook his head at Devries.

"You must get the box to me as soon as you can. Do not let the police take it."

"Have you finally lost your mind? How am I supposed to do that?"

He whispered to her, "Do not worry, Jacqueline." He then terminated the call and growled in triumph at him, "The police will take it as evidence. Jacqueline cannot prevent that." He chuckled. "How will you ever get it back now, my good friend?"

He answered him by hitting him over the head, then tossing him down onto his chair. He took one of the dueling pistols from its mount on the wall beside the door. "This is the one you told me you always keep loaded and ready to fire should the urge take you, correct?"

The explosion was surprisingly loud in the quiet study. Impact with Algernon caused him to bounce violently off the chair onto the floor. It also left a huge, dripping black and red hole in both his chest and the backrest of the chair.

Algernon smiled up at him after it was all over as if he appreciated that a piece of his collection was responsible for his death. He found Marie's keepsake and its contents in the left pocket of Algernon's robe.

As a precaution against Duquesne speaking in code to Algernon about the box, he'd left Bentley and Carruthers behind to continue searching and returned to the Bourque house in time to see the attack.

"Just a bit longer," he repeated more to himself than to the men who were becoming less valuable and necessary to him.

Fairholm asked, "What now, then?"

He didn't answer. Tiresome questions like that were meaningless.

Holtz asked, "Do you want some help?"

"That won't be necessary."

He put on a red San Francisco 49ers hooded windbreaker and zipped it up. He then put on a black 49ers cap, sunglasses and transferred the Glock G42 from its case to the right jacket pocket. It was a gift from Tubby when their relationship was more cooperative and cordial.

He exited through the back door and walked across the street to stand under two acacia trees. The rain, a hard and brief downpour, had stopped. He put his hands in his pockets. The Glock slipped into his grasp. It was small for his hand, but that just made concealing it much easier. His other hand took hold of a plastic box just a bit larger than a package of cigarettes.

Soon it would be time to repay Tubby's gift to him with one of his own.

# Chapter 30

Inspector Kozlowski was keeping his emotions under control because he was trained to do that. Rosalie Timms-Beck offering to make them tea while two surveillance teams kept watch on the house, however, seemed like hysterical denial and revealed a complete lack of understanding of the danger confronting them all.

"I've been listening to the news all morning," Rosalie said as she poured the tea. "I knew Algernon was dead as soon as I heard there'd been an explosion at his house."

"Luther is dead, too."

"Somehow," she said while filling the third cup, "I'm not surprised by that news, either."

Telling Rosalie the details of what had brought them to her was frequently interrupted by frenetic breaths that made just the idea of talking impossible. Rosalie sat patiently listening to everything she told her and remained annoyingly calm.

Inspector Kozlowski did not interrupt her story with additional details of his own. They did not tell her about what happened at Hawk Hill Park.

She finished with, "You said this is a puzzle."

Rosalie handed over the cup of green tea to her after she finally set the box on the coffee table. "Indeed it is. The box can be completely dismantled. It's been described as devilishly clever and very difficult to figure out. It is one of only three surviving such puzzle boxes made for the Vatican by Andrea Alonso. It is considered his best work."

She handed a cup of tea to Kozlowski.

In her early forties, nearly six feet tall and ballerina thin, Rosalie had demonstrated that ballerina grace of movement when she had brought the tray holding the teapot and cups into her living room. Brown hair was pulled into a ponytail secured with a plain elastic band near the top of her head. Combined with her small nose and the freckles on her smooth, pale face, Rosalie appeared far younger.

Jacqueline could never shake the sense she was talking to an adolescent when she was with Rosalie.

Her sanguine calm, the English subtlety she brought to dramatic situations and her delicate features could quickly give way to a ferocious temper. Rosalie had gone one on one with Algernon frequently while curator of his museum and as his other main competitor in San Francisco. For Rosalie, the two had not been mutually exclusive, something she and Algernon had agreed to disagree about. She could take care of herself. She didn't express her enthusiasm for collecting with the same ebullience as Algernon or Luther, but it was still easy to see the joy in her freckled face and bright brown eyes when she talked about her acquisitions.

Still, her impeccable accent, like a trained stage actor, and her understated control almost made it _fine_ to discuss everything that was happening over a cup of green tea.

"Rosalie," she said, "I don't think we have time for tea right now."

"Of course we do, and it's good for you. That Explorer only arrived a few minutes before you two did. They've just been sitting there. They continued to just sit there when you two came to my door even though they could easily see the box that you made no effort to conceal."

"You think they are waiting for someone," Kozlowski said.

"That would be my guess."

She asked, "Who are the ones in the van waiting for?"

The tea was hot and bitter.

"What van?" Rosalie's joyous eyes flickered with a hint of fear. Her subtle control wavered a bit.

"There are two different surveillance teams outside."

She smiled and reached back to adjust her ponytail. "Suddenly, I feel very important." She pulled the jewelry box closer. "And also a bit foolish, I should think. Have you tried to take it apart?"

"No."

"Do you mind if I have a go at it?"

Kozlowski said, "Yes, we do."

"You can't," Jacqueline said. "We have our reasons."

"Of course you do. I didn't think Dracula's jewelry box alone, as valuable as it is, would cause all this commotion." She sipped some of her tea. "You two do realize you are only adding to the box's mystery, legend and curse."

Kozlowski hadn't drunk any of his tea. Rosalie had noticed.

"It's an acquired taste, and you know how much people like us love acquiring things."

Jacqueline forced herself to take another sip. "How did Algernon find out about Dracula's jewelry box?"

"His name is Harvey Weinberg. Anthony found him. I don't know much about him except that Anthony brought him to a gala at the Devries about a year ago. I believe you were on assignment in Argentina at the time. Those two discovered a mutual passion for collecting and their relationship just took off. Did he not tell you about him?"

"Algernon kept much of his world from me."

"I find that strange because he could barely keep from gushing when he talked about Weinberg and all the wonderful and intriguing things he had access to. I left the Devries shortly after they met. Anthony would be able to tell you more about what transactions took place between them. He was in on most of them."

"We don't really speak to each other."

"Jacqueline," she said and pointed to her front door, "now would be a good time for you two to kiss and make up for everyone's sake."

Kozlowski got up, went to the front window and looked out through the sheers. "Weinberg told Devries about the jewelry box."

"Weinberg was able to produce a startling supply of ancient, and sometimes prehistoric, items for Algernon's collection. Algernon being Algernon, he wasn't inclined to meddle with his good fortune by asking inconvenient questions about how Weinberg was getting his astonishing relics. For a while, he neglected his other sources and dealt exclusively with Weinberg. He was hooked. I remember my impression of him hardly noticing that I had resigned. They were working on acquiring something very special for Algernon at that time."

Kozlowski rejoined them. "The jewelry box?"

"No, I believe that came later."

Jacqueline took her last sip of the cool, bitter tea. "What can you tell us about the box?"

"I will tell you what I know, but I do not think it will help you with your problem." She put down her tea cup next to the box. "Recent discoveries have led to claims that Vlad Tepes is buried in Naples, Italy in the same graveyard with his daughter. That is the key point to the story of Dracula's jewelry box."

"A man named Andrea Alonso made it for the Vatican, why?"

"No one knows what his original name was, but he was a carpenter in Rome. He took the name Andrea Alonso when he came to work for Pope Pius II. Andrea means man or warrior. Alonso means noble and ready. It is assumed he took the name as a declaration of fealty in the service of the Pope and the Lord."

"Why would he come to work for the Pope?"

"Alonso had a reputation for making every kind of puzzle you can imagine out of wood, but his real speciality was puzzle boxes. Pope Pius commissioned a number of them, some say as many as one hundred, and each one was unique. He was rumored to have given them as gifts to his most loyal priests. The historical gossip is Pius hid his erotic writings in his own box and many of his secret, liberal-minded directives in the ones he gave as gifts."

"How did Dracula end up with a puzzle box from a pope?"

"Vlad Drăculea may have been one of the most bloodthirsty warlords of all time, but he wasn't a vampire. The Pope commissioned the box as partial payment for Vlad's oath to defend the Holy Roman Empire from invasion by the Muslim Turks. Pius died before that particular jewelry box was completed.

"And Vlad was thought killed in battle or taken prisoner."

"According to the tale, a group of priests loyal to Pius and his more liberal beliefs formed a secret sect within the Catholic Church called the Holy Order of Loyal Pius Brothers. Their leader, Father Antonio Rossetti, took possession of the box upon its completion and upheld Pius' agreement with Vlad once his daughter paid the ransom to have him released. That is one of the new claims that have been put forth of late. Most of the ransom came from Maria, but some suggest Rome helped raise the total amount."

"I've never heard of Dracula's jewelry box."

"I am not surprised. After it disappeared, so the story goes, knowledge of it was suppressed by the Vatican, governments and regimes hostile to Vlad's family. They knew a significant portion of the Transylvanian people already viewed Vlad as a hero and possibly a saint. If news of a box containing his heart was circulated, they would have more trouble with him after death then when he was alive. Eventually, the box was forgotten."

"What happened to it? How did it disappear?"

"None of this can be proven. We can't even prove this is Dracula's jewelry box."

"The authenticity of many of the things I tracked down for Algernon relied on the stories behind them that can't be proven."

Rosalie picked up the box. "The symbols are what they are supposed to be and are in the right place. And the box certainly appears to be very old. Those huge cracks are probably the edges between some of the pieces. One day it will be too damaged to fit it all back together." She turned the box around and pointed out the four triangular symbols on each of its sides. "These ones are the basic Aristotelian alchemical symbols for earth, fire, water and air."

Jacqueline said, "I am familiar with those ones."

Rosalie pointed to symbols on either side of the brass keyhole plate. "The one on the left, that upward pointed triangle with a cross attached below it, is the symbol for sulphur. The one on the right, the circle with the line through it is salt."

She held up the box to take a closer look. She tapped her finger against the brass plate as she did.

Inspector Kozlowski started to reach for the box.

Rosalie put it back onto the table. She let go of it only after running her hands over as much of it as she could. "Sulphur and salt are alchemical catalysts to facilitate transformation."

Kozlowski said, "As in transformation into a vampire?"

Rosalie chirped a laugh. "Oh, they were hardly for that, Inspector. They would have been carved long before Vlad Tepes became associated with the legend of Dracula. They probably played a blended role between pagan beliefs—that is to say, non-Christian—and the Vatican at that time."

She picked up the box again. "I must admit, though, that those two symbols and the ones on the top for arsenic and aqua vitae and this other one all appear to have been carved at a later date. It is hard to tell without further tests, but to my eye, different tools were used and these later symbols are not as expertly carved."

Jacqueline asked, "What is that other symbol on the lid?"

"I haven't seen one like that as an alchemical symbol before. They appear to be two arrows, each with half an arrow tip and they indicate opposite directions though they are side by side. In chemistry, I believe such a symbol indicates equilibrium of concentrations between the components of a reaction that can go in either direction. These ones on the box would have been carved before that convention came to be, though." She shrugged and smiled. "I wouldn't want to suggest that it is a mere doodle just because I don't recognize its ancient meaning. I would guess it has something to do with direction or the symbolized transformation. Pointing in opposite directions could indicate some type of stasis situation similar to how it is used in chemistry, or being stuck between, in limbo, something like that."

"Purgatory," Kozlowski said.

"Or," she said, "the ability to go back and forth between two different states, forms . . . something."

"It could very well mean either. The symbol for aqua vitae is most commonly a symbol for distilled spirits, but early in its symbolism history it also referred to baptism water or holy water." She turned the box around one more time. "See this shield on the back? The dragon with its wings open wide and breathing fire is the crest of the House of Drăculea, the Order of the Dragon."

She lifted up the box and tilted it to show them the symbol carved into the recessed bottom of it. "There is the dagger laid out over the cross. That was the symbol of service to God and the Pope by the House of Drăculea."

She set the box back on the table. "It's lighter than I anticipated. That crouching dragon on top with its wings folded over its back, those spikes on that crest at the top of its head and on its curled tail, is the guardian of both the Holy Roman Empire and the contents of the box: Vlad himself. Are you sure you don't want me to have a go at it?"

"It would be better if you didn't. Why did it serve as a coffin for Vlad's heart?"

"That was also part of the agreement between Vlad and Pius. His body could be buried in Naples, but not his dark, pagan heart. Antonio Rossetti was required to perform the consecration ritual for Vlad's heart according to ancient Wallachian tradition. It was interrupted by a squad of the Black Army's elite Holy Crown of Hungary Guards, sent by Matthias Corvinus. Corvinus was one of the most prominent people of the time who absolutely did not want any part of Vlad returned to Wallachia. While both Matthias and Vlad were serving Rome they became mortal enemies. Each one of them suspected the other of committing atrocities against their men and instigating treacherous machinations to destroy the other. Corvinus is said to have set up Vlad to be captured by the Turks. But in the end, or, in this case, at the beginning of the legend, his men failed to retrieve the heart. A priest escaped with the box and took it to a secluded monastery that Vlad had built in the Carpathian Mountains of Transylvania. This priest-courier deserves his own fame for his part in this tale. A story about him claims he singlehandedly slayed over thirty of the Black Army's elite guards when his group was ambushed during their journey. The monastery where Vlad's heart was kept was destroyed and rebuilt a number of times, some say in search of the box, but it was never found."

Kozlowski glanced at the bay window. "If knowledge of the box and what it contained was suppressed to the point of it being forgotten, how did Weinberg end up with it?"

"It is almost impossible to completely suppress knowledge once it passes into legend. That just makes it a secret, and secrets have a way of persisting and eventually being revealed over and over again. They may get distorted. They may even change characters, location and even the moral in the telling, but some of the original veracity remains. If any of this story is true, and I would say what we have here on the table is convincing evidence, you can thank Napoleon Bonaparte's belief in his own Roman Emperor's destiny, his military campaigns, his extensive network of agents throughout Europe and his piratical pillaging for finding it."

# Chapter 31

The monastery was at an altitude high enough to exhaust both men and horses after such a relentless pace. Lieutenants Renaud and Baptiste and the three Hussars with them had to stop frequently to rest. They still hadn't reached their goal by the time the sun had begun to set.

Clouds from the west had stalled against the mountains to create a thick, persistent fog. Cold, hard rain further obscured the shrouded cliff path they now had to traverse.

He smelled smoke.

"We will have to lead the horses," Lieutenant Renaud hollered over the loud, steady downpour of rain.

They all dismounted. Renaud continued to lead the way. He followed Renaud with Lieutenant Baptiste following him. The three Hussars lagged behind them and seemed to have the greatest difficulty controlling their agitated horses.

Renaud had been the more vocal of the two lieutenants during their harried journey. He never varied a word of his threat the whole way. "Remember your place, Dr. Koertig, and your mission. Any deviation from the General's orders and I will run you through."

Koertig had stopped counting the repeated threat after their first night of rest.

Baptiste, the taller and stronger of the pair, had said little to him, though when he had, his tone, if not cordial, had been respectful.

Renaud was the barking dog. His constant, unwavering threat just made it easier to keep his position and intentions clear. Baptiste was the more wary to the two lieutenants and the sharpest of his five guards. Renaud would foolishly announce his attack and provide ample warning to counter it. Baptiste would just draw his pistol and shoot.

Shielding his face from the rain as best he could, he kept his gaze fixed on the rear of Renaud's horse as they crept along the narrow path circling the mountain. The fog surrounding them hid the height of the drop to their right should any man or beast slip off the cliff.

Renaud again hollered back at them, "Can you smell that?"

"The monastery must be close."

Baptiste said nothing but he pointed north.

A vague, reddish glow in the distance turned raindrops into sparkling rubies falling through the fog.

"A fire," Koertig said.

Baptiste nodded his agreement with that supposition.

These five soldiers couldn't be worse companions for such a quest as this.

After another ten minutes of slowly ascending through the fog and rain, Renaud and his horse suddenly picked up their pace to a trot and vanished into the mist.

The cliff wall to their left began to recede into the dense mist as well. The drop to the right became visible only to become a flat expanse of rock, scrub and boulders.

They emerged through the top of the clouds to a plateau. The setting sun had still to complete the last third of its diurnal sinking before only the stars would light their way on a moonless night.

Renaud stopped ahead to let them all catch up. The horses found pools of water to drink from once all forward motion ceased.

"We will attack once the sun is down," Renaud said.

"Perhaps they would listen to reason. I could go on ahead and negotiate."

Renaud drew his sword and pointed it at Koertig's heart. "You will go only where I tell you and do exactly what I command of you."

Baptiste pushed Renaud's sword away. "Those monks are there to guard the box, Doctor. They are well trained in combat and dedicated to their avowed task. They will fight to the death rather than give it up. I do not think they are amenable to any negotiations."

Renaud smiled. "There is a distinct possibility that we won't find the box. You might never see your cherished locket again."

"That is unacceptable."

"Then, Dr. Koertig, obey my orders and apply your talents to the finding of it once we have taken the monastery."

Baptiste retrieved a leather satchel from his saddle. "You say there are different types of explosives in here."

"The glass spheres will explode on impact and produce an acrid smoke that will temporarily impair their vision and their breathing. Those three that look like candles wrapped in paper will open all but the strongest barriers we might encounter."

"And these two bottles, what are they?"

"They will set anything that burns on fire. You have enough explosives in that satchel to bring the monastery down on our heads, Lieutenant. They must be used carefully."

Renaud and Baptiste left two of the Hussars to guard him as they gave instructions to the third and sent him on his way.

"We must wait for Gaston's return," Baptiste said.

The third Hussar returned as the sun completed setting. He gave his report to Renaud and Baptiste before joining the two who were guarding him. Renaud and Baptiste stepped farther away and argued heatedly for a number of minutes before coming to him.

Baptiste said, "We have agreed that you are the most qualified of us to manage the use of your explosives." He handed over the satchel. "The monastery has a simple but thick wooden door as an entrance. There are towers on either side of it, but there did not appear to be anyone standing guard. Gaston estimates about twenty monks."

Renaud said, "They should all be together before the cross and dagger in the prayer room. We will leave the horses here. It is only a short walk the rest of the way."

Darkness overtook the plateau quickly once the sun was down. The distant fire turning raindrops into falling rubies in the fog became numerous candles burning in the tops of the towers on either side of the wooden door to the monastery.

The monastery itself had been built out from the mountainside.

As they drew closer to the door, Gaston pointed to the back of the monastery. "There are steps carved out of the rock. They rise up past the top of the monastery's third tower at the back. The windows of that tower overlook the prayer hall."

Dim light shone out through the stained-glass windows at the top of the third tower. The depiction of Christians being devoured by lions in Rome projected from the back window onto the mountainside.

He said, "I can get the spheres into the prayer room through one of those."

Renaud growled, "We will blow the door and attack from the front as planned."

"The monks will be blinded once they are exposed to the smoke. And they will be coughing. It might be possible to surround and subdue them and avoid any bloodshed."

Baptiste said, "Dr. Koertig is right. We do not know exactly what is inside the monastery. If those spheres can do what he claims, we will have the advantage."

Renaud again withdrew his sword and pointed it at Koertig. "Then be quick about it. I wish to get out of this freezing night as soon as I can."

He handed the explosives to be used on the door to Gaston. "Place these at the foot of the door. Once the spheres explode inside, light the fuse and take cover."

Gaston and another of the Hussars took the explosives to the door.

"There should be plenty of noise inside once the spheres explode. Cover your mouths when you first enter and do not hesitate. The smoke will dissipate quickly in a place that big."

He put the strap of the satchel over his shoulder and headed for the mountain steps. He had gone only six paces before Renaud began arguing with Baptiste.

"We cannot trust him," Renaud barked.

Baptiste calmly said, "We do not need to trust him, Renaud. We only need. . . ."

The two most dangerous segments of the assault came at its beginning and at its end. The first was the slippery steps carved into the mountain side that he had to climb to get up onto the roof of the monastery. Though steep, the roof wasn't the challenge the steps had been.

He traversed the top of it easily enough to reach the windows of the third and highest tower.

A few flashes of lightning from the receding storm illuminated Napoleon's soldiers waiting below. Gaston had the explosives in place. He and Baptiste were looking up at him, though it was unlikely they could see him. Renaud had to run off to quiet his horse when it came trotting out of the darkness.

One piece of the stained glass in the closest window was loose, a depiction of a half-naked man on his knees receiving a blessing from Jesus. Koertig pried it out, reached in and unlatched the window. Once he was inside, he found footing on a walkway circling the perimeter of the tower. It would permit the cleaning and repair of the windows.

The monks were on their knees before a cross large enough to hold a man. A dagger was carved in relief on it. Candle flames flickered from the draft coming in through the open window above them, but the monks kept their heads bowed in prayer. They were used to sudden chills finding a way into the monastery.

He dropped the three spheres straight down onto the altar in front of the monks. Once they started crying out and coughing, Gaston set off the explosives at the door.

Napoleon's soldiers charged in with scarves tied around their faces. Baptiste and Renaud downed two monks with pistol shots and then continued their attack with swords drawn. The three Hussars came in behind, downed three more monks with their muskets and then drew their swords in support of their commanders.

All seventeen of the monks in prayer were well-trained and fierce fighters, but the smoke stung their eyes and had taken their vision as intended. It had also burned down into their throats. Every last one of them was killed so Napoleon could have an old jewelry box for his Josephine.

Gaston was killed by an arrow from a crossbow as the last of the monks at prayer was dispatched. The archer was perched on a small balcony above the cross and dagger.

Napoleon's men could not find him because he had ducked back into a dark recess to reload after taking his shot.

Keeping watch on the balcony, Koertig withdrew from his satchel the flute he had played for the soldiers when they had stopped for the night. He removed the mouth piece, inserted a dart, covered the holes with his fingers and waited. His eyes began to sting when the some of the dissipating smoke reached him.

Some of Napoleon's men began coughing.

The monk stepped forward with his reloaded crossbow and took aim.

The dart might not have had the range if he weren't above the archer. Koertig blew on the flute. The dart flew straight down into the monk's neck.

He dropped instantly, but a second archer stepped forward to fire at Baptiste.

Koertig hollered a warning to the men below and leapt off the walkway with his knife drawn.

All men still alive in the prayer hall looked up and watched him fall through the air.

The archer didn't have time to change his aim.

The drop was considerable, like jumping from the lookout at the top of a mast to the deck of a schooner. Koertig landed onto the second archer, pushed the knife in hard between his ribs and then tossed him to the floor.

Renaud stepped forward and shot the man with his pistol.

"Thank you," Baptiste said when he rejoined them.

"We did not need to do this."

Renaud aimed his discharged pistol at him. "We have our orders, Dr. Koertig. Now, let us be about retrieving this box. I will look here. The rest of you search elsewhere just to be certain. It shouldn't take long."

Renaud was wrong.

The second occurrence of greatest danger came in the cellar. A door at the bottom of the stairs led Koertig into a crypt containing the coffins of previous monks who had faithfully served at the monastery. Six humble and dedicated women rested here as well.

Baptiste entered the crypt just after Koertig lit the third torch he'd found. "We cannot find the box, Doctor. Renaud is becoming very frustrated."

"There are more torches on the wall. We might find another door."

The danger came in the surprise of the attack, not in the force of it.

As Baptiste reached the next torch, a monk stepped from a darkened alcove with his dagger ready. Old and feeble, he could not muster any strength for his attack, but he had so taken Lieutenant Baptiste by surprise that the soldier hesitated rather than react as all his training had prepared him to. The monk was going to stab him in the neck.

Koertig easily knocked the old monk aside and disarmed him. He caught the shrivelled man to keep him from falling to the stone floor.

It was pointless, but he still asked, "Where is Vlad's box?"

The monk replied, "The box has been released. It will serve its master as it always has. It will taunt and torment you with the promise to fulfill your dreams, but it will betray you every time you draw near to them. It will trip your every footstep."

Renaud joined them. "Who is this old fool?"

"In the end, you will bring it back here, for here is where it belongs. Here is where it wants to be. Here is where it must be. Its heart and faith are here."

Renaud snatched him from Koertig's grasp. "Just tell us where the damned thing is."

The old man slapped Renaud and broke free of his grasp. He had caused two of Napoleon's most accomplished lieutenants to hesitate.

Renaud felt his face and stepped back in shock, but he quickly regained his senses and his anger. He withdrew his sword and ran him through.

Koertig slapped him away and again caught the monk as he dropped.

With his last few breaths, barely strong enough to push out the words, the man said to him, "The box brings with it a curse."

"I am counting on that curse more than you can know, brother. You have served your faith and your charge well. Rest now and find eternal comfort in your Master's embrace."

He carried the old man to one of the stone preparation tables in the crypt. Renaud and Baptiste followed close behind him.

Renaud brandished his sword at him and barked, "You are finished, Dr. Koertig."

"Not quite yet, Lieutenant."

With even greater ease and speed than Napoleon's soldiers had taken the monastery, he killed Baptiste with a backhand strike to his temple and the whimpering Renaud by breaking his neck. He then killed the two remaining Hussars in the prayer hall before continuing his search.

The old monk, the last defense, had come from a darkened alcove that led to another door. Inside a room meant for one person, he found an empty table, one chair, a roll of two blankets set on top of straw in the corner and a fireplace. The fire had gone out only recently. A copper basket beside the hearth held kindling.

Once the six candles and the two torches in the room were ignited, the room became as bright as dusk on a cloudy day. It revealed no recesses or niches carved into the stone walls. No trapdoor lay in the wooden floor and no hidden compartment beneath it, behind or on either side of the fireplace.

The old man could have been protecting only a table and chair, a last trick to keep the box hidden from them.

"It has been released, but it is still in here and it is a wooden box."

He emptied the basket of wood onto the table top. Even in the dimmest of light, the pieces of the box quickly presented themselves amid the kindling. Once he had gathered together all of the pieces that had symbols carved on them, it was only a matter of recognizing the other pieces that went with them. The left wing pushed into place last. The pieces still felt loose in his grasp, though. It was missing something to keep it locked together.

Koertig lifted the box to inspect it. Inside it, he could see the faded stain left on the bottom by Vlad's heart; below that was a concealed drawer. "This is the reward for all that carnage. This is the gift for his great, cheating love."

He slammed the box back down onto the table. It almost came apart in his hands, but something amid the kindling responded with a metallic rattle. It sparkled in the weak candlelight flickering across the table.

It was time to get this coveted box back to the fancy little troll in epaulets, retrieve his locket and key, and then get on with his own, delayed mission. Koertig used the remaining explosives in his satchel to set the monastery on fire. He freed all the horses but his and the two pack horses and started back for Milan.

# Chapter 32

Rosalie qualified her Napoleonic tale with, "There is no official historical record of any of this. One version of the story has two men leaving the monastery in possession of the box, but only one arriving in Milan with it. Another version has only one returning to Napoleon."

"How did Weinberg end up with it?"

"The journey of the box becomes arcane after it was delivered to Napoleon, which only seems appropriate for such a thing. What we know is Josephine and Napoleon married March ninth, seventeen ninety-six, only a few days before his Italian campaign began. Josephine took comfort in the arms of her lover, a Hussar lieutenant named Hippolyte Charles. Napoleon was enraged when he found out and summoned her to join him in Milan. Here is where known history merges with the tale I just told you. According to the story of the box, Napoleon presented it to Josephine when she arrived in Milan. She brought Charles with her, by the way. After that, there are again two versions of what happened to it."

Kozlowski got up. "There would be." He returned to the front window. "The Explorer is still there. No one is making any move to attack." He looked to the left through the side glass of the bay window. "I can't get a good view of Broderick, but I think the van is gone."

Jacqueline said, "Maybe it wasn't surveillance after all."

"Believe me it was."

"Then why would it leave?"

"What are the two stories?"

"One has it remaining with Josephine, at least for a while. When they divorced, she took it with her to Malmaison. The trail ends there. There is no reference to Dracula's jewelry box, or any jewelry box, being bequeathed to her son, Eugene or her daughter, Hortense. Hortense and Napoleon were close, so there is some speculation that she had the box and somehow got it to him during his last years in exile."

"So we know Napoleon got it back while in exile."

"The other line of possession story cites Archduchess Marie Louise of Austria, whom Napoleon married after his divorce. Whichever is correct, unless neither is, yes, Napoleon got the box back. His personal physician, Dr. Barry O'Meara, and his valet, Louis Marchand, both insisted he had regained possession of it while in exile on Saint Helena. Of course, they knew it as Vlad Drăculea's jewelry box because Bram Stoker's story hadn't yet been written."

Kozlowski remained at the window. "Where did it go from there?"

"It couldn't be found after Napoleon's death and both O'Meara and Marchand recanted their claims that he ever had it. Every one of his supporters on the island denied even the existence of the box as nothing more than the ravings of a dying man. Father Ange Vignali, who heard Napoleon's final confession, and Dr. Francois Cento Antommarchi, who conducted the autopsy, simply reported that no such item was present among his possessions at the time of his death."

"One of them took it, then," she said. "It had to be one of them."

"Many of Napoleon's supporters came and went secretly to avoid Hudson Lowe's decree that anyone who came to him had to sign a document guaranteeing they would stay on the island with him indefinitely. While officially, he only had a small number of supporters staying with him, there is no telling how many snuck onto the island to visit. He could have entrusted any of them with the care of the box."

"Why had this particular box come to mean so much to him?"

"That no one knows. Josephine was dead. Marie Louise, and particularly Hortense, denied any knowledge of the box one way or another. Once again it had disappeared. The theory most often presented comes from Romania and claims an agent returned it to either the Carpathian Mountains or possibly Naples where Vlad might be buried. I think it is safe to assume Weinberg found out exactly where it was."

"The Holy Grail," she said, "the Maltese Falcon, and now Dracula's jewelry box. The stuff collectors' obsessions are made of, the elusive, driving force behind my life for the past twelve years; _toutes les bêtises métaphorique pas pour ce qui sont sur la table devant nous_." All metaphorical nonsense if not for what is on the table before us.

"Nonsense, indeed," Rosalie said, "but there it sits."

She asked, "Would Weinberg have access to people like the ones in the Explorer?"

"My sense of him is that he is at least as rich as Algernon, if not richer, but it isn't just a matter of having enough money to muster resources like that, is it, Inspector Kozlowski?"

"She's right. Despite how books and movies portray mercenaries, and I admit a good bit of it is true, they aren't just something you look up on Google, not the real ones. They are usually hired by governments for the occasional black ops that their employer doesn't want traced back to them. International companies sometimes hire them to provide security services in unstable regions. They don't usually hire out to super rich eccentrics just to recover old jewelry boxes."

" _Il y a une première fois pour tout_." There is a first time for everything.

Her phone started chiming. She recognized the number. "Anthony, we were just talking about you, almost. What have you gotten me into?"

"That's what I'm calling about. I was in hiding, but some big, black guy found me, and I mean big, like a linebacker, all muscles and scars and determined to get that box back. I was in hiding, Jacqueline, and he still found me."

"Who is he?" She signalled Kozlowski to check the surveillance out front again.

"Government, I think, but it doesn't matter. He's one of those guys no one believes really exists. He does what he wants without concern for the consequences or the mess. I tried to down him, but he just shook me off like I was a child. I was sure I was dead, but he let me go. Before he did, he told me to get lost. You have it, right?"

What if the man Vargas had just described was listening in? What did it matter if he was as ruthless and resourceful as Vargas claimed? "Yes, I do."

"I figured Algernon would somehow stick you with it. Jacqueline, this guy isn't just after the box. Harvey Weinberg, that crackpot scientist who sold it to Algernon, might have hidden something inside it."

She whispered to prevent Rosalie from hearing her, "We found it."

"My advice is to get rid of it and then get lost."

"Algernon and Luther are dead."

"Yeah, I heard. At least I don't have to give my notice."

"I have a police inspector with me."

"I don't think he's going to be able to do much against this guy. I'm just passing on his advice because, and I know you won't believe me, I always respected you for not being willing to do what I was. I could never draw that line. Now I'm on the way to the airport and then to a cave in the Andes. Ditch your phone, Jacqueline, and leave wherever you are . . . right now." He broke the connection.

"That was Anthony Vargas. Some big, black man caught up to him while he was in hiding, but let him go once Anthony told him about the box. He's on his way out of the country per that man's advice. He gave the same advice to me."

Kozlowski took another look out the window. "We now know who those guys are waiting for."

Rosalie said, "Which means that big, black guy knows where you are and is on his way."

"What are they doing?"

"I can't see the two in the back, but the guy behind the wheel appears to have fallen asleep."

"Anthony told me to destroy my phone."

"Then we will do just that."

She handed over her phone. Kozlowski tore it apart and then tore apart his.

Rosalie pointed to the front window. "I'd give you mine, but I don't think it would be of any more use than yours at this point."

"We should all leave," Kozlowski said.

"You two and that thing on the table are what everyone is after. Once you're gone, I can find my own way out of here."

She retrieved a key fob from her purse. "Take my neighbor's Venza. They're away for a few months. It's in the back. It's white and boring and you can hide with it for a while."

Jacqueline said, "What if we can't get it back to you?"

"I'll just tell them it was stolen. I'll distract the ones out front."

Kozlowski checked again. "I still can't see the van."

Rosalie put on a pair of gardening gloves, picked up a pair of pruning shears and her phone from a table by the front door and put on a 49ers cap.

"I might as well do what I'd intended to do before all this nonsense started. I usually spend Saturdays working in my yard." She opened the door. "Wait for my signal then take the car."

She asked, "What signal?"

"You'll know it when you see it." She went out the door. She left it open.

Kozlowski took out the gun Bridges had slipped into his pocket and returned to the front bay window.

She stood beside him behind a gauzy cover of sheers.

Rosalie started trimming her bougainvillea. She kept this up for a few minutes before stopping, shielding her eyes against the sun that had just come out between the clouds and looking straight at the Explorer.

"What is she doing?"

Kozlowski raised the gun. Before he could complete his turn to go to the front door, she took hold of his arm.

"Watch."

Rosalie took out her phone and called 911. "Hello," she said in her perfect, projecting, theatrically precise English accent, "You must send the police immediately."

She turned to look at her front door as the 911 operator asked her questions.

"Of course it's an emergency." Her voice became hysterically shrill. "I'm in great danger. I need the police right away." She listened to more questions before shouting into the phone, "I am being watched. There are men parked across the street watching my home . . . watching me!" She screamed that last part into the phone. "Any moment now, they are going to attack. You must hurry."

After another few seconds of listening to the operator, Rosalie returned to her role. "Listen to me carefully. I know Algernon Devries and Luther Bourque. Surely you have heard about what happened at their homes. It's all over the bloody news. I'm telling you, those men are stalking me and any moment now. . . ." Rosalie suddenly grabbed at her chest. "Oh my God, oh my God, tell them to send an ambulance, too. It's my heart, it's my heart."

She dropped her phone and fell to the ground as if she were suffering a heart attack.

"That's our signal."

Jacqueline went to the table but hesitated. "We could just leave it here. Your colleagues would pick it up when they arrive."

"I'd thought of that, too, but it's our best bargaining chip for getting out of this mess."

" _Merde_!" She picked up the box.

He led the way out the back door.

They found the white Venza parked in the neighbor's driveway right beside Rosalie's own driveway. After starting the Toyota, Kozlowski first made sure no one was coming after them before he brought them out of the lane past where the van had been parked. They passed the Explorer and Rosalie.

Two woman neighbors had rushed to her aid. The men in the Explorer hadn't budged. Sirens were approaching as they headed toward the Presidio.

She said, "We can't trust anyone, can we?"

"Whoever is pulling the strings has done an excellent job of setting us up as one of the villains. I shot my captain, for chrissake."

"If not your police colleagues, who do we hand this box over to?"

"If we can find out what the three vials contain, we would have a better idea of what they are for and a better idea of what we can do about the trouble we're in."

" _Je l'espère_."

"I hope so, too."

"Do you know anywhere we can go where your police, the FBI, DHS and probably every other national security agency out there, as well as the other side, can't find us? My idea turned out to be a dangerous bust."

"Dangerous but not a bust, and, as a matter of fact, I do know someplace and someone. He can help us gather some counter-intelligence."

"Going to someone in the government isn't—"

"He isn't with the government. He wouldn't be what computer security specialists call a white hat all the time, more like light grey at best, but that is what we need at the moment. He can retrieve the information circulating out there about us, the box, the vials and mannequins. I just hope he hasn't gone surfing."

# Chapter 33

The police and ambulance were unexpected, but he could use the commotion they created to get into Timms-Beck's house. He'd sent his crew away before one of them succumbed to their own fear. He'd taken care of the men in the Explorer, though he hadn't used his special package as he'd originally intended. That would have attracted too much attention too soon.

He walked right up to them through the rain that was soaking him to the skin. Once he was next to the driver's door, he stopped and tapped on the glass.

The driver furiously waved him off. Fools like that on a job like this deserved to die.

When he slid off his hood, then took off his cap and sunglasses, all three men took intense notice of him. It was just a matter of aiming Tubby's present with its silencer attached and double-tapping each of them. He set the driver back against the headrest with his chin up and his mouth open.

The second burst of heavy rain stopped just after he was finished at the SUV. The sky cleared. Water evaporated from his shoulders and head as he stepped back into the shade of the acacias to watch.

Anyone passing the Explorer, as long as they didn't take a close look, would assume the man was asleep. They weren't likely to notice the two men in the back through the darkened windows.

Rosalie's unnecessary but convincing performance as a hysterical victim of a heart attack was amusing, as was the sincere attempt to help her by the two women who rushed to her aid. Timms-Beck had needed to push one of the women away when she kept insisting Rosalie remain on her back. The woman ended up yelling at Timms-Beck to remain calm. The stupid cow couldn't know she was blocking Timms-Beck's view of the dead crew in the Explorer.

He had to cover his mouth and walk away from the scene when he laughed out loud.

If the ambulance had taken her away, that would have provided the opportunity to enter her house unseen through the front door, but Rosalie Timms-Beck was prepared for the arrival of both police and paramedics.

As soon as the first two patrol cars and the ambulance arrived, she bounced back up to her feet and pointed at the Explorer. Both neighbors emitted small screams of shock as though Timms-Beck had just suddenly popped back to life.

Two more patrol cars arrived before the first four officers could exit their cars with their guns drawn. All eight officers conferred together briefly before scrambling to surround the SUV. Three of them brought out shotguns. One took out an automatic rifle from the trunk of his car. Two of them took Timms-Beck, the paramedics trying to examine her and the two neighbors to cover in her front yard behind the bougainvillea, as if it would actually stop bullets. The rest of them took cover behind trees and parked cars and aimed their weapons at the Explorer.

The driver never woke up.

He had to cover his mouth again.

The senior officer soon realized they had surrounded three corpses. After Timms-Beck pushed the paramedics aside to take a look for herself, she began interrogating the two neighbors about what they might have seen.

He slipped away, walked up the back alley and entered Timms-Beck's backyard. Her blue BMW 650i coupe was still there. Duquesne and the inspector had fled in something else.

He closed his eyes and visualized the vehicles that had passed by. Only three had driven past not counting his own van: a black Chrysler mini-van, a red Mazda MX-5 with the top down despite the intermittent rain and two white-haired men in it, and a white Toyota Venza with a man driving and a woman passenger.

"Very good," he said and went to the backdoor.

After slipping inside the house, he took the risk of looking out the front bay window. While outside, he'd counted at least five incidents of the inspector looking out at the Explorer, twice also looking straight at him.

Rosalie Timms-Beck had not only given an excellent performance of a heart attack victim before the police arrived, she was now giving an excellent performance as an SFPD commander and was ordering the eight policemen about, pointing to where his van had been parked, requesting to look inside the Explorer to confirm all three men were dead and pointing for one of _her_ men to open the door at the back so she could see what weapons they had brought to Pacific Heights.

She was in exceptionally good theatrical form.

If he were capable of such a thing, he could love this woman.

Finally, the senior officer escorted her back to her gate and firmly suggested she remain where he put her. She talked to the two neighbors again for a bit, as suitably surprised, shocked and frightened as they were about what was happening in their peaceful neighborhood.

And why wouldn't she be? Rosalie Timms-Beck knew better than her neighbors and the police what was going on here. She had come outside as a distraction, a decoy to allow Duquesne and the inspector to get away in a Toyota Venza. She had been, however, no more aware than her neighbors that the three men in the Explorer were dead.

Rosalie Timms-Beck's fear might be more intense than her neighbors because she would know the murder of the trio meant someone else interested in Dracula's jewelry box could still be in the neighborhood.

He went to the coffee table, picked up a cup still full of green tea and took a sip. The cold, bitter taste was apropos for what was going to happen next. He finished the tea and returned to the bay window.

The two neighbors had returned to their homes to continue their surveillance from the false protection of their living rooms.

Rosalie opened her gate and stepped through into her front yard, all the while watching the police activity across the street. More precisely, she was watching for any one of them coming to question her. All eight of them, including the five who were just standing around watching the other three, were too preoccupied with the Explorer to give her any attention.

Two of the younger officers, the ones who had put their faith in the hedge of bougainvillea, still aimed their guns at the SUV, just in case. After all, one person in the neighborhood had already sprung back to life.

Timms-Beck wouldn't likely be questioned until inspectors and possibly even a real commander arrived. The police had to be privy to at least some of the information about what the threat in San Francisco was. There might be a handoff to federal investigators before anyone talked to her.

He slipped over to the opening leading from the living room to the front hall. When Timms-Beck came in, he stepped up behind her and grabbed her. His hand covered her mouth and nose and squeezed.

Her struggles against his hold were ineffectual.

"Ms. Timms-Beck," he whispered into her ear, "I admired your performance outside, but I would prefer to conduct our business quietly, if you don't mind. I have a few questions that need answering and I would rather not have to suffocate you or break your neck before I get them answered. Do you agree?"

She nodded as much as his hold on her would permit and offered a muffled grunt of her willingness to cooperate.

He let her go.

Coinciding with a huge intake of air, she said, "The police will come to talk to me any moment."

"I am not concerned about the police. I am just another neighbor who has come over to make sure you are all right after what I just witnessed. Dreadful, isn't it?"

"You're Harvey Weinberg."

"Please to finally meet you, Rosalie. I love your accent, by the way."

"Did you kill those men?"

"They were in my way."

"Were the ones in the van yours?"

"A pathetic bunch, I'm afraid, but yes."

"A big, black man associated with those men out there is on his way here. Anthony Vargas called to warn us."

"That would be Frank Gillett, and, I assure you, he is _not_ associated with those men. We are well acquainted with each other, though. But, Ms. Timms-Beck, you know, I believe I'm the one who should be asking the questions. Perhaps we could sit down."

They sat down across the coffee table from each other.

He placed his palm on the table. "It was right here, was it not?"

She glanced at the front door and nodded.

"I assure you, Ms. Timms-Beck, Rosalie, the police are of no matter to me." He reached into both pockets of his 49er's parka. "I can go through them as easily as I did those three outside." He sat back. "Tell me, did you take it apart?"

"They wouldn't let me even try."

"That must have been frustrating."

"To say the least. What's in the box?"

"I would love to sit here and chat, but you know how you sometimes put on a piece of music, then you decide that is not what you want to listen to, so you put on something else, but that isn't right, either, and then you don't know what it is you want. You cannot make up your mind. It is a frozen moment in your life. That is what it's like for me right now. I just can't make up my mind what to do with you."

"What can I say that will help?"

"I do appreciate the offer, Rosalie, I do. Part of me wants to just keep talking to you. I find you fascinating and I do believe we would enjoy each other's company for quite some time. Part of me wants to set you on fire. Part of me wants to apply what's inside my right pocket to you and see what happens. I haven't actually observed the results on a person yet. I've had to satisfy my curiosity with a variety of lab animals. And part of me . . . well, you get the idea."

He stood up and took out zip-straps. "I know this is going to be uncomfortable, but that truly cannot be helped. Please put your hands behind the chair, Rosalie."

She opened her mouth but didn't say anything. She put her hands behind the chair.

He secured each wrist to the chair with a strap and stepped back. "The crouching dragon is the key."

"I thought it might be, but I couldn't get it to budge."

"Yes, there is quite a trick to it. I found it very maddening at first."

He took out a billfold, opened its three sections into a triangle and set it up on the coffee table. Each section was a flexible LED screen. "This little wonder has a camera and a microphone. I will be able to see and hear everything you say or do while I search your house. And, of course, I will know if the police come in to question you."

"They took it with them."

"Now, Rosalie, you know I have only passing interest in the box. I need to make sure they left nothing else behind."

"They didn't."

"I will be as quick and as neat as I can."

He did believe her. Duquesne and the inspector would not leave them behind and just take the box. They would have no protection if they had. His search was quick and neat.

The police across the street had been joined by a forensics team, a police commander and three inspectors by the time he returned to the living room. One or more of them would soon be coming to interview his hostess.

"Now, Rosalie, as quickly as you can, tell me everything the three of you discussed."

When she was finished, he asked, "And where did they take this thing collectors' obsessions are made of?"

"I didn't ask and they didn't tell me. Honestly, Harvey, I'm not sure they knew where they were going."

"I believe you." He cut the straps off her with the knife from his cudgel. "And I will let you in on a little secret. Frank Gillett is after me as much as he's after what's inside the box. He is not one to let go of a grudge."

"There is more to all this, isn't there?"

"Yes, and it's wonderful."

"Please tell me."

"Rosalie, you know my dilemma. If I told you. . . ."

He leaned forward and kissed her forehead. He then kissed her on the mouth. She tasted as elegant and delicate as she appeared. Though she was trembling, she returned his kiss. People always kept hoping right up to the very end. He brushed away from her face some hair that had come loose from her ponytail and kissed her again. She opened her mouth for his exploration.

"Delightful, I must say." He moved them to her loveseat and sat with his arm around her. He kissed her wonderfully soft and inviting mouth one more time. "First, Rosalie, I started with a jellyfish."

# Chapter 34

The smoke Agent Laskey saw as they flew over the last hill before descending to the crash site just reinforced his suspicion that whoever was behind this threat was confident nothing anyone did could stop them.

Richardson circled once in the Bell 206L4 before landing it near the two destroyed NTSB SUVs. He, Engel and Richardson just sat inside the Bell taking in the view before them.

Marquis wiped the window clear, squinted out at the scene and asked, "How did that happen? Did something explode?"

"The vehicles are too far away to be caught if the plane exploded."

Florence asked, "Where are the NTSB people?"

Laskey took out his Glock. "Get the big stuff."

They all exited the Bell with guns drawn and went to the back of it. He and Florence kept watch while Marquis got out a vest and an AR-15 for each of them from the cargo hold.

He repeated his instructions, "NTSB was two women and two men. Carlita Espinosa was the Investigator-in-Charge. The two men were Luciano Baratelli and Moses Duval. The other woman was Anisha Wong."

"You do realize," Florence said, "that you are using past tense."

"Just see if you can find them."

Aside from sounding more sinister now that they were on the ground, the instructions seemed pointless. The plane had been destroyed. Only a small section of the fuselage hadn't collapsed. Even to the untrained observer, it was obvious the site had been tampered with. Wreckage had been dragged to the plane and placed either inside or next to it before being set ablaze. Though Espinosa had reported them being strewn about the debris field, none of the cargo containers she had described were visible.

It just came out of him. "Be very careful."

"Ya think?" Marquis headed for the main plane wreckage. He would insist on taking potentially the most dangerous section of the search area.

Florence went to the NTSB vehicles first, shook her head back at him and then signalled her intention to circle around behind the main wreckage. Her route would take her back toward the slope all the vehicles had come down.

On his way to the creek, he passed ruts where wheels had been pressed into the ground by heavy loads. Drag marks along a trail through the trees confirmed pieces of wreckage had been brought this way. One edge of a piece had plowed a furrow into the soil three inches deep and had dislodged stones when it crossed a dry section of creek bed. Footprints had been smeared and trod over frequently from the effort to bring the bigger pieces through the grove. More than one person had been needed for the task.

It was impossible to determine how many were involved or the exact sizes of the shoes, but it was possible to determine that every one of them wore the same military boots.

The creek was sixty yards from the end of the grove across an expanse of bare gravel and sandy soil that would be covered yearly with spring runoff. It would get wider but not much deeper than this narrow remnant of it was now.

He spotted the burned body parts on the other side of the creek the moment he exited the grove.

"I've got a body," he said into his transceiver.

Florence asked, "Do you want the kit?"

"That wouldn't do any good; it's in pieces and still smoking. Have either of you found anyone?"

Marquis answered, "Nothing. I'm at the main wreckage. Everything is melted or burned away to ash."

"Nothing here, either," Florence said.

"Copy that." He jogged through the creek and stopped when he spotted another piece of the smoking remains. "It's plastic."

"Don't go near it," Marquis said.

"Is it one of the crew or passengers?" Florence's voice crackled as it rose. "How did it get there?"

"Give me a minute."

He approached the remains slowly, keeping his gaze focused on two plastic fingers near a piece of the right side of a head. The fingers resembled those from a mannequin but were partially melted to reveal real charred bone. They were also pointing to the rock bluffs about fifty yards northwest of the meadow. The part of the head came from just behind the right ear around to the front cheek bone and eye socket. The lower jaw was missing, as were the nose and the eye. What _plasticized_ flesh remained was blistered.

Laskey wiped sweat from his brow. He gagged when he took his next breath but managed to keep the contents of his stomach inside.

Marquis asked, "What have you got. I still haven't found anyone."

"It's been blown to pieces."

Streaks of soot projected outward from a crater as wide as a garbage can lid. Clumps of sand had been turned into shards of glass. Melted remnants from an incendiary grenade—possibly more than one—were scattered amid the body parts. Part of a scorched and twisted aluminum container lay nearby.

One of the NTSB crew could have tried to escape, but was shot after crossing the stream. The shooter had then tossed an incendiary bomb at the body. "No."

It was more likely one of the NTSB crew had been exposed to the toxin while investigating the site and died. The two fingers and the bit of head he'd found supported that scenario as the most plausible, except Espinosa had reported every team member was fine, including Fire and Rescue. The site was supposed to be free of the toxin. Still, the perpetrators would have noticed the plastic body and refused to go near it because they knew what that meant. Espinoza could have been wrong. The toxin could have begun to affect them after she made her report. If affected herself, she would have been unable to provide an update. Either way, the perpetrators would have thrown the grenade from a distance.

"Have either of you found anything yet?"

"Yeah," Marquis replied, "a crashed and burned plane."

"Don't be a wiseass," Florence said. "We have nothing, Brian."

"Copy that."

A delicate nudge of the remains with his AR-15—it had been a person—revealed rib bones warped by the heat. The only bit of clothing left was the turned-up cuff of the right leg of the victim's orange coveralls.

"I've found one of the NTSB crew. I'd say it was Wong."

"I've called back Fire and Rescue," Florence said, "and a forensics team. I've asked for more body bags."

"Copy that."

"It's not me," a female voice said. "Are you for real this time?"

He stepped back, lowered the AR-15 and held up his FBI badge. "Special Agent Brian Laskey from the San Francisco Field Office; I'm here with Special Agents Marquis Richardson and Florence Engel in response to Carlita Espinosa's report of a possible crime scene."

A short, slender Chinese-American woman stepped out from behind a boulder. She wore only white underwear. Her right ankle was swollen and purple. Her bare feet were cut and bleeding. She was trembling.

He quickly ascertained that her trembling was from fear and cold, not a first symptom of exposure to the toxin. He took off his FBI jacket and handed it to her.

"Thank you."

He said to his partners, "I have Anisha Wong. She'll need first aid."

"I'm on my way," Florence replied.

"Please, Agent Laskey," Wong said. "I'd rather not remain here." She winced when she took a step. "I thought I heard them coming back. Ridiculous now that I've had time to consider such a thing. They were on a schedule. I tried running back across the stream, but I slipped on a wet stone and twisted my ankle."

"We're on our way back," he said to Florence. He then said, "I can carry you, Dr. Wong."

"Under the circumstances, I would appreciate that."

He carried her back to the Bell. On the way, she told him about an attack by three FBI impostors and how she avoided being murdered.

"I've seen the horrendous aftermath of plane crashes, but I have never seen such cold, methodical violence before. They just shot my friends, piled them up and set them on fire. It's cruel and disturbing beyond measure. How can we call ourselves civilized if we keep creating people like that, train people to behave like that and then turn them loose?"

"You are talking about more than just this."

"You know about the Crowley Farm attack on one of your units."

"It's part of our training now."

"My sister-in-law, Miranda, was part of that unit."

"She was under Special Agent Joan McGowan's command. She was one of only three to survive the attack."

"But you know she didn't. Her hands were burned. She suffered from PTSD until she took her own life."

Wong, McGowan and James Torres, the SWAT commander, survived the attack. Eleven other agents were killed. After leaving the FBI, Wong and Torres later committed suicide while on the phone with each other. "Yeah, I know."

Florence had the first aid kit open and ready. "I have some clothes here you can wear." Florence took over responsibility for treating Wong's injuries.

Marquis joined him and they returned to the main wreckage. Small fires persisted inside the one section of fuselage still intact. There were only a few hot spots outside.

"Someone has to ask," Marquis said. "What the hell is going on here?"

"It's bigger than just what happened here. Dr. Wong says her colleagues and the body parts were placed inside the plane before it was set on fire. The attackers brought cans of Avgas to cover what they were doing. They took the containers of vials with them."

"There is hardly anything left inside there. We'll have to wait for Fire and Rescue to extinguish everything before we take another look."

"Keep looking around where you can, I have to report to Skinner."

Anisha Wong was wearing a pair of blue sweatpants and a grey sweatshirt when he got back to the Bell. They were a couple of sizes too large and made her look smaller, which coincided perfectly with his perception of everyone caught up in this incident.

Florence left them to help Marquis.

"How are you?"

"Special Agent Engel has excellent first aid skills, but I won't be taking any long walks for some time." She still limped and winced whenever she took a step.

He called the field office. He didn't have to wait for them to fetch Skinner.

Skinner said, "I got the preliminary from Florence. I've called CIRG (Critical Incident Response Group) and requested HRT (Hostage Rescue Team) because of their training in dealing with chemical threats. What happened there?"

He described what they'd found. With each word he spoke, that persistent sense of shrinking before what they were trying to prevent became more intense. "I will let Dr. Wong give you her story herself."

Wong's experience and professionalism kicked in when she talked to Skinner. She provided a remarkably clear and detailed report of the attack, the three men and how she avoided being killed. Her voice only faltered when she described what happened to her colleagues.

"I'll call NTSB and USAMRID," Skinner said when Laskey went back on the radio.

"I will call Colonel Thorpe."

Wong said, "Ask them to send another team, please. We still need to investigate the crash." She then limped away and wiped her eyes.

He called the number Dr. Thorpe had written on the back of her card. Wong came back to him as Thorpe came on the line.

"It's all burned up," he said. "You can call your team back." He told her about what they found.

Wong provided her details with the same clarity she had exhibited while talking to Skinner.

"They'll come anyway," Thorpe said. "We might find something." Then she said to Dr. Wong, "I'm so sorry for the loss of your colleagues and for what you've been through."

"Thank you."

He waited for more questions from her, _but._ . . .

"They are all dissolving," she said. "That waxy covering was just the beginning of it. My team at RML sent me a video recording of the process. It is startling to watch."

Wong said, "When I was gathering up the parts, I believe I saw early indications of that. How long would you say?"

"Given that they were found last night and had likely been adrift for at least three hours after their last report to shore, I would estimate the whole process from exposure through death to final dissolution takes between twelve and eighteen hours.

"We can only wait for the process to finish, analyze what we have left and try to figure out exactly what happened, how the toxin proceeds through its phases. Then we clean up the mess it has left behind."

Two Fire and Rescue trucks drove down from the meadow. Florence and Marquis intercepted the crew and briefed them on the situation.

"Once we have some understanding of the mechanism of this rapid decomposition, we will have some understanding of the mechanism of this rapid decomposition, and that's about all we will have. It could take a long time to figure out all that it does and how it does it."

"We don't have a lot of time." That was almost the completion of the shrinking process. He was stating the obvious.

"I know I keep repeating myself, but it's very frustrating and fascinating and terrifying to consider what whoever created this might want to use it for. I think our previous discussion is close to the mark."

Wong said, "And the men who attacked here now have hundreds of packages of ampules." She displayed a blue and white plastic box just a bit larger than a pack of cigarettes. "I managed to snatch one."

"Fantastic. Call me when you get back to your field office. I'll bring over all I have, though I can't promise it won't turn your stomach. Brian, we have to prevent the attack because if it ever gets started, all we will be able to do is pick up the dissolved pieces later."

"Copy that."

# Chapter 35

"They lost Duquesne and Kozlowski again near the Presidio," Cole Reagan said, "but I will keep after them to get those two back. I don't think they can get anything on Weinberg. He's always been cold to them."

A moment after terminating his connection with Reagan, Chase pushed the second button on his desk phone.

"Good afternoon, Tubby," Weinberg said. "Oh, sorry, I forgot. You don't like being called that, do you? Forgive me, Timothy, it's been such a long time between our talks that your concern slipped my mind."

"Why are you calling me?"

"First of all, I must thank you for taking the time in your busy day to talk to me. You must be under a great time constraint at the moment. Tell me, Tim, and do be honest with me, can you actually see each grain of sand dropping? Is it all going far too quickly and far too slowly at the same time for you? Did you vote for her, Tim? Do you even vote? Then again, I don't suppose it matters to you who the President is because, as far as you're concerned, you run the country from right where you are sitting now. Wouldn't she be surprised to learn that? Wouldn't she be surprised to learn of all the things you are doing today on behalf of your country?"

"Why are you calling me?"

"There is no need to put a trace on my call, Tim. I will tell you where I am. At the moment, I am the guest of a very delightful Rosalie Timms-Beck. I am enjoying a cup of green tea heated to just the right temperature and served without any pollutants like cream or sugar so that I might reap all of its benefits. I suppose honey would be permitted if you absolutely must add a sweetener. Would you agree with that, Rosalie?"

Her reply was distant and faint. "I have occasionally used honey."

"Excellent, excellent. Now, Tim, Rosalie and I have been having a fascinating conversation about science and magic, history and legend. Wouldn't you say it's been fascinating, Rosalie?"

"Riveting," she said. She had moved—or been moved—closer to the phone.

"The police were a nuisance for a considerable time, but they have left for now. I do not anticipate any more interruptions to my revealing discussion with Rosalie once you and I have concluded our talk."

He knew exactly what that meant.

Weinberg chuckled. "I didn't recognize that trio, which was only reciprocally fair as they didn't recognize me either. Are you perhaps employing freelancers now, Tim, or mercenaries?"

"There are plenty more of them out there."

"Timothy, I'm disappointed. Such a petulant and impotent and surprisingly revealing response is not like you. This just isn't your day, is it, Tubby? You whiffed at Widow Creek. Your men suffered from china-shop syndrome at Luther's place and the only two people you want as much as you want me have vanished. And they left their incredible wireless tracking devices behind on the floor here. And your apostles are not likely having any consistent success no matter what Reagan prods them with. Have they been running hot and cold on you all day, Tim? I did tell you they were a dodgy resource at best."

"You don't have it either or you wouldn't be calling me. Why don't we join forces again? I have the resources, you have the knowledge."

"I believe we have diverging views on the potential uses of my research and my affiliations."

"At one time we didn't. We were supposed to be working together."

"You know how it is. New information presents itself, new discoveries are made, some paradigms are shifted and _voila_."

"I am open to renegotiating."

"I can only think of one answer to that offer."

Timms-Beck screamed. Her scream was followed by the frantic grunts of someone being strangled. Weinberg brought an end to them when he snapped her neck.

"I can still put in a good word if you like. Goodbye, Tubby." The connection broke.

He called Gillett. "I just talked to Harvey. Get to Pacific Heights. I'm sending you the data now." He entered the information on the screen imbedded in his desk and pressed enter.

His assistant buzzed him. "Special Agent Nyla Rowe is on line three, sir."

"What are you doing in San Francisco, Tim?"

"I assure you, Nyla, it was a surprise to me to discover my operation overlapped with your investigation."

"I need all the information you have immediately."

"What makes you think this has anything to do with your group?"

"It's how they operated in Dominion, Oregon and again in New York City. Need I remind you that Karyon Research links Widow Creek to Dominion? That can't be a coincidence. I have all the intelligence gathered so far on the Viaje Costero, the plane crash, Bourque and Devries, Duquesne and Kozlowski, the attack on the NTSB team and the ampules of green liquid. I've sent Joan McGowan to Karyon to talk to Tate. I called Frank, but he wouldn't respond. I was hoping you would either fill me in or instruct your agent to cooperate."

"As I said, Nyla, I had no idea until about an hour ago that my operation might be relevant to the Proteus Group Task Force. I am gathering the information now. I will send it to you as soon as I can."

"Just give me a brief summary of what you do have."

"A brief summary would make no sense without a complete report of the details."

"Tim, the Proteus Group is the biggest threat to national security that we face. It is based right here in our own backyard and we still know very little about it. Your section is the only one that refuses to cooperate with me."

"I am cooperating. I promise to get everything to you as soon as I have it. As for Frank Gillett, he was fully sanctioned for San Francisco, but even I must admit there is the possibility of another agenda infiltrating his original mission parameters."

"Jesus, Tim, just tell me what's going on."

"I will as soon as I can."

"I don't want to interfere with your objectives, but you know I can if _they_ are involved. Please do not force me to do that. It is a waste of energy and time and only helps our enemies." She hung up.

Devon Terezakis from Digital Surveillance entered his office.

Chase stared at the penholder on his desk. "What is it?"

"We got a ping on Anthony Vargas' phone."

"He's dead."

"Then he was just talking to Jacqueline Duquesne from the grave. We traced the call to her phone at the Timms-Beck house in Pacific Heights. After the call ended, we lost Vargas's, Duquesne's and Kozlowski's phones." Terezakis just stood there watching him stare at the penholder.

"Well, what is it?"

"Police were called to the address. They report finding three dead men inside an Explorer parked across the street from her house." Terezakis quickly left after delivering the bad news.

Chase picked up the penholder, dumped its contents on the desk and then threw it as hard as he could at the door. He used his secure cell phone to make his next call.

Boyd Petit answered with, "Sorry, boss."

"What the fuck happened? You told me those ones were better than those last idiots."

"They were hired for wet work, sir, not to sit on a house. They did fine at the Bourque place."

"Did they now? They didn't retrieve what they were sent for. They just shot a bunch of cops and let the damn thing get away. Then one of them gets killed trailing Duquesne and Kozlowski. I have managed to insert their rampage into the scenario we have for those two, but this is becoming comical. We are shooting our own people. Get your men under control."

"I will, sir."

"Duquesne and Kozlowski must not talk to anyone. Weinberg is still in play and Frank Gillett might no longer be viable."

"Anyone else?"

"I will let you know."

His desk phone rang. "What have you got?"

Gillett said. "Timms-Beck is dead. I see two phones in pieces on the floor. The Explorer has been towed away. Who was in it? Is Tompkins the other unit?"

"Never mind who the other unit is. You told me Vargas was dead."

"He knew nothing."

"He called Duquesne and warned her about you."

"What do we do now?"

"Check for Timms-Beck's phone."

After a few seconds of searching, Frank said, "It's not in her bag."

"He took it. We'll ping it and get back to you. If Nyla Rowe calls you again, do not tell her anything."

"We're not cooperating with other agencies now?"

"It's not that. I respect Nyla. She has a tough job ahead of her. But she's leading a task force right now; she's not in the field. She doesn't need the moment-by-moment details of what we're doing, and we don't need her sticking her nose in where it doesn't belong. She'll just gum up our operation."

"Yeah, because it's going so well at the moment."

"We'll tell her something when we have something to tell her."

"That's good, Tim, it just reinforces my sense of chasing my own—"

"We'll have Timms-Beck's phone in a few minutes. I'll call you back."

"You do that. I have something to check out here."

"What?"

"Weinberg left me a personal message. I think he wrote it in his own blood."

# Chapter 36

"His name is Herman Gunther, but everybody calls him Gunner," Kozlowski said as he turned onto Lyon Street at the edge of the Presidio. "He's a fanatical surfer. When he's not working, you'll find him at Linda Mar Beach. When he's not in Pacifica, you'll find him in Hawaii or wherever there are big waves."

They had to pull over at the intersection of Lyon Street and Pacific Avenue to let one SFPD patrol car and one unmarked car race past.

Jacqueline put her hand to her neck and lowered it as if doing that could actually assist her heart's return to her chest. It might at least relieve some of the constriction in her throat that made it so hard for her to breathe.

Once the two cars were out of sight, Kozlowski let two pick-up trucks that had pulled over behind them go past. "Are you . . . ?"

As soon as she opened her mouth to reply she began trembling. "I'm fantastic. How long will it take to get there?"

"Not long."

" _Être évasif avec moi n'est pas aider_." Being evasive with me isn't helping.

"I don't mean to be evasive. Depending on traffic and anything unforeseen, it should take between thirty and forty minutes to get to Gunner's."

"What help can a surfer dude be?"

Kozlowski merged the Venza back into traffic. "He's a computer wizard when he's not a surfer dude. He's also an outdoor adventure nut, though you'd hardly think that when you look at him."

"That didn't exactly answer my question."

"He helped us break up an identity theft ring two years ago."

"If he's helping you break up identity theft rings, why would you call him a grey hat?"

"He ran the operation for a gang in Bayview-Hunters Point but had a change of heart when they got too violent. Helping us stop them was the deal to keep him out of prison. He's in witness protection now and works as a computer security guru, but I wouldn't be surprised if he trafficked in information outside the legal boundaries every now and then."

"But there's nothing you can prove."

"I wouldn't be going to him if he wasn't good enough to keep hidden, would I? We believe he anonymously alerted us to a potential attack on a movie theater last year. He denies any knowledge of the incident."

She shivered and folded her arms across her chest. "That's our world now, isn't it? We rely on people who are computer wizards, but we have no idea how they do what they do."

"We've always relied on that. I don't know how a phone works. I couldn't possibly fix this car if it suddenly broke down. Isn't modern technology wonderful?"

"Yes, but. . . ."

"But what?"

"It doesn't matter." She shivered again.

He turned on the heater. "How much money do you have with you?"

"Money?"

"You know, cash, bills, coins?"

"I just returned home last night from Europe. Then Algernon sent his jet for me. I barely had time to shower and change. All I have is plastic."

"Then you're in luck."

"How does plastic make me lucky? They can trace me the moment I use any of my cards."

"Your plastic doesn't make you lucky, being with me does. I'm the embodiment of old school. I think they call it being analogue. Everything is cash with me."

"Have you given any thought to the mess we're in? Your own police are after us. Probably every federal agency concerned with law enforcement or national security is after us. Weinberg, some big black guy and who knows who else is after us and we're talking about how much cash we have."

"We may have to stay off the grid for a while. We can't use plastic and we can't withdraw any more money."

"Can a cop be disavowed? Is that even the correct term?"

"I have close to a thousand on me. I suppose I could break into an ATM if we needed more."

At the intersection of Pacific Avenue and Spruce Street, he turned left and drove along Spruce to California Street and then turned to head for Park Presidio Boulevard.

She had once met with a man on Eleventh Avenue just off California Street about a set of dueling pistols said to belong to General Samuel Houston. Like most of the assignments Algernon sent her on, this, too, had been unproductive. She had the same rate of success finding authentic collectibles as lions had catching and bringing down prey. The pistols were replicas of a set of Spanish dueling pistols. She had recognized Miguel Santiago's craftsmanship in them.

In fact, Santiago's replicas were probably superior to most of the antique sets she'd ever purchased, but they weren't what Algernon or his compulsive ilk would settle for.

"We'd be adding felony burglary to our sheet. Do you really use that term?"

"I do."

Once they were on Park Presidio Boulevard, two more patrol cars passed them going the opposite direction.

" _Mon dieu, ils sont partout_."

"We are always everywhere. You're just noticing us more now, that's all." Kozlowski kept checking the rear view mirror.

She looked back, but the two patrol cars didn't suddenly turn around and come after them. " _Mon coeur est certainement les plus remarquant maintenant_." My heart is certainly noticing them more now.

They stayed on Park Presidio Boulevard into Golden Gate Park. There it became Park Presidio Bypass Boulevard.

"You are going to strain your neck if you keep doing that."

She turned around to face front.

"How did you hook up with Devries?"

"Does it really matter?"

"It matters to me."

"You're just trying to get me to talk."

"I could turn on the radio."

" _Un autre homme ennuyeux entre dans ma vie_." Another annoying man enters my life.

The bypass curved into Crossover Drive. Another patrol car approached from their right and merged into the traffic. Kozlowski put them right behind it.

"You do remember I speak French, right? Does that annoy you, too?"

"It just feels like we've been driving forever and getting nowhere and everywhere we go there's another police car. Sooner or later, one of those cops might recognize you, or me."

"You were saying about Devries?"

"I had just graduated from the University of Montreal. I was touring Europe and met Algernon in London. He was trying to persuade Rosalie at that time to be the curator of his museum. Nothing came of our meeting then, but he tracked me down after I received my Master's Degree in European Studies at McGill."

"You must have impressed him."

"That's what he kept saying until I relented and agreed to work for him."

Once through the park, the patrol car turned right on Lincoln Avenue. They continued along Nineteenth Avenue, the US 1 Highway.

"In eleven years on the job, I only had to draw my gun three times. Today is the first time I had to fire it and I shoot my captain after he kills my partner because he was manipulated into believing we had gone bad and were about to kill him because we knew he was on to us. Someone needs to pay for that."

"How are we going to do that? The good guys after us believe we are the bad guys. The bad guys after us don't care one way or the other. And everyone seems to know more than we do about vials of green liquid, the vials we have and what is happening."

"Let's see what Gunner can find out for us. We might get some idea of who to go to about all this."

"You are planning to turn us in, aren't you?"

"We would be better off if we come in on our own, but we need to turn ourselves in to the right people."

" _Je ne suis pas sûr qu'il ya une chose telle que les bonnes personnes._ " I'm not so sure there is such a thing as the right people.

" _En fait, je ne suis point_." Actually, neither am I. They drove in silence until Inspector Kozlowski parked the Venza just past Tavaral Street. "Hungry?"

"What?" Her stomach gurgled. "Shouldn't we get to your contact as soon as we can?"

"It will give us a chance to catch our breath and I have to pick up something." He pointed behind them. "Seniore's Pizza; they make great pizzas and great heroes. What would you like?"

She checked the rear view mirror, looked back along Nineteenth and shrugged. "A hero would be fine."

"What kind?"

"Je ne sais pas."

"I know just the thing for you." He left her in the Venza. He took the key fob.

She tried not to believe there was some ulterior motivation behind taking the fob as she kept checking the passenger side exterior mirror for Kozlowski to return with the food and the rear view mirror for a police car to pull up behind the Toyota.

Her attempt to write down what had happened so far in the notebook proved futile. Her cold and trembling fingers couldn't hold the pen securely enough. After dropping it for the third time, she threw both it and the notebook back into her bag and checked in the mirrors again. Her face felt sticky now that the film of perspiration on it had dried.

As long as it seemed to take to get from Rosalie Timms-Beck's house to Seniore's Pizza, that was nothing compared to waiting for Kozlowski to return with the food. When he did return, he brought a grilled chicken hero with Swiss cheese for her and a single slice of mushroom pizza with Canadian bacon for himself. He also brought back two coffees and two bottles of water. He remained on the sidewalk next to her to eat his pizza.

The hero vanished quickly. "I didn't think I would be able to eat anything." She wiped her face with a wetted napkin.

He took her garbage from her and handed her the fob. "You drive for a while."

"You're crazy. I'm in no condition to drive." She wiped her hot face again.

"It will give you something to focus one instead of always looking behind us." He opened the passenger door.

" _C'est fou_." This is crazy. She slid across to the driver's seat.

Kozlowski threw the trash into a garbage can outside Seniore's before getting in. He held up a phone. "A pre-paid GoPhone; there's a store around the corner. Let's go."

As she started driving along US 1, he called up the vehicle's navigation system and entered Gunther's address in Linda Mar. The map appeared on the screen.

"That should help, but keep your eyes on the road." He then called up Gunther on the GoPhone. "Gunner, Scott, I need some help."

She only heard the loud snort of laughter through the phone.

Kozlowski nodded at whatever Gunther was saying to him. "Yeah, that's it. We have it with us. No, they are sealed and secure. You are in no danger. Okay, okay, you are not in _that_ kind of danger. See what more you can find out. We'll be there in just over twenty minutes."

He said to her, "Where's your other phone?"

"What other phone?"

"Someone like Devries would have insisted you have a second phone just for him to call you on. Where is it?"

"In my bag."

He retrieved her bag from behind the passenger seat, withdrew the phone and tore it apart. "He isn't going to call you anymore." He tossed the parts out the window.

" _Salisseur_." Litterbug.

"Gunner knows some of what's happened. He monitors stuff like that when he's not out riding some righteous waves."

The drive from Seniore's Pizza remained uneventful. She finally stopped checking the rear view mirror so much.

"Anthony told me Weinberg is a scientist and might have hid something inside the box that the big black guy wants."

All he said was, "That fills in some of the blanks."

Near the San Francisco RV Resort, when she glanced in the mirror again, her foot reflexively pressed down on the accelerator.

Kozlowski looked back. "California Highway Patrol."

The black Explorer was closing on them with its lights and siren going.

She pressed the accelerator pedal to the floor. The Venza reached eighty, then ninety.

Kozlowski put his hand on her shoulder. "Just do what everyone else is doing. Turn on your signal, slow down and pull over." He squeezed gently. "Jacqueline, slow down. It will be fine."

She lifted her foot as she checked both inside and outside mirrors. They were in the right lane, traffic was light. The CHP vehicle had moved into the left lane. A few other cars hadn't moved out of the way yet.

"They'll know I was trying to get away." She pulled over to the shoulder of the road and stopped.

"They know some people panic when they see police vehicles coming up behind them, fire trucks and ambulances, too. Some people get the crazy notion to speed and try to stay ahead of us."

The CHP Explorer sped past them, accelerating now that she and the other vehicles had finally got out of the way.

She wiped her mouth. "I feel like a. . . ."

Kozlowski had drawn his revolver. "I could have been wrong."

"You would have been wrong if you'd shot them. We should turn ourselves."

"We will, but not until we have a better idea what all this is about. Wait here for a few minutes."

No other CHP or emergency vehicles raced past while they waited. The other vehicles that had pulled over returned to the road and continued on their way. She didn't start driving again until Kozlowski put his gun away and nodded for her to do so.

Ten minutes later, the female voice of the Venza's navigation system advised them to prepare to turn left. The voice reminded her of the haunting one on Algernon's answering machine. It had hidden from her the danger he was in when she'd called.

She turned off the Pacific Coast Highway onto Fassler Avenue.

"Turn right at Cresspi Drive," Kozlowski said.

The navigation system advised her to turn right at Cresspi Drive.

Kozlowski turned it off. "Turn left at Lerrida Way."

She drove uphill along a meandering road through a neighborhood of low-density housing scattered about large expanses of green space.

"Left here and go to the very end."

She drove along Redwood Avenue to the three new homes at the end of it. Two were still being built.

"Gunner lives in that rancher. It has a nice view out back."

Gunner was standing at the open door when they reached it.

Kozlowski said, "This is Jacqueline Duquesne."

"Welcome to Linda Mar." He shook her hand with one about twice as big as hers.

"Gunther is not your original name."

He chuckled. "I'm supposed to tell everyone my father was a German diplomat to Lebanon."

Herman (Gunner) Gunther was tall, athletic and dark, of Arabic heritage with a black goatee, short black hair, big, intense brown eyes and handsome enough to make this terrifying ordeal almost worth it to meet him.

He took them into his living room at the back of his rancher. "Great view, isn't it? That's Terra Nova Boulevard down there and our local high school. I tried getting a place up on the other side of the valley, but it was a no-go. It is very exclusive over there and those homes rarely come on the market."

"What have you got so far?"

He pointed to what she was carrying. "That must be the box that has put you two into this really big pile of you-know-what up to here." He raised his huge hand to his chin. "To hear them tell it, you two are some pretty heavy-duty evil. I'm waiting for a bit more of the ugly details to come in. I have a couple of allies helping sort it all out."

"We haven't done any of that."

"I know. It's you, remember? The straightest of all the law-enforcement arrows SFPD has in its arsenal. I would say shooting your captain was a bit of slip for you, though."

"It's a long story. We _are_ in very, very deep you-know-what."

"And for the record, I would rather you hadn't pulled me down into it. I like living."

# Chapter 37

General Junot and the Hussar lieutenant Hippolyte Charles introduced themselves upon his arrival in Milan. They escorted him up the spiral staircase to Josephine Bonaparte's apartment in the Palazzo Serbelloni. They did not ask about his mission. They did not question him about arriving alone. They did not ask what was in the satchel he brought to the apartment with him.

Junot merely offered, "General Bonaparte will arrive soon."

The two men left him at the door to Josephine's suite after Junot knocked once.

A maid opened the door to let him enter. She closed it on her way out.

"Dr. Koertig," Josephine said from beside the ornate fireplace. "My husband left a note for me that you might return before he did. I am to offer you all due hospitality until he arrives."

She fit the descriptions he'd pieced together from several sources. She wasn't beautiful. Slender, shorter and far less physically present than his Grace, she still had a pleasing figure, fine, chestnut-brown hair, smooth, pale skin, dark, inviting eyes, and a melodious, deferential and welcoming voice.

He took her offered hand.

"My dear husband has left both of us waiting for him."

"My wait, madam, is not as long or as fraught as yours." He let go of her hand.

Josephine would easily capture a man like the little bug. Every nuance of her behavior was appealing. Napoleon would surely view a union with her as another triumph and his due.

"I'm afraid, Dr. Koertig, that I must be prepared for such absences. While I care not for military campaigns or political intrigues, I must accept such things are a part of my husband's life and now mine as well."

"I trust you are in good health."

"The journey was agreeable, except for some foolishness by my companion, Louise. I don't believe it was entirely her fault, but there has to be consequences for such behavior."

"Entertaining and enjoyable companions make the journey a pleasurable experience. I have no doubt both General Junot and Lieutenant Charles were agreeable company for you on the way here."

Josephine moved gracefully to a window and looked out at the garden below. "Even an amicable fellow traveller, as comforting as their company may be, particularly during long evenings that would otherwise be spent alone, can still become an annoying little monkey at times."

"Have you been harassed in any way, madam?"

"They have treated me as royalty since my arrival. It is an invigorating change from the unfriendly atmosphere my husband's family have provided me."

Three white marble statues of naked women were placed about the room. Two of them stood near the end of the bed.

"What is in your satchel, Dr. Koertig?"

"Something for the General."

"May I see it?"

"That would go against his orders to me, madam. I am surprised he informed you of me."

"He simply left a note that a Dr. Koertig and a squad of his men would be returning from the Carpathian Mountains and might arrive back before he did. What happened to the men with you?"

"I think it would be better if I reported to the General first. As you told me, military campaigns hold little interest for you."

"It is my disinterest in matters of politics and military campaigns that makes me a most trusted confidant to my husband. You can tell me, I assure you."

He took out the jewelry box. "General Bonaparte will be very upset to learn I returned without his valuable men. He will be more upset, I am sure, if he learns I showed you this box before he set eyes on it. I am at your mercy in this matter."

"You will find me a considerate and merciful friend, Dr. Koertig. I can be discrete as much as I believe I can trust you to be the same."

He placed the box on a table between the two statutes at the end of the bed and opened the lid.

"My love sent you to fetch this? It hardly seems worth the effort, let alone the lives of the men who were with you."

"It once held a warrior's heart. His intention is to present this to you as a gift."

"Why would he think this repulsive thing is a suitable gift for me? I have two jewelry boxes. Both of them are larger and more beautiful than that one. There is not a single jewel on its exterior to relieve its bleak color and rough construction."

"This is more than just a jewelry box, madam. It is a puzzle that enlightens those who are able to solve its mystery."

"And have you solved its mystery, Doctor?"

"I believe I have."

Her dark, hospitable eyes widened, her voice became a murmur. "Show me."

He closed the lid and reached into his pocket for what he needed.

A commotion started outside Josephine's suite, followed by Napoleon's booming voice. "Enough," he hollered to his retinue. "I am here to see my darling wife. Leave me."

Vlad Drăculea's jewelry box was back inside the satchel at his feet by the time the General, filthy from his speedy return to Milan, had opened the door himself. Josephine had returned to the fireplace to put distance between herself and her guest for everyone's sake.

"What is this? I find the two people of greatest interest to me together in my wife's chambers." He smiled warmly to Josephine. "Dr. Koertig, I'm sure you will understand, however, that my dear wife is of significantly greater interest to me than you."

"If you will excuse me, madam, General, I will take my leave."

"Stay, Doctor, I have something to tell you that Josephine should also hear."

Koertig brought the satchel over to him.

Napoleon did not acknowledge the delivery of it. "I had you investigated, Dr. Koertig. I could not find your beloved wife, Grace."

"My wife died three months ago while I was in the service of General Bianchi."

"Why did you not tell me this?"

"I did not believe such information was any of your business. You only needed to know how important what of mine you have is."

"And what do you think now?"

"My answer is irrelevant, General Bonaparte. You have made the details of my life your business."

"That I have, Doctor, and I must say that what information my agents have gathered about you is both fascinating and disturbing. Do you remember a girl named Melina Cassetti? She was the daughter of one of Bianchi's colonels, was she not?"

"She was."

"I've been told she was very lonely after you left Mantua, no longer the cheerful and engaging young woman she was before she met you."

Josephine came to her husband and kissed him. "Please stop this display of humiliation, my love. It only makes fools of us all. You and I have many pleasurable moments ahead of us this evening."

"My dear Josephine, I would not concern myself with such affairs had there not been such a tragic end to this one. She hanged herself. That, at least, was the conclusion of the inquest, was it not, Doctor."

Josephine said, "I have waited three days for your return. This sad matter is best left for discussion between you two men in your suite, darling. Come, let us relieve Dr. Koertig of his responsibility to you and make the most of the time we have together."

She embraced him and kissed him.

Napoleon returned her kiss, held her close and caressed her back, her shoulders, her breasts, all the time keeping his gaze fixed on him. "I have thought of nothing else once I knew you were on your way to me. But Dr. Koertig presents such a puzzle of contrasts to me."

He gently pushed his wife an arms-length away. She obediently returned to stand at the fireplace.

"You are both a revered physician and an acclaimed alchemist, but you are also suspected of conducting unscrupulous and dubious investigations of human physiology and more. You have been accused of conducting indecent experiments on and manipulations of human blood and tissues. Is that a correct summary of your research activities, Doctor?"

"General, you are already aware of my goals in this regard. I have tested hypotheses concerning the causes of blood and brain disorders, as well as the pathology of various other diseases affecting our time. A number of advances in the treatment of these diseases have come from my research."

"Were not the magistrate and your very own medical colleagues about to begin an inquiry of your experiments before you volunteered your services to General Bianchi?"

"And of what use to you is this information, General?"

Napoleon said to Josephine, "Notice, my love, how our esteemed doctor is not intimidated by me or my investigation of him. As for you, Dr. Koertig, this information is of no importance to me as long as you serve me faithfully."

"Have I not done that? I have returned with the object you sent me to retrieve."

He hollered back, "But without my men, Dr. Koertig. Would you not question a curious result as that? I send my three best Hussars and my two best lieutenants with you, yet you, who dispatched thirty-nine of my own men in battle, return with the object and only yourself." Spittle bubbled on his lips.

Josephine moved to the window, her head bowed, and looked out at the garden. She said barely loud enough to be heard, "What is this object you speak of that is so important to you?"

"Forgive my outburst. _You_ are important to me. The object is a token of my love for you; that is what makes it so important." Napoleon withdrew the box from the satchel. "This is Vlad Drăculea's jewelry box."

"I do not know who that is, but the box is lovely. Thank you." She took possession of it and placed it on her dressing table next to another one, bejewelled and twice as big. "Can we not be done with this matter for now? Surely Dr. Koertig can provide you with his report in the morning or make it to one of your generals. I have travelled far to see you, and I have ached with loneliness for a considerable time, but now we are finally together again."

Napoleon just stood where he was staring at her. His face flushed, his mouth opened and closed but no words came out. His right hand came up and folded into a trembling fist.

"Darling, what is it?"

Koertig stopped her from going to her husband. "It is a fit, dear lady. I will look after him. He will be fine in a short while. I will return him to you then."

He took hold of Bonaparte's stiff left arm. Taking him to the door and out of the suite was as difficult as trying to get a tin soldier to move its legs.

A servant pointed out Napoleon's suite and helped him get the bubbling general seated on a sofa.

"Say nothing of this to anyone," Koertig ordered. "General Bonaparte was temporarily overcome with seeing his new bride after such a prolonged separation."

The man smiled, nodded and left the suite.

"Every last detail, Doctor," Napoleon said and looked up at him from the sofa. "Where am I? What happened?"

Koertig brought him a glass of brandy. "A small fit, General. You are fine now. Take a drink of this."

"She glowed, Doctor. A radiant blue outline of her form pierced my eyes. And roses, I smelled roses in her hair. How is that possible?"

"Do you have these fits often?"

"This is only the second one that I remember, but, you know, David, I don't really remember it. You are the one making and keeping it known to me." He drank all of the brandy. "How is Josephine?"

"She is concerned, but I promised I would take care of you. You will soon be back in her arms."

Napoleon waited for him to pour another drink and return with it before he asked, "What happened to my men?"

"Poison, General, there was little I could do but provide what comfort I could until Renaud and two of your valiant Hussars succumbed to it. Baptiste and Gaston were killed in the attack on the monastery."

He recited his practiced tale of unexpectedly violent resistance from more monks than anticipated. For flourish, he added, "Lieutenant Renaud knocked me out of the way of a poison arrow. Unfortunately, it struck him in the leg."

"I am in great pain, Dr. Koertig. Upon my arrival I learn my wife has brought her Hussar clown with her. Then I find you alone with her in our boudoir and now this tale of yours detailing the horrible deaths of my men. My head, my heart and my stomach torment me." Napoleon grimaced and touched his finger to his temple. "I have depleted the supply of drafts you left for me."

"I will make more shortly, General, but we have a contract to complete first."

"You did return with the jewelry box as negotiated, Doctor, but with none of my men. I have only your word they died the way you say, and if all the monks are dead and the monastery has been completely destroyed by fire, it will remain all I have. You have lied to me from the moment you were brought to me. I might suspect you of having your own interests in the box and only returned with it because of the hold I have over you. And there was more to our contract than just this quest. I have more to ask of you and that starts with more of that miraculous concoction you make. The locket and the key are safe, Dr. Koertig, and they will remain safe for now. Please do hurry; the pain is becoming unbearable."

Bonaparte dismissed him with a wave and slid down onto the sofa.

Once he had mixed up another batch of the draft, had administered it to Napoleon and had him tucked under blankets in his suite, he said, "You will sleep for a few hours. You will be fine when you wake up, but you must take as much rest as you can these next few days."

Napoleon took a firm hold of his arm. The exertion made him grunt. His eyes rolled up until only white was showing. His pale face became equally white. "Please tell my darling Josephine I will be with her as soon as I have caught up on my sleep. Tell her I was merely faint from too little food in my haste to return to her."

"I will convey your message and reassure her, General. Get some rest for now."

He returned to Josephine's room.

She was seated on a chair near her bed. She was still alone. "How is my husband?"

"It is a simple case of exhaustion and too little food caused by his determination to get back to you as quickly as possible. He is resting and will return to you renewed and invigorated soon enough."

"I have a deep, enduring love for Napoleon, Dr. Koertig. I have utter confidence in his love for me." She rose from the chair and resettled on the edge of her bed. "But Napoleon is Napoleon. I knew who he was and what ambitions he had when I agreed to marry him. That agreement does not limit the enjoyments I take in my life in any way, nor does it limit him. I made that clear from the very start of our relationship."

She looked toward the window and patted the bed beside her.

Koertig remained where he was. "There is an understanding between you two, then."

"I would not go so far as to call it an understanding so much as recognition of the frequent separation of love and life that must be the nature of our marriage. My husband's career will take him away from me and keep him away from me for great lengths of time. I will not wither away and suffer those times alone without the joy and pleasure of good company to comfort me. He does know that."

"And tonight, he chose to take a draft and retire rather than come to you."

She looked into his eyes. "You know that is not really true, David. The end result, however, is still the same. My husband was not as happy to see me as I had hope, as I'm sure he had hoped. But, as I told you, I will not waste the time I have waiting for his mood to change and his vigor to return. He knows where I am." She again patted for him to sit down beside her. "Come, keep me company. Tell me about your adventure retrieving that ugly box. It is unexceptional, but the dragon that sits atop it is exquisite."

"It is the key to the appeal of this otherwise unadorned repository, madam."

Napoleon would relish such a grandiose description of a wooden container as simple as the blessed chalice.

Josephine merely patted the bed again. "Have you ever seen the like before?"

"I have, madam. In my dedication to learn all I can of medicine and alchemy, I spent a number of years in the Orient. They revere dragons there because they are believed to bring good luck. I found carvings of stone and wood as well as paintings of them everywhere I went."

"I am sure some of those pieces hide mysteries of their own as the one you have retrieved for my husband is fabled to. Tell me about the mystery of this box's puzzle. Tell me about your wife. Tell me about the tragedy of Melina Cassetti."

He came to her at the bed but remained standing. "Was there any mention in his note of a locket or a key?"

"He only wrote about you."

"Has he mentioned the locket or the key in any of his letters?"

She smiled. "He has other considerations in his thoughts when he writes his letters to me."

"This locket is very important to me."

"If you keep me company and away from loneliness, I will do all I can to help you retrieve it, and the key as well." She patted the bed again.

He sat down next to her. "Grace was dark of hair, skin and eyes, and beautiful. She was powerful, gentle, accepting, loving and considerate of every living thing. She always paid her respects and prayed for the animals we consumed. She thanked them for their gift of life. And being a creature of nature herself, she was capable of great passion, including great ferocity when threatened."

"Did you ever threaten her?"

"Only once, to my everlasting regret." He lifted his blouse and showed her a scar that started near his breast bone and circled around his left side to end at his spine.

Josephine traced the full length of the scar with her fingers. She did not take her hand away when she was finished. "A knife?"

"Her bare hands, or, I should say, her claws. She was, as I described, a child of nature."

"I am afraid I would not be as fierce as that, though I am not without knowledge, experience and skill."

"There are many forms of passion, good lady. All of them can be equally pleasurable."

"The excitement of the new and different holds much appeal some evenings." She traced the scar back to his chest and pressed her hand against his breast bone. "You have a strong heart. How long did you say my husband will be resting?"

"He will not wake for at least three hours, Empress."

She laughed and caressed his chest. "But I am not an empress, David."

He kissed her. "You will be, my fragile Rose. Unfortunately, the price you must pay will prove to be too high."

# Chapter 38

Frank checked Timms-Beck again but found no wound on her that would have provided the blood Weinberg used to write the message: _Has the seepage finally subsided_? _Do people still stare or look away_? _Does it still itch all the time_?

He scratched his arm and followed the bloody arrow drawn on the table beside the taunt to the iPad resting next to a full cup of still hot tea. A moment after he picked up the IPad and pushed the button, Weinberg's face appeared on the screen.

"Hello, Frank. Did you find anything at the Devries house? If not, a second visit might help your wounds to heal."

Weinberg glanced down on the screen as if looking at Timms-Beck. "All is not lost, Frank. Find me and you find the answers, as I'm sure Tubby has told you. But consider this, Frank. Why isn't Tubby helping you? He can, you know. I understand the relationship between you two is mostly one of need-to-know instructions, but, Frank, your rabbi is holding out on you. Isn't it amazing how complicity and duplicity so often go hand in hand in your trade craft? Enjoy the tea." He chuckled. "It can clear out some of those toxins inside you. I brewed it myself."

The screen went blank for a second before his feet appeared on it from the camera aimed at the floor.

He dropped the iPad and stomped on it. Weinberg would have left nothing else on it that would be of use to him. He then picked up the pieces of it as well as the pieces of the two cell phones and returned to his truck with them.

Chase called him back five minutes later. "We traced Timms-Beck's phone GPS going east before the signal stopped. Captain Calhoun is at San Francisco General. It's a minor wound. Find out what happened. What was Weinberg's message?"

"He told me you know what happened to Maggie."

"He would, wouldn't he? He'll say anything to create doubt and confusion. He knows you're closing in on him. He only wants to distract you."

"What happened to Maggie?"

"I've told you all I know, and what I know is Weinberg knows exactly what happened to her. He's the one who muscled his way into her research. He's the one who made her disappear. Everything he says to the contrary is a lie. Get to Calhoun as fast as you can. He will be discharged soon. I want you to talk to him before he goes back to work."

His phone rang when he was one block from the hospital. He ignored the call.

A policeman in uniform stood guard at the door to Calhoun's hospital room.

Holding up his FBI badge as he approached, Frank asked, "How is he?"

The cop, middle-aged, overweight and tired, scrutinized the badge and said, "Just a scratch on the hip. What are you doing here?"

"Have you seen the mess in Forest Hill?"

"I've only heard some rumors." He leaned forward.

"Trust me, they are nothing compared to the real thing. When you're done here, you should take a drive-by for yourself. I need to ask Calhoun about Inspector Kozlowski and the Duquesne woman."

The cop shook his head. "Now that's unbelievable. I know all three of our people involved at Hawk Hill and there is no way it went down the way it's being told. It just couldn't go like that."

"How is it being told?"

"You should talk to the captain, but Kozlowski and Bridges couldn't have gone bad. That just isn't possible. Calhoun can be a real hard ass, but he is one of our best, too. If what they're saying is true, the whole goddamn world has just turned upside down."

"Nothing I've heard today makes any sense either."

"If you guys find out who is behind this shit, let us know. We need to make them pay for turning three good cops against each other."

Before Frank could ask again to see Calhoun, the cop opened the door for him.

"FBI, Captain," the guard said as Frank entered the room and then closed the door.

"How are you feeling?"

"I've done more damage to myself slicing carrots." He pointed to his left hip. "Just a cut, six stitches, it was a piece of rock that broke off when the bullet struck it. I'm just waiting for the doctor to return and officially release me."

"But Kozlowski did shoot at you?"

"Twice, maybe three times, and he missed every time. He had me straight in his sights. I wasn't moving. Scott isn't the best shot in my squad but he shouldn't have missed me. I didn't catch your name."

He held up his badge. "Special Agent, Adam Triplett. You know about the ghost ship. Did you hear about the plane crash, too?"

"I heard."

"So you know they both had the same cargo."

"Do you know what's going on here?"

"I was hoping any information you have about Kozlowski and Duquesne might help tie some things together for me."

Calhoun snorted. "Have you ever worked with anyone from DHS?"

"I've overlapped with a few."

"Ever worked with a guy named Chase?"

"I once worked with someone under his command. He's in Washington, right?"

"Do you think he can be trusted?"

"The man I worked with could be."

"He called me this morning right after Scott left to respond to the Bourque call. He gave me a song and dance about how Duquesne, Devries and Bourque were all possible sleeper agents for a domestic terrorist organization. You know the one?"

"I know it."

"Is any of that true?"

"It's at the strong suspicion stage for Devries and Bourque."

"He also tells me both Scott and Denise have personal problems that got them trapped into working with Duquesne and those other two. He tells me to set up a meeting and says he'll send reinforcements." He punched the bed and spit out a tirade of curses. "Two of my best are supposed to be working for people trying to launch attacks on our city. He just kept sending me more evidence. I couldn't believe what I saw. _Jesus_ , I killed one of my best officers and a good friend. And it's all because of some stupid wooden box. Duquesne told me it has different vials in it than what they found in the ship or plane. Is that so?"

"That is our concern. Do you know where Kozlowski might have gone? Our last report had him heading south."

"They were good cops."

"They still are. Kozlowski and Duquesne do not know what is happening around that box any more than you and I do."

"You're telling me Denise is dead because I've been played by DHS."

"Everyone is being played. It's just impossible to know who is pulling the strings and why. I'm sorry about Inspector Bridges."

"Give me your number. I'll talk to my squad and call you if I get anything."

He handed over a card. "Call the second number." He then gave Calhoun another card. "She's in charge of our Proteus Group Task Force. Tell her your story. She might be able to answer some of your questions."

Firefighters were cleaning up at the Devries house and preparing to leave when he parked his truck. The police tape perimeter had contracted to surround just the house and yard. Another cordon of tape had been put around the escape shaft.

Though the fire had been extinguished, a thick cloud of smoke persisted when he descended the ladder into the charred and wet ruins. His search for whatever Weinberg had sent him after ended when he reached heavy concrete rubble blocking access to a closed submarine door.

He returned to the surface and started to slide the cover back into place. He spotted another iPad under a bush after the cover had moved six inches.

This iPad did not instantly come on when he picked it up. The button broke loose and vanished into the gutted iPad case when he pressed it.

"Fucker." He tossed the empty case down into the shaft. It broke open to reveal a folded piece of paper inside. "Fuck!" He climbed down to get Weinberg's next message.

Four thick, black, capital letters were written on the paper: _BLNT_.

His cell phone rang. This time he didn't ignore the call.

"Special Agent Triplett," Nyla Rowe said. "Good of you to answer this time. Your boss has expressed to me his concern that you are losing your focus on this assignment."

"What assignment? I'm on vacation." He climbed up and out of the shaft.

"Frank, Tim has all but thrown you under the bus. My own unit is on its way. You can cooperate or you can be apprehended. It's your call. He won't be able to get you out of this even if he wants to. He will be too busy protecting himself."

He said nothing.

"Frank? What will it be?"

He dropped his phone into the hole, replaced the cover and returned to his truck.

# Chapter 39

Getting into a set of hospital garments, gathering the supplies he needed and finding Captain Calhoun's room was easy because he knew his way around this hospital. Once he looked like a doctor, he proceeded through the SFGH emergency room because it would be busy and chaotic at all times. It had the only Level One Trauma Unit in San Francisco. He patted the left pocket of his smock as he exited the unit into a For Employees Only hallway. An ascent of three floors worth of stairs brought him to the ward where Calhoun was waiting to be discharged. The cop standing guard identified the room he wanted.

The guard was tired and bored. "Where's Dr. Laird?"

"A boy just came in with a very colorful hook in his ear. Dad was trying to teach him fly fishing." He pointed to the door. "I was told this is just a routine check. In a few minutes you will have your captain back and you will be able to finally get off your feet."

The guard pointed to his hand. "Did you get careless with a scalpel, doc?"

He held up the bandaged edge of his left hand. "You wouldn't believe how many times we get bitten."

The guard smirked, opened the door and stepped aside.

Calhoun was dressed and standing at the window looking out at the clearing sky.

Calhoun asked, "Where's Dr. Laird?"

"Emergency delivery, twins, and apparently they're coming into the world trying to strangle each other."

"Can I go?"

"I just need to do a quick check." He took the stethoscope from around his neck. "Do you mind?" He walked over to the bed.

Calhoun came to him, sat down and rolled up his sleeve.

He checked Calhoun's heart rate and blood pressure. "Both are a little high, but that's understandable and nothing to be alarmed about. How's your hip?"

Before Calhoun could answer, he pressed his hand against the captain's wounded hip.

Calhoun flinched. "Jesus, that's the first time it's hurt that much since I came in here."

"Perhaps you're not quite ready to leave just yet."

"I'm fine." Calhoun tried to get off the bed but fell back onto it.

Weinberg helped him sit up. "Perhaps it was this." He revealed a needle protruding from between the middle and index fingers of his hand.

"Who are you? What is going on?"

"Just cleaning up some of Tubby's loose ends."

In his other hand he held up a vial of green liquid. "You know what this is, don't you? It's what all the fuss today is about."

He laid Calhoun back onto the bed when he began to rock forward. The captain's mouth moved but he could only groan when he tried to speak.

After placing Calhoun's arms straight at his sides, he said, "This is what made you kill one of your best officers. But this by itself is not all there is to the nonsense taking place in this wonderful city." He patted Calhoun's chest. "You should never have believed anything Tubby Chase told you. He didn't even bother to give you my name, did he?"

Calhoun blinked rapidly as if trying to communicate using some code now that he could no longer speak, another symptom of the work the toxin was doing inside him. His arms and legs began to twitch.

"That is why I had to position your limbs so carefully. You could dislocate a joint or break a bone if you thrash about too much. And I want your complete attention for what I am going to tell you."

He went over to the window and looked down at one of the hospital's parking lots to let Calhoun's twitching and thrashing settle down. He kept track of the time it took for Calhoun to become completely still. Thirty-six seconds was well over three times longer than a fresh batch of the cocktail would take. The concoction definitely lost potency quickly after the first twenty-four hours.

The bedding was twisted and folded when he returned to Calhoun. He smoothed it out and sat next to the paralyzed man.

" _Chironex_ _fleckeri_ is better known as the Box Jellyfish. Each animal contains enough venom to kill between sixty and one hundred people. Can you imagine sending them into battle as part of your army? I sure have."

He placed his hand on Calhoun's chest. His breathing was becoming shallower. He checked his faint heartbeat using the stethoscope. There wasn't much time left. The first part of the cocktail may lose some potency within a day, but the second phase was still as efficacious as when first made.

"I'll be brief, then. One of the toxic proteins in the venom has the sexy name CfTX-A. Its structure is homologous to the _Cry_ toxins produced by _Bacillus_ _thuringensis_. Sorry, I forgot to bring a picture of them with me, but if you saw them you would almost think they were twins. They both are pore-forming, likely using a similar mechanism because of their structure. The slight differences in their structures, however, hint at variability in target sites. In other words, it is evolution, my dear captain, adapting, carving out a niche—exploiting it, if you will—and thriving there. In this case, though, you could call it engineered evolution, or, if you prefer, my intelligent design guiding engineered evolution. And they prove once again that there truly is more than one way to skin a. . . ."

Calhoun had stopped blinking. His eyes were wide open, fixed and dilated.

"My little child is on its way to becoming something far more powerful. What is inside you now poking holes into your cell membranes, binding your actin into long, sticky chains, blocking the transmission of signals throughout your nervous system and eventually breaking you apart into gooey little pieces of a human jigsaw puzzle, is just a consequence of an intermediate stage of that becoming. It didn't come as a complete surprise to me, but I was still amazed at what I had achieved."

Another check confirmed there was little point to continuing the lecture. He pinched the plasticized skin and then wiped the waxy film off his fingers using the bedspread.

He knocked on Calhoun's forehead. "I will just leave you with this little thought, Captain. First you must get into the party before you can become the star of the show. I have created the most remarkable nano-sized door crasher the world will ever see."

He spotted two business cards resting on the table beside the bed. He laughed when he saw what was on each. "Tubby won't be happy about this little betrayal." He took them with him.

The cop was dutifully standing guard when he exited the room. "Are we done?"

"You can join him shortly." He checked the policeman's tunic.

"William Sutherland."

"I offer my condolences to you, Bill, and to your colleagues for the number of brave officers who have been wounded or killed in the line of duty today." He put his hand on the guard's shoulder and squeezed. "I only wish I could offer you more comfort."

Sutherland cried out. This man was one of the very susceptible ones. He slumped back against the door and began foaming at the mouth. His face quickly flushed purple. He grabbed for his throat as the acrid foam filling his trachea cut off the air to his lungs. Lesions formed on his swelling neck and split open to spew out steaming red and white puss. He collapsed to the floor.

Nurses and doctors came running to the policeman as Weinberg walked slowly away.

"Good," he said as he removed his medical garments and tossed both them and the two syringes he'd used into a medical waste bin on his way out, " _that_ works, too. Ready or not, here I come."

# Chapter 40

The minutia of everyday life that had taken on a disconcerting absurdity the moment they boarded the number 6 bus and had then _taken tea_ with Rosalie was still coming along for the ride. Like actually being able to eat when they stopped at Seniore's Pizza, now that they had arrived at Gunner's place, another absurd need in life could not be ignored.

She set the box onto the living room coffee table next to a number of surfing trophies. "Where is your washroom?"

"Go back to the front door and then along the hall on the other side of the stairs. It's the last door.

"Wait for me."

While she used the washroom, Inspector Kozlowski returned to the Venza and parked it a couple of houses away.

Her hands were still wet when they all gathered back in the living room because she had rushed when using the towel. Her eyes stung when she looked out at the bright valley now that the last of the clouds were breaking up.

"Mostly," Gunner said, "the digital chatter has been about the murder of Luther Bourque and Algernon Devries, the explosion at the Devries mansion, the two other bodies found in the cavern beneath the house and you shooting your captain."

"We've been in that cavern," Kozlowski said. "You wouldn't believe what was down there. What else have you got?"

"I'm not comfortable about this."

" _Qui pourrait éventuellement être à l'aise à ce sujet_?" Who could possibly be comfortable about this?

"Hey, French. Nice." Gunner gave her a shining smile that was a bit too reminiscent of Algernon's smile as he led them to an alcove section at one end of the living room where his computer gear was set up. "Are you sure?"

Kozlowski said, "We do not have any choice."

Gunner sat down at his workstation. "We're talking about a high-risk operation with little chance of reward. That equation doesn't work for me."

"See what you can find anyway."

"You're a good cop and all that, Scott, but you are asking me to make some very big and nasty enemies. If Alcatraz was still open, I might be able to catch a few waves during my daily one hour. Given my Persian ethnicity, however, and the fact that you are asking me to eavesdrop on what is probably a credible threat of a bioterrorism attack, they'll send me to where I will never see daylight again, let alone any righteous waves."

"Just do it."

"I was going surfing today before you called."

She said, "I was just supposed to deliver that box to my boss, then go home and get on with the rest of my life."

"They are going to detect my intrusion and trace it back to me. There are a few tricks I can do to deflect them for a while. I can spoof them into thinking North Korea or China is up to something again, but they will see through that diversion quickly enough."

"Try SFPD first. They aren't likely to know all of the details of what is happening, but they will have been told the crucial information because they will have to be brought in on any citywide operation."

She said, "Did you notice you were saying _they_ and not _we_?"

"If they detect you, I can tell them it was under my instruction and supervision."

"You are still assuming you two will be cleared. You know what happens when you assume?" Gunner did that magic people like him did to gain access to SFPD digital traffic.

Her computer skills were just another laughable absurdity of her former life. She had discarded two previous laptops when she'd lost track of the ridiculously long and frequently changing passwords that Algernon had required her to use.

Algernon could have given Gunner a good game at what he was doing now. He might have been able to show him a few new tricks.

Gunner said, "You told me you just wounded your captain."

"I hit him in the leg."

"He's dead."

That emotional composure Kozlowski had exhibited at Rosalie's house and during their drive to Gunner's place dissolved into dismay. "It didn't look like a fatal wound."

Jacqueline touched his hand. "It wasn't. . . ."

"I don't think you will get any comfort from this, Scott, but he didn't die from your gunshot. He was turned into a mannequin. And the officer with him, William Sutherland, dissolved into a steaming mess of red and white goo outside his room."

"Weinberg," she said and retrieved the jewelry box from the coffee table.

"You two know about the ghost ship and the plane crash, I suppose."

"Some of it."

"They had mannequins, too. Your people have just received a detailed update from the FBI of everything that's happened since the Coast Guard brought in the ship. A high alert has been issued for an impending bioterrorism attack in or near San Francisco. See? I told you. The NTSB team sent to investigate the crash was attacked by a phoney FBI team. One of the team survived but the attackers took the cargo: cigarette-sized plastic boxes containing three vials each of a green liquid. All law enforcement and national security agencies have been alerted to be on the lookout for anyone with these boxes or acting suspiciously. The San Francisco FBI Field Office is in charge of the operation."

She set the jewelry box on top of one of Gunner's six color laser printers. She opened the drawer. "We don't have any vials of green liquid."

Gunner wheeled himself away in his chair. "What the hell is that?"

"It's what at least two parties are after. One of them is not the government."

"None of them are green," she said to Gunner, fully aware of how little reassurance she was providing.

"Fantastic," he said. "Instead of turning into a mannequin, I will just dissolve."

"We have to get this to the FBI," she said. "It doesn't matters what happens to us. Everyone in San Francisco could be in danger."

Kozlowski nodded. "I agree."

Her heart returned to its normal rate for about six seconds.

"Uh-oh," Gunner said. "I told you this was going to happen. We've been pinged."

"What does that mean?"

"One of my pathfinder programs shakes hands with whatever comes its way in an attempt to find a portal I can use. I can disguise my probe a bit, but that destination, in this case the SFPD, is already working to find me the moment we shake hands."

"We'll just tell them I told you to reach out as a preliminary to turning ourselves in."

"You don't understand. It's not an SFPD program that's caught me. Someone else has a digital plant inside your department." He started keying rapidly and then used his fingers to move into place windows of code that kept popping up on his screen. "Shit. One of them is DHS. Shit! Shit! Shit! And there's someone else, too. Forget that dark jail cell. I'll never survive to get there."

"We have time to get away," Kozlowski said.

"No. They started tracing me as soon as I penetrated. My security just finally detected their disguise. My allies have all scattered. These guys are good."

"The other one could be NSA."

"I wish."

"Look." She closed the drawer, picked up the box and pointed to the panel of frosted glass in the front door.

Three seconds after spotting four shadows running toward the house, the door exploded.

# Chapter 41

Four armed-men charged in through the front doorway.

Gunner raised his hands and pointed to Kozlowski, possibly thinking the men were a police SWAT unit. One of the men shot him twice before he could say anything. The man then raked the computer equipment with bullets. One little fire broke out behind the largest of Gunner's three monitors.

Gunner had been right; they had killed him by coming here.

Kozlowski had his gun out but didn't shoot. He held up his hands as the men surrounded them.

One of the men took his gun and searched him for any other weapons. He found the gun Inspector Bridges had slipped him.

The unit leader took the box from her. "Where are they?"

Kozlowski answered, "Where is what?"

The man who had searched him hit him in the stomach with the butt of his gun.

Kozlowski buckled but didn't go down.

The leader made a quick inspection of the box and then touched his ear. "We have them and the box." He cupped his hand over his ear. "We'll have that too in a minute."

Two of his men turned their weapons on her. One of them took out a huge knife.

"I won't ask again."

Kozlowski said through a groan, "If we tell you, you will just kill us. Take us to your boss. We will tell him."

The leader stopped his man from hitting Kozlowski again.

The man with the huge knife stepped up to her and held the point of it to her throat. The coldness of the blade forced her to gasp a second time.

"You heard what I said to him." The leader opened the lid of the box and displayed the empty interior of it to her.

"I also heard what he said to you."

The point of the knife pressed into her skin. The man holding it grabbed the back of her head to prevent her from ducking away. His breath smelled of bubble gum.

The doorbell rang just as the leader nodded to the man at her throat. A moment after they all looked to see who was at the door, a black sphere the size of a five-pin bowling ball rolled into the living room and began emitting from four holes in it clouds of blue and white smoke.

The man holding the knife to her throat began coughing and let go of her to cover his mouth.

With her eyes stinging and tearing up, she grabbed hold of the first surfing trophy on the coffee table she made contact with and swung it into the back of the man's head.

The leader was till rubbing his tearing eyes when she swung the trophy into his left knee. She then clubbed him over the head as hard as she could once he was down and snatched back the jewelry box.

The living room had rapidly filled with smoke. The blue and white merged to make an even thicker barrier to vision. She couldn't see Scott or the other two men. She started coughing when she tried calling for him.

A spray of bullets zipped past her. One of the men was shooting at the sound of her coughing. She tossed the trophy toward the sound of the gunfire, ducked back and tripped over the fallen leader. The man grunted when a corner of the jewelry box struck him in the temple. Jacqueline climbed back over him, taking a second to strike him again with the box, and crawled toward the front doorway.

More bullets from automatic weapons struck the wall above her, followed by three controlled shots and then the sound of another man grunting and falling over something onto the floor.

Her eyes, nose and throat were full of hot grit. They were drying up as if she were in the middle of a desert at the hottest time of the day. Her life was evaporating away. She had to stop crawling when the need to vomit overwhelmed her.

A hand grabbed her left ankle, another grabbed her calf. Someone was pulling themselves along her legs to get on top of her.

She swung back with the box but missed.

The man forced her flat against the floor as he dragged himself onto her. He pushed her face into the floor and grabbed for the box. After a hard yank failed to get it free of her grasp, he grunted and was gone.

A hand grabbed her arm and lifted her to get her running through the smoke.

Kozlowski coughed beside her.

At the doorway, he ran into the wall and they both spilled out onto the concrete porch. Her left elbow struck hard against the concrete but she held onto the box.

Kozlowski fired three times into the smoke that was billowing out through the door after them. He then lifted her up and pulled her along with him to the sidewalk.

Were the scariest moments of the day just going to keep repeating themselves?

Everything she looked at was a painful, hazy blur made worse by the bright sunshine. Every breath she could manage to take just started another paroxysm of coughing. She had to stop before she fell again. "Wait!"

Kozlowski stopped pulling on her.

She coughed too hard to say anything else. Her chest ached from the spasms of breath her burning lungs kept forcing her to take. The heat inside her radiated outward. Everything outside the house wavered like a mirage about to disappear. She stumbled when she tried to take a step and almost dropped the box.

Kozlowski coughed, too, but his coughs didn't sound as parched and ragged as hers. He wiped vomit off her cheek, kissed her other cheek and took hold of her hand. "The car is just over here, dear."

They walked briskly for the remaining distance to the Toyota. He opened the passenger door for her and brushed some hair away from her face, another absurdity added to the day.

Once he was behind the wheel, she asked, "Where did that come from?"

He coughed. "Gift horse; don't look too hard, _dear_." He started the Venza and slowly drove away.

Neighbors were coming out of their houses to see what had happened. Almost every one of them either had a phone to their ear or out in front of them taking pictures. A number of them took pictures of a white Toyota Venza leaving the scene. Kozlowski's charade as just a couple visiting someone in the neighborhood wasn't going to fool anyone who recognized them.

She checked the clock in the center console. In just over fourteen hours since the call from Algernon, her life had changed from travelling the world in pursuit of his esoteric fancies to trying to stay ahead of two competing groups who wanted the vials in Dracula's jewelry box. And now both sides wanted them dead.

" _Ce cauchemar ne finira jamais_?" Will this nightmare never end?

# Chapter 42

It wasn't quite time yet to gather all the pieces together.

Weinberg returned to his cover in the bushes along the east side of Gunther's house just as Duquesne and Inspector Kozlowski came tumbling out the front doorway together ahead of the swirling blue and white smoke.

Kozlowski fired into the house before helping Duquesne up, taking hold of her hand and walking her back to the Toyota. Neighbors came out to see what was happening.

Walking was a good idea. If they had run, it would have been obvious they were involved with the explosions and gunfire. Too many neighbors took pictures or video with their phones, however. It wasn't possible to delete every one. Duquesne and Kozlowski, their whereabouts and the vehicle they were using would soon become common knowledge to everyone else looking for them.

The Toyota drove away with a number of neighbors still focusing their phones on it. One of Petit's men came to the doorway.

Weinberg stepped further back into the bushes, pulled a second smoke bomb from the backpack he was carrying and threw it at the house.

This one exploded rather than just release smoke. Petit's man shielded his face and stumbled back into the house. The good people of Linda Mar cried out and fled for cover. A remarkably high percentage of them continued recording what was happening as they did.

Petit's men wouldn't like that, but at this stage there was little they could do about it. They were going to be even more upset when they discovered what else he'd done.

Duquesne and Kozlowski had no idea how much they owed him or how much they were helping him thwart one plan to the benefit of another. Soon, he would have to help them one last time. The most dangerous and most rewarding part of the game was about to start.

Tubby was going to be furious at this apostasy, but then Tubby should have left him alone.

He slipped through the tangle of bushes to keep watch on the four men. They snuck away from the house using what cover they could find and headed uphill into the greenspace behind the houses on the west side of Redwood Way.

Unlike the east, downhill side of the street, there was little vegetation the four men could use to conceal themselves. Tracking them was easy even when they slipped into a backyard and came to the front to get to their black Explorer.

He stepped farther back into the shade, ducked behind a tree and watched three of the men start coughing as all of them stared at the Explorer's four flat tires. Tubby had sent three teams against him, each one under Petit's command, and they had all lost.

Sirens preceded the police cars and fire trucks coming up Lerida Way.

The curious neighbors had increased their numbers, had spilled off the sidewalk onto Redwood Way and were again approaching the smoking house as one macro-organism. Half of them had to scatter when the patrol cars and the fire truck sped down the street.

Mimicking a thick swirl of smoke disturbed by a gust of wind, the crowd dispersed and then reformed their tightly packed Brownian motion to surround the police, firefighters and the house. Constant jostling to get their outstretched arms into better positions in order to record the event kept a chaotic energy going through the throng.

Petit's men took the opportunity to flee Linda Mar. Like Duquesne and Kozlowski, they also walked to keep from drawing attention. Two of the men imitated the neighbors by taking out their phones and recording the scene. They had left their untraceable weapons and equipment behind inside the house to avoid giving themselves away.

Convergent serendipity sometimes popped up exactly when one needed it most.

Having spotted Petit's crew milling about outside SFGH with the subtlety of a brick through a window, it had been a simple matter of letting them track the box and follow them. The only surprise was how quickly they'd managed to find Duquesne and Kozlowski. Reagan's little pets could be running hot again or just got lucky because Duquesne's obvious agitation emitted so much energy.

He arrived in Linda Mar behind them just as Kozlowski came out of the Gunther house to move the Venza. After Kozlowski returned to the house, it had been a simple matter of just waiting for Petit's blunt instruments to launch their attack—the only tool of the trade they were capable of using. He had rolled the smoke bomb into the house and then hid in the bushes.

They wouldn't kill Duquesne and Kozlowski unless they absolutely had to because Tubby would want to question them about what they might know about a certain renegade mad scientist he was after.

Weinberg chuckled. "I'm not mad, I'm getting even. And Tim, this really isn't your day."

Petit would reacquire transportation for his team and track down those two again, but he would have the head start.

He checked the iPad for the tracker signal coming from the Venza. The dot superimposed over the road map indicated the Toyota was still in Linda Mar and not moving. The longitude and latitude coordinates in the lower right corner of the screen were fixed.

"I thought I might find you here," Frank Gillett said and pressed the end of his gun into Weinberg's back. "Looking for this?" He held up the tracking device from the Toyota.

Weinberg smiled and nodded.

Frank threw the tracker away.

Two more fire trucks and an ambulance sped along Redwood Way. The blue and white smoke escaping the house was dissipating. A number of the neighbors started coughing.

Gillett prodded him with the gun. "Let's have it."

He dropped the iPad into the backpack and handed it over. "Do I call you Frank or Goblin while you're on mission? Goblin comes with so much more intrigue behind it, don't you think?"

"I've never used it."

"That Tubby, he does love his nicknames, doesn't he? Oh, sorry, I guess it would be more accurate to call it your codename. And it just sounds even more powerful when you combine it with that other inspirational name. But now that I recall, it was really Reagan and Petit who made up your original codename. They had quite the laugh over that. I'm sure it was just jealousy on their part."

Frank prodded him again, harder this time. "Get moving."

They crossed the street and started walking through the sparse woods behind the east side houses on Redwood Way. They soon left the trees behind for scrub and mostly bare ground. The slope ran downhill to their left.

Frank asked, "What are you two up to?"

"I assure you, Frank; we are not working together, quite the opposite, as a matter of fact. Besides, you never cared before."

"Things change."

"Mostly they don't, you know? That peculiar affliction of always failing to learn from past mistakes is pandemic throughout history. Humanity has one big addiction to being stupid and making the same mistakes over and over."

"They have a lot of help doing it. Stop."

They watched the paramedics bring out Herman Gunther—a preposterous legend for the man—and load him into the ambulance.

"And, I might add, they keep putting the same amoral people in charge of security. And even worse than that, they keep working with people like me."

"I can fix that."

"How's your spine, Frank? Are you noticing any stiffness or restriction to your range of motion? Has there been any significant increase or decrease in strength? Your posture is still good."

The gun barrel jabbed into his ribs to get him moving again.

"I do sympathize with those doubts growing in your mind. It must be difficult to keep going knowing only what Tubby wants you to know. But in the end, I am confident you will recognize the right thing to do and do it before it's too late; unless, of course, it is already too late." He stopped and turned to face Gillett. "Here, let me show you what I mean." He raised his open left hand. "See?"

Frank stepped back, aimed the gun at his heart and cocked the hammer.

"It's a weak trick, granted, but sometimes, a weak trick is all you need. Now watch this."

Weinberg dropped his left hand, raised his right and sprayed green mist from an aerosol dispenser into Gillett's face. He then grabbed Gillett's wrist and stabbed him with a small injection device containing another vial of green liquid.

# Chapter 43

Gillett dropped his gun, staggered back and tried to wipe the sticky spray out of his eyes as fast as he could. He growled in pain but he didn't start trembling and twitching or become paralyzed. His skin didn't transform into a waxy, plastic covering.

"I certainly didn't expect that," Weinberg said, "but after what we did to you, I'm not that surprised."

Gillett lowered his hands from his bloodshot, tearing eyes and started looking around for his gun.

"I've always had more respect for you than for Petit or Reagan, Frank, not much more but more."

He kicked Gillett in the chest. Attacking Gillett meant no holding back against someone almost as strong as a gorilla and impervious to levels of pain that would incapacitate every other human being alive. After what he did to him, Frank was supposed to be like that.

Gillett grunted and staggered back a few more steps, his eyes blinking rapidly as he tried to regain focus. As expected, he was too strong to go down with just one kick.

Weinberg stepped into him again, punched him twice in the chest at heart level as hard as he could and shoved him to add to his momentum.

Gillett tripped and tumbled down the slope.

A fight with Gillett could go back and forth all day, each of them eventually inflicting great injuries and pain on the other, but still end in a stalemate.

Nonetheless, this was the great Frank Gillett, Tubby Chase's number one asset, Dr. Hobbs' Goblin that Tubby inflicted not only on enemies of the nation but also frequently on anyone who opposed him. Gillett on this assignment was proof of Chase's desperation and his determination to have it end his way. Petit, even that blond beach boy, Reagan, were little more than janitors, the grunts, the disinfectant applied after the main dirty work was complete. Petit and his packs would be on short leashes. Reagan would be cooped up somewhere nearby with his pets trying to monitor and anticipate the behavior of all the players. Gillett would have carte blanche.

Gillett, not Petit, would have the orders to eliminate him if he could while completing his assignment. Tubby would try to be subtle—something he was lousy at—but he would insist on such a focus and would tolerate no failure.

All the way down the slope, Gillett still managed to hold on to the backpack. Retrieving it was central to the next phase of the plan. And a few more blows to Tubby's top troll would be a satisfying way to end his visit to Linda Mar. He ran down the slope.

Bloodshot eyes weeping milky green tears stared up at him when he reached Gillett. For a moment he wondered if the concoction had only taken a bit longer to be effective.

Then Gillett kicked out at his legs and knocked him to his knees. The backpack was aimed at his head but hit his left shoulder because Gillett's vision hadn't completely cleared. A grab for the pack was unsuccessful because Gillett quickly pulled it back for another swing.

He lunged forward into Gillett's chest, tackled him and struck out as hard as he could at his head. Hitting Frank Gillett's head was the equivalent of punching a solid iron sphere. Shards of pain forced open his tingling fingers and sent waves of numbness along his arm to his shoulder and neck.

Harvey Weinberg cried out and rolled off his opponent.

Gillett regained his feet first but his vision was still impaired. Another tackle before he could judge direction and distance to dodge it knocked him onto his back again.

Weinberg grabbed for the backpack at the same time he struck Gillett in the nose with his elbow. Gillett still wouldn't let go. Another elbow strike stunned him enough to loosen his grip.

A quick yank and the backpack was his again. He rolled away, got to his feet and pulled out a stun gun from it as Gillett scrambled to his feet and charged for him. He swung the backpack more to force Gillett to duck away than as a weapon. He stepped aside when Gillett staggered past and pressed the stun gun into his back.

The contact lasted only about a second, just long enough to cause Gillett a moment of further disorientation. A second application to the back of his neck dropped Gillett to the ground on his stomach.

Weinberg turned him over and applied another jolt to his throat. The standard blue flash of the discharge became a web of small lightning bolts wiggly up from Frank's neck to spread along his face. His cheeks glowed. That was another strange phenomenon that could be attributed to his remarkable new skin.

Even someone as powerful as Gillet, and almost completely impervious to pain, was affected by three stun gun shocks. He grabbed for his throat and gasped for air.

"All that strength from the addition of a small bit of protein to your muscles and bones; a small miracle, wouldn't you say? Tough enough to take us far beyond normal human limits by quite a surprising margin, if I do say so myself, but still supple enough to keep us limber. Unfortunately, it does nothing to protect you from an electric charge. I have been working on that."

He pulled Gillett back when he tried to roll away and sent another charge through him. "You would be amazed to see where Maggie's research with synthetic skin has taken me. You should see my other results. But then, I dare say, you will eventually. You weren't the only one, Frank. I couldn't give you all of them. That would have been too greedy, and I didn't want all my eggs, you know."

He delivered another charge. "I will add this tidbit for your consideration, Frank. The side-effects were entirely as intended. You turned out perfectly. All I had to do after you were ready was turn you over to Tubby. Maggie's goblin was ready for action." Weinberg stepped back. "Rest assured, Jacqueline Duquesne and Inspector Kozlowski still need us both. Just for the next little while, though, it would be best if you and I worked separately."

He touched the stun gun to Gillett's solar plexus and pulled the trigger. "I am not sure you can hear me through that buzzing in your ears, Frank, but you have done exactly what has been expected and required of you, as has Petit and Tubby, and even myself, though I am not sure you can take any comfort in that." He applied one last charge before heading back to his car.

The ambulance had left with Gunther's body. Fire fighters were cleaning up. Some of them were talking amongst themselves about so much smoke but hardly any fire damage to show for it. A lot of shrugging and head shaking went with those conversations. Police were bringing out the weapons and equipment Petit's group had been forced to leave behind.

He chuckled and crossed Redwood Way before pausing to take another look at the scene.

Some neighbors still coughed though the smoke was completely gone. Some neighbors were still recording their You Tube movie masterpiece. Three of the neighbors were in housecoats and pajamas on a warm, sunny Saturday afternoon. Unless any of them were planning a trip into San Francisco in the next few hours, they were all likely safe for today.

One of the cops finally noticed the Explorer with the flat tires. Gillett, still wiping his eyes, emerged from between two houses across the street as the cop started talking to a couple of the neighbors.

He walked past the cop and the two men.

The cop asked the taller one, "Who does that belong to?"

Neither the taller nor the shorter man knew.

The cop started approaching the Explorer.

Gillett spotted him and started crossing the street.

"You can thank me later, Tubby, for making one lie unnecessary." He tossed an incendiary explosive in through the open SUV window as he passed and continued to his car.

Three seconds later, just as the cop reached it, the Explorer exploded into a fireball the firefighters would probably think should have accompanied the smoke from Gunther's house earlier. The cop was blown back. The taller neighbor, the shorter neighbor, the movie-making neighbors, the three in housecoats on a sunny, warm Saturday afternoon, all of them stampeded as was required, impeding Gillett's progress toward him.

The police assisted his escape by ordering everyone back from the fire and rounding up Gillett with the rest of the herd as they corralled all the shocked and terrified Redwood Way residents of Linda Mar.

He didn't try to stifle his laughter as he got into his silver Chrysler 200 and drove away.

# Chapter 44

Despite her determination to remain at the site to continue with the investigation of the crash, her supervisor ordered Anisha Wong back to San Francisco with him. She was to check into SFGH for a full examination.

Special Agent Engel remained at the site to assist and protect Fire and Rescue and the new NTSB team when it arrived. The sheriff and two deputies were on the way from Mariposa to reinforce her.

Richardson said to her, "I will be back as fast as I can."

Once they had lifted off in the helicopter, Wong asked him, "Can I stay with you, please?"

"You heard Dr. Watson's order."

"Except for my ankle, I'm all right. You know that. Please, I know it's not what we're supposed to do, but I need to know what happens about all this. I need to know why my team was. . . ."

"I'll check with my commander when we get back, but I will tell him what Dr. Watson told you to do. That is all I can promise."

"That's all I can ask for."

He didn't ask Wong to repeat her story or if she had remembered any other details of her ordeal. He didn't ask her any of the questions going through his thoughts. A quiet flight back to San Francisco would help them both regain some composure. Wong displayed an impressive strength, resilience and professionalism considering what she'd just been through, and considering that it had brought back memories of how the tragedy of her sister-in-law's death came about, but they would have to convince Skinner she was still capable of that before he would countermand Watson's orders.

If he lost Richardson and Engel, he'd have to know why, too.

Their quiet flight back only lasted twenty minutes before Josh Skinner contacted him.

"We've been advised by SFPD of the murders of Luther Bourque and Algernon Devries."

"Of the Devries Museum and Gallery?"

"Yeah, the same, but they weren't just murders. Bourque's house was attacked by four men while SFPD units were there. Four uniforms were wounded. Inspector Scott Kozlowski and a woman who worked for Devries, Jacqueline Duquesne, escaped the attack." Skinner was breathing hard into the radio. "And the Devries house blew up. They found two bodies inside a bunker below the mansion. It contained most of his collection, which has all been destroyed. But that's not the big news from there."

He waited for Skinner to catch his breath and continue.

Wong asked, "What is the big news?"

"They found Sleeping Beauty."

"Huh?"

"They found a perfectly preserved woman inside her own glass case."

Laskey said, "Say again."

"You heard me right. Algernon Devries had a woman preserved inside a glass case dressed and posed like Sleeping Beauty. She wasn't destroyed in the explosion because the case she is in is strong enough to withstand a nuclear bomb." Skinner was rattled; he always used hyperbole when he was rattled. "She didn't suffer any damage from the fire because she had her own halon-charged fire extinguishing system. They just got her out before the whole bunker caved in. She appears to have been embalmed with, of all things, some kind of honey mixture. The labs are analyzing everything now and trying to identify her."

"Was she young?"

"I haven't seen any pictures of her. The description I got was she had long, straight black hair, was slender and quite pretty, with very smooth skin. They won't have an exact estimate of her age until they perform the autopsy."

Wong had found the details of this bizarre find something she could focus on. She looked to him as if requesting permission to ask more questions.

He nodded for her to continue.

"Were there any obvious signs of injury?"

"Have you read the fairy tale or seen the Disney movie?"

"Yes, I have, both."

"They tell me she looked like that. She was composed, at peace, asleep, her hands were folded over her chest. She wore a dress consistent in fashion with the tale. She had a slight smile on her face. Her skin, as I said, was smooth, not a mark on the parts they could see. She is a perfect rendition of Sleeping Beauty." He coughed and exhaled a short, harsh laugh. "They didn't find any Prince Charming or dwarves, though."

"That was Snow White," he said.

"Huh?"

Wong asked, "What about the other two bodies?"

"Both were men, and they look like burnt roasts. For all we know, they could have been visiting Devries and just got caught up in whatever happened there. Kozlowski and Duquesne, the two who escaped from the Bourque house when it was attacked, were also at the Devries house when it exploded, though Kozlowski had been ordered to return to his station."

He said, "Josh—"

"That's not all I have to tell you. A report just came in related to the Bourque and Devries murders. Inspector Denise Bridges, Kozlowski's partner, was killed in a shootout at Hawk Hill Park between herself, her captain, Jeremiah Calhoun, Kozlowski and Duquesne." He was breathing fast and heavy again.

"Were Kozlowski and Duquesne involved in the murders?"

"Kozlowski couldn't have been involved in the Bourque murder because he responded to the call. After the explosion at the Devries mansion, he alerted Fire and Rescue of Devries being in the house. He didn't tell them about the two men, so he might not have been aware of them."

"How did he and Duquesne escape the explosion?"

"They found an escape tunnel."

"This is getting more fantastic by the second."

"There is an unverified story of Kozlowski and Bridges going bad and working with Duquesne, Bourque and Devries to secretly bring something into San Francisco. No one knows what that is."

"One by sea, one by air, one by land."

"What was that?"

"Are they involved with the cargo ship or the plane that crashed?"

"What would make you ask that?"

Wong looked at him for answers, too.

"It's just something Dr. Thorpe and I discussed. If cargo was being delivered by sea and air, was there also a shipment on the way by land?"

Wong's eyes widened.

Special Agent-in-Charge Josh Skinner said, "Fuck!"

"What's happening now?"

"Calhoun is in San Francisco General with minor wounds. I want you to go compare notes with him when you get back. Inspector Trent Baylor from Calhoun's unit has called for you a number of times. There's a BOLO out on Kozlowski and Duquesne. What's your ETA?"

"We'll be there within the hour. Where is Dr. Thorpe?"

"She's been notified. She will be here by the time you're back. Over and out."

A half-hour before they were to land, Skinner contacted him again.

"There's been an incident in Pacific Heights. Rosalie Timms-Beck, another associate of Algernon Devries, reported three men in an Explorer keeping watch on her house. She was so distraught she had a heart attack while making the call. When the police arrive, Timms-Beck bounces back to life, but they find the three men dead from gunshot wounds, though no one in the neighborhood heard any shots or saw anything."

Wong said, "I went to the Devries Museum and Gallery two years ago. Rosalie Timms-Beck was the curator there at the time."

"One neighbor did report seeing a white Toyota Venza owned by another neighbor who is away for three months drive past before the police got there. Timms-Beck has a set of keys and drove it periodically. Inspector Baylor is on his way back to question her about it."

"So? What? Kozlowski and Duquesne drop by for a visit after the explosion, kill three men watching the house and then borrow the Venza to get away?"

"Baylor believes the Venza was seen heading south after the incident at Timms-Beck's. We've issued a full alert to all police in the San Francisco-San Jose-San Mateo area as well as to all security agency field offices. They have all been briefed about the ship, the plane crash and the cargo they each carried. We're coordinating the operation. Get back here as fast as you can. Calhoun can wait. Over and out."

The rest of the flight and the drive back to the field office were only brief respites before the next unbelievable update.

Two agents were waiting for them when they landed.

"I just need to refuel," Marquis said to them, "and we're all set."

He barely had a chance to properly introduce Anisha Wong. Convincing Skinner to let her stay had been an inconsequential matter.

"Fine," he said to her, "just don't get in the way."

"I won't."

"Thorpe was delayed, but she is on her way now." He then brought them up to date. "Captain Calhoun is dead. Not to sound insensitive or too gruesome, though that seems fitting today, he is now a mannequin. The policeman guarding his room dissolved in front of a half-dozen witnesses. The hospital is now under quarantine per USAMRIID and CDC orders."

"He just dissolved?"

Wong said, "Isn't that what Dr. Thorpe told you happened to the crew from the cargo ship?"

"But they dissolved twelve to eighteen hours after being exposed to the toxin. Calhoun became a mannequin, but the guard just dissolved. Is that right?"

"That's the report we have. We've had no update since the quarantine went into effect. We do have a description of a man in hospital garments leaving the ward just as the guard was struck down. And there is a witness who says an FBI Special Agent named Adam Triplett visited Calhoun only minutes before the man in the hospital garments entered his room."

"Adam Triplett?"

"I checked. There is no Adam Triplett at the FBI. The description of the man in hospital garments is interesting because it pops up again together with a man fitting the description of Adam Triplett."

Wong said, "That's something."

Skinner scowled at her. "A report came in from Pacifica of a house on fire, but when Fire and Rescue and police arrived, there was only a small fire, too small to produce all the smoke. They found the remnants of two smoke bombs inside and a cache of weapons. They also found a man who had been shot twice in the chest. His name is Herman Gunther. He was in the witness protection program. Inspector Kozlowski had worked with him on the case that forced him into protection."

"You think Kozlowski and Duquesne went to see him. Why?"

"Police and FBI were hacked about twenty to thirty minutes before the so-called fire at Gunther's house. Gunther was a computer wizard. The information the hacker was after was pertaining to the Viaje Costero, the plane crash, Devries, Bourque and the incident at Hawk Hill Park."

"They go to Gunther to find out what they can. Then, like at the Bourque house, they are tracked down and attacked."

"From what witnesses say, and from what some of them recorded, it appears a white Venza had been parked in the neighborhood, as well as another black Explorer like the one in Pacific Heights. No one saw the attack on the Gunther house, but witnesses told police the second smoke bomb was thrown into the house right after a man and woman fled from it."

"Someone was helping Kozlowski and Duquesne."

"The two who escaped match their description. They were seen getting into the Venza and driving away as police and emergency vehicles arrived. From the pictures and video, police were able to match the plate to Timms-Beck's neighbor's vehicle. Four men were also seen walking away from the scene. There are no good images of them. The Explorer had four flat tires after the attack."

Wong said, "Duquesne and Kozlowski get away because of the smoke bombs. Whoever threw them must have also flattened the tires."

Skinner asked him, "Should we give her a badge?"

"We put together puzzles, too, Special Agent Skinner."

"Horrible ones, I imagine."

"Who wanted to make sure Kozlowski and Duquesne got away and why?"

"Pictures show Duquesne carrying a box made of wood. One witness thought it was a jewelry box. One witness thought it was a designer breadbox. One witness thought it held silverware."

"Do we have our source of land delivery?"

"One wooden box would barely carry a dozen of those cartons you found at the crash site."

Skinner said, "What if they are just samples? Whoever is helping them is making sure they make the delivery. That would mean the two cops had gone bad."

Wong said, "What if there are just vials inside the box? It could have been designed to carry only so many, but they have enough for their part of the mission."

That statement brought their discussion to a pause.

"Are we looking at bioterrorists going door to door with free samples? Were they delivering them to Gunther? Is another resident of Linda Mar involved?"

Wong asked, "Who threw the smoke bombs?"

Skinner ran his hands through his hair. "What is the mission?"

Laskey sat down. "What about the description of the two men from the hospital popping up again?"

"While all the smoke with little fire was keeping most of the spectators occupied, someone reported seeing two men fighting on a greenspace slope behind the houses. Both of them were big men. The black man was much bigger, though, and matches the description of Triplett. The other man partially matches the description of the man in the hospital garments. He was later seen driving away in a car just after the Explorer exploded. The black man vanished from the scene."

Special Agent Ellen Forrest brought a report sheet to Skinner. "We're still getting more info on the Pacifica incident." She returned to her desk.

After he scanned it, he said, "Baylor found Timms-Beck dead. She's been strangled and her neck is broken. They found blood smeared all over her coffee table, but no wound on her. And they just found the Venza abandoned a few miles from Linda Mar."

Wong sat down. "I feel very tired and very dizzy."

"Do you want to go to the hospital?"

"I don't mean like that. We have all this information, but I still have no idea what's happening. There just seems to be too many missing pieces. Too many things we don't know. It's all too big and happening too fast and just shouldn't be possible."

"We know the cargos from the ship and the plane were the same but packaged differently, but that doesn't tell us what Kozlowski and Duquesne have in that box."

"Brian," she said, "we also know there could be two toxins in play here now. That box may contain the toxin that dissolves its victims."

"One of those two men fighting is likely the helper but which one? If the black man is Triplett, the other one killed the cops at SFGH, which means he has access to both toxins. Duquesne and Kozlowski could be working with him. He threw the smoke bombs."

Forrest came back and said to Skinner, "HRT just arrived. And there's a call for you from Special Agent Nyla Rowe."

Skinner groaned, "She's all I need right now." He returned to his office.

"Who is Special Agent Nyla Rowe?"

"I can't tell you, but if she's calling about all this, then it is probably even worse than we can imagine."

# Chapter 45

They abandoned the Venza shortly after leaving Linda Mar.

"It's likely been made," Kozlowski said, "or soon will be."

They parked in an alley near a shopping mall. Kozlowski then took them through the parking lot. Looking for another car took longer than expected. Every time people came close to them, Kozlowski either headed them for the mall or turned them away from the row of cars they were in as if they were headed for their parked vehicle somewhere else on the lot.

"Aren't we going to start looking suspicious?"

"That's the one we want." He led her to an older model, silver Honda Accord sedan. "The color's good," he said. "It will blend in." He took out a pocket knife. "Keep watch."

One thing had gone their way since leaving Linda Mar. Exactly when Inspector Kozlowski turned his attention to stealing a car the mall parking lot hit a lull in pedestrian traffic. She could see no people nearby.

Kozlowski opened the driver's door to the Honda. "Older Accords are one of the most frequently stolen cars because they are so easy to boost. The owner of this one is either unaware of that fact or unconcerned about it."

He pulled the latch to open the trunk.

"Here's where it gets a bit tricky. Keep watching. If you see someone coming toward us, walk to the mall. If necessary, enter the mall and find a table at the food court if there is one, or near a Starbucks. There has to be a Starbucks in there somewhere."

She turned around and asked, "Why?"

He had vanished. "Don't look for me or you will look suspicious," he said from near the back of the Honda. "Just keep watch."

The brief lull was over. People were coming out of the mall. People were getting out of their cars to go in. A police patrol car was now slowing cruising through the parking lot as well. It stopped at the end of their lane. The driver looked straight at her before turning his car and coming toward her.

A corner of the jewelry box stabbed into her ribs when she squeezed it too hard.

"Got it," Kozlowski said.

"Stay where you are."

The police car stopped when it reached her. She nodded and smiled at the driver and started for the mall.

The police car remained stopped.

Instead of continuing to the mall, she stopped, rose up on her toes and looked around the parking lot. She slapped her forehead and headed for the next row of parked cars.

The police car started moving again. It came along the row she had walked to.

Kozlowski waved to her and called, "There you are."

She waited for the policed car to pass, waved and smiled again at the driver as it did, and then returned to the Honda. "What if he recognized me or the box?"

"Then we're screwed." He put his knife away. "I had to switch plates in case it's reported stolen before we're done with it." He went to the back of the car and closed the trunk lid. "Do you want to drive or should I?"

She tried to hand him the box. " _Je suis à travers avec ce non-sens fou_." I am through with this insane nonsense.

"I will take it if that's what you really want, but I would just like to point out that you are in Pacifica on your own with no cash, no transportation, no weapons, and if I leave, no protection. SFPD, federal agencies, Weinberg, the guy who nabbed your friend Vargas, and, oh yes, four men determined to obtain that box and eliminate anyone who gets in their way, all know who you are, what you look like and where you are." He hugged her. "That patrol car has just turned around and is coming this way again. And, also, we shouldn't waste time in case the owner of this car comes back."

He reached for the box.

"Merde."

"Double _merde_."

She kept the box and got into the Honda.

Kozlowski drove back to San Francisco. North of Daly City, he took Highway 280 across South San Francisco and eventually into Bayview-Hunters Point.

She kept checking behind them or looking up through the Honda's glass moon-roof to see if any aircraft was tracking them overhead. Her neck muscles tightened up.

He brought them to an old public housing apartment off Hunter Point Boulevard and Inness Avenue. They parked over a block away and walked up a steep hill back to the building, which was perched at the top of four terraced housing sites. Part of a city renewal project being constructed around it, it was boarded up but had not yet been demolished.

He pointed to another building that was also boarded up. "That used to be the biggest drug distribution center in the city. A joint task force involving SFPD, FBI and DEA closed it down two years ago."

"I was visiting Algernon at the time. Your police chief was blamed for the deaths of three homeless squatters killed during the raid. What about this building?"

He took her in through the plywood barrier at the entrance. Someone had fastened a crude handle and hinges out of coat hanger wire that was only visible once they were a few feet from the makeshift door.

"This was the base of operations for one of the most notorious drug dealers in the city until the raid. Just the homeless and transients flop here now. It should be safe." He took them up to the third floor and then to a one-bedroom corner suite. "This was Big Bro's headquarters."

"Big Bro?"

Kozlowski checked the bedroom. "There's a bed in there. It looks clean. He was a big man." He held his hands out to indicate Big Bro's girth and height. "He was also very popular in Hunters Point, a Robin Hood to many local residents."

"Like drug lords in Colombia."

"You know about that?"

"I travelled everywhere on Algernon's behalf. One of the drug czars in the Medellin cartel had a set of seventeenth century dueling pistols he claimed once belonged to a Portuguese pirate. Algernon sent me to verify their authenticity and purchase them if they were the real thing. I arrived in the middle of a turf war."

"Did you get the pistols?"

"I got two sets of dueling pistols. I also had to crawl out the backdoor of his mansion and escape into the jungle during a firefight between two cartel factions and a unit of FARC guerillas that had joined in."

"That's something like what happened here with Big Bro. It wasn't over drugs, though. It was over recording artists. He used his recording company to launder his drug money. When he convinced a performer to leave a competitor's label for his all hell broke loose. People were being killed in drive-by shootings. People disappeared. When word got to us of a pending shootout, we had no choice but to intervene sooner than we wanted to." He pointed to bullet holes in the walls. "Those are from that night. It's called the Hunters Point Massacre. Big Bro and three of his crew were killed, including the recording artist. Five on the other side were killed."

"And those three bystanders and one of your officers."

"Yes."

"Did it stop the drug dealing?"

He checked the bathroom. "For about forty-eight hours it did."

A table where Big Bro had sat taking in drug money rested against the interior wall that separated the living room from the bedroom.

When Kozlowski saw that she'd noticed the placement of the table, he said, "Harder to hit him with gunfire from outside."

"Not that they didn't try." She pointed to more bullet holes above the table. "From the night of the massacre, I presume."

"He might have survived if he hadn't stood up."

She placed the jewelry box on the table, a simple square of wood resting on four legs, a breakfast table for a young couple who couldn't afford anything more.

"Algernon and Rosalie were right. This box does have a curse on it. In my travels, I've sometimes visited what writers would call the seedier, darker back alley shops and cafes to meet with people who had what Algernon wanted or could connect me to people who did. Sometimes, I was a guest of the richest people in the world. Now, this box has made me a suspected accomplice in murder as well as possibly a member of a terrorist group. It has made me a target of merciless killers and has brought me here."

"At least you didn't arrive at the height of gang warfare season this time."

" _Je suis reconnaissant pur ces miracles_." I am grateful for such miracles.

"Sarcasm sounds the same in any language."

Footsteps outside the apartment started at the far end of the hall and approached slowly.

"Did they find us already?" Saying it out loud just verified what she hadn't wanted to face: the certainty that they were eventually going to be caught by someone. Her heart raced, her fingers tingled and became cold again. Could unrelenting fear cause frostbite?

He took her and the box to the closet between the living room and kitchen, put her in it and closed the folding doors as quickly and quietly as he could.

Through the gaps between the door slats, she watched Kozlowski sit on the table and take out his gun.

If those footsteps belonged to the four men from Gunther's place, Kozlowski's gun wasn't going to hold them off for very long.

The footsteps sounded heavy when they reached the near end of the hallway, laden. Two African-American men came in carrying two large, stuffed duffle bags each. A third man came in behind them with no load to carry. He stood in front of the closet.

"Good afternoon, gentlemen," Kozlowski said.

She saw him raise his gun and his badge before the third man blocked her view.

"I wouldn't do that," Kozlowski said in response to some motion by the two men carrying the duffle bags.

The man blocking her view put his right hand behind his back. Something silvery glinted against the sunlight coming in through the small window in the nook.

"This is your lucky day," Kozlowski said. "You get a free pass if you just take your stuff and leave."

The man blocking her view said, "I don't think so. There are three of us and only one of you." He quietly pulled back the hammer of the gun held behind his back.

"Have any of you heard the news today?"

The man at the closet, clearly the leader, said, "I heard."

"Then you know about the explosion in Forest Hill."

The man chuckled. "Yeah, man, we heard. Made me smile, ya know, made my day and all that."

"That explosion is bringing SFPD and a shitload of feds to this very building in a little while. You don't want to be here with those duffle bags when they arrive."

The man asked, "Did you do it?"

"The one who did is close by. That's why the show is coming here. It's up to you, but today you three and what you have doesn't interest us. If you come back tomorrow, it will be a different story. It's your choice."

The man eased the hammer back into place and reengaged the safety. "Come on," he said to the other two.

She remained in the closet until Kozlowski opened the doors.

"Will they come back with reinforcements?"

"I can't be sure, but if we let their paranoid, little brains run with what I told them for a bit, they may convince themselves to stay away for a day or two at least."

She placed the box back onto the table. "What do we do now?"

"I have to make a call."

He keyed in the number on his GoPhone and then set it on the table next to the box so she could hear the conversation.

After three rings at the other end a man answered, "Inspector Trent Baylor."

"It's Scott. I'm sorry about Denise, Trent, and about Calhoun and Sutherland, too."

Baylor whispered, "What the hell is going on? FBI is telling a very strange story."

"We didn't go bad Trent."

"No one here believes that, especially after what happened to Calhoun and Sutherland." His voice grew quieter and trembled. "I would have known if Denise was up to anything like that. We were going to announce in a couple of weeks. She was tired of the grind. She was transferring to the Police Chief's Office to work in media relations. She would never do anything like the story says. She just couldn't have without me knowing."

"We're all being played, SFPD, FBI, everyone."

"What do you need?"

"We need to come in. We need to get this box and its contents to the right people before our luck runs out or it could get worse than what happened to Calhoun and Sutherland."

"Special Agent Brian Laskey is in charge of everything. I've been trying to talk to him all day."

"Be as quick as you can and call me back. I've programmed a code into this phone. You will need to key in the phone number and then one-eight-nine-one-four-one-one." He ended the call.

"You programmed a security code?"

"Gunner did while you were out of the room."

"He's dead because of us, and so is Denise Bridges."

"Jacqueline, I know it looks that way, but it isn't."

"Can Inspector Baylor be trusted?"

"We'll find that out soon enough."

"Can he do what you ask? I mean can he be effective? He just lost the woman he was going to marry and there's a story going around of her becoming a bad cop. If he's overwrought, he could get careless."

"Trent's good, and at this point, we can only hope he channels his emotions into clearing Denise's name."

"We are just going to get him—"

"You dog," the man without a duffle bag said. "You didn't tell us you had brought your fine, old bitch with you."

That line was just another in a long list of corny, macho banalities she'd had to endure over the years.

The two other men dropped the duffle bags and added their two shiny silver handguns to make it three weapons aimed at them.

The leader of the trio spotted the jewelry box. "What is that?"

# Chapter 46

Josephine's cry could be heard in the hallway of the Château de Saint-Cloud outside the room of her lady-in-waiting, Elizabeth de Vaudey.

Dr. Koertig and Hortense waved away the servants from the door and entered de Vaudey's room.

Elizabeth de Vaudey, terrified and only partially dressed, stood trembling by the window with a blanket from the bed wrapped around her.

Josephine pointed her finger at her husband as if to stab him. "It is the day of our coronation and you cannot control your impulses any more than you could in Egypt."

Napoleon stood beside the bed fastening his pants. "Do not point accusations at me."

"The great conqueror of nations is little more than a common philanderer."

He pointed his finger at her. "I have given you my name. I will bestow the title of Empress upon you this day, but you have given me nothing in return. For that I could divorce you."

"Mother, father, please," Hortense said and went to Josephine. "Calm yourselves." She said to Napoleon, "My father, you have always been kind to me. Please tell me what happened and what I can do for you both to make your coronation the joyous occasion it should be."

"I explain myself to no one." Napoleon left the room.

Hortense took hold of her mother's hands. "Please, Dr. Koertig, I need your help."

"I will do what I can."

Napoleon was pacing back and forth in his suite.

"Can I get you something, General? Your coronation is only a few hours away. It would not do for the new Emperor to be in such distress."

Napoleon rubbed his stomach and grimaced. "I will tell you, Dr. Koertig. I have suspected from the very beginning of our marriage that my wife is doing everything she can to avoid providing me with an heir."

"There could be many reasons for such problems. Your marriage has endured many extended separations. Brief encounters, however passionate they may be, are not a guarantee of conception."

"She counters me, Doctor. My every effort to produce a son is stymied by her will and her body's refusal to perform its duty to me."

"Time is short, General. Perhaps this discussion is best delayed until after the coronation."

"You could follow her, Dr. Koertig." Napoleon stopped pacing. "Yes, make it your duty to see if she visits the kind of practitioners who would assist her in her selfish, stubborn pursuit to deprive me."

"Your honor guard will be here shortly to escort you to Notre Dame."

"Or better still, you could examine her yourself. Tell her you are there to determine the medical facts of the matter for her Emperor. But first, have you anything for my stomach?"

He took a small flask out of his bag and handed it over.

Napoleon drank its contents. "Rumors are again circulating in Paris about our campaign in Egypt, particularly what happened in Jaffa and during our retreat from Acre." He held up the empty flask. "I wonder what people would think of you if they knew the part you played. I suppose I should be grateful that you treat me so well and have not prepared one of those mysterious poisons for me." He waved him out. "Go now, do as I command. I will rely on you to bring back to me the truth."

"Once I have done this for you, once you are Emperor, you will have the most knowledgeable advisors and doctors in France to serve you. If you could return my locket and my key to me and give me leave, I would return home. There are countless personal and professional matters I must attend to."

"Do not burden me with such trivialities now. Do as I command, Dr. Koertig." Napoleon turned his back to him.

"Yes, Emperor."

Josephine was alone in her bedroom sitting at her table brushing her hair.

"I have been sent by your husband, your Emperor, to examine you, madam. The General has grave concerns about your failure to bear him a child."

She put her brush down on the table and looked at him using the mirror before her. "You need not examine me, Dr. Koertig. I cannot have any more children."

"Are you sure? There might be something I can—"

"A woman who has given birth to two children, David, knows when she can have no more. My delivery of Hortense was difficult. I bled profusely. Indeed, there were concerns I might not survive bringing her into this world." She stood up and came to him. "During the Reign of Terror, I was mistreated while I was in prison. You understand my meaning?"

"I do."

"I suffered from frequent and prolonged episodes of bleeding after that. While I did recover my health, I knew bearing any more children was no longer possible."

"You did not tell the General this when you were courting."

"We were in love. Such a state is all consuming and sets aside concerns that in the cold times of sensible consideration would otherwise be discussed."

"Madam, you are as adept as ever at the smooth manipulation of perception. How would the Emperor of France react if he knew of your business ventures with Lieutenant Charles and your husband's many enemies? Would he forgive you for both failing and betraying him?"

"I am at your mercy, Dr. Koertig. In time, the Emperor will realize my failing is permanent. It is important for him to produce an heir. He will set me aside. How can I convince you to keep my confidence in this matter?"

He looked to her table. "Where is the jewelry box?"

"After all these years, you are still obsessed with that horrible thing."

"I have my reasons for the obsession."

She took a few steps toward her bed. "Hortense has it now."

"Why did you give it to her?"

"France's new Emperor gave it to her. Hortense and Louis were visiting. Over dinner, my husband regaled us with the legend of Vlad's jewelry box and recounted your tale of how you heroically acquired that tiny, bloody coffin for him."

She dropped onto her bed. All color drained from her face. "Hortense was fascinated and had to see it. Napoleon had it brought from my bedroom and repeated his story again almost word for word while my daughter inspected the box." She sighed. "A better way to describe her actions would be to say she fondled it as if it were a puppy."

"She is fond of her adopted father. She loves his stories. I have heard them numerous times from the man himself only to hear them again upon visiting with her."

"Before we had finished our meal, he had emptied the contents of the box onto the table and given it over to her. To make his gift even more pleasing and meaningful, he then gave her a locket I had not seen before as the first piece for her to place into her new, empty jewelry case. He told her to keep in it only what he gave her."

She looked up at him with such distress in her eyes. "Dr. Koertig, it was hidden so as to be out of my sight, but he was able to give precise directions to the servant on how to find it. He has assigned more inexplicable significance to it than I can comprehend. The sight of it, the touch of it, the very thought of it makes me ill. It has become just another curse on our marriage. If I could be rid of it, I would."

"But you no longer have it."

"It is always there between us. When Hortense is present, he always asks her about the box. He always repeats the tale of how it came to him. When he knows she is coming to visit, he shows me every new trinket he has purchased for her, knowing it will be placed in that disgusting thing." She wiped away tears.

Hortense entered the room. "Dr. Koertig?"

"Your father sent me to make sure your mother was well and assist her in any way I can."

"You see, mother, he loves you. He sends his most trusted physician to care for you. How are you feeling now?"

"I am recovered. I believe it is time for us to go."

"I will tell father."

He said, "Please tell him he need not be concerned."

"I will, Dr. Koertig, thank you. Mother, I will be right back to help you with your cloak."

In an instant, Hortense was back in the room. "Dr. Koertig, when we can find a few moments to ourselves, I would very much like for you to tell me about Vlad's jewelry box. Mother thinks it is ugly, but I find it intriguing. I wish to know all about the man whose heart it once contained and how you were able to retrieve it for my father."

She was gone again, like a breeze passing through the room.

"We are both blessed, my husband and I. Hortense sees only the best in each of us."

"Do you know where she keeps it?"

"I have not seen it since that dinner." She rose to her feet and smoothed her gown. "You were right, David, the price is more than I can pay."

Hortense and two servants came to fetch Josephine to the coach. Hortense was wearing the locket Napoleon had taken from him around her neck.

# Chapter 47

The leader of the trio waved his gun to shoo them away from the table. One of the men took Kozlowski's badge and gun from him.

"He doesn't have any other guns, LK," the man said.

Kozlowski said, "You're L.K. Traz?"

"That's right, man."

"We've been looking for you."

"Have you now." He pointed his gun at her. "You didn't answer my question. Tell LK what that is."

"It is an antique jewelry box," she said, then added, "It has nothing in it."

LK opened the lid. "Tell LK what was in it."

Kozlowski came to stand beside her. "It was empty when we found it."

"Tell LK where you found it."

"In that house that exploded."

"Tell LK what caused the explosion."

The truth wasn't going to help them. He was going to think the explosion was because of something else.

"It is not what you think it is," Kozlowski said. "It wasn't a meth lab or any other kind of drug lab. The explosion was. . . ."

LK aimed his silver gun at them again and cocked the hammer. "Tell LK what was in the box."

" _Au autre idiote imperméable à la vérité_." Another idiot impervious to the truth.

With two long, quick strides, LK was standing right in front of her. "Tell LK what you just said, bitch."

Kozlowski stepped between them and put his hands on LK's chest. One of LK's men struck him from behind.

"Sorry, sorry, sorry." She held up her hand and knelt down to check on Kozlowski.

LK pulled her back up and held her close. He smelled of beer and cigars. "Tell LK why he shouldn't just let his boys have some fun with you in the bedroom, bitch."

One of his men went to the table to inspect the box and got lucky. The hidden drawer opened. LK pulled her over to the table with him. The third man brought over Kozlowski.

He squeezed her bicep hard. "Tell LK what this is."

Kozlowski said, "It is not a new drug, at least not one you want to fiddle with. It's very dangerous."

"Tell LK how dangerous." He pushed her into the grasp of the one who had found the drawer. "Better still, tell LK what it does."

"We don't know," she said, "but we know it's lethal. It is why San Francisco General is now under quarantine. You heard of that, too, I hope."

"LK thinks you are both lying. LK thinks this shit is three new treats. LK thinks these three samples are very addictive and are, therefore, very lucrative. What I need to know is what they do." He withdrew a syringe from his overcoat and said to her, "What color do you want to try first?"

Kozlowski's phone, still on the table beside the box, started ringing.

"I need to get that."

LK stepped into him with a punch to his stomach. "LK will tell you what you need." He then shot the phone—a loud bang in this unfurnished room—and started laughing. "No one will report gunshots coming from this place. They know better."

The man holding her began dragging her toward the bedroom. LK punched Kozlowski again before following them with the syringe and vials in one hand and his gun in the other still aimed at her.

Booming started in the distance and quickly grew very loud as the vehicle approached. The windows of the apartment rattled.

The man holding her said, "That will be Lil' Bro."

LK went to the window and looked out. The man holding her followed him.

A silver Cadillac Escalade had parked on Inness Avenue. The thumping continued for a few more seconds until the Cadillac was turned off.

Her temples continued to throb.

Three men quickly exited the Escalade and took up guarding positions. Once the driver nodded to the SUV, a passenger got out of the back on the driver's side.

The man holding her said, "Lil' Bro is going to love what we found for him."

"Who says he needs to know?"

Lil' Bro was less than six feet tall and slender and appeared young enough to still be in high school.

LK said to the man holding her, "Put these back and hide the box."

The man returned the vials to their special drawer, closed it and then set the box on the shelf inside the closet she had hidden in. He closed the doors and came back to take hold of her again but LK stopped him.

He took her back to Kozlowski and set them beside the table. "Keep your mouths shut."

Lil' Bro entered the apartment with each of his two bodyguards dragging two heavy duffle bags in behind him. He appeared even younger up close. He had grown a sparse, stringy goatee. "Who are they?"

"He's a soon-to-be-dead cop. She's a present for you and your boys."

Lil' Bro looked her over. "Bitch is too old."

Kozlowski said to him, "He's holding out on you."

"Check the closet," she said.

LK raised his gun to shoot them, but Lil' Bro, though significantly smaller, pushed it back down. Everyone aimed guns at everyone else as one of Lil' Bro's bodyguards brought out the box.

"What is this?" Lil' Bro stroked his goatee, opened the lid and looked in. "There's nothing in here."

"There is a drawer at the bottom," Kozlowski said. He nodded to her.

She reached for the box, expecting to get shot at any moment, and opened the drawer to reveal the three vials.

"Cousin," Lil' Bro said. "Please explain. I thought we were doing a clean and up front exchange here."

"You are," Kozlowski said. "LK did not know this would be here. He thinks this is a wonderful new business opportunity. It isn't."

"If we are not careful," she said, "none of us are going to get out of here alive and not one of you will have fired a shot."

LK said, "Bitch is lying. They tried to sell me that same bullshit."

"I am not lying. There is something bigger going on in San Francisco right now. It's bigger than what is in your duffle bags and it could potentially harm or kill hundreds of people. What is in those vials is much more dangerous than Ebola and much quicker. You would be dead in a matter of seconds. We all would."

Lil' Bro and LK both seemed to understand what a reference to Ebola meant. It didn't matter much to either of them, though.

LK said, "She'll say anything. Whatever's in those vials will give us the whole west coast, Kuz, from Mexico to Alaska, maybe even the entire country. Everyone will be coming to us. Kuz, we could be exporting this shit to everywhere in the world within the year."

"You owe me more than just this old bitch for holding out on me."

"Take her, Kuz. I can get you younger ones quick enough. You can even shoot the cop if you want. We'll get rid of him for you."

Booming started again and drew everyone's attention to outside the apartment. It stopped a few seconds after starting.

LK came to them and placed the end of his gun between Kozlowski's eyes. "Who was that?"

"No idea. That phone call you shot might have told us."

LK asked, "Some sort of signal, Kuz?"

"Sort of," a male voice said.

A massive African-American man stood in the middle of the living room holding up the fob for the Cadillac in one hand and one of the heavy duffle bags in the other. He tossed the fob to Lil' Bro and swung out with the duffle bag.

Though Kozlowski quickly tackled her out of the way of what few shots the gang members were able to fire, she still witnessed an astonishing display of strength, speed and fighting skills. Men tumbled across the room like a clumsy acrobatic team, were slammed into walls, tossed through closet doors or thrown down onto the floor. All six men were down by the time she and Kozlowski were standing back up.

The black man kept is gun aimed at them as he walked over to the table. He carefully slid the drawer closed and picked up the jewelry box.

"This is nothing personal," he said. "From what I've heard and seen today, it's clear you two just got caught up in this fiasco. But I have my orders."

When she spotted the scar on the back of his hand, the recognition and revelation came together for her. "You were in an accident."

"Yes, what of it?"

"A fire?"

"Yes, a fire."

"That's a skin graft."

"Yes."

"It's very good. Who did it?"

"Why?"

"Was it Dr. Maggie Hobbs?"

He stepped closer and held his gun to her forehead. "How do you know Maggie?"

"She worked with Algernon Devries, l'homme qui m'a fait entrer dans ce fiasco," the man who got me into this fiasco, "because he was obsessed with having perfect skin."

He lowered his gun. "Do you know what happened to her?"

"She became Sleeping Beauty."

# Chapter 48

The servant who opened the door was tall and thick. He had few teeth, messy hair and a heavy brow to match his body. His clothes were too small for him and made his large chest appear all the bigger against the white blouse stretched across it.

Koertig ended any threat the man might present with a quick slash across his throat.

The sound the man made when he fell back against the door clutching at the bloody gape in his throat was reminiscent of slopping through the blood on the floor of his laboratory.

The Earl of Carrington, Dr. Philippe Boulanger, came into the front hall from his study in response to the commotion.

"Good evening, Philippe," Koertig said.

Boulanger, fatter than he'd ever seen him, backed up to the wall and uttered one word, "You!"

Koertig kept him there with a hand on his chest and held the knife to his throat. "You have done well for only three letters sent to the English fleet. A new title, some land outside of London, this lovely house in the heart of the city. Tell me what I want to know, Philippe, and I may allow you to live a while longer to enjoy your new life."

"What do you want? The Emperor is no more. He is but a shell nearing his end on that island prison. I cannot help you get to him. I have no such influence here."

"You were one of his most trusted advisors after his coronation until you betrayed him and his strategies to the English at Waterloo. I have waited all these years. I have remained in hiding or on the run from those he sent after me, but the time has come to retrieve what belongs to me." He pushed the knife into the sagging flesh under Boulanger's chin. "Where are they?"

"I am sorry, Dr. Koertig, where are what?"

He nicked Boulanger's chin and held his hand firm when the Earl tried to reach for his wound.

"The jewelry box, the locket and my key, I am sure the Little Corporal told you all about them and my interest in them during one of his many amusing and intimate conversations with you. Tell me, Earl of Carrington. I am at the end of my patience, which puts you at the end of your life if you cannot provide me with a satisfactory answer."

"You have killed so many looking for such things? You have rampaged through his loyal followers on a quest for a jewelry box? I received a report just a fortnight ago of my former secretary and his young wife being butchered in their home in Cologne. They were completely drained of their blood and eviscerated. Was that you?"

"I can offer no comfort to you about your suspicion, Doctor."

"Malmaison has been vandalized three times and set on fire once over the last five years. You did not to find what you are looking for."

"I would not be here if I had." He put another nick in Boulanger's flesh.

"How many have you killed since your escape from him?"

"All who have stood in my way or have been of no use to me. Tell me what you know. Now!"

"If the jewelry box you speak of is that stained, wooden contraption from that Carpathian monastery, the Emperor took it back from Hortense in a pique when she would not stop complaining about having to remain in Holland and having to remain married to his detestable brother, Louis. I believe he gave it to the Duchess of Parma as a gift for providing him with a son."

"Did he also give her the locket and the key?"

"I know of no locket other than the one Napoleon keeps with him as a memento of Josephine. Everything contained within the jewelry box, all of his presents to Hortense, was given to the Duchess as part of his gift. He has never told me of a key that belonged to you. He rarely spoke to me of you. The few times he tried, he quickly fell into a vacant and silent fit."

"Then, Philippe, you have served your purpose to me. I apologize for my intrusion and my bad manners. I beg your forgiveness."

The glimmer of hope in Dr. Boulanger's eyes was satisfying.

He pressed the knife up through the doctor's mouth and into his brain.

The Earl of Carrington made no noise at all.

# Chapter 49

" _Comment puis-je commencer_?" How do I begin?

Kozlowski said, "Who are you?"

"Frank Gillett, DHS." He recovered Kozlowski's badge and gun, but he handed only the badge back to him. He did not show his DHS credentials to them. "You said she became Sleeping Beauty."

"Algernon was obsessed with many things. It would be fair to say he was obsessed with being obsessed. One of his most important ones was with keeping his skin perfect. You can understand how that obsession would push to the front of the line as he got older. He learned of Maggie's research on synthetic skin to treat burns, introduced himself and became the main contributor to her work. He had a number of surgeries Maggie believed were unnecessary, but she went along with his demands."

Gillett checked on the six gang members. Not one of them was moving, but they were all still breathing. "She was successful at developing her synthetic skin." He pulled up his sleeve to reveal more of the skin graft on his left forearm. "The bandage has nothing to do with it."

"Algernon wanted her to try out every advance she made on him first. She refused, but once she had developed her research far enough for use on humans, Algernon was the first in line."

Recounting this story to them just seemed to be magnifying the danger they were in. " _Son comportment n'a pas de sens, bien que_." His behavior didn't make any sense, though. "He had flawless skin even at his age."

Kozlowski said, "You told us you were in a fire."

"It must have been a bad one," she said. "I could barely see where Algernon had work done."

"It was."

"Do you know what happened to Dr. Hobbs? How she ended up . . . ?"

"She came to me in the hospital and told me what she was doing. She told me she could help me. She was very excited and very nervous. She kept reassuring me that her synthetic matrix—that's what she called it—could match my color perfectly because it would use my own skin cells to replace the damaged ones. She promised me it would look very natural."

He looked at the patch of skin on his arm. "She did a decent job of that." He set the jewel box back down. "Weinberg eventually muscled his way into my treatment and rehab and pushed her out. Soon after that, she disappeared. That was all I knew until now."

"Is Weinberg capable of turning Maggie into Sleeping Beauty?"

"He's capable of anything he sets his mind to." He handed Kozlowski his gun.

"Thanks. Who is he?"

"He will tell you he is over nine hundred years old and the most powerful man on earth. He will tell you his time has finally come."

Kozlowski took a turn checking each of the unconscious men. "So he's crazy, then."

"His big joke is he's not mad, he's getting even. I have no idea what he means by that, but he used to work for us. Now, he is definitely the most dangerous man in the United States. We have been after him for the past year after he turned."

"What has he done?"

"I can't tell you, but I will tell you that while he mostly works alone, he had recently become part of a larger criminal organization. He appears to have separated himself from them for now, but I must admit his behavior has been erratic and hard to understand this time."

"For example?"

"He's been helping you two, though it appears he could have recovered the box from you any number of times. He killed a man who was following you after the attack at Bourque's house. He killed the three men in the Explorer at Timms-Beck's place. And he threw the smoke bombs into the Gunther house to help you escape."

"Why would he be helping us?"

"He needs to keep you two in play. The obvious answer is to have you take the blame for something somewhere down the line. He has been helping you, but he's also contributed to the suspicion that you are working with him. He's killed Bourque, Devries and Timms-Beck, as well as your captain and a fellow officer at SFGH." Without a breath of hesitation, he knelt down and punched Lil' Bro when he began to stir. The man's head bounced off the floor. "Weinberg will tell you red is blue if it suits his purpose."

"Helping us and trying to get us killed at the same time?"

"Red is blue. Weinberg has a unique agenda; he always has. Trying to figure out what it is or outwit him is nearly impossible. He always seems to be two steps ahead of everyone for and against him. It would be easy to believe he might be prescient."

Kozlowski opened the drawer to reveal the vials. "He needed a place to hide these, but why this particular box? And why sell it to Devries, then?"

"The box has its own appeal for Weinberg. He either stumbled upon the drawer the same way you two did or knew it was there. He hid those vials in it when he learned we were coming for him. He and Devries had already agreed to the sale of it. He let Vargas take it to get it out of Widow Creek. That way, he would know where it was but we wouldn't. Now he wants those vials back, and possibly the box, too."

"Why?" She examined the jewelry box again. "There is nothing extraordinary about it except for the secret drawer, which isn't so secret anymore."

"He's as obsessive as Devries was, but I think at least one of those vials is the antidote."

"For the green liquid; is there even anything that can stop it?"

"There must be, I'm immune. Weinberg sprayed some on me at Linda Mar. It only stung my eyes. He also injected it into me. I must have something already in me that can neutralize the toxins. I think that is what is in the vials."

"Why are you immune?"

"Think about what it does. It somehow turns people into mannequins. Their skin becomes like plastic and then secretes a waxy substance. I'm sure Weinberg steered some aspect of Maggie's research toward finding the cause of that side-effect in her work and then developed it for his purposes. Maybe he was aware of it before he took over her work. Or maybe it was just a case of serendipity. One way or another, he got what he wanted. He always does."

"You think her skin grafts made you immune to those toxins."

"They did more than just that." He unbuttoned his shirt and pulled it down to reveal a physique like a heavyweight body builder. He turned around to show them a series of dark-grey triangular-shaped scales pointing down along his spine. "Her grafts weren't without hitches, though most of them you can attribute to Weinberg's tinkering. It doesn't just replace the damaged skin it also strengthens both the synthetic as well as the original, along with muscle tissue and bone. A large-calibre bullet can penetrate my skin, but you might have a tough time getting through it with just a twenty-two, even up close, or a knife. Take a closer look."

A square indent was carved into each of the top three scales between his shoulder blades, the largest ones. A horizontal line of four pin plugs ran through the middle of each indent. A pair of pin plugs sat above the middle two and another pair sat below.

"What was he trying to do?"

Kozlowski said, "Looks like there is some rudimentary circuitry imbedded in them."

"He had plugged in three computer chip assemblies. For about two weeks, he came in everyday, hooked me up and took readings. All I felt was a mild tingle. Then he just changed his mind, unplugged me and took them out." He did up his shirt.

"What is Weinberg up to?"

"The President is coming to San Francisco today. She is giving the opening speech at the International Conference on Child Health and Welfare this evening at the Moscone Center. I believe Weinberg or someone connected to him plans to use his toxin to attack her there.

" _Il faut cesser de lui_." We have to stop him.

"If one of these is the antidote, or if they combine to make the antidote, we have to get them to the President."

"Even if that is the antidote, it would likely only be enough for one person."

"We still have to try."

"Everyone is out to get you two, right now."

"That doesn't matter," she said.

Kozlowski took hold of her hand. "Make the call."

# Chapter 50

#

Dr. Thorpe and her two colleagues were brought straight into the Operations Control and Command Center once they arrived.

He introduced Thorpe to Josh Skinner and Anisha Wong.

Dr. Thorpe introduced her two colleagues.

"This is Major Brent Hayes. He's our biochemist. This is Major Melissa Quinn, our cellular biologist.

He asked, "What's the situation with your dissolving bodies?"

"They weren't dissolving, they were breaking apart. I'll let Melissa explain what happened."

Melissa gathered them at one end of the table in the center of the room but she didn't produce any documentation.

"Colonel Thorpe told you about the polymerization of actin chains that penetrate cell membranes in skin and muscle tissue to create the mannequin effect. But the actin went everywhere, including organs. This growth and penetration led to blocks of tissue breaking off once the process ceased. The breaking apart of these chunks of tissue was very rapid at the start, making the bodies appear to be dissolving."

Thorpe said, "It was still disturbing to watch, but because it wasn't a complete disintegration—particularly in the organs—we were able to extract some of the toxin from the remains that had not. . . ." She looked to Hayes. "What would be a good description?"

"Discharged, exploded, ejected; any of those would be an accurate but insufficient description. Together they come close to illustrating what happened?"

Thorpe produced two printouts and set them on the table. "These are before and after screen shots. Those white filaments covering the muscle tissue in this first shot are the polymerized actin molecules. They create that matrix you see that resembles a messy spider web spreading throughout the body. It penetrates every cell it connects to. It looks delicate but it is very tough."

Wong bent over to take a closer look at the before image, then the after. "Is this after the disintegration?"

"Yes. That is a picture of what was left of one of the crew's right thigh. Notice there is no longer a web of filaments present."

"It looks dog food fresh from the can."

"Thanks for that," Laskey said. "I have a dog."

"You could always feed it dry food until your stomach settles."

The phone on the table began ringing.

Josh answered, "Special Agent-in-Charge, Josh Skinner." He held out the phone and nodded for him to take it. He pushed the button to put it on speaker.

"This is Laskey."

"I've been trying to get through to you," the man said, "I'm Inspector Trent Baylor. I just talked to Inspector Kozlowski. They want to come in. Scott asked me to reach out to FBI because you're in charge."

Skinner again nodded.

"We can bring them in. Where are they?"

"I will have to call you back."

"The quicker the better, Inspector."

"They know that."

Skinner took the phone and called out. "I want a team ready to go the moment I call for it." Once he'd hung up he said, "Before we go any further with this, Dr. Thorpe, you do realize you are in an FBI field office, not one of your laboratories. We've learned a lot about this new toxin thanks to you, but other than Dr. Wong, the rest of us here are likely to get quickly lost in any complex technical explanations."

Hayes said, "A simple explanation would be to call them protein nano-grenades."

"That's a simple explanation, huh?"

Hayes turned on an overhead projector and picked up a pen. "This is going to be cumbersome, but I'll keep it as clear as I can. The significant thing here is that while what we found is almost magical and you must keep in mind the awesome intelligence that engineered it, it is quite simple."

He drew the letter _C_. "This represents how we think the grenade was assembled. Whoever made this patterned it after nematocysts found in jellyfish tentacles."

"Brent," Thorpe said, "we can't know that for sure. It would be supposition at best."

Hayes' face turned bright red. "All right, fine." He tapped the pen against the _C_. "We think they started with a protein that coils into this shape. It's polar. One end is positively charged, the other end is negatively charged."

He put a positive sign on one end and a negative sign on the other. He then drew a reverse version of the letter and assigned the charges to it such that the two letters lined up opposite charges to each other.

"The two pieces would be bound together by their opposing charges to form this donut shape. But that's not all."

He drew a donut and then drew short, squiggly lines protruding from it all around its circumference near the top. "These filaments of protein have receptors to match ones on the surface of the donut." He looked at Thorpe before saying, "Our hypothesis is they don't coil back on their own donut because of a very rigid base that prevents them from being pulled in by the attraction. In other words, they bend more in one direction than the other. When another donut is stacked on top, they can then go to work."

He drew a second donut stacked on top of the first. He then drew more filaments from the bottom one up and around the top one.

"These filaments bend to make contact with any donut placed above them. Receptors on the surface bind with the filaments. There are also other receptors on the surfaces of the donuts that make them stick together when they make contact with each other."

Dr. Quinn said, "Can you imagine the genius to have thought this up and then actually make it happen?"

Laskey said, "I was imagining something else about whoever thought this up."

The phone began ringing again.

He answered, "Laskey."

Baylor said, "I called back but he didn't answer."

"Do you know where they are?"

"No. We couldn't get a trace on his call and the phone has gone dead."

Skinner said, "It's that kind of day. Where were we?"

Thorpe stepped in for the next part of their class in bioterrorism. "Think of it as a stack of tires held together by both glue between each tire as well as sticky straps of polar protein exerting a Velcro-like grip wrapped around them. These tires are stacked until a nano-tube of a specific length is achieved. Either they were engineered to stop the process at that length, or it stops on its own due to the stereochemistry of the structure and loss of polarity, or tubes of greater length are constructed and then somehow cleaved, perhaps enzymatically, to a desired length."

Hayes drew a sketch of what the stacked nano-tube should look like. "You now have the casing for the grenade. Only the casing of this grenade is also constructed from explosive material—in this case, biologically active material, a peptide toxin—rather than just serve as a container and shrapnel."

Dr. Wong said, "That doesn't strike me as capable on its own of doing all the damage we've seen."

Quinn said, "It isn't. As Brent just described it, it is the casing, the container for another piece of the bomb."

"Two more pieces, to be precise," Hayes said and drew what were supposed to be wires that terminated at each end of the organic nano-tube. Again he also put positive and negative charge symbols at the ends of the wire. "We postulate that they used something similar to gel electrophoresis to insert another bundle of toxins inside the tube. Once inside, weak polar forces would hold the bundle in place."

"To finish the grenade," Thorpe said, "they capped its ends with another peptide toxin held in place by both a weak charge and receptors for attachment. The result is the triple-threat bioterrorism weapon we discussed earlier."

"That is what you found inside the remains," Wong said.

"Yes. Not all of the grenades exploded, especially in the organs. Dr. Harpreet Singh and her team at RML have worked non-stop to get us this much information in such a short time."

"Do you know what the parts do yet?"

"There is a lot of conjecture about what each segment of protein is capable of. Dr. Singh and Dr. Needham are researching other toxins that do similar things to what we've observed to see if there are homologous structures or variations of the same proteins. We know what the total effect is once it enters the victim and _explodes_."

Laskey asked, "What sets it off?"

"Like viruses and bacteria, it uses our body's own genetics or structures to break it apart and set it on its destructive mission. We haven't identified that specific process yet."

"It is a microbiological smart bomb."

"And maybe smarter than we originally thought," Thorpe said. "When we first encountered the results, we believed it to be primarily a respirable toxin with skin contact a secondary, and less effective, vector. We now believe it just needs to get inside the body by any and every way possible and has such a high toxicity level that large-scale weaponization is a real possibility."

Hayes said, "There may even be an infectious quality to the grenades. It might be possible to pass the toxin on to others."

Thorpe held up her hand and shook her head. "That has an extremely low probability. And if it is possible, it would not be an epidemic or pandemic threat. The grenade, at least not yet, is not capable of replicating itself. It appears to be all used up in the initial attack with no segments of it responsible for growth and replication."

Quinn said, "We simply discussed the possibility that unexploded grenades, if they were able to leave one host for another, might be reactivated by the biochemistry of the new host."

"If they didn't activate in the first host, there is nothing we know at this point that indicates they would suddenly reactivate in a different person. The ones we found, for whatever reason, could simply be duds."

Dr. Wong said, "But the possibility remains. Who would do this? Why would they do this?"

Skinner said, "Where are we with the President?"

Colonel Thorpe replied, "Carol's people have been kept informed about everything we've learned so far."

"How many of these grenades does it take to kill one person?"

"Its high toxicity means a little of it will go a long way, but we still have no idea yet what dosage is lethal. Personally, I doubt it takes very much."

"Was there enough on the cargo ship and the plane to hit the conference President Trotter is attending?"

Thorpe said, "Very little cargo appears to have been removed from the Viaje Costero, but we don't know exactly how much was onboard. There was no manifest for it."

Anisha said, "I think we do have an idea of how much is needed. We have to assume most of the cargo was taken from the crash site. One container," she counted on her finger, "held six padded trays of twenty-four cartons. Each carton contains three vials. That's four hundred and thirty-two vials per container and there had to be a least a dozen strewn about the site that I could see. There were more still in the plane. I think each vial is for one person."

"If the attackers did take all of them they could have hundreds."

"If only one vial is sufficient to kill someone. . . ."

Skinner smacked the table and began pacing. "We can't possibly protect the President and her entourage. How can you defend against a threat like this? I can't see Trotter giving her speech in a hazmat suit, can you? And how do we protect the audience?"

"Based on the cargo we've found on the ship and plane, it seems likely they plan an aerosol style attack. The vials would be put in the sprayers and weaponized that way." Hayes turned off the overhead projector.

"Thank you," Wong said.

Laskey only then realized how much the hum and brightness of it was getting on his nerves as well as Wong's.

"That would require getting close to the targets," Quinn said, "and if there are as many victims as there are vials, that would require one attacker to cover maybe one to six targets each. A team of attackers that size would be discovered before they could infiltrate the convention center. It is more likely the toxin would somehow be introduced through the HVAC system, the sprinkler system or the water supply. Remember, it just needs to get inside by any means possible."

Thorpe tapped the printouts. "The weight of it is an issue for aerosol dispersal. If the toxin is too heavy, it won't fly very far before falling to the ground. A powerful delivery system like sprinklers would be the most effective. If the HVAC vents are overhead, that would facilitate better dispersal."

He said, "We have an HRT unit at the Moscone Center now. A DHS unit and President Trotter's advance security team are also on site checking for anything like that."

"Brent and Melissa could assist them," Thorpe said. "We should also remember that we do not know exactly how much of it is required to be lethal. The vials might be an indication, but it is just as likely that all three are required to turn someone. . . ." She looked straight at Laskey for a moment then back down at the printouts.

Skinner called for two agents to go with Hayes and Quinn and sent them on their way.

"Washington's policy is not to let a potential terrorist attack, especially on home soil, deter the President from any planned activities or her executive duties. In other words, this is her conference and she won't cancel."

The phone on the table began ringing again. Again, Skinner nodded to him to answer it.

He put it on speaker. "Laskey here, what have you got?"

"This is Special Agent Adam Triplett."

Skinner signalled for him not to reveal what they knew.

The caller said, "I am with Inspector Scott Kozlowski of the San Francisco Police Department and Jacqueline Duquesne. I know you are familiar with the adventure they have had today. One of Kozlowski's colleagues, Inspector Trent Baylor, might have already talked to you."

"He has, yes. He couldn't re-establish contact with them."

"That has been taken care of. They have with them a box that has a secret drawer with three vials of liquid in it, one blue, one red and one clear."

Everyone in the room came closer to the phone.

Laskey asked, "Do any of you know what they do?"

"We have some idea, but we'd like to bring them in to be analyzed by someone who could confirm or dismiss. We need protection to do that. Are you on speaker?"

"Yes, I am."

"Can all the people with you be trusted?"

"Yes."

"I will give you our address in a moment. Please send an armed unit to pick us up. Make sure they are people you can trust. We will also need police and sheriff support."

"Everyone in this field office can be trusted."

"That is what SFPD thought this morning and look at what happened with them. It is possible someone working with you could be connected to the Proteus Group."

Thorpe and Wong gave no indication they were surprised or puzzled by the warning.

"Head for Hunters Point. Once your team is on its way, call this number for further directions. Now take the phone off speaker."

Skinner nodded his agreement with the request.

"When you call, key this code." G3o2b2l3i4n appeared on the telephone's screen. "And be very careful, Agent Laskey. Remember what happened at the Bourque place."

# Chapter 51

The FBI SWAT van and two SUVs stopped at the derelict apartment building Gillett had entered just over an hour ago. He had first knocked out the driver of the Escalade and taken his keys and gun.

Frank might be finally putting it together if he has decided to call in reinforcements. Petit and his packs of wild dogs would just go snarling off in whatever direction Tubby sent them.

Fairholm, still in his lab coat, Hildebrandt and Gibbs still hadn't developed any more courage for the challenges ahead of them. They had remained silently huddled in the back of the van since rendezvousing with him and tracking Gillett to here.

The FBI SWAT team of four and two units of FBI Special Agents from the SUVs entered the building. Two of the Special Agents remained outside to stand guard at the entrance. One of them walked over to the Escalade to check on the unconscious driver.

Holtz said, "What do we do now?"

He checked the time. "Just watch and wait."

Six minutes later, sirens approached rapidly from three directions. Two SPFD patrol cars, two unmarked cars and one Sherriff's Department van for transporting prisoners converged on the apartment.

Fairholm said, "We should leave before they spot us."

"Take off that stupid coat and shut-up."

The FBI guards moved aside to let six SFPD officers enter the building. Two officers went to the Escalade to gather up the driver, who had just regained consciousness and realized he couldn't get away.

The SFPD officers came back out first. They placed six handcuffed men and the driver into the van. The inspectors left with the van, but the four officers from the patrol cars remained to provide support. All of the men outside the building wore bullet-proof vests and carried either automatic rifles or shotguns.

Frank had warned them someone might try to prevent them from retrieving the trio inside and the prize, though not one of them had any idea what the real prize was.

The lead FBI agent came out three minutes after the van and the inspectors had left. The SWAT unit came out next surrounding Gillett, Kozlowski and Duquesne. All officers gathered around the trio to escort them the thirty feet to the FBI SWAT van. Duquesne still carried the jewelry box. She was wearing a bulletproof vest and a metal helmet. Kozlowski and Gillett hung back to let her get into the armored vehicle first.

"That's Gillet," Gibbs said as he fidgeted to get a better look at the trio.

"He doesn't look that tough," Fairholm said.

Weinberg raised a fist but didn't lash out. "In the vernacular of the wet work he has done and is capable of doing, you three are spatters of offal on his shoes."

It was a weak metaphor, but it served to keep them in their lower place. They would not be allowed to consider themselves partners in his higher purpose, a purpose they couldn't possibly understand.

He said to Holtz, "Take me back to the car."

They waited for the FBI to leave. The SFPD officers remained behind to conduct the police part of the investigation.

Holtz drove him back to the Chrysler 200 a few blocks away from the ruins of Devries' house in Forest Hill.

"Park back to back," he said. Once the van was properly positioned, he said to Fairholm, "Open the back door." He said to Hildebrandt and Gibbs, "Give me a hand."

Holtz said, "I can help you."

"Thank you, Johan, but it's time for these three blood clots to stretch their legs . . . and their rather soft spines." He went to the gap between the two vehicles and pushed the button on the fob to release the trunk lid. He then signalled for Fairholm to get out as well and raised the lid. "Get rid of that."

Fairholm said, "How?"

"You are evil scientists now, think of something."

He stood aside to partially block the clearest view any witness might have of what they were doing as well as to force this useless trio to get the man's wrapped body out of the trunk and place it into the van. He handed the cudgel to Holtz. It would just be confiscated if he took it with him. "Put this in my backpack."

Fairholm, usually the loudest squealing pig, was the only one of them who understood the risk they were all facing at this moment and didn't hesitate. He got the car owner out of the trunk and into the van by himself. Hildebrandt and Gibbs could not bring themselves to touch the corpse.

Once Fairholm had closed the rear doors, Weinberg said to them, "After you dispose of that, go back to the house, pack up everything and wait for my call. And you three clean yourselves up and put on some different clothes. You all stink."

# Chapter 52

The call from Special Agent-in-Charge Nyla Rowe was put through to them in the Command and Control Center shortly after Skinner had sent his team to Hunters Point. He spoke privately to her for a few sentences as he walked to the door and locked it. He then put the phone on speaker. "They will be here in a few minutes. What have you got?"

"Josh, I'm afraid I don't have much more than you have already. Frank Gillett is DHS with the highest security clearance regarding any investigation of Proteus Group activities. He has no tethers attached to him."

"He impersonated an FBI agent. He's a material witness to what happened at the hospital to those two cops and pretty much everything else that's going on today."

"Given the threat we are facing, I would suggest we look the other way this time on the impersonation. I'm sure he will tell you all he knows when he gets there. As far as Jacqueline Duquesne is concerned, we have no evidence she or Algernon Devries are associated with the Proteus Group. The same goes for Bourque and Timms-Beck. There is nothing indicating Inspectors Kozlowski or Bridges were having the troubles reported to Captain Calhoun."

"He said the information came from DHS in Washington. Who gave it to him?"

Rowe didn't answer right away. "The trail goes cold."

"Did someone make a mistake? Has someone erected a wall?"

"Both are distinct possibilities, but I will deal with that." She again paused. "Josh, the Proteus Group is all about misdirection and diversion and feints. Their operations often appear simple and obvious at first glance, but are usually multi-faceted and executed with precision to achieve the goals that are important to them. Lately, we have been finding this out after the fact and we sometimes still have difficulty determining what their specific goals were from the operations we've seen."

Laskey said, "You're telling us assassinating the President might not be their only focus."

"It might not even be their main focus. It's entirely possible the threat to President Trotter could be a ruse for something bigger."

Dr. Thorpe said, "What could be bigger than assassinating the President? Are they going to trigger the San Andreas Fault?"

"I wouldn't put it past them to try, but their targets so far have always been people, sometimes their own. Most of the people who have been involved in their operations didn't know who they were working with or that what they were doing was part of some overall objective they weren't aware of. They can have any number of independent groups who are unaware of each other all working on different aspects of the same mission. They are ruthless and brutal and have no compunction about using up and throwing away their own to get things done. My advice is, don't overlook any scenario no matter how inconsequential or improbable it appears. Good luck. Keep me advised. I'll update you with anything we get. And, Josh, remember their manifesto. We need to all stay together on this."

Someone tried to open the door and then knocked. Skinner opened it to let Ellen Forrest in. She brought with her a few sheets of paper.

She scanned the top sheet. "Albuquerque found a CCTV recording of the five men just before they boarded the plane. We can identify the pilot and his partner easily enough because we know what they look like. Two of the other men are too blurry to identify yet. We're working on that. The third man has tentatively been identified as Cornelius Vitesse from Widow Creek, Oregon. He worked at Karyon Research in maintenance for about a year before quitting six months ago."

She flipped to the second sheet. "Barbary Coast Transport, the company that owns the Viaje Costero, is based in Oakland. The three missing crewmembers, two men and a woman started working there just over three months ago. This was their first voyage after completing their training."

Skinner said, "That gives us a timeframe for when they began to implement their plan."

"Whatever that is," Anisha said.

Forrest poked the sheet of paper. "Barbary Coast has no record of that specific cargo being on the ship."

"I don't suppose they have any idea of when and where it might have been loaded," Laskey said.

"No," Forrest replied. "The Viaje Costero was on schedule and reported nothing unusual during their trip."

Wong said, "It could have come from another ship while out at sea. Those three could have left on that ship once the transfer was complete."

"Shit." Skinner started pacing again. "We're getting nowhere."

"There is a connection between the three missing crew and Vitesse. According to Barbary Coast personnel records, all three presented glowing references from Reginald Tate, owner and CEO of Karyon Research, except, according to a report from Special Agent Joan McGowan, Tate claims he's never heard of any of them. They have a record of Vitesse working for them, but not the three from the Viaje Costero."

SWAT Commander Jacob Newton escorted Frank Gillett, Scott Kozlowski and Jacqueline Duquesne into the room. Newton and Forrest then left together.

Duquesne set the box on the table and opened a drawer to reveal the three vials of liquid. He, Skinner, Thorpe and Wong all backed away.

Gillett said, "These two have been with this stuff all day and nothing has happened to them."

Wong asked, "What do they do?"

Duquesne held up the box with the drawer still open. "Other than scare the _merde_ out of everybody, I'm not quite sure."

They all stepped back, including Gillett and Kozlowski this time.

She put the box back on the table, then took off her helmet and bulletproof vest. " _Désolé, il a été une lonque journée de rien ne se passe pour moi_." Sorry, it's been a long day of nothing happening to me.

Kozlowski joined Duquesne at the table. "We were hoping someone here would tell us what they do."

Colonel Thorpe came to the table and took a close look at the ampules. She didn't touch them. "We are aware of a second toxin that dissolves its victim. We were considering the possibility that one of these or all three combine to make it."

Duquesne pushed the drawer closed. "Wouldn't it also be possible that if you mixed these three together the resulting liquid would be green in color?"

"We have considered that possibility, too."

Gillett said, "It is just as likely Weinberg has introduced something new because it suits him to do so at this point. He will do everything he can to keep us off balance."

Inspector Kozlowski asked Laskey, "Did you have a surveillance crew at the Timms-Beck house?"

"No, that was someone else. They were all shot."

"Not them, one in a Jupiter Home Entertainment Installation van."

"We weren't even aware of Timms-Beck until your department advised us of what happened."

"That van was at Timms-Beck's house and it was parked near the apartment in Hunters Point when your teams picked us up."

Forrest came back into the room. She did not come near the table. "We've found another link. Three new employees at the Moscone Center had almost identical references to the missing crew on the Viaje Costero."

Skinner said, "Let me guess, Tate hasn't heard of them either."

"That is correct. He and McGowan are reviewing Karyon's human resources records."

"Doesn't anybody check references these days?"

"Moscone Center Human Resources insists it still has the glowing reference letters requested from Tate. Clearly they were forgeries."

Gillett asked, "Did Tate know what Weinberg was researching at Karyon?"

Forrest shook her head and grimaced. "He knew Weinberg as Dr. James Borne. He was working on the genome of a number of jellyfish species with the goal of eventually developing a pain killer or anti-inflammatory drug."

Gillett shook his head. "That is a good name if you love thrillers."

"Bring those three in," Skinner said.

"None of them came to work today. We've sent agents to their address. They all live together."

Laskey said, "Their part of the mission could be complete."

"There's more," Forrest said. "Because the President is coming, Moscone Center management initiated a top-to-bottom maintenance and servicing protocol." She brought up the sheet of paper she held in her trembling hand. "They had their HVAC and sprinkler system serviced. They also had all the fire extinguishers recharged or replaced."

SWAT Commander Newton escorted a man into the room.

Dr. Thorpe said, "I know you."

Duquesne said, "You were on the buses with us."

Gillett said, "He's been protecting you. That does not mean you should trust him."

The man smiled at his audience. He ran his hand over his prominent forehead and receding hairline. His smile widened when he spotted what was on the table. "I've been looking for that all day."

# Chapter 53

The party celebrating the forty-fifth birthday of Adam Adalbert—also known as Albrecht—the Count von Neipperg was an opulent affair on the warm and dry evening of April 8, 1820 at the Royal Palace of Colorno. The people of Parma loved their Duchess and the Count.

Koertig slipped into the palace with the other guests and found a spot in the large banquet hall to wait for the Count and the Duchess, Marie Louise, to make their entrance.

It was early yet. The Count and the Duchess would not arrive for some time. Once the guests had settled in to their social ritual, he slipped out of the hall, past the harried servants rushing here and there and made his way up the straight stairway to the royal suites.

He grabbed hold of a maid as she scampered down the stairs holding a pitcher. He spoke fluently in Italian, "Where are the Count and the Duchess?"

"I have just come from the Duchess' dressing chamber, sir, to fetch a pitcher of hot water for them." She pointed over his shoulder. "At the top of the stairs it is to your right. There are two Royal Guards at the door, sir."

He released her and she ran down the stairs as fast as she could to make up for the time he'd cost her.

The two Royal Guards stood at the third door along the hallway. Dressed in full military regalia of red and blue with white and green trim work to their tunics, pants and hats, they stood at attention.

He approached, stopped at the door and faced the men. "I am the doctor."

The guard to his left only moved his eyes.

The guard to his right said, "The doctor, sir?"

"The Duchess has requested a doctor. Now open the door without delay."

"The Count said nothing of needing a doctor, sir."

"Did you not see the maid hurry from this room but a minute ago?"

"We did, sir."

"She was carrying a pitcher was she not?"

"I believe so, sir."

Both guards were beginning to fidget.

"She was sent to fetch hot water and a doctor. Are you going to let me in or are you going to explain to the Count why I was delayed?"

The one to his right stepped sideways and reached for the doorknob.

With a thrust of his right hand, he struck the guard in the neck and knocked him into the door. At the same time, he swung the side of his left fist into the face of the other guard. He caught both unconscious men, brought them into the room with him, dropped them to the floor and locked the door.

Marie Louise gasped and turned from her mirror at her dressing table to look straight at him. The Count stood beside her.

What she witnessed was their intruder covering the distance between them faster than Adalbert could react and knock him to the floor. He clubbed Adalbert twice over the head with his fist, knocking him senseless, and then dragged him over to a settee. He put his hands around the dazed man's throat.

"The box, the amulet and the key, Duchess, or I will remove his remaining eye for my pleasure."

Marie Louise Bonaparte, oldest daughter of the Habsburg royal family of Austria, had been described to him as quiet and timid and compliant. Traumatized by the brutal treatment at the hands of her Emperor husband, she was easily frightened. She was also described as a cold-hearted adulteress who had betrayed and abandoned her husband at his time of greatest need.

She did not faint at his threat. She did not blush and tremble or collapse and cower in the face of his overt violence. She did not beg for mercy.

"Your threats are unnecessary here, Dr. Koertig. I cannot give you what you want for I no longer have them. Please let go of my beloved Adam."

"You know who I am."

"My husband told me about you. He told me of your relentless obsession with those items. He warned me of the terrifying power you possess and the danger you present to anyone who would impede you. I assure you, neither of us wishes to stand in your way."

Adam Adalbert's one good eye had rolled up when he'd lost consciousness but had not closed.

Koertig dragged the man to his feet, forced his hands behind his back and pushed him over to the Duchess. He tore the eyepatch from the scar Adalbert had received in battle against Napoleon's forces. She had a clear view of the wound. "Do not force me to do worse than this."

Count von Neipperg moaned and buckled.

He pulled Adalbert straight up, lifting him off the floor for a moment, and took a tight hold of him under his chin. "First, I will break his neck and then I will pull his head off. Do not lie to me again."

She spoke softly. "I have not lied to you, Dr. Koertig. I will not lie to you. I know Napoleon has had people hunting you since the night of his coronation. I know what it is to be driven from one's home and to have the French after you."

Adalbert moaned when he squeezed his neck. "Where are they?"

"Please let Adam go. I assure you I would give them over to you if I had them, but I sent them off by secret courier only three days ago at the request of the former Emperor of France. I was warned you would likely one day arrive at my door demanding them. Please, do let him go. The items you seek are on their way to Saint Helena."

"Why should I believe you?

"Like you, Dr. Koertig, I too reluctantly entered into a relationship with that man. I accepted the decision to send me to him as my duty to my country. I was willing to make that sacrifice. I was, however, not prepared for that Corsican ogre's impulsive brutality the first night we were together. The man whose life you now hold in your hands has helped me gather the pieces of my life back together. He is as dear to me as those items you seek are to you. Surely you can understand that."

He set Adalbert back on the settee. He had to stop him from sliding off and then put his legs up to lie him down.

"I do not presume any theory as to why they are so important to you, but I have no malice toward you, Dr. Koertig. I have no reason to deny you." She rose from her chair and came to her consort. "That man on Saint Helena does." She produced a letter and handed it to him.

Koertig took it as he moved aside for her.

"You have seen for yourself what he did to my Adam. You have no doubt heard of what he did to me. I believe you have experienced a different kind of brutality, but brutality at his hands, nonetheless. I also believe that man has been well aware of you and your whereabouts at all times. He has played his callous game with you for his own amusement. The very being of you is a challenge for him to overcome. But now he is ill. He wants what objects that matter to him close. And he is still determined to defeat you once and for all. This is a matter between only you and Napoleon, Dr. Koertig, as it has always been. Far too many innocent people have died to keep this contest between the two of you going."

She knelt beside the settee and felt Adalbert's forehead. She then kissed it.

"He can stay ahead of you no longer. You must go to Saint Helena. I have been required to forget him to get on with my life. Adam has helped me do that. History will judge me as it wants for what I have done. You, however, must face him. The letter you hold was smuggled off the island as part of his request for those items. Read it, Doctor, and know there is no one on that island who can hinder you."

He read the letter:

My Dearest Marie:

While I have little left in my life now but ignoble misery and regret at the hands of these British dogs, I still have one hope for my rescue.

You will recall my tale of the infamous man-beast, Dr. David Koertig. It is of him I now write to you about. Indeed, this missive serves as my warning to you about him. He is both my implacable foe and the one murderous demon capable of getting me off this accursed island.

The items you are sending me are—how do they put it in that foggy city of pestilence—my bargaining chip.

This man will come to you. He will demand the return of what is his, and rightly so, for those items do belong to him. He will not be put off—as they also say—and he will not hesitate.

As quickly as you can, in order to avoid serious injury or worse, you must tell him the truth. Send him to me as you have the three objects I have requested from you. The great doctor-ghoul will get me off this miserable prison in exchange for the return of his keepsakes.

You are well aware that I am a secular ogre, but if ever there was a man of more than just our physical and sensual world, I believe Koertig is that man. But, again, be prepared, Duchess, for he is an unstoppable monster, powerful and merciless.

Your Emperor still.

Marie Louise, the dull, timid, dutiful sacrifice to the Corsican ogre, would be viewed as no more than an inconsequential historical figure by most; someone swept up in Napoleon's life to provide him with an heir and then swept aside. But her words and the gentle, concerned way she spoke to him in the face of his violence towards them elicited a different consideration within him now.

"Please forgive me, Duchess. I have been made a rampaging fiend by the man you were forced to marry and by my own selfish quest. I will have the things I want, but I will never forgive myself for what I have done to get them."

The maid tried unsuccessfully to open the door before knocking rapidly on hit and calling, "Madam, I have the water."

He unlocked the door and opened it.

The maid rushed into the room cradling the pitcher of steaming hot water in both hands, a towel the only protection she had against the heat. She gasped and staggered back when she spotted the guards on the floor.

"We are celebrating Adam's birthday. You are welcome to join us, David. Another ship leaves from Venice for the south Atlantic in three months. You are also welcome to stay here with us and find what peace you can until then."

He rolled up his sleeves and knelt down beside the Duchess. "Bring the water, girl, quickly."

# Chapter 54

This might be his best chance to kill Weinberg. He was supposed to die at his hands per his own vow. He had killed Maggie Hobbs, turned her into Sleeping Beauty and then traded her to Algernon Devries for whatever he wanted from him. That box sitting on the table might have been the price for Maggie's life and the reason she had suffered such indignity after her death. Now he was standing only a few feet away in a locked room.

Duquesne said to Skinner, "Shouldn't you put him in chains or tie him to a chair?"

What the others in here with them couldn't possibly realize, though, was how evenly matched they were despite his obvious greater size. He benefitted from enhanced anticipation to go with his incredible strength. That gave him an edge during his missions and in any physical confrontation he encountered with a normal human being. But those gifts didn't help him against Weinberg, who either benefitted from the same talents, which would not be surprising at all, or somehow could negate his usual advantage. A straightforward fight between them could go either way. Everyone in the room could be injured or worse and there was no guarantee he could beat this brilliant maniac.

Weinberg had come here of his own free will and appeared ready to help them. But any cooperation from Weinberg was being offered only because it suited his purpose. If the opportunity did present itself after he'd exhausted his usefulness, Weinberg would not leave the San Francisco FBI Field Office alive no matter what help he provided.

Jacqueline Duquesne was the only one keeping watch on him. Everyone else was transfixed by Weinberg. She stepped up to him and put a hand to his chest when he took a stepped forward. He had been unaware of taking it.

She whispered, "We need to get everything we can from him first. You know that, right?"

He nodded but didn't take his gaze off the man.

Weinberg said to his audience with great magnanimity, "I am here to offer what assistance I can."

Skinner unlocked and opened the door. Two of Newton's SWAT team entered the room fully armed and took up positions at the door. They at least had some understanding of how dangerous he was, though it wouldn't likely do them any good.

Skinner said, "You have to know you aren't leaving here no matter what assistance you provide to us. We know you made those toxins, and Agent Gillett has given us a complete report of what you have been doing while _looking_ for that box."

"And I'm sure it was full of exhaustive details, but Frank can also tell you I have a very big ace up my sleeve for just such a situation as this."

He only nodded when Skinner and everyone else looked his way.

"Actually, I have two, but that doesn't matter at the moment."

Dr. Thorpe said, "You were Dr. Cecil Devonshire a few years ago. You worked at the CDC in Atlanta and helped us develop a number of antitoxin inoculations. Then you just disappeared."

Frank said, "He has a habit of going off the grid from time to time."

"I got a better offer."

"From whom?" The apprehension in Thorpe's voice just invigorated Weinberg more.

"From me, and let me tell you, it was a just too good to refuse."

"What is your real name?"

Frank said, "God, do not get him started."

Weinberg might have moderated his laughter because he sensed how close his most dangerous opponent in the room was coming to launching an attack. "Ask your questions, Frank."

"You already know what they are?"

"She felt no pain, I promise you."

"I can't make you the same promise."

"She looks beautiful and quite at peace with her special immortality. Wouldn't you say so, Ms. Duquesne?"

Duquesne put her hand on his chest again and asked, "Why are you helping us?"

"I have my reasons, but I think I will keep certain bits of information about today to myself for now." Weinberg glanced at him. "It is the prudent thing to do. Wouldn't you agree, Frank? I will tell you, however, that those three vials do indeed combine to make an antidote."

Wong asked, "What's in them?"

"Eye of newt, dragonfly wings, the whiskers of a drunken sailor." When no one else but him laughed, he merely said, "Forgive my enthusiasm. It has been a stimulating day."

"Will it work?"

"Of course it will work. The red liquid is my blood. You see, I'm immune to those little ampules of green terror. By the way, has anyone called them nano-grenades yet or biological smart bombs? The other two vials contain ingredients that stabilize and amplify the inoculation, that's all."

"How can you be immune?"

"You wouldn't believe me if I told you."

He said, "He's probably right about that."

"Agent Gillett is also immune. I learned that amazing fact for myself earlier today. I imagine a small percentage of our population is also as fortunate as we two. Isn't that the way it always is? You never fully achieve one hundred percent effectiveness. Even that damned asteroid couldn't finish the job." He looked at all of them. "That would still mean, unfortunately, that Frank and I are likely the only lucky ones in this room. Life is a lottery at best, isn't it?"

Wong took the package of vials out of the drawer. For a moment she appeared ready to throw them at Weinberg to test if his claim of immunity was correct.

Weinberg chuckled at the futility of those who stepped back from Wong. "I told you it is the antidote. It cannot harm any of you, particularly in that form."

"Is this enough?"

"That depends on the situation. You could certainly protect the President and her children and most of her entourage with that amount, but not all the other dignitaries attending the conference. As I said, life is a lottery at best. Sometimes no matter what decisions or actions you take, not everyone will be saved."

A female agent entered the room carrying report printouts. Her face and neck were bright pink.

Weinberg waved for her to come closer. "Every piece is fitting together nicely."

The woman read her notes. She seemed to need to go over them a few times before she said, "We found the three employees from the Moscone Center. They were all dead and plastic like the crew on the Viaje Costero." She started shaking.

"Now you all know," Weinberg said, "that _plastic_ is a rather sloppy and inaccurate description."

"It will do," Duquesne said.

Thorpe asked the agent, "Were there any vials present?"

Wong quickly added, "Or what looked like cigarette cartons?"

She shook her head. "Special Agent Belton reported finding no vials or cartons. They did find a cache of assault rifles and three crates of ammunition. Belton estimates about five thousand rounds."

Thorpe took hold of the woman by her shoulders. "Tell Special Agent Belton and his team they are safe." She looked to Weinberg.

"They are in no danger. The toxin has a little option added to it that neutralizes it two minutes after dispersal into the air. They would have had to walk into a cloud of it that had just been released to be in danger." He shrugged. "Then there is the other indicator."

"What other indicator?"

"They aren't dead. Isn't that right?"

The agent nodded. "We received this report only a few minutes ago. They were inside the apartment for about four minutes after they found the bodies."

"They are definitely fine, then."

She checked the printout. "They also found another dozen assault rifles they didn't recognize. The rifles had a unique design and no markings that would identify who made them." She again scanned the piece of paper she held in her trembling hands. "They also found handguns that Belton has never seen before."

"If Barry hasn't seen them before," Laskey said, "that's scary. Could they be some type of dart pistols and rifles to fire doses of the toxin?"

"I will have him check again." She set the first sheet of paper on the table. "We've found something else that might be another lead. An industrial building in the South Basin on Yosemite Avenue near Keith Street was leased out three months ago, within days of the Viaje Costero crew and the Moscone Center employees being hired. It's a mixed use building. It has a reception area, three offices in the front and fifteen hundred square feet of warehouse capacity with two loading docks at the back. It's inside a gated industrial park."

"Who leased it?"

"When we talked to the real estate agency managing the property, they couldn't find any records of the lease. All the paperwork is missing and their computer records have been completely wiped within the last twelve hours. They are trying to recover what they can. The agency also checked with security at the park while we were talking to them. Four men were seen unloading a Ford Explorer at one of the docks two hours ago. According to security, another group of three more men arrived about ten minutes ago in a black van. Both vehicles are still there and security hasn't seen anyone leave."

Josh Skinner said to the SWAT guards, "Get your commander in here."

One of the men left.

Frank said, "I will go with them."

Duquesne asked, "Is that it? Are they the only ones? Are we going to be that lucky after all that's happened today?"

Weinberg replied, "Do you realize how many live venues are ongoing at any one time in a city as exciting as San Francisco? There is not only the International Conference on the Health and Welfare of Children at the Moscone Center, there is also Dr. Thorpe's NATO convention at the Mission Bay Conference Center at UCSF. There are movies, plays and busy malls for all those sad people who still don't shop online. With so many in such confined spaces, it's almost too easy. It is conceivable that anywhere indoors in San Francisco could be a target today, or any other day, for that matter. And let's not forget outdoor events either like the Forty-niners game against the Seahawks tomorrow, or the anti-poverty protest camp near the President's high-profile conference."

Silence took over the room. Every face but Weinberg's froze with identical expressions on them that came close to matching the horror-struck _plastic_ stillness on the face he had stumbled over at the crash site.

Duquesne walked over to Weinberg. After a tirade of curses and insults in French, she shoved him. "You are having too much fun. Why are you helping us?"

"I do not believe killing the President or so many other dignitaries and people of importance, or of no importance at all, is the right course of action today."

"You're telling us you have no qualms about doing something like that? Assassinating the President doesn't matter to you?"

"If it is the most efficacious way of achieving one's goals, I have no qualms whatsoever."

"You are psychotic."

"And you, _ma chère fille_ , would have looked lovely under glass. I can understand why Algernon almost picked you instead."

She punched him in the eye and started kicking him.

Kozlowski and Laskey pulled her away. The remaining SWAT guard aimed his rifle at Weinberg.

He gently prodded around his eye and smiled.

Duquesne shook her hand. " _Merde_. I dislocated my finger."

Both Wong and Thorpe proceeded to help her. Wong held her hand while Kozlowski held her arms. Thorpe pulled her right ring finger and put it back in place.

As soon as they let her go, she went after Weinberg again.

He stepped between them and stopped her. "We still need him." He then turned on Weinberg. A frisson went through him when Weinberg stepped back in anticipation of an attack. "How long will it take to mix up the antidote?"

"I just need a few gallons of water and a place to work where I won't be interrupted for twenty minutes. It will be up to someone else to gather all the syringes you can find."

He said to Skinner, "I'd put two guards on him with orders to shoot if he even blinks too fast."

Skinner left the room and returned with two agents holding AR-15s. "This way." Skinner and the two men took Weinberg and the package of ampules away.

Why hadn't Weinberg implicated Chase in all this? Why allude to him only as an ace? Over the years, they had worked together as much as they had been at each other's throat. Chase had been the main reason Weinberg had gone off the grid so many times.

Chase had tracked Weinberg down and come after him, but everything that was happening today had all the earmarks of a joint operation between those two, though not one that was going smoothly. Chase had no more qualms about who was killed during his operations than Weinberg had. What was Weinberg's other ace?

While Dr. Wong secured an icepack someone had brought in around Duquesne's hand with an elastic bandage, Duquesne asked, "Is there someone on the inside of President Trotter's entourage?"

Three of them said in unison, "Jesus."

"Isn't that what the Proteus Group does? It puts people in strategic locations, plants them where they would be most effective. And sometimes the people don't know who they are working for and what the real reason is behind what they are being told to do. If I've learned anything from today, it is that these lunatics are resourceful and probably capable of putting someone close to President Trotter, or else using someone already close to her."

Laskey said to the woman agent, "Ellen, notify the teams at the Moscone Center to check the HVAC, the sprinkler system and the fire extinguishers again."

"I think they already have."

"Then tell them to do it again."

She left the room.

He said, "The Moscone Center and the Mission Bay Conference Center should be our main focus."

Laskey asked, "Why?"

"Because Weinberg specifically mentioned those two places, plus the anti-poverty protest camp and the football stadium; he knows what is going on. You won't force details out of him, but he is here and he can never resist leaking something just to keep the game going. Get them evacuated now."

Duquesne asked, "What about President Trotter?"

"There will be no opening for her to speak at. There is no reason for her to get off Air Force One."

The woman agent rushed back into the room. "We got something from the Moscone Center. They've kept CCTV video for the previous seventy-two hours per orders from Secret Service. Last night, the cameras recorded an old woman coming into the center, but they lost her. She is never seen again. No camera anywhere picks her up. Two hours later, they record a tall man dressed as a priest leaving the center, but there is no video of him ever entering."

"We'll take another team—"

"Wait!" She sat down at the table. "On the second check of the HVAC, HRT found a hidden connection to high-pressure gas canisters like those ones that hold oxygen and nitrogen. The three canisters were stashed in a janitor's closet. They also found one of the cleaning staff dead in the room."

Laskey asked, "Plastic?"

She shook her head and covered her mouth.

Wong asked, "Dissolved?"

"No." She squeezed her eyes shut but she couldn't stop her tears. "Just dead, shot in the back of the head. He was likely killed last night."

Thorpe said to Laskey, "I'm coming with you."

Kozlowski poured the agent a glass of water. "I'll come too."

"Ellen, are you okay?"

She nodded. "I'll call everyone, SFPD, DEA, CHP, Sherriff's Department, National Guard, and let them know."

Skinner came back in. "Air Force One just landed. And we've just found out an anonymous donor has provided care packages to the protesters."

Thorpe said, "I'll take a team there instead. Get word to the camp's leaders to collect all the packages. Tell them to be careful about any aerosol dispensers like breath fresheners, hair sprays, deodorants, disinfectant. No, forget that. Just tell them to leave everything and get out of the park."

# Chapter 55

Security at Bayview Business Park consisted of a chain link gate on wheels that slid opened and closed, and a guardhouse beside the entrance. A shed of plywood and glass barely large enough to hold three people, it was painted the same orange and white colors of the park's neon sign. The security guard who came out of the gatehouse when he arrived with Jacob Newton's six man SWAT unit was barely out of his teens.

He was pointing as he came to them. "It's about halfway down on your right. It has a greenhouse section running along the front of the reception area." He showed them a floorplan of the building. "It's the first of two identical plans flipped and attached to each other like a duplex. If they were in the front, they would be visible. I've had camera six fixed on it since you called. I've seen no activity in there. Camera nine has the view of the back. The Explorer and the van are still there, but I haven't seen anyone go in or out for the last twenty-five minutes."

Frank asked, "What's your name?"

"Seth Emmerson." He led Frank and Jacob into the cramped gatehouse.

A bank of six twelve-inch color monitors sat inside a custom-made cabinet in two rows of three.

Emmerson pointed to the top one at the left end and the one beside it. "We have twenty-four cameras throughout the site." He pointed up and around as he spoke then pointed back to the monitors. "We can cycle through four cameras on each monitor."

The left top corner monitor displayed the glass front along the target building. The glass curved up into a slanted roof section that fastened to the wall six feet below the flat roof. The monitor beside it displayed the two loading docks and about sixty feet of back lane. The loading dock doors were closed. The Explorer was parked at one, the van at the other.

"Is there any other way out?" Newton signalled his six men to get ready but remain at the van.

"This is the only way in or out." He pointed to the razor wire at the top of the chain link fence, which itself was fifteen feet high. "I don't think they would try climbing that." He pointed out two rows of three metallic circles surrounded by metal rings imbedded in the asphalt, one row behind the gate, one in front of it. "If they tried to ram their way in or out and I saw them coming I can raise the barricades. If I have to step away from my post, an automated system will raise them if any vehicle approaches from either side at over ten miles per hour."

Despite Emmerson's apathetic pride in the barricades—likely metal-encased concrete cylinders three or four feet high—and the monitors in the gatehouse, none of it could stop the terrorists they were going to face. The fact that two groups of them were already on the other side of the gate was proof of that.

Emmerson then asked, "What's going on? And is it happening all over the city?"

"Why would you ask that?"

"Check this out." Emmerson held up his smartphone. "My buddy just texted me from UCSF; the whole campus is being evacuated." He selected what he wanted and stretched his fingers over the screen to expand the image. "Watch." He tapped the screen.

People were walking along the campus grounds. Some were jogging. Some were running. SFPD and campus security were ushering people to proceed in various directions as quickly as possible. They were doing all they could to prevent a stampede.

An excited man's voice was describing the action. "Oh, man, Seth, you should be here. This is just too fantastic. I mean, man, you should be here _right_ _now_. It's freakin' chaos. These storm troopers and the mall cops come in and order all of us out, like, _NOW_! Everyone, man, get it. Shit, Seth, I mean everyone, students, staff, faculty. You should see Professor Fripp trying to run in those heels. I swear to you, man, she's trying to hold up her pantyhose and her papers are going everywhere; it's just ridiculous. There are phats and pawgs jiggling everywhere, Seth. Sweet stuff, man" The speed of the evacuation was accelerating. "Oh, shit, man, holly fuck-me-all-night. Seth, that guy in the wheelchair from our criminology class, someone just plowed right into him. Oh, man, look at that. Another guy had to hurdle two men down. It's getting wild here, dude. You are missing an awesome freak show."

Emmerson said, "That's Stevie. He and Douger were in the library when it all started."

He did another few slight-of-hand movements with his fingers and showed them another display. It was at the Moscone Center from outside. People were hustling out every door the video showed.

A female voice said, "It's scary, Seth. They won't tell us if it's chemical or a fire or madmen. They just told us to get out."

"My girlfriend works part-time there in Accounts. She just sent this before you arrived. Now you're here. What's happening?"

Newton snatched the phone away.

"Hey, man, that's mine."

"National security," Newton said and took it with him when he returned to his men.

Frank stopped Emmerson from going after Newton. "He's right, Seth. It is a matter of national security right now. I promise you will get your phone back."

"It will all be wiped out, won't it?"

"Yes."

"That won't do you any good. There has to be hundreds more out there recording what's happening, maybe thousands. Face it, man. It's going to be everywhere. That's life these days; real time . . . as it happens."

"Have you a car nearby?"

"It's on the other side of the gate."

He took Emmerson into the gatehouse and opened the gate. "Get in and drive as far away as you can?"

"To where?"

"It doesn't matter, go south, go north, but go, and don't come back until you hear it is okay to come back." He took Emmerson by the arm and walked him to his Nissan Versa.

"What about Jenny, Stevie and Douger?"

He opened the door. "They're safe."

Newton and one of his men came back to the gatehouse.

"What about my phone?"

"Jennifer's number is on it, right? Stevie's, too, right?" He shoved Emmerson down into the driver's seat. "And Douger's?"

"Yeah."

"I'll call one of them and let them know where and when. Now go." He aimed his Beretta at the Versa and kept it aimed at the car as Emmerson drove away.

Newton and the rest of his crew entered the park. "Billick will monitor from the gatehouse. We'll take the back lane."

"There are seven from the vehicles. We don't know how many might already be inside."

Once they were through the gate, Newton and three of his men jogged right between the first two buildings to get to the back lane.

He led the two men with him along the main road through the site. The building they needed to reach was the sixth one down. The front of the one just before it protruded six feet further onto the road. They kept close to the other buildings to use that protrusion as cover. Once they passed that, anyone in the reception area would see them coming. The third building they reached was the same duplex design as the target building. Frank took a peek in to get a glimpse of what the reception area might present to them as obstacles to the warehouse.

"Look out!"

Two armed men ran out onto the main drive and opened fire on them with assault rifles. Gunshots started behind the buildings at the same time.

One of Newton's men went down with a wound to his left leg. He returned fire from where he lay on the road.

He and the other SWAT agent returned fire but were forced back around the corner of the building.

The gunfire from the back lane was a rapid, nonstop exchange.

The glass at the front of the building shattered and exploded, forcing them further back until they were unable to see the two men firing at them.

The downed SWAT agent stopped shooting.

A grenade came bouncing around the corner of the building and rolled toward them.

Frank grabbed his partner and tossed him ten feet away before running onto the main road and returning fire. The grenade exploded, destroying what was left of the glass wall at the front of the building.

One of the two men he was shooting at went down. The other one ran toward the back lane while continuing to shoot. The firefight behind the target building was still ferocious and nonstop.

Frank checked the downed SWAT agent. He was still alive but unable to return fire. His smoking rifle lay a few feet from him.

The agent he'd tossed away returned. "Thanks." He picked up his partner's rifle.

They dragged the wounded agent across the road and put him behind a dumpster.

Frank checked the wound in his leg. "It didn't hit any major artery but it tore up some muscle pretty good. There's not much bleeding."

He took his rifle back. "I'm good. Get that son of a bitch."

"This way."

They ran between two bullet-ridden buildings past two bullet-ridden delivery vans to the back lane.

The man was waiting for them and opened fire the moment he saw them.

"Keep him busy."

Frank handed over his AR-15, backed up and jumped up onto the top of a dumpster. From there, he jumped up to the flat roof of the single-floor building.

From the roof he could see Newton and his men pinned down by fire from the other terrorists. One agent was down. The rest had found cover behind delivery vehicles or dumpsters. Newton was behind a forklift.

Two of the terrorists were down near the Explorer. Two other terrorists were using pallets at the loading dock for cover. Another was on his stomach under a partially raised door. That one didn't have a good angle of fire against Newton's men, but he could duck back into the building easily enough and close the door if anyone advanced on him.

The man keeping his partner occupied was ducking back and forth from behind the back corner of the building Frank was standing on.

He took out his Beretta and ran to the corner above the man. Rather than shoot him when he got there, however, he secured the gun back into its holster and instead dropped the fifteen feet from the roof onto him.

His partner was beside him in a few seconds securing the unconscious terrorist.

"I'm going in through the front."

Three terrorists were down. One was out of commission with who knew how many broken bones after a two hundred and fifty pound man had dropped onto him. Frank had felt them breaking when he landed.

The first of three grenade explosions at the back came as he smashed through the glass door at the front. A brief pause to listen indicated Newton's team was being forced back. Their gunfire was retreating toward the gate.

He found a hallway between the offices that took him to the door to the warehouse. A wire-reinforced window one foot square offered a direct view of the man lying under the open door as well as the supplies inside the warehouse.

The man under the loading dock door rolled two more grenades out to one of the men on the dock. Two more explosions quickly followed.

Frank tried the knob. The door wasn't locked and opened easily. He took out his gun and slipped into the warehouse. He wasn't law enforcement, he was national security. He was there to stop them not arrest them. He had left one man broken but still able to answer questions. All he needed to do here was push the button he found beside the door. It was only a matter of how fast the loading dock door descended.

When the man under it started firing again, he pushed the button. The noise of the gunfire didn't mask the noise of the door coming down as much as he'd hoped, but the confusion it created was sufficient to catch the terrorist under it.

A man he hadn't noticed rolled away from under the dropping door into the warehouse. At first, the man just stood there looking at it trying to see why it had betrayed him. When he regained enough wits to look for another reason for its sudden descent, he spotted Frank coming toward him with his Beretta aimed at him.

Frank shot him six times.

The man under the door was dead. The shooting outside quickly subsided and Newton started yelling for the two men on the dock to get face down on the ground with their hands on their heads.

He found the other button for the doors and opened the one that had nearly taken off a head.

After first signalling to Newton that the place was secure and he was unharmed, he looked around at what was in there. One of these units had been the phoney FBI team. The cargo containers from the crash site were here. A check of each container confirmed that no cartons of vials were missing.

As in the apartment where the three Moscone Center employees had been found, there was also a cache of assault rifles and two crates of ammunition for each of the different models. A quick estimate tallied forty rifles and another 5000 rounds.

There were also the same unusual rifles and pistols as the FBI unit had found at the apartment. Laskey's guess had been right, they were dart guns powered by compressed gas. They were plastic, fabricated on sophisticated 3D printers. They could be dismantled into parts that would disguise what they really were to almost every security check that hadn't been briefed on what to look for.

Floorplans for the Moscone Center as well as for the NATO convention at UCSF and a list of products for personal use to be placed into a supply of plastic bags—care packages—sat atop a table.

A rectangular khaki satchel lay at the other end of the table, something that might hold a tablet. He didn't find a tablet that contained all the details of the terrorist plot or who was behind it. What he did find in it was more vials and a folded piece of paper with information on it about a more immediate danger.

Newton came into the warehouse. "Skinner says UCSF and the Moscone Center have been evacuated. So far, they haven't found anything else dangerous but those canisters at Moscone. Colonel Thorpe's team has just arrived at the protesters camp. Some of her USAMRIID conference colleagues have joined her. _They_ all got hazmat suits to wear. Our other team is on its way to the stadium."

He handed over the list of care package supplies. "Get that information to Thorpe."

Newton scanned the list. "Shit. It's all there just like she said." He headed for the back lane with his hand to his ear. His men gathered around him.

Frank took the satchel with him and left through the front of the building. The arrival of ambulances and fire trucks provided the distraction. He boosted a delivery van and left Bayview Business Park. He again checked what was written on the piece of paper as he drove through the open gate and muttered every curse he could think of. Some were meant for Weinberg and Chase. Most of them were aimed at himself for having been so goddamn stupid.

# Chapter 56

The huge crowd surrounding the Moscone Center just highlighted the scale of what might have happened if the evacuation hadn't been in time. Hundreds of people, dignitaries from around the world, staff, volunteers, visitors and security personnel circled the perimeter of the center along all four streets. Some of them were being treated for minor injuries or shock. Many were in tears and clinging to whomever they were with. At least two groups of children visitors were huddled together while their adult chaperones counted them and tried to keep every child as calm as possible.

Fourth Street had the highest density of people. They flowed from the edge of the street, up the stairs and into Yerba Buena Gardens at the center of the complex. Fourth, Howard, Third and Folsom were blocked at the corners by fire trucks, SWAT vehicles from FBI, DHP, Sherriff's Department vehicles and SFPD patrol cars. Police, DHP and Sherriff's Department personnel stood on guard at the corners of the streets and at the doors to every building at the center. Other units were evacuating other buildings around the center to establish a cordon perimeter of two blocks in each direction.

Kozlowski noticed the people waving at them from the stairs leading to Yerba Buena Gardens a moment before he did. "Are those your people?"

"The two with them are Thorpe's people, Brent Hayes and Melissa Quinn." He parked on Fourth Street.

Special Agents Dexter Raines and Tammy Gates brought Hayes and Quinn with them.

Hayes talked all the way from the stairs to their car and was still going as fast as he could when he and Kozlowski got out.

". . . at this for days. We're barely a quarter of the way through the search."

Kozlowski said, "You got a date tonight?"

Hayes glared at him but stopped talking.

Quinn smiled and looked the other way.

Gates said, "Dr. Hayes was just pointing out the scope of the danger still facing us. We have sealed off the maintenance room that contains the canisters until we figure out a way to disconnect them. It doesn't look like anyone tampered with the sprinkler system. It will take another hour to remove all the fire extinguishers because HRT has to go slow. We do have a trailer to put them in, though. If there is something else in there, it could take a very long time before they find it."

"Or," Hayes said, likely again for the benefit of the new arrivals, "it could go off or be turned on—triggered, I suppose—before we get to it."

Dr. Quinn looked at all the confused people milling about. Some of them seemed to be migrating closer. "It's going to take some time to get all these people out of here. Buses are on the way." She patted her very agitated colleague on the shoulder. "There are only six of the HRT unit searching the complex because that's all the hazmat suits they have. Another dozen are on the way here."

He asked, "How long will it take eighteen people in hazmat suits to complete the search?"

Hayes said, "I hope they're done with their Christmas shopping."

"I wouldn't even guess. Unless we get lucky, it could take at least two days."

"The President?"

Raines answered, "She's still at the airport waiting in Air Force One. If we can't confirm the center is clear by morning, she will have to fly to her next stop in Dallas. Senator Shelly Hampstead will give the introductory speech instead. Trotter will return for the closing ceremony to give her speech then."

"She was to give her speech in the Gateway Ballroom."

"That was the first place they searched." Quinn ushered them back to the car to get away from the crowd that was closing in around them. "They searched it and all the other rooms on that floor. They removed all the fire extinguishers." She wiped away some auburn hair from her face when a gust of wind buffeted them. "They found nothing else."

"That could be a good thing."

Rain started falling as she nodded.

Hayes looked up at the clouds coming in from the Pacific. "Good. It's hard enough to use an aerosol attack outdoors on a perfect day. Rain and wind will make it all but impossible."

Quinn said, "We had discussed the possibility that the terrorists might have anticipated the evacuation and had a contingency plan in place."

Kozlowski talked briefly to a group of people who had come too close and gently guided them back into the crowd.

"I thought the toxin could get into our bodies through the skin as well."

"It can, yes, but breathing it in is still likely the more effective vector. The rain and wind could rinse most of it out of the air if it is sprayed. That increases the chance of if not being inhaled or anyone getting a large enough dose through the skin to be fatal."

"In theory, of course," Quinn said. "The fact is, Agent Laskey, as Cynthia told you at the field office, we don't know how much of this stuff is needed to be fatal either by breathing it in or having it make contact with your skin or swallowing it."

His phone started ringing. "Laskey."

Skinner said, "What's your status?"

"They are going through the center now. It's a slow process because there are only six hazmat suits available. They found nothing where the President was supposed to give her speech."

"No gunmen?"

"None so far."

"Newton and Gillett weren't so lucky. There were eight armed men at the Bayview site. Three of our men were wounded. None of the wounds are life-threatening. Five of the terrorists are dead, three are in custody. One will likely die from injuries sustained when Gillett dropped onto him." Skinner said something to Weinberg at his end, who responded with unfaltering arrogant confidence. "The antidote is almost ready." He lowered his voice. "Do you trust Weinberg?"

"Do you?"

"They also found the list of supplies provided to the protesters. That will help Thorpe and her crew. They contained everything she mentioned: breath freshener sprays, hair sprays, perfume and cologne sample sprayers, liquid hand soap."

"Jesus."

The rain increased to a hard downpour.

"Marvelous," Hayes said and raised his face as if praying to the huge drops soaking everyone.

"There are no reports of any incidents there. The organizers have evacuated everyone. DEA and ATF have joined our crew at the stadium. Thorpe will go there once she is through at the park. She's requested help from the Army." Skinner lowered his voice again. "Gillett has disappeared. Newton's sure he saw him take something from the warehouse with him."

"What is he—"

The explosion inside the trailer storing the removed fire extinguishers sent the crowd screaming and running in every direction.

# Chapter 57

Skinner entered the nearly empty and very quiet Command Center room.

"Bayview was a firefight, but it's secure. The supplies taken from the plane appear to be all there. Six of the fire extinguishers removed from the Moscone Center exploded, but they were contained inside a sealed trailer. They made a big noise, but no one was inside with them."

Dr. Wong asked, "Did they have the toxin inside?"

He nodded. "Three were not certified extinguishers. They had been switched. They had explosive canisters inside them that contained the toxin. When they exploded, they set off three real extinguishers. The carbon dioxide from them appears to have suppressed or neutralized it. I will leave it to Thorpe's group to figure out exactly what happened. Laskey reports three heart attacks in the panic, but all are expected to survive. Everyone is being moved another two blocks farther away."

She said, "You would think they would know carbon dioxide would stop the toxin."

"Maybe they did," Wong said. "Special Agent Rowe told us the Proteus Group is all about misdirection and feints. The extinguishers could be one of those. The danger at the Moscone Center might not be over yet. Anywhere in the city could still be a target."

"If something else becomes a target, we are spread too thin to provide an effective response. Frank Gillett has disappeared."

She asked, "Where did he go?"

"He just left."

"What about UCSF?"

"They've found nothing there. It will likely be back in operation before the Moscone Center. President Trotter has to leave for Dallas by morning to attend another engagement. She will come back for the end of the conference. They are collecting supply packages at the protester camp and will compare the contents with a list found at Bayview. The search of the stadium has just started."

He walked over to the table and looked down at the jewelry box, then at the carton of ampules Dr. Wong had brought from the crash site and then at the jewelry box again. "What do you two think of Weinberg?"

She let Wong answer first. "The devil we know at the moment. He did come to us voluntarily."

"Why would he do that? He had to know before he came in that we wouldn't let him go. I don't care what aces he thinks he can pull out."

"Maybe his plans have changed. He did tell us killing the President and anyone else is not the way to go . . . today."

She said, "He isn't afraid of any of us, or of being trapped here. I'm willing to just shoot him and see how we do on our own."

Wong said, "Even after he protected you all day?"

"He wasn't protecting us, he was using us to transport that. For all we know, he could have wanted it to end up here all along. And even if he thinks today is a bad day to kill the President, it's been good enough for him to have killed at least six other people." She asked Skinner, "What do you think of him?"

"Rowe's people will be here soon. She tells me he's the best chance she has of getting deeper into the Proteus Group. I'm to hand him over to them. Then he and his aces will be her problem." He picked up the box and handed it to her. "He wants us to bring that and the vials to him. He tells me he needs both to complete his work."

"Another change of plans?"

When Skinner didn't pick up the carton, Dr. Wong did.

"This way." Skinner led them out of the room and down a long corridor, which probably only seemed darker than it should be because of who they were taking the items to.

Wong limped a few steps behind them. She grunted once and put her hand against the wall when she stopped. "I'm good," she said when they started back for her.

Weinberg sat in an interrogation room working at the table in it. There were two mixing bowls, a white, five-gallon plastic bucket with liquid in it and two bottles of water still capped in front of him. Six empty bottles lay strewn about the room. The room, about eight feet by ten, was too small to share with someone like Weinberg.

"Wonderful," he said and smacked his lips as if they had just delivered his favorite dessert.

Dr. Wong placed the carton on the table and stepped back to stand beside the two agents at the door.

She placed the jewelry box next to it. "Why would Frank Gillett suddenly disappear?"

"I assure you, Jacqueline, I have no idea. Frank is one of those dour black-ops, super-agent fellows, talented killers who are unbelievably self-reliant and resourceful and who never smile. He rarely concerns himself with anything but his mission." He smiled.

She'd rather he hadn't. She was unable to prevent a shiver from passing through her while he was looking at her. "And what would that mission be?"

His smile broadened into a Cheshire grin. "Again, I must plead ignorance. Though we have known each other for the better part of seven years, we are not close. After what he's been through, I am amazed he still does what he does rather than just succumb to his inherent melancholy. Some might call him inscrutable now, but I knew him when he still believed the pen was . . . well, a long time ago, while he was in the process of transforming into what he is today after his great big personal failure."

"That's probably why he warned us to shoot you if we get the chance."

"He didn't exactly put it that way, Jacqueline. I believe he was only suggesting that you be cautious. I would surmise that is a fairly standard piece of advice from him about me."

He couldn't be baited. That conclusion only made her shiver and want to attack him again. When she had struck the man with Gunner's surfing trophy, she had come close to just continuing to hit him. As the man fell to the floor, however, other considerations about her predicament became more important. Weinberg took her beyond any other considerations but his end.

"Now, if you will just give me a few minutes to complete my work, I have a fascinating story to tell you about that box you have been taking care of for me."

Everyone moved back to the door when Weinberg picked up the carton. The two guards cocked their rifles and aimed them.

Wong asked, "Is this really necessary?"

He slid out the foam holding the three vials of green liquid. "Yes, Dr. Wong, it is. I need the toxin to activate the antitoxin."

"Are you telling us the truth?"

He grunted a short, hard laugh. "We will know soon enough." He held up the first vial. "I know I should be in a properly equipped level four biosafety laboratory, but as long as I am careful, we will be fine. And don't forget, I am immune."

"Why create something like that?"

"It wasn't my original intention. I was working on jellyfish venom and one aspect of my research led to another aspect and then another until I had the beginnings of this. Isn't that the way with most great discoveries in science?"

She couldn't attack him now. He might drop the vials.

Weinberg tossed a vial into the bucket. There was no obvious reaction. He dropped the other two vials into the bucket.

"They will dissolve," he said. "Despite their appearance, they are not glass but plastic designed to do just that."

The liquid in the bucket began to generate a white vapor.

Skinner grabbed Wong and took her out of the room. The two guards followed them out.

"Stay, Jacqueline, please. _J'insiste_." He nodded for her to close the door. "We don't want any of this to escape and create undue panic, do we?"

She closed the door. The four others looked in through the observation window.

"It will only take about two minutes to complete all its boiling and bubbling. We are quite safe." He picked up the jewelry box. "Do you know what these are?"

"Alchemical symbols."

"I carved them into this thing many, many years ago. Algernon just loved them. You know how he was. He thought they made this plain wooden container for a Romanian warrior's heroic heart all the more magical. Dracula's faded stain of blood on the inside of it was insufficient for him, I suppose."

"Algernon did like to pretend he lived in a world of magic."

"I sometimes wondered why he didn't build a theme park." He checked the contents of the bucket. "Algernon had this box for quite a while before I got it back. I'll wager he neglected to tell you that. In fact, he had that stain sanded and polished out the first time the box was in his possession."

The vapor from the bucket was dissipating. Her heart raced when some of it began drifting toward her.

Weinberg dispersed it with a wave. "He sent it back to me in exchange for a little favor I did for him, one magical symbol for another, you might say. In all his excitement, he didn't tell you about that either did he? You know as well as I how excited Algernon could get about not just the item, but the pursuit of it and negotiating for it. That back and forth between buyer and seller was his tonic, wouldn't you say, Jacqueline? It probably just slipped his mind to mention that he had been negotiating the return of it not the original purchase."

Weinberg looked into the bucket again. "Algernon rarely relinquished his desire for any part of his collection, however. It only made sense that he would eventually want Dracula's jewelry box back where he believed it belonged. For me, it was just a matter of waiting for the right moment, the right deal to present itself. I will admit that I nudged the timetable along some by sending him that locket from Vlad's crown."

"What was—"

"Ah ha, it's done." He clapped his hands and waved to Skinner and the others to come back in.

The guards came back into the room first and aimed their rifles at him. One of them might have been trying to hold his breath.

He placed the lid on top of the bucket and snapped it into place. "Get this and all the syringes you can find to wherever you think it might be needed most."

Skinner hesitated.

"It is perfectly safe. You will notice Ms. Duquesne, _mon petit canari_ , is suffering no ill effects." He smiled. "I would hardly try anything on the third floor of the San Francisco FBI Field Office."

Skinner stepped up to the table but jerked back when Weinberg shoved the bucket across it to him. Everyone stepped back.

Weinberg laughed. "I'm sorry. I just had to have a little fun with you. But you will notice nothing spilled out." He licked his fingers and checked his watch.

She asked, " _C'est ça? Êtes vous fait_?"

"That's it. I am done."

"Why do you want the box back?"

He seemed to be genuinely puzzled by her question for a few seconds. "Because it belongs to me." He checked his watch again. "I do have a confession to make. The contents of this bucket are quite unnecessary now."

Skinner was the one unable to resist Weinberg's bait. "Why?"

"Those nano-grenades lose thirty percent of their potency within twenty-four hours. After forty-eight hours, the loss is close to seventy percent. One would all but have to produce the toxin on site for it to be completely effective." He tapped the lid of the bucket.

Anisha limped closer to him. "You are telling us there was no real danger."

"Oh, there was danger, just not as much as you might have thought."

"Then why do this?"

"That is always the big question, isn't it?"

Two explosions went off outside the field office at ground level. The windows facing the front of the building rattled.

Weinberg checked his watch again and nodded as smoke billowed up to the third floor. "Five . . . four . . . three . . . two . . . one . . . boom."

Another bomb exploded inside on their floor. The observation window to the room rattled and cracked. Thick blue and white smoke quickly filled the central office area.

As this day and the relentless danger they were facing dragged on, she had felt she was becoming more sluggish. Sensory overload and constant fear was numbing her perception and reactions. She was at risk of just seizing up and shutting down, becoming a mannequin without needing to be exposed to Weinberg's engineered toxin. Her brain could barely keep up with the speed of what happened next.

In the immediate confusion after the second explosion, Weinberg grabbed the bucket, flipped off the lid and threw it at Skinner and the two guards. They scattered from the pale blue liquid that splashed out when the bucket hit the floor.

Weinberg stepped into Skinner and slammed him into the wall. He then grabbed away the gun from the closest guard and struck him once in the chest and twice in the head with it.

The third guard had been the closest to Weinberg and had been struck by the bucket. He was covered in what was supposed to be the antidote. Understandably, he had dropped his rifle and was trying to get his jacket, shirt and pants off as fast as he could. He was holding his breath now.

Wong was uncertain about whether or not to try to help him.

She noticed his rifle close to her feet at the same time Weinberg passed from the left edge of her vision to the center of it. He grabbed the guard and kneed him in the stomach. He then smashed him into the wall, but rather than just let the man fall to the floor as he had with Skinner, he lifted the agent over his head and threw him onto the table.

She picked up the rifle when Weinberg came for the jewelry box. Wong limped over to check on Skinner.

Fire alarms started. The sprinkler system activated. Nothing outside the room was visible through the smoke in the corridor.

A scream started to come out of her as Weinberg came rapidly closer. She clenched her mouth shut, stepped back, raised the gun and squeezed the trigger. The trigger clicked but the gun didn't fire. When she tried again, the trigger wouldn't budge.

Weinberg reached for the gun and stepped into her with his palm coming for her face.

She ducked away from the blow, twisted away still holding the rifle and swung it at the back of his head. There was no satisfaction there. She was unstable when she swung. The gun slid along his upper back and only made him shrug off the minor pain it caused him. She planted her feet and swung again as hard as she could.

Weinberg blocked her attack with the same hand he'd aimed at her face.

Striking his hand felt like striking a wall. It loosened her grip.

Weinberg snatch the rifle away, flipped it to aim it at her and switched off the safety.

She tensed for impact from the shot and glared into his eyes. " _Putain de salaud_." Fucking bastard.

He smiled, nodded politely and punched her in the jaw.

Wong might have been coming to her aid. As she dropped, a dark figure appeared to jump onto Weinberg's back. Her eyes blinked against her will in response to the painful throbs cascading along her jaw up to her temples. They remained closed longer than she wanted. When they opened again, she was on the floor, the dark figure was rolling back and forth and moaning beside her and Weinberg was leaving the interrogation room with Dracula's jewelry box tucked under his arm.

He quickly vanished into the smoke and spray of water outside the room. A moment later everything else vanished.

When the pain and her vision came back, Wong was sitting next to her saying, "You can't shoot him. He's gone."

They were both soaking wet. Wong had got her into a sitting position on the floor and was holding a cold, wet cloth to the back of her neck.

Her legs were straight and splayed out in front of her the way she used to sit on the floor in front of the television as a child. The rifle lay across her lap. She clenched her hands around it to keep from crying.

The alarms had stopped. The sprinklers had stopped.

Wong was still talking to her. "And it is a good thing he is. The way you were hollering and thrashing about, I think you were more dangerous to him unconscious."

They were the only two in the room.

Wong pulled on her wet sweatshirt. "All three of them are fine. Weinberg didn't lie about what was in the bucket. It might not be an antidote, but it wasn't dangerous. They are trying to find us some dry clothes." She pointed to the upright bucket. "There's still some inside it. It's diluted because of the sprinklers, but I got the lid back on. We will be able to analyze what's left. And we have the cargo from the plane now, too."

"Am I the only one who thinks Weinberg no longer cares about that stuff? Was all this staged because he wanted that ugly box back?"

"You are not the only one." Wong helped her to her feet. She had a bloody gash on her right cheek. "They think he must have put two smoke bombs in litter cans outside before he came in. They are also presuming the car that blew up with only a loud bang and more smoke was his, too. According to one of the agents who escorted him in, he had to stop to blow his nose and then throw the tissue he'd used into a garbage can by the elevators."

"The one that exploded." Her face flushed. Pain stabbed at her temples and her chin.

"It was only a small smoke bomb, but some paper in the can caught fire when it exploded."

"Weinberg and the box are gone. One potential attack was prevented. Everywhere that was supposed to be a target appears to be safe and secure. What happens next? Does anything happen next? Are we finally done here? Where did Special Agent Adam Triplett go? Why didn't we kill that bastard when we had the chance?"

Anisha Wong grabbed hold of her as the room spun away and vanished again.

# Chapter 58

The approach to San Francisco International Airport at night always reminded him of those scenes in science fiction movies showing a spacecraft arriving at some gigantic space station. The lights of the airport sparkled like stars in the drizzle. Once he had parked his truck in the Domestic Parking lot, he checked the note on the folded piece of paper again and then the contents of the satchel. The problem was how to get to Air Force One and the President.

Air Force One was self-sufficient. It didn't depend on any airport's facilities wherever it landed. If the President, her children and her entourage were on the plane and surrounded by security, it should be impossible for anyone without clearance to get near her.

The attack would have to be a rocket launch or a commando assault on the Boeing 747-8. Both were possibilities, but not what the note implied was going to happen. The contents of the satchel also supported the apparent intentions of the note.

With the President waiting for an update on the status of the Moscone Center, the attacker had only a short time before she disembarked to go give her speech or, more likely, Air Force One took off for its next stop in Dallas.

He looked at the handwritten note again: _Pres at SFO n AF1. DOA n DFW_.

Someone had gotten word to the units in Bayview that President Trotter was still on Air Force One. The second part of the message could either be instructions for the next phase of the mission or simply a statement that someone else was going to attack the President before she arrived.

For President Trotter to be dead on arrival at Dallas-Fort Worth, the attack would have to take place during the flight or as AF1 landed at DFW. To attack in flight, there had to be a plant on Air Force One, and it did not have to be someone close to the President.

He opened the satchel and looked in at six ampules of green liquid. These ampules were larger than the ones found at the crash site. Each of them held 100cc's of liquid. There was enough here to be effective on board a flight even in a plane as large as a Boeing 747-8.

He took out his other phone and made the call.

Nyla Rowe answered, "Where are you, Frank?"

"San Francisco International; I need your help."

"Why should I trust you? Chase just told me you took something from Bayview that you shouldn't have and that you might have gone off the reservation on your assignment. He's warned everyone to be on the lookout for you. That includes security for Air Force One."

"I could ask you why you might believe him, but that discussion will have to wait. You can trust me today. Can you get word to the President's security team?"

"I can, why?"

"Someone is going to try to assassinate her and I'm not sure I can get to her in time to stop them. I'm not sure I can get to her at all."

"What is it?"

He explained the note and the satchel. "Better contact DFW and advise them of a possible attempt on landing."

"Just hold on." Rowe talked to someone at her end. "We're contacting them now." She said something sharp to someone and then cursed. "Frank."

"What?"

"We're not getting any response. You heard about Weinberg's escape, right? He took the box."

"I've kept track of everything."

"Why would he take an empty antique jewelry box with him?"

"Why does he do anything?

"Could he be after the President?"

"I don't think so, but I'll watch for him." He got out of his truck and headed for International Terminal A. Air Force One was parked southwest of it on an open section of tarmac.

He had a good view of the top of the Boeing 747-8 once he passed the BART station.

"Any luck yet?"

"Still trying. They could be. . . ."

"I don't see any activity. I don't see any guards but I don't have a full view of the plane. Keep calling, I'm going to try to get to it."

"We've contacted airport security and told them. Just have your badge ready and they will help you."

"Tell them to keep back. I don't want a crowd approaching the plane."

"Copy that. We're advising DFW now."

The silence over the phone as he made his way to security, and was then taken to a set of stairs to get outside at ground level, was the eeriest silence he'd ever experienced. Someone was going to make an attempt on the President's life. Every alarm in the nation should be going off.

A train of luggage buggies and another train of cargo containers near the plane created a partial barrier. They screened the lower front portion of the Boeing from him now that he was on the ground. The airport lights cast shadows on the fuselage of the plane that created the illusion of it having missing sections. He could see no one looking out the windows or any movement within.

"Anything?"

"We're trying all the numbers we have. We've contacted the White House. They are trying, too. What do you see?"

"I can't see anyone on the ground. Part of my view is blocked. The security vehicles are there, though, as is the limousine."

"We've got someone. No . . . wait . . . the line just went dead." Rowe was hollering for someone to re-establish contact.

He started running toward the plane.

Two Secret Service men stood at the bottom of the stairs that led up to the front door of the plane. The door was closed.

He slowed to a walk. "It looks okay. Two guards are at the stairs. Still no luck?"

"None. Dammit. Be careful, Frank."

He came around the end of the cargo containers with his badge held up.

One of the men touched his ear and spoke to someone. The other one held up his hand for Frank to stop where he was. The one touching his ear wasn't getting through. He tapped at his device and tried again to make contact. Just after he turned to his partner to alert him he went down. The other one went down two seconds later.

Frank ducked back behind a cargo container. "We have shots. I didn't hear anything but the two agents just went down."

Someone came running toward the plane from his left. A man dressed as a pilot stopped at the bottom of the stairs to inspect the two fallen agents.

Frank recognized the plastic dart pistol in his hand.

"I've got him. Send everyone you can." He ran for the stairs.

The man spotted him the moment he had to cross an illuminated section of ground. He fired twice and then started his dash up the stairs.

One dart struck Frank's right shoulder. He quickly knocked it away but hot, stabbing pain shot along his right arm and spread along his neck up to his face. His right eye swelled rapidly and closed. His right arm wouldn't rise to aim his gun.

Halfway up the stairs, the man looked back. He stopped when he saw his third target hadn't gone down.

The numbness was spreading quickly along his right side. Frank dropped to one knee, lifted his right arm with his left and aimed. His finger wouldn't squeeze the trigger. He took the gun with his left hand and switched to his other knee, but toppled backward before he could take a shot.

The man started up the stairs again rather than fire another dart.

Still lying on his back, Frank raised his left hand and opened fire. His first six shots hit the stairs. The seventh struck the man behind his left knee when he was three steps from the top.

Two agents opened the door and came out onto the top platform of the stairs. As soon as they saw the man in the pilot suit, they began shooting.

The man tumbled to the ground and landed between the two darted guards.

Frank dropped his gun, rose to his knees, held up his badge with his left hand and shouted, "Homeland Security. Is everyone all right?" He couldn't be sure his words had come out clearly because his chin, tongue and lips had gone numb. He dropped his badge and couldn't make his fingers take hold of it again.

One agent slipped back into the plane. The other came down the stairs with his gun aimed at Frank. Faces appeared in the windows of the Boeing.

The agent checked his credentials before handing Frank his gun and badge. "Special Agent Nyla Rowe finally got through. We had some glitch with our communications and electrical systems for a few minutes. There was also some delay in getting the secondary system going. They tell me it's all fixed now. DFW is clear."

He just said, "I thought it would be more elaborate and subtler than this."

"We saw a dart hit you. Why didn't you go down?"

"Blame that on the folly of a minor god." He shook his right arm as the numbness in it became a sharp, prickling tingle. He tasted blood. He had bit his tongue.

SPFD and airport security arrived with their guns drawn.

As the Secret Service agent dealt with their reinforcements, Frank checked the two darted agents. They were dead but they hadn't become mannequins and they hadn't dissolved. What else had Weinberg created?

The attacker had a satchel identical to the one he was carrying. Inside it were a dozen of the smaller ampules intended to be used in the dart gun still held in his right hand. They contained a black liquid as viscous as oil. They were mounted inside twelve small darts, which were contained in two magazines ready to be loaded into the pistol and fired.

President Carol Trotter stood on the platform at the top of the stairs. The one agent with her was trying to convince her to retreat back into the plane. Her teenage daughter and eight-year-old son were peeking out windows at him. Her daughter might have been crying.

He held a thumb up to the boy.

President Trotter's son held up one in return and saluted him. Her daughter wiped her eyes and waved before some shadows pulled both of them back out of sight.

He picked up the attacker's satchel and handed both satchels over to the agent as his phone began to ring. "Get these to Colonel Cynthia Thorpe."

Weinberg said, "You taught me a very valuable lesson today, Frank. I will leave it to you to figure out what that was. Say hello to Tim for me." Before Weinberg terminated the call, he sent a picture of Maggie Hobbs as Sleeping Beauty lying inside her glass coffin. "See what I mean, beautiful forever."

# Chapter 59

Mrs. Lydia Cherot, the innkeeper's wife, entered his room with a tray of bread and cheese, a surprisingly well prepared roast hen and another bottle of that disappointing wine. "I have just heard, Dr. Koertig. He is dying." She set the tray on the small table by the open window and left, wiping her hands on her apron as if to be finished with her role as his agent.

Though Major General Sir Hudson Lowe had undoubtedly ordered that information remain restricted to Longwood, the news was racing through Jamestown on the night of May 3, 1821. Mrs. Cherot had likely been one of the first to receive it. He had been correct to choose her.

The voyage aboard the Rosa del Mare, a commercial schooner out of Venice under contract to the East India Company, took over six months to get to the Cape of Good Hope, the closest he could come to Saint Helena due to the security measures the British had imposed on the man he had come to kill. After being forced to remain in the Cape for a further two months until he could secure passage to the island, he arrived at Jamestown two nights ago.

He had spent the time gathering all the information he could from Mrs. Cherot and surveying the level of security surrounding Longwood. It would be easy to breach.

The night of May 4, after killing two drunken British guards, he made his way to the northwest corner of Longwood. It had also been easy to discover what rooms Napoleon used. Lowe was incapable of providing sufficient attention to the details of censorship and propaganda to completely cut off Napoleon's lines of communication.

The candlelight in Napoleon's bedroom was extinguished shortly after midnight.

He climbed the outside of Longwood using railings, trellises and drain pipes. He entered the bedroom through the west-facing window.

Napoleon lay on his back with the blankets pulled up around him to leave only his pale, sickly face and greasy hair showing. A malnourished and shrunken child, he was desperately trying to swaddle himself against the cold. His breathing was shallow and ragged, his chest barely moved.

Koertig went straight to the bed, removed a small vial of liquid and a hollow dart. After placing the dart into the vial to draw up some of the liquid, he put his thumb over one end, withdrew the dart from the vial and jabbed it into a vein on Napoleon's right hand. He then placed his mouth to the end of the dart and exhaled to force the liquid into Napoleon.

The little corporal opened his eyes. Upon seeing who sat beside him, he licked his lips and opened his mouth.

Koertig poured the rest of the contents from the vial into Napoleon. The bug would barely live long enough to regret his dazed trust.

"Dr. Koertig," Napoleon said with great effort, "how wonderful to see you again." He did not attempt to sit up. "The English oligarchy is full of lazy and incompetent assassins who force me to suffer this menial end. I had hoped you could help me one last time, Doctor, but you have come too late."

"Where are they?"

"Though we have been apart these seventeen years, I feel as if we have never been separated. How many have you killed in that time?"

"Six. Where are they?"

"Six of my agents have fallen. Do you know, Dr. Koertig, how badly I have been treated? That British fool lacks any respect, consideration or the appropriate energy of attention due me. They have murdered me incrementally using little more than bad water, foul smells and a constant circle of damp, cold clouds around me."

"I have come for what is mine, General. I will not be denied any longer." He noticed a lump under the covers.

Napoleon pulled the lump closer to his body. "My meals have been of such meager and spoiled proportions as to make this squalled rock in the middle of nowhere truly a most miserable dungeon. It would have been better to just shoot me straight away. A musket ball is much preferred to the callous indifference I have been forced to endure. I should rather have died on any one of the fields of battle I ever stood on than this dreary, wet stone."

Koertig drew back the bedding to uncover the jewelry box.

Napoleon barely had the strength to lift it to his chest. "I feel an energy flowing through me, Dr. Koertig. Would it be this box or what you gave me? I choose to believe a bit of both."

"It won't last long. Where is the key? Where is my locket?"

"I never could get that infernal trinket open. Do you have any of that other elixir?"

"I do, but first I must have the key and the locket."

Napoleon opened the lid of the box. "Look." Both rested inside it.

He withdrew the elixir from his satchel.

"I did love them both, differently, of course, but I could only respect one of them."

He helped Napoleon up to drink the concoction and then set him back down into bed.

"I feel better already, Doctor, thank you. My stomach has only ever responded to that wonderful concoction you prepare for me. Would you tell me what it is? I assure you I will take the secret with me."

"General, it is my blood you drink."

Napoleon shivered. "It is so cold here." His eyes began to close, his chin dropped.

Koertig took the jewelry box and its contents from him.

"Please, David, I have lost my army, my rank, my country and the one woman I loved above all others. This is all I have now." No longer able to resist what was inside him, he closed his eyes, fell asleep and started snoring.

"Then you have nothing."

The door opened. Dr. Barry O'Meara and Napoleon's valet, Louis Marchand, stepped into the room behind two lit candles.

O'Meara said, "Sir, we heard—"

The candles stopped moving. The two men held hands up to protect their sources of light as a gust of wind buffeted them.

He closed the door behind them. "Good evening, gentlemen."

"You!" Marchand's gasp almost blew out his candle.

"Does no one remember my name?" He came around to stand in front of them. "That is perhaps for the best this time. Reveal my visit here tonight or the existence of this box to anyone and I will find you as I did all the others."

He blew out the candles and then left the way he came.

He arose early the next morning and ate a delicious breakfast.

Mr. Cherot came to take his bags to the ship one hour before departure as requested. "Where are you headed, Doctor?"

"I shall rest for a time in Rio de Janeiro, innkeeper, before I return to my responsibilities." He carried the bag with the box and amulets in it.

Mrs. Cherot came running up the stairs when they exited his room, her hands twisted up in her apron. "He's dead, Sir. He died in the night. They say an undetectable poison finished him off."

# Chapter 60

She remained in San Francisco at the request of DHS, FBI and SFPD. She had talked several times to Special Agent Laskey about what she had gone through on Saturday with Inspector Kozlowski. She had talked several times with Inspector Kozlowski and SFPD Internal Affairs together and separately. Kozlowski had mostly only wanted to see how she was holding up and for now that was how they kept it, the future, who knew. Internal Affairs were corroborating Kozlowski's story of what _went_ _down_ at Hawk Hill Park with her.

By Tuesday all of that was wrapped up and the swelling in her jaw from Weinberg's punch was mostly gone. The purple of the bruise had turned yellow and was fading. Her right middle and ring fingers were still taped together to support her healing knuckle. As with her jaw, the swelling in her finger had decreased considerably.

Having nothing else to do once all those men of letters were done with her, the loss of Algernon, as well as Luther and Rosalie, set in. She had visited the burned-out ruins of Algernon's mansion in Forest Hill.

Luther's gaunt face came easily and clearly to her, as did Rosalie's calm, youthful, smiling countenance. Algernon's thin-lipped, toothy, vampire smile, his ever so slightly furrowed brow making his pale, clear, perfect skin take on a creased, papery texture when he was cross with her—a more frequent occurrence than she had previously acknowledged, in retrospect—all evanesced the moment she tried to clamp onto the memory of him.

Luther's face, Rosalie's face; they just popped into full bloom the instant she thought of them. Algernon's face popped into existence, too, but just as instantly it was shrouded in fog, shrivelled away and then evaporated. What did that say about their relationship?

She had been closer to Algernon Devries than anyone else in her adult life. Early in their relationship, she had done almost everything he asked of her until she realized she had to set clear limits or he would devour her.

Had she loved him? No. That word was far too strong for what passed between them. She couldn't possibly love him. As much as Algernon wanted to collect, he had little need or desire for such emotions to touch him. He would view love for him with the same disdain he had for dust settling on his collection.

She wouldn't argue with the assertion that she had been fond of him. He had behaved himself within the limits and ultimatums between them that she had—in retrospect—constantly been required to establish and defend. But what level of fondness had she felt?

Algernon was certainly not a father figure. He wasn't her lover. He sure as hell did not play an avuncular role in her life. Always denying her concerns and complaints, he was no confidant. Nonetheless, he had been omnipresent in her life. He had left her little time—no time, in retrospect—for anything or anyone else. For twelve years, for good and bad, Algernon Devries had been the only one in her life. As demanding, selfish and aggravating as he could be, they had reached some level of emotional attachment.

She should feel a hole inside her, something missing, an emptiness, if not growing at least incessant. That was what she should be experiencing.

But if Weinberg was to be believed, she almost became Sleeping Beauty. How could she grieve for a man who was willing to do that to her? She may have grown fond of Algernon, but she had merely become another obsession for him, something else he needed to have, indeed—in retrospect—just something else that belonged to him, and he was not about to ever lose possession of her.

" _Baiseur fou, putrid_." Crazy, putrid fucker.

On the way back to Luther's house on Nob Hill, she pulled the rental over to the side of the road and banged on the steering wheel until her healing finger and the palms of both hands hurt. " _Vous ne devez pas céder à cette nostalgie morbide_." You must not give in to this morbid nostalgia. She turned the car around and returned to the Donatello Hotel in Union Square.

On Wednesday, Special Agent Laskey dropped by only to tell her that she, Laskey and Kozlowski had been invited to meet with President Carol Trotter at the Moscone Center Thursday night after she gave her speech at the close of the conference.

Near midnight, four solemn Secret Service men ushered them into a room at the Moscone Center set up to accommodate a group of fifty people or less.

The lead Secret Service man said, "You three are the last to speak to the President. Everyone else involved with last Saturday's events have seen her in one capacity or another and have returned to their original duties."

A white board near the windows across from where they entered had a crude drawing of the planet and its continents on it. Lines of thick black ink projected from the drawing. At the ends of those lines were the names of countries identified as known or suspected of using child slave labor. Some of the countries identified also had second lines indicating a connection to sex trafficking. It was a messy drawing because very few countries had not been poked with a line.

At the end of the room opposite where they entered, two Secret Service men stood guard at each of the three sets of double doors. In front of them, three tables covered with white cloths were laid out with a buffet of food from end to end.

President Carol Trotter, accompanied by another four Secret Service men—the burliest of the bunch—entered through the middle set of doors. Over a dozen people came in behind her and proceeded to gather at the tables. Trotter and her guards proceeded to a table away from the buffet. She signalled for them to join her once she was seated.

She held out her hand to Jacqueline. "Ms. Duquesne, how have you been these past few days?"

"Healing." She shook the President's hand and did feel a tingle go through her. "Madam President, I only came to San Francisco to retrieve an old jewelry box for my boss. _Tout ce qui s'est passé n'était pas ma faute_." Everything else that happened was not my fault.

Trotter laughed and gave her hand a squeeze before letting go. She then shook hands with Laskey and Kozlowski. "Please be seated, all of you."

A total of eight agents surrounded them and turned their backs to the table.

There was only one other table in the room that didn't have food on it. It would seat six to eight people but none of the people filling their plates took a chair. Every single one of them kept their gaze focused on the occupied and shielded table.

Trotter said, "It is a small post-conference gathering with selected members of the news media. In a few minutes, they will start asking questions again about the conference and about last Saturday. It is my hope that full stomachs at this late hour will lead to easier questions."

" _Il a jamais_?" Has it ever?

"Not so far." She put her palms on the table and sighed. "I feel compelled to ask you three, though I suspect I already know the answer. Do any of you know where Frank Gillett is?"

Kozlowski only glanced at her before they all shook their heads. None of them wanted to say 'no' to the President of the United States.

"I had to ask. Now for the reason I invited you here." Trotter looked at her. "While you are a visitor from Canada and certainly not a member of law enforcement or security, I think it is only fair that I fill in what blanks I can for you after what you were forced to go through. You do understand that after you leave this room, you must behave as if you have no memory of what I tell you."

" _J'aimerais oublier tout ce qui s'est passé_." I would love to forget all that happened.

"First of all, I have been informed that three scientists formerly associated with Harvey Weinberg and his work at Karyon Research, were all found dead this week. All three of them were killed by the same toxin that killed my guards, the same toxin that was intended for me and my children."

She held up her hand to stop any questions. She smiled a bit. "If only it was that easy with the press. They had all gone into hiding. One went to the Basque region of Spain. He was a specialist in venom research. A second worked in something they tell me is called quantum computing that can break any encryption any current computer can use. He had fled to One Hundred Mile House in your home province of British Columbia. The third was hiding in Buenos Aires. Again I have to rely on my advisors, but he was an expert at malware detection and elimination as well as encryption coding. And that brings me to the cause of our communications and electrical problems on Air Force One last Saturday evening: my daughter, Vanessa."

"I don't need to know any of this."

"No, Jacqueline, but you deserve to know."

Trotter smiled up at two reporters approaching their guarded table and shook her head. The two reporters turned back to the table to refill their plates.

"Even the President does not escape parental responsibilities or difficulties or teenage rebellion. Against her parent's orders, and indeed our Secret Service's explicit instructions not to, Vanessa developed a friendship over the internet about three months ago. This friend was very attractive, very sympathetic and very friendly, but he was also very careful. He only introduced himself as Josh Heppner, fifteen, from Towson, on their eighth exchange. He lived with his divorced father, a professor at Towson University.

"He resisted any efforts to meet or exchange pictures. He told Vanessa they should just remain internet friends because she was the President's daughter. He also warned her to be careful and stop contacting him if that might get her into trouble."

Laskey said, "Clever, make himself attractive but unobtainable: irresistible."

"The first clue that he wasn't just Josh Heppner from Towson was when he figured out who Vanessa was. She had disguised herself with a fake identity. I guess she thought that would make it less disobedient. But he exposed her quickly."

"Who is Josh Heppner?"

"We still haven't found any such person."

"He sent her something."

"That is the second clue that she wasn't dealing with just a fifteen-year-old. He had her take a walk by the Washington Monument. There was nothing amazing about that on the surface because she had two security people with her. But he had her sit at a specific bench. There was some sort of distraction and she took the opportunity to retrieve a USB flash drive taped to the underside of the bench. But Vanessa didn't forget all of her training. At first, she didn't do anything with it, until just before we landed in San Francisco. She hadn't heard from him for almost a week by that time."

"What was on it?"

"Only pictures of a teenager with long, straight blond hair that flopped and waved over his face, the bluest eyes you could imagine for a teenage girl who loves blue eyes, soft, handsome features and even the beginning of a silly moustache."

Jacqueline said, "Beautiful and non-threatening."

"For a photo-shopped teen idol he was perfect. He had sent her pictures of flowers from parks in Towson, and a dozen or so selfies of him with his new puppy playing on the carpet in a very cozy family room."

"Then he turned it up a notch."

"There was a video of him in an alpine field, possibly the Rocky Mountains. He was dancing and singing. It was a song he claimed to have written just for her. I have not seen it, but I was told it had high production values."

After she waved off those same two reporters again, Kozlowski asked, "When did it go bad?"

"While we were waiting in the plane for word from the Moscone Center, she tried to watch the video again. My experts tell me the program was perfectly aware of date, time and location. With a few simple questions to her, the program quickly evaluated the situation. Vanessa thought she was talking to Josh. The AI concluded the time was right and that it was inside Air Force One. It connected to the plane's computer system and electronics and with what they call a brute force attack infected our communications and avionics equipment. If this had happened while we were in the air, our transponders and such would have given false readings to Dallas-Fort Worth. We would have probably crashed when we attempted to land. While my amazing flight crew was able to reboot the system quite quickly, NSA is still trying to figure everything out. They have identified some malicious code imbedded in the flash drive's firmware."

Laskey said, "That's when Gillett arrived."

"Thank God he did."

She asked, "How is Vanessa taking all this?"

"She threw up constantly for two days, but she's tough and a lot wiser now." She looked around at the edgy reporters, most of whom had finished eating and were now fixated on their guarded, irresistible table. "The conference is a success. We have reached agreements on a number of protocols concerning the issues of health and welfare of children, particularly in developing countries."

"That is what you will tell the press, but what happens after everyone goes home?"

"I am hopeful the follow through will be there." She shook hands with each of them again. "Thank you all for everything you did to prevent a major catastrophe. What will you do now, Ms. Duquesne?"

"My original career goal was a job in our foreign affairs department. A post in Paris or Rome would be nice, maybe New York or Washington."

"If you require a letter of recommendation, you only need ask."

"I'm sure, Madame President, your letter will carry more credibility than one from Reginald Tate. _Merci_."

Trotter chuckled. "I believe you have a flight to catch. Good night."

Being the President of the United States with over a dozen reporters now rapacious for everything she was going to say, Trotter left it to the same four Secret Service men to escort them out. Once outside, Agent Laskey just shook hands with each of them and left.

Kozlowski said, "We withheld information from the President. Gillett has likely gone after Weinberg."

"And so has her people. I'm sure they will meet up somewhere along the way." She shook his hand. "The thing that bothers me most is the realization that I had been living my life with a level of morality, conscience and compassion barely higher than Weinberg goes about his business. It had always been about getting what Algernon wanted no matter what it took and then collecting my fee."

"First of all, I don't believe that. Secondly, you definitely displayed a high level of those three traits when it mattered. _Prendre soin, Jacqueline, et voyages sûrs dans votre avenir_." Take care, Jacqueline, and safe journeys in your future. He kissed her cheek just above what was left of the bruise and returned to his car.

She drove back to the Donatello, packed the few clothes she had been required to buy, checked out and headed for her flight back to Vancouver aboard Algernon's jet.

# Chapter 61

By the _metre de Archives_ meridional standard established by the French First Republic in 1799, they were rising to approximately 1900 meters above Latorita Valley in the Transylvanian Alps of Wallachia. Brother Constantin Ciobanu, though forty-five years on this earth, easily handled the climb along the twisting path, but Brother Gavil Matei, though only twenty-one and new to the order, struggled to keep up with them.

They all carried packs about the same weight. He hardly noticed his pack. Brother Ciobanu, though the shortest of the trio, was thick, solid and robust. Brother Matei was the tallest of them, but he was slight, with long, thin, weak arms, legs and face. His pale complexion had become ruddy with effort shortly after they began their journey.

Brother Ciobanu glanced back at his struggling novice before an unfriendly smile spread across his face. "Soon, Dr. Koertig, our order will wither to nothing if Brother Matei is all we can recruit to it. While his proclamations would have you believe he is devout in faith and worthy of the burden, his body tells a much softer tale of his level of dedication. There is no future for the order in men like him."

They rested at the top of the trail just beyond the end of the trees at the southern edge of a plateau of bare, brown earth, patches of snow and low scrub trembling in the wind scarping across the land.

Brother Matei finally caught up to them, dropped his pack to the ground and collapsed onto it. His sigh of exhaustion was certainly heavier than he was.

The bottom of the late September sun was about to touch the elevated horizon. Clouds were coming in quickly from the southwest. The heavy snowfall he'd been waiting for would come tonight.

Ciobanu pointed due north. "You can just see the top of the monastery, Dr. Koertig. Its highest roof is between those two crags. See it? The one to the left is that rounded hump, but the projection to the right has not yet had its sharp peak eroded away." He scowled back at Brother Matei. "We should still make it in time."

The next exchange of words between them came once they had completed their trek across the plateau to reach the monastery.

Brother Matei found enough breath to say, "This is how it should be. His heart belongs to Wallachia, not with those cloistered Italian madmen."

Before knocking on the door, Brother Ciobanu said, "We are doomed by the words of fools."

One stooped and silent monk, perhaps halfway between Matei and Ciobanu in age, opened the heavy wooden door, having to exert a good deal of effort to do so. Upon their entrance into the great hall, the monk merely pointed out the direction they must go, closed the door against the freezing wind that had gusted in behind them and went back to whatever task he had been doing before their arrival.

Brother Ciobanu would be a reliable and valuable assistant during the ritual.

Brother Matei once again relieved himself of his heavy load with a loud grunt. "I am hungry." He clutched at his stomach as if it was causing him great pain. Though also required for the ritual, Brother Matei would make a better sacrifice if only one was called for.

Koertig headed for the stairs the silent monk had pointed to. Brother Ciobanu followed.

"There surely is time enough for supper first." Ignored, Brother Matei grunted again when he picked up his pack and fell in a distance behind them as he had coming up the mountain.

At the bottom of a set of steps carved out of stone, Koertig placed the key he'd recovered from Saint Helena in the lock of a door as equally thick and heavy as the one at the entrance to the monastery.

Brother Ciobanu proceeded to light a number of candles and lanterns as Koertig turned the key to unlock the door.

He pushed the door open with one hand, took a lantern from Ciobanu and stepped into a chamber. Also carved out of the stone, it was barely large enough for the small wooden table and the chair pushed in under it. The three men who would now seal themselves inside for the hours it would take to complete the ritual would have to be careful with their duties to avoid bumping into each other.

Brother Matei stumbled into the chamber last, tripping over his pack when it fell from his grasp and falling into Brother Ciobanu. Both men were knocked into the stone wall. Brother Ciobanu, amid curses uttered too fast to catch all of them, dropped the lamp and candle he was holding.

The table and chair vanished into the darkness until Koertig set his lantern down. He lit another lamp and then the ceremonial candle that had been left on the table years ago. Once Ciobanu had regained his feet and relit his candle and lamp, Koertig sat at the table and placed the jewelry box on the top of it.

The stooped monk appeared at the open door. Still silent, he stepped through, placed the locket removed from the Drăculea crown onto the table, stepped back out and closed the door.

Matei asked, "Is that the locket you recovered when you found the box? Is that the one you kept hidden from Napoleon?"

"I sent it here to the care of your brothers, yes."

"Stop asking your stupid questions and get started."

Ciobanu and Matei proceeded to unload the items they had brought with them in order to fulfill their responsibilities for the ritual.

He opened the lid and withdrew a key from Vlad's locket. He then pressed down on one of the scales between the dragon's wings near its shoulders and slid it forward to reveal a small slot. The key slipped into the slot as if something had taken hold of it from inside the box. He gave it a quarter turn to the left. The normally soft click of the lock sounded harder in this stone room. He then carefully pushed the key a bit further in and turned it one complete clockwise rotation.

The second click was inaudible over the novice's heavy breathing through his gaping mouth. "Good God in Heaven."

"Get on with your duties," Ciobanu growled.

Brother Matei took the six human skulls from his pack and placed them in the niches carved into the stone. He recited the prayers required of him at each niche barely loud enough to be heard as any more than a hiss. Upon their completion, he then rested a cross with a dagger carved in relief on it in each reliquary alongside each skull. The hilt of each carved dagger terminated with dragon wings at the blade. The end of the handle was a carved dragon's head.

Matei could at least perform that part of the ritual as he should.

He withdrew the key and returned it to Vlad's locket, took hold of each of the dragon's wings, lifted them up with a forward rotation, opened them and then pressed down to lower them as if the dragon was spreading its wings to take flight. After they clicked into place, he pulled each one out, set them aside and dismantled the jewelry box.

Sections slipped out of their interlocking positions easily. The empty drawer slid out. It was the only piece that did not come apart. Once the pieces of the jewelry box were laid out on the table, he took from his pack a bundle of leather, undid the cord holding it closed and unrolled it to reveal the knives and chisels he would use.

Brother Ciobanu was performing his blessings of the human skulls. Brother Matei was placing the skulls of an ox, a wolf and an eagle in their designated niches. No cross and dagger would be placed with them.

Carving the symbols into the outside of each section of the box took over two hours to complete. As he went about his work, Ciobanu unobtrusively lit the incense and set the three censers in their proper positions on the table. Ciobanu also replaced the candles and the lamps on the table with new ones as the light from each dimmed. Once all the carvings on the outside were completed, Koertig proceeded to the next step of inscribing the runes onto the inside of the lid. The runes would be concealed once the box was back together.

"Dr. Koertig," Matei asked. "Will there be time for a meal before you leave?"

"Be quiet, you fool and go about your responsibilities."

"Forgive me, brother." His stomach gurgled loudly.

Ciobanu again growled from the shadows, "Heaven will be lost to empty stomachs."

Inscribing the runes took half as long as carving the symbols. Ciobanu made sure his light was maintained at the level he required. Then it was time for his locket to play its role.

He placed it on the table, unfastening the clasp and slipped the chain out of the gold loop it went through. He then used the pin of the clasp to press into the tiny indent on the edge of the locket that had been concealed by the chain. The bejewelled front of the locket popped open to reveal three chambers, each barely large enough to hold a small coin.

Each chamber contained a hollow glass sphere the size of a pea.

Brother Matei's face suddenly leaned into the glow of his lamp. "Is that them?"

Ciobanu pulled him back into the darkness. "Just focus on your tasks and your incantations or I will smash your useless head against the wall."

"But how can you protect something that small?"

"That is not our concern." In the darkness, Ciobanu smacked Matei on the head. "Now get back to work."

Protecting something as minute as these three glass spheres and what they contained was indeed what they were here to do.

He said, "Do what you must now."

"As you command, Dr. Koertig." There was another slapping noise followed by the angry order, "Face the wall, Brother Matei, as required of you, and do not turn around until given permission to do so."

The sacrifice of Grace and his unborn daughter was unfortunate but necessary.

He pricked his finger as he chanted the last incantation and squeezed one drop onto each sphere before closing the locket. He then put the lid back together and placed the locket inside the rune-marked compartment it created under the handle formed by the dragon. He put the rest of the jewelry box back together and attached the lid to it.

"You can turn around now."

"Look," Matei cried, "they are dancing."

"They are not dancing," Ciobanu scolded. "It is just an effect on the symbols from the flickering of the lamp." He stepped up to the table and said to Koertig, "It is ready."

Koertig held the lid of the jewelry box open while Ciobanu withdrew Vlad's preserved heart from the jar it had been stored in. He placed it back into its coffin. One third its original size, it was little more now than a desiccated, leathery vestige of the man it came from.

Koertig closed the lid and locked the box.

Together, he and Ciobanu carried the jewelry box to the last section of wall the two monks had been preparing. They placed the box on a shelf inside a hole large enough to hold a crouching man. The same key that had unlocked the door to this chamber now locked the metal door he closed on the hole.

Matei and Ciobanu lifted the stones they had removed from the wall and put them back in place to hide the door. The stones were heavy. They struggled to get some of them up and back where they belonged.

He could have lifted them easily, but he did not help them. The stones were their responsibility. Instead, he retrieved both lockets and placed the two keys inside Vlad's larger one.

Brother Matei couldn't stand straight after they were finished, though everything they had brought with them had been left behind in the chamber and he was now unburdened. Once again, he trailed behind them as they ascended the stairs.

Dr. Koertig went straight to the entrance door and opened it rather than wait for the stooped monk to come perform his last duty to him.

Brother Ciobanu asked, "When will you return?"

"When the world has caught up to me." He walked out into the falling snow.

# Chapter 62

Holtz turned off 95 onto Moyie River Road as instructed and drove south far enough to be shielded from view from the highway. He then drove the Expedition onto a gravel road and into the woods to further conceal them.

If a plane flew overhead with infrared surveillance capabilities, they might be spotted—Fairholm was certainly generating enough heat with all his fidgeting—but otherwise the canopy of the trees Holtz had parked under would keep them hidden.

"We will be crossing at Eastport in a few minutes. You all need to remember your new identities and you need to behave yourself. We are just going camping and fishing."

After moving all the corpses into place and then disposing of them in the house fire, Fairholm had actually calmed down and remained the calmest of the three scientists until about an hour ago.

Fairholm looked out the back window of the Expedition. "They will be looking for us at the crossing."

"Why would they be looking for you? As far as they know only I was involved in what happened. If they've found the bodies, and I'm pretty sure they have, they will think we're all dead by our own hand. By the time they learn the truth, we will be at the cabin."

Fairholm was correct about going north being a greater risk to them. They could have gone to the facility in Mexico, but a lower profile and a higher level of isolation was required for what they were to do next.

Holtz gave each of the trio a scowl and then him a look of enquiry. The contrast between Johan Holtz and the other members of his unit was only becoming starker. Holtz had completed his mission at the Moscone Center with the aplomb of James Bond or Jason Bourne. Those other three were more like that slapstick trio of stooges from the last century.

"I still need them," he said.

"Need us for what?"

"Mathias, hand me the backpack, please?"

Gibbs sorted through their gear in the back of the Expedition. He was noisy and clumsy and rushed as if they were about to be apprehended.

"Take your time. We are in no hurry."

Hildebrandt helped Gibbs find the backpack. Hildebrandt handed it to him.

Weinberg took out the jewelry box. "I've been working on something amazing for a very long time and this contains a crucial part for my next step."

He set the box on the floor between Gibbs' feet. He next removed Vlad's amulet from the backpack and opened the center of it. From that, he took out a small key, slid back a scale between the dragon's wings and inserted it in the slot.

"San Francisco is behind us. This is what matters now. He turned the key a quarter turn to the left, gently pushed it further in and turned it clockwise one full rotation before removing it. "Would one of you like to do the honors?"

None of them volunteered.

Johan's chuckle sounded nasty.

"Very well, I will do it."

He lifted and rotated the wings of the dragon. Once they locked into place, he pushed down on them and removed them. He didn't take the box completely apart. There should be some mystery left to it, and these three didn't deserve the privilege of knowing all its secrets.

He removed the lid from the box, dismantled it and pulled the locket out of the compartment concealed within it.

Fairholm asked, "What is that?"

"It is exactly what it looks like."

He unclasped the gold chain, set the locket on the top of the compartment and unfastened it. The locket popped open to reveal three tiny glass spheres. A dark stain covered each one.

"This is the real treasure, gentlemen."

Again, Fairholm seemed to be the only one with the courage to ask, "What are they?"

He couldn't resist the grandiose and cryptic prophecy. They just brought it out of him. "These are the seeds of our new future. The platforms are ready. The matrix is viable. The experiments are over. It is time to begin production."

Holtz asked, "Do you know what those runes say?"

"I do." He only allowed them a brief look at the beginning of their end before sealing everything back up in the compartment at the top of the lid and then securing the lid back onto the box.

Fairholm, Gibbs and Hildebrandt knew better than to question him further about what he was telling them once the box was resealed.

He returned everything to the backpack. "Now keep quiet while I make this call."

When the other end answered his call, it wasn't a human voice. Instead, only a sibilant series of digital buzzes and beeps could be heard as his call was rerouted through secure relays and densely encoding protocols—what they called in the espionage trade scrambling. Once that process finally ended, Weinberg heard only a click and then silence.

"First of all, thank you for cleaning up those three pesky details for me. I trust you had no trouble finding them."

The disguised voice said, "That toxin was very effective, too."

"I believe we established proof of concept."

"We agree," said the disguised voice. More digital buzzes accompanied it. "Your report claims you have something better."

"I have two. They are simpler but just as effective and more reliable. We have an agreement, then?"

"We do."

"We have a clear understanding of what is to be exchanged."

"At what stage of development would you prefer?"

Fairholm, Gibbs and Hildebrandt had all immediately realized what he was negotiating. It became an unwitting contest between them to see whose eyes could open wider.

"Any stage before full term is acceptable, but earlier would be better, including unfertilized eggs. And get as much of the placental tissue as you can from the sources. The more of I get, the sooner we reach beta test phase."

"We can supply one thousand per month to start and expand to whatever amount you require. We have two thousand frozen and available for you now."

"I will contact you when I am ready for them." He terminated the call. It had been kept under the two minute danger limit.

Gibbs had easily won the eyes-wide-open contest.

"Remember, we are on a fishing trip, that's all. We will be in Canada within the hour. After that, I just need to make another phone call and we're on our way."

# Chapter 63

"Good evening, Tim," Weinberg said. "I was hoping you would still be in your office. I have missed our chats."

"Where are you?"

"I'm just doing a little fishing."

"Why did you call?"

"I told you, I missed our little chats. You know, Tim, you were very naughty to attempt to assassinate the President. And all that just to flush me out of hiding. I'm sure you thought of what you were doing in those terms."

"I didn't plan to assassinate anyone and it wasn't to draw _you_ out."

"I don't mean to gloat, Tim, but I can't help thinking it must gall you to know I played a role in thwarting that plan. And I retrieved the box in the process. Did your mercenaries know they had signed up to be sacrificed?"

"What do—"

"They are not going to be happy that this recent dispute between us escalated so quickly into what it did. And they certainly won't like it that you pointed a finger at them for something they played no part in . . . this time. Piggybacking on their reputation isn't exactly fair play, Tim."

"It doesn't have to be like this."

"I have to go, my bait is ready. Pass along my regards to our mutual friend. I did show him one of the pictures. He deserved at least that. You have what you want and what you believe you need. I have the same. Just wait until you see what happens next. Good-bye, Tubby."

"Don't call me Tubby." He pressed a button on his intercom. "Show him in, Tricia. Then you can go home."

She whispered, "Will I see you later?"

"Just be ready."

Frank entered his office, sat down across from him, leaned over the desk to take four _Oliva Serie V Melanio Figurado_ cigars from the humidor, sat back and just glowered at him.

"I agree. On sober second thought, even just the appearance of trying to kill the President was not a good idea."

Frank only raised an eyebrow and lit one of the Olivas.

"It was an exercise. Nothing would have happened in the end. And they will take the blame for it. We might even draw a couple of the higher level ones out of the shadows."

He puffed on the cigar a few times. "It didn't look like just an exercise to me. And it all happened because you and Harvey had a lover's spat. Wouldn't President Trotter be surprised to learn that?" He leaned forward and blew smoke at him. "Two of her guards are dead. I saw the kids' faces, Tim. They were terrified."

"I will see to it that he takes the blame for infiltrating the exercise to suit his agenda. President Trotter will get the final report, along with recommendations on how to avoid such a penetration again. I just thank God you were there to stop their man."

"Does it bother you at all that good people were killed because of you two?"

"That was not supposed to happen. It is regrettable, but you played a role in some of that tragedy by not going straight to the park when I ordered you to. Much of what happened after Hawk Hill can be laid at your feet as much as mine."

"Fuck me if you don't have an answer for everything. If you look too dirty, Tim, it's because you are. We're supposed to be the good guys. That's what you told me when you recruited me. That is what both of you told me."

"We are also supposed to do whatever it takes to get the job done. We were trying to lure them out as much as we were trying to get me in. We had to take risks."

"The song never changes." He took two big puffs on the cigar. "Are you going to tell Rowe what you were trying to accomplish, or are you going to keep this mission failure to yourself, too?"

"How do you like the cigar?"

"I should just kill you and let them take the blame for that, too."

"It won't make up for your mission failures."

"You have the toxins and the antitoxins. That was your primary objective."

"You had two primary objectives for the mission. I just talked to the one who got away. He's up to something."

"He's always up to something. That is why he was so effective for you until. . . ."

"You know he will come after us sooner or later. He as much as said so when he called. We need to take care of him now before he develops any more little toys like that last one, or worse."

Through a cloud of cigar smoke, he asked, "How's he doing?"

"He tells me he's gone fishing." He pushed buttons on the console embedded in the top of his desk. "He has a place in the Rocky Mountains he thinks I don't know about. You still have a chance to complete your mission and redeem yourself. You owe it to Maggie."

Frank stood up with the cigar clenched between his teeth and came round to his side of the desk to look at the screen.

"It's in a secluded valley near a lake. You go up an old logging road that winds around the mountains to get to it. There are a lot of dangerous spots along the way. It's easy to have an accident."

Frank put out the cigar, grabbed him and easily pulled him out of his chair despite his size. Gillett slammed him into the wall. Everything in the office rattled.

"Weinberg told me you had a hand in Maggie's death. He sent me a picture of her."

"As I told you before, he would say that, wouldn't he? You have to decide which of us you believe."

Frank slammed him into the wall again before letting him go. "I don't believe either of you. That is why you're not dead . . . yet." He took three more Olivas. At the door, he said, "I'll complete the mission, but this is the last one. Anyone who comes looking for me is dead."

His intercom buzzed. Tricia said, "Special Agent Nyla Rowe is here to see you."

He nodded toward the other door. "Take that way out." He waited until he could no longer hear Gillett going down the stairs. "Send her in."

Nyla Rowe entered carrying a file folder. She sat in the same chair Gillett had sat in. She did not help herself to any cigars. African-American, with smooth, dark brown skin, Rowe was close to six feet tall, muscular and as beautiful as a Nubian Queen.

"How goes the hunt for that ubiquitous cabal?"

She crossed her legs, set the file folder on her lap and opened it. "According to the preliminary report you submitted to NSA and the White House, your own critical incident analysts concluded the San Francisco event was a demonstration. Do you really believe that?"

"They had us at three locations plus the airport. The stadium, as you know, was just more of Weinberg's smoke. It could have been a disaster, but all they did was set off phoney fire extinguishers, party favors, to prove their point."

"What about all the people who did die, Tim?"

"I am not insensitive to the high cost we paid in terms of loss of life, Nyla. I am just stating that it could have been far worse."

"Who was the demonstration for? You report doesn't say."

"That is unclear. It could be an international crime syndicate, hostile governments, any one or all of those fanatical terrorist groups. The identity of some of the perpetrators, I'm afraid, only points in every possible direction."

She took out a sheet of paper. "Three of them were Russian expatriates; last known location Marrakech. Two Moroccan radicals were brought in from Agadir. One was Australian."

"I am aware of who is on the list. My people were the ones who identified them."

She continued, "Three Nigerians with ties to ISIS. Three radicalized teenagers from Wichita; the oldest one was nineteen." She held up the paper and let it drop onto his desk. "And two former marines associated with Colonel Morton Colter and his militia in Dominion, Oregon."

"As I said, the list points in every direction."

"And you really think Weinberg was the mastermind behind all this?"

He nodded.

"What about those bodies?"

"I find it convenient that they were burned beyond any chance of being identified."

"Not Weinberg and his team, then?"

"Suicide is not in Weinberg's character. Those bodies are just another diversion, something to keep local law enforcement distracted."

"They might have got to him. They do that. Your report implies he had probably changed his plans and goals at some point and had then improvised throughout the remainder of the incident. That would mean he hadn't abided by whatever agreement he had with them."

"It wasn't him or his crew. And my report did not connect him to anyone."

"Your report is one big pile of bullshit. There will be a mandatory Critical Incident Review Board hearing, Tim. You are going to have to be more forthcoming with them."

"I have been to those. They are a waste of time."

She just looked at him and chewed on her lower lip. The next words they exchanged had to be chosen carefully by each of them.

He pressed the tips of his fingers together into a pyramid and leaned back in his chair. "As resourceful as he is, however, on second glance, I no longer believe even Harvey Weinberg on his own is capable of producing a ready supply of mercenaries and holy crusaders, a ghost ship, a plane crash and all those deaths. Your suspicion of who else might have been involved is a strong possibility. Recently, we had become concerned about Weinberg possibly reaching out to groups he thought could offer him what resources he needed. I'm sure the ones you are after would view Weinberg as a valuable addition to their cause, whatever that is. If all you've told us about them is accurate, they would certainly have been able to mount a demonstration as big as the one we saw in San Francisco, wouldn't you agree?"

"What about Frank Gillett?"

"I'm grateful he was at the airport, though I am not sure that was intentional as much as he was the right man in the wrong place at the right time." He took out an Oliva and rolled it between his thumb and fingers. "As fortuitous as his presence at the airport was, I am still concerned he had become so obsessed with Weinberg that he lost his focus in San Francisco. He may have only thought he would find Weinberg at the airport. The results we're all thankful for could have just been a happy coincidence."

"He called me when he needed help. He didn't think Weinberg had anything to do with the assassination attempt. He seemed pretty focused to me." She turned over the top sheet of paper in the folder. "FBI and SFPD reports indicate he was invaluable to them."

"Do any of them know where he is?"

"I was going to ask you that."

"Believe me, Nyla, if I knew, you would know." He took the band off the cigar. "You have been investigating them for two years now. You have the evidence from the Crowley Farm Massacre east of Portland, the Colter Militia Incident in Dominion, Oregon. You were personally involved in the Remington Bakersfield Draper case in New York. And despite your many mistakes while working undercover, you were appointed Special Agent-in-Charge of the task force assigned with tracking down this elusive Proteus Group. Are you any closer to identifying even one member of significance from this omnipresent group you're chasing? Or are you still only catching the small, clueless ones?"

She placed another sheet of paper on top of the report. "Your original responsibility was to oversee national security issues concerning government funded and conducted scientific research, which, I assume, is how you met Dr. Weinberg. I'm mystified how that limited role has evolved into this position at DHS of almost absolute power over covert operations taking place on US soil, most of which, in my opinion, should be under FBI supervision."

"Life is full of mystery. And even your exalted position, Special Agent-in-Charge Nyla Rowe, does not give you access to everything."

"Weinberg was your man at one time. Jeremiah Calhoun was manipulated by someone at DHS, but that trail has gone cold. We are supposed to be working together to keep this country safe. We are supposed to be at their throats, not each other's."

"Are you accusing me of not doing all I can? Or are you accusing me of doing more than I should?"

"I'm suggesting we all need to be as cooperative as possible. They are trying to undermine our national security. They are trying to tear our agencies apart with suspicions and blame to reduce our effectiveness. You know the premise of their Operation Gangrene. We don't need to help them by keeping information we should be sharing compartmentalized and secluded from each other. I could say you and what you are doing fit that description."

"Only in the context of their manifesto, otherwise you would not even be aware of me and what I am doing."

She sighed. "Something you think isn't connected might be exactly what my investigation needs."

"I will review everything. If I find anything, even something that doesn't seem connected to your investigation on the surface, you can be sure I will send it to you straight away."

"One day, Tim, you might have to tell me everything."

"I don't think so, Nyla. You go back to your task force and leave me to do the work of actually protecting this nation." He lit the cigar. "Now if you will excuse me, it's late and I have a date this evening."

He just sat behind his desk puffing on the Oliva.

"All federal buildings are smoke free environments, Tubby." She got up, tossed the folder onto his desk and left.

"Spoken like a true bureaucrat."

As expected, Tricia was still in the outer office waiting for him after Rowe was gone. She wouldn't leave until he did. Barely one-third his weight and over a foot shorter, she was Bambi to his Godzilla.

"I'll be over at nine. Be ready for me."

"I will, Tubby."

Tricia was the only one who didn't piss him off when she called him that. But then, she was always willing to be punished for saying it.

# Chapter 64

It had been a mild autumn in the BC Rockies. Storms would settle against the mountains and drop fresh snow. Maybe the next day, maybe a couple of days later, the daytime temperature would rise well above freezing. The avalanche threat in this region was high. Warnings had been issued daily for the past two weeks.

The disused logging road had been blasted, carved and cleared along the sides of the mountain next to the lake without concern for aesthetics. Long curving sections became perilous switchbacks that even the smaller logging trucks of the day would have had difficulty manoeuvering on. Three switchback sections of road visible above the treeline would take them up to the last part of their journey.

The road straightened at that point and began a steep descent eastward near the southern limits of Kootenay National Park into a secluded valley approaching the border between BC and Alberta. The logging camp there had been abandoned decades ago. The explosives were in the snowpack above the highest section of road just before it disappeared between the mountain peaks.

Instead of following Weinberg and his crew when they went fishing this weekend, as he had the previous three weekends, he waited for them to drive away before proceeding through the alpine valley to the camp.

Weinberg had done a good job of hiding the site. Second growth forests encroaching on the camp from the north, east and south—nature reclaiming itself—kept it hidden from the approaching road. A sharp left turn put his truck onto two ruts serving as slippery tracks for another half-mile further into the forest. The F-250 had almost slid off those tracks twice.

He left the Ford parked behind two huge, old-growth conifers at the end of the ruts. If Weinberg broke with his routine and returned early, he wouldn't spot it before making the right turn to enter the camp. Frank then slogged through 300 meters of thick mud under the trees to the clearing that served as Weinberg's hiding spot and his new center of research.

Weinberg had brought in two new trailers and had repaired two old trailers and a small cabin left behind. One new trailer along the eastern perimeter was connected to an old trailer north of it via a plastic-covered passage. The other old trailer sat at the north end of the site perpendicular to them. The second new trailer was at the south end near where he emerged from the trees. The cabin was north of that near the mountain slopes that defined the western edge of the site. Smoke was still coming out of the chimney.

He had to duck back into the trees when Evan Fairholm came out of the new trailer near him carrying a rack of test tubes. This was the first time Weinberg had left one of them behind.

Fairholm kept alternating his gaze between the new trailer he was carefully walking to and the rack of test tubes. He nodded to the music playing in his headphones.

Frank crept up behind him and stuck the Beretta into the small of his back just before he started up the three metal stairs leading to the trailer's door. When Fairholm started to turn around to see who was behind him, Frank jabbed the gun into him again and yanked off his headphones. "Get inside."

Fairholm entered the small but well-equipped laboratory and placed the test tubes on the counter set in the middle of it. "What now?"

The jewelry box, as well as a key and two lockets beside it, rested on that same counter. The box's lid had been taken off and disassembled to reveal another secret—and now empty—compartment.

He nudged Fairholm with the Beretta. "What was in there?"

"Three hollow glass spheres from that smaller locket; I don't know what was inside them. Once he got them out, though, he lost interest in all that stuff. The big one is supposed to be from Dracula's crown."

He pulled the headphones' plug out of the iPod to put an end to the Christmas music and tossed them away. He then turned Fairholm around to face him and got the reaction he anticipated.

Fairholm blanched, his eyes rolled up and he staggered backward into the counter. He began to slide down.

Frank grabbed him and yanked him up. "What is Harvey doing here?"

"He keeps us in different labs, gives us very specific and limited tasks to do and forbids us from telling each other what we are working on. He uses Holtz as a gestapo goon to make sure we don't."

"What would be your guess?"

Fairholm shrunk back. He didn't want to say, but not because he was afraid of the man standing before him with a gun aimed at his heart, or Weinberg, for that matter. Whatever he had guessed at, it terrified him.

A quaver crept into his voice. "Up until a week ago, he was receiving shipments in Radium Hot Springs."

"Shipments of what?"

The quaver in his voice surrendered to words being choked out with ragged gasps. "Human fetal tissue. The boxes are marked books and printed matter, and do contain that. But there are also small vials hidden inside the packing peanuts, and some of the books are hollowed out and have frozen samples inside them. I saw him unloading one last Friday." He had to pause to bring his breathing back under control. He looked like he had just completed a marathon. "There are thousands of samples just waiting to be delivered for the next phase of his work."

"What's he doing with them?"

"I think he's editing them. Germline modification, it's called. The embryos are viable, too. He's had me do work with them using a genome-editing technique called CRISPR-Cas9, but then he takes the results away. He's experimenting on his own with enucleated eggs, too, putting in the results of his editing to see what he gets. Holtz hovers around us all the time when we're working. Roger and Mathias get the same treatment for what they do. He's using whatever is in those spheres to do whatever he does next with the tissue. Then he sends them somewhere."

"But you don't know where."

He took another series of rapid, shallow breaths. "Last night, he told us to prepare to move out. He didn't say where, but I think we're heading to the Far East. I overheard him talking to someone on the radio after he talked to us. I can't be sure but it sounded like he was speaking Korean. When he spoke English to whoever it is, he let it slip that he was working with that protein matrix he'd used on you." He pushed the jewelry box and the rack of test tubes away. "He was also working with fungi before he sent all of that away, too."

"What the hell is he doing with fungi?"

"That's not my area of expertise, but Mathias told us they are some very nasty ones, very deadly, very destructive to agriculture. Can you get me out of this? I will tell you all I know."

"I believe you already have. And, yes, I can." He fired twice and left Fairholm where he dropped. One brass hinge on the box reflected light into his eye as he placed his call. "You sent him to Maggie."

"Yes, but I had no idea he was going to do what he did. She was working on leading-edge research that could be used on the wounded in the field. Weinberg was only supposed to evaluate the potential of that."

"She didn't deserve what happened to her. She would have been more valuable to you if you had kept her alive."

"That was Harvey being Harvey. Believe me, Frank. It was a revealing moment for me about whom and what Harvey Weinberg is."

"He's working with fetal tissue again. It's viable."

"That all stops once he's gone. Those two freaks in Puerto Rico are contained. The girl in San Francisco is recovering from her final brain surgery. Other than that one incident of killing an intruder in their house, she doesn't seem all that talented or special. The woman is in India doing cultural psychology research. When you're done there, she could use your help, Frank."

"What I said still stands. He's also working with unfertilized eggs, and a number of different types of fungi. The fungi are all supposed to be threats to agriculture."

"That's new. Frank—"

He ended the call and destroyed his phone.

After he was finished at the camp, he returned to his truck and called up the location of Weinberg's Expedition on the screen. The tracker he had placed there last weekend was still working. The signal was strong. They were doing what they always did on Sunday, stopping for lunch at the Old Salzburg restaurant off Kootenay Highway 93 just outside of Radium Hot Springs. They would fill up the Expedition before returning to the site. He had time.

As he drove out of the valley and drove down the switchbacks, he reviewed his new plan. Doubt about his change in strategy still plagued the review, but he reached the same conclusion every time. At first, getting as close to Weinberg as possible had been the goal. He could watch every flicker of pain ripple across his face as he forced out of him all the details of Chase's complicity in what happened to Maggie. While there were many ways he could get the better of Weinberg, he was never going to get a confession out of him. Weinberg would consider any torture applied to him as a victory. This had to be a straightforward operation from a distance. Just end him and be done with it.

Snow had been falling on and off for the past two days. The big storm was coming tomorrow morning. It was expected to dump thirty centimeters or more of snow and bring a drop in temperature of close to ten degrees Celsius. A big freeze was coming in. The forecast was for it to hang around for a minimum of three days. It was exactly what he had been waiting for.

He parked the truck where it wouldn't be seen. The snow began to fall heavily when he started his climb up to where he had stashed his gear. It took him twenty minutes to reach the ledge, but that still left him plenty of time. In the increasing snowfall, Weinberg would take almost one hour to traverse the meandering trails and treacherous spans of soggy meadow along the south end to get to the other side of the narrow lake—less than a kilometer long and only about 200 meters across at its widest spot.

It was deep enough, though, between thirty and one hundred meters. His soundings had confirmed that. The intense cold front coming from the northeast would freeze the surface of the lake by tomorrow afternoon.

He settled in, completed prepping the Remington MSR and waited. He wasn't a patient man, but this wait didn't seem to take that long. Once the Expedition started climbing, it would be only 800 meters across from him. The range of the MSR was lethal up to 1500 meters. Mountains hemmed in the lake on all sides. There was never very much wind. The target wasn't the Expedition; it was the explosives in the snowpack.

He could have simply set off the explosives remotely, but Weinberg warranted a challenging personal touch, that little bit of flair Weinberg applied to everything he did, including Maggie, and believed he deserved in turn.

They didn't know there were no trailers or cabin left to go back to. No smoke from the site was visible on this side of the mountains. Dracula's reassembled jewelry box, the key, both lockets and the few notes on Weinberg's work that he had collected were in the back of his truck.

When the Expedition came into view above the tree tops on the eastern side of the lake, he snugged the MSR to his shoulder. When the Expedition took the turn to start the highest section of road, he brushed some snowflakes off the MSR, looked through the scope and checked his target. When the Expedition was two thirds of the way to disappearing between the mountain peaks, Frank thought of Sleeping Beauty and took the shot.

# THE END

#

Thank you for reading my book. If you enjoyed it, please take a moment to leave me a review at your favorite retailer.

K.G. Lawrence

### Other Books by K.G. Lawrence

# WEAR SOMETHING RED

# Book 1 of the Proteus Group Series

Former FBI agent, Joan McGowan, returns to Dominion, Oregon to become the sheriff. Her hopes for a new beginning for herself and her daughter, Shana, are threatened by secrets and suspicions the moment they arrive. WEAR SOMETHING RED is the first book of the Proteus Group series.

# Chapter 1 Wear Something Red

FBI Special Agent-in-Charge, Joan McGowan, and her team of Travis Meyer, Erica Jensen, Arnold Davidson, Tommy John (TJ) Eccles and Miranda Wong, rode in her van. James Torres and his team followed in their SWAT van. The lights of both vehicles were off. It was exactly 11:30 pm on a moonless August night when she entered the Crowley farm east of Portland. Maple trees lined both sides of the gravel approach road. Travis rode shotgun. He was looking at the buildings through his night-vision binoculars.

"Shit." He pointed to her left. "It looks like they have a machine gun nest on the roof of the barn."

Arnie confirmed through his binoculars. "I see a square of sandbags six high with two heads sticking up above it. One of them is watching us through binoculars. Joan, we're not prepared for—"

A fusillade of bullets penetrated the passenger side of the van. Erica cried out, grabbed her side and slumped against TJ.

"Find cover." She stopped the van and jumped out.

Another round of fire struck both vehicles as Travis and TJ dragged Erica out of the van.

She looked for the SWAT team, but had to duck back behind the driver's door when three bullets zipped past her head.

Torres and his crew were scrambling for cover. They were dragging two of their men toward the trees away from the line of fire and into greater darkness.

A series of explosions set the maple trees on fire one after another creating a line of torches that illuminated her team and made them easier targets.

Travis hollered at her though he was only two feet away, "Erica's dead. We're in the kill zone; we gotta move."

The machine gun on top of the barn opened fire on Torres' unit. Two more SWAT crew were hit.

Two others had raced back to their van and were pulling out whatever gear they could get as fast as they could. One of them was shot in the leg. Before the other could drag him away, the SWAT van exploded.

"There." She pointed to a pasture of tall corn.

Torres and what was left of his unit were already entering the cornfield. They had left three of their own behind.

Gunfire came from everywhere. Her team's arrival had been anticipated. They had been surrounded using precise military countermeasures conceived to be rapid and overwhelming.

"Joan, come on!" Travis grabbed her to get her going.

Arnie came to her, but dropped to the ground at her feet before he could say anything. TJ and Miranda had made it to the cornfield and Torres' unit.

Travis pushed Arnie off her foot. "Joan, come on!"

Gunfire began sweeping across the cornfield from all directions.

"There were only supposed to be three of them," she muttered.

"Fuck that." He tried to pull her over Arnie, but suddenly jerked back, twisted and fell sideways against the van.

She fired her AR15 into the darkness through a 180 degree arc. It sounded like she had only hit tree trunks.

Powerful explosions started going off all over the farm. Fireballs shot into the sky, adding additional haphazard lighting to the scene.

An explosion on the other side of the van rocked it into the back of her head and knocked her down onto Arnie's body. She tasted blood when she pushed herself back up. Something had struck her right cheek. The gash was about two inches long and almost as wide as her finger. Blood had run down from it into her mouth.

Torres' people returned fire sporadically, but mostly they were just trying to find better cover than stalks of corn.

She checked for the flash of the machine gun to see where it was aiming, but it stopped firing. A moment after that, the nest exploded and set the barn on fire. A brief cry of victory erupted from the cornfield before even heavier crossfire strafed it again.

There were only supposed to be three suspected terrorists at the Crowley farm. They weren't supposed to be this well trained and equipped . . . or reinforced.

She ducked under more gunfire aimed at the van and checked Travis. He'd been struck in the neck just above his bulletproof vest. He spit up blood when he tried to speak.

"San Francisco." He coughed and sagged down into death. The apology and regret in his eyes hadn't been necessary.

She peeked out from behind the driver's door toward the farm buildings. The barn was fully engulfed in flames. The farmhouse was dark.

"Joan," TJ called from across the drive. He was signaling there was cover back toward the entrance to the farm.

Another burst of gunfire swept through the cornfield. Another one of her team cried out.

A man lunged from the darkness at TJ, then another. They knocked him to the ground and clubbed him. Each one looked at her before they dragged TJ up to his knees, grabbed his hair, raised his head so he could face her and then decapitated him with one hard swing of a machete. They were doing all this for her, a display for the commander of the operation. One of them picked up TJ's head and prepared to toss it at her.

She aimed and fired. They both exploded in flames and dropped onto TJ.

Two more men running along the access road opened fire on her. They passed through the light of each burning tree and vanished into intense darkness only to reappear again at the next tree. They were dressed in the same gear as the other two: cargo pants and hunting vests. All the pockets were likely stuffed with incendiary explosives.

Martyrs to their cause: to attack at the heart of American law enforcement and security. Michael and Shana would never be told how she died. Her casket would need to be kept closed after they were through with her. The critical incident report would be classified Top Secret for reasons of national security and available for high-clearance level Internal Review Only.

She laid down on Arnie and returned fire. Neither man tried to avoid being hit. They were determined to be the one to get the commander. Radicalized young men, they were already the exalted dead.

She squeezed her eyes shut and kept firing. First one man exploded into a running fireball, then the other just ten feet from her. A piece of burning vest with two ribs and tissue stuck to it bounced off the van and landed beside her. A pair of burning legs dropped to the ground three feet to her left.

Spotlights shone down on her as two helicopters flew in.

Miranda stood across the access road just looking down at TJ and the burning remains of his two killers. She was covered in blood.

When Joan detected movement to Wong's right, she launched herself across the road, but a bullet struck her right shoulder and knocked her back against the van. She could just see Miranda moving in and out of the blazing light while fighting off two men wielding machetes. Lights came along the access road just before everything went dark.

She woke up to Deputy Assistant Director Lorne Wozniak asking, "How did we end up with this debacle? Our intelligence was valid and reliable; now eleven of our own are dead."

She was in the back of an ambulance with bandages on her right shoulder and her right cheek and an IV in her left arm. The rear door was open. It was morning.

Wozniak was questioning Torres and Wong. "Just how many were there?"

"We've counted what could be nine," Torres replied. "There may have been more. It felt like there were more."

Wong, her arms and hands wrapped in bandages, said, "They all wore vests containing thermite. There is little left of any of them but ash and smoke."

Torres glanced at her. "They used tunnels to surround us."

"Tunnels and eleven of us dead in less than fifteen minutes," Wozniak said. "You'd think we were in Iraq."

Joan laid back and closed her eyes. She was out again in seconds.

# Chapter 2

She turned off Highway 44 to enter Dominion, Oregon, looked over at Shana, fourteen, and swallowed hard. The heat of late August could do nothing against the chill inside her. Her breath caught when she started to speak.

"Mattie tells me they expect Dominion to more than double in size over the next ten years now that Do-Dads and Karyon Research are coming."

"Good, then it will have twice as many losers in it."

Joan's face flushed with heat. "There are lots of places to ride around here. The highway has a good shoulder. We could go all the way to Widow Creek and back. I'll show you some of my favorite routes once we're settled. It's going to be fantastic, you'll see."

Shana lowered her head and looked out the window. "Every friend I had is back in Portland."

"Portland is barely a hundred miles to the west. It's not like we've moved to another galaxy."

"You could have fooled me."

"You'll make new friends. You may even find a new BFF." She winced. You have to stop giving her material to work with.

"Like you and Mattie Griffin? How long has it been?"

Sweat beaded on her forehead. "Seventeen years."

"Must be a record for a BFF; seventeen years since you've last seen each other. That's longer than I've been your special treasure. And I've never heard of her. And then she calls, out of the blue, to offer you this job."

"She heard I was no longer with the FBI. She called only to advise me of an opportunity, that's all."

Of the three survivors, she had lasted the longest at the Bureau after . . . A year to the date after the Crowley Farm Incident, she was the only one of the fourteen still alive.

"And you just grabbed it." She stuck her ear buds back in.

"We're not doing this again. I've taken the job. Let's make the best of it."

She took the Mazda CX-5 downhill from the highway onto Thurlow Street to officially enter Dominion. Her ears popped as if she had just taken them through some barrier that would block any attempt to escape. Shana would love that. She could spend all eternity pointing out to her mother what a mess she'd made of their lives . . . again.

Was this the right time to be making this move? She had to make it the right time. Waiting for the perfect moment and just wishing for a few quiet years with Shana before her bold, courageous, overconfident daughter struck out on her own was too passive. She had to focus on the moment, keep to her plan and hope coming back to where her mother and father had died didn't somehow cost her Shana, too.

She looked around as they proceeded along Thurlow. Nothing seemed to be in the right place, but she'd never been familiar with this part of town.

Shana tapped the navigation screen protruding above the center console. "You just missed your turn."

Her glowing face threatened to burst into flames. Hot on the surface, freezing at her core; that was some way to return to Dominion. She pulled to the curb, checked both ways and then made a U-turn to get back to . . .

"Turn right at Middlemarch." Shana took out her ear buds. "Who names a street Middlemarch?"

"The street didn't exist when I lived here. The town didn't come this far west. That's why I didn't recognize anything."

"This must be part of their rapid growth you were told about . . . or that other galaxy."

"Shana, so help me."

"Just kidding." She put her ear buds back in. "Main Street is three blocks ahead. You turn right there." Her daughter's naturally condescending and sarcastic tone then added, "You'll probably recognize that one."

Joan sighed and turned right at Main Street.

Mattie Griffin, in her red Griffin Real Estate blazer, white blouse and grey skirt, was standing in front of her office with Harry Madsen, the retiring sheriff. A rotund man in his sixties, Madsen was the one who officially offered her the job of replacing him.

She parked and got out. Shana stayed in the car bobbing her head slightly to whatever song was coming out of her ear buds.

Mattie, thirty-six, her hair short and neat and back to its natural tawny color, still looked like she could perform every wicked cheerleader move as easily now as she could back in high school. She held out her hand but quickly pulled it back.

"Oh, I'm being so silly." Mattie hugged her. "It's good to see you again, Joanie. I've missed you very much."

Joan glanced at Shana's bobbing head as Mattie squeezed her hard.

Shana glanced back, deigned to smirk at her and mouthed, "Seventeen years."

Mattie released her and stepped back, bent over slightly and waved hello at her head-bobbing daughter. "She's certainly pretty, and tall, too, from the looks of her."

"Six feet one inch," she said.

Madsen asked, "How old did you say she is?"

"Fourteen."

Madsen only shook her hand and tipped an imaginary hat at Shana, who had her head down and her eyes closed.

"I just wanted to let you know I'll be hanging around for a bit longer. I still have a couple of cases I'm investigating. But I will do my best to stay out of your way. Take the weekend to get yourself settled. I'll drop by the office and fill you in on Monday." With first a wave to her and Shana, then to Mattie, he walked off.

What was Madsen up to? Was he lingering so he could look over her shoulder despite having promised when he offered her the job that he wouldn't interfere? Was he going to stick around just to meddle? Monday, she would set him straight about that first thing.

"What two cases?"

Mattie shrugged. "You know the one. It's made us famous: Stanford Wiley and his Ponzi scheme."

"He embezzled lots of money."

"Oh, it's much more than that. He bilked thousands of clients out of billions of dollars. I think it's supposed to be the largest haul ever. No one really knows how he did it and not even your former employer can find any of it."

"Why is Madsen still involved?"

"I believe someone there asked Harry to stay on the case."

Her ears joined her face for this new burst of heat.

Mattie said, "Never mind about that for now. I'm sure Harry will bring you up to date on Monday. Who knows, he may even ask for your help. After all, you'll be in charge then."

Mattie could be right. Madsen could be exactly what he said he was. Harry Madsen, Kate Eiger, the former mayor and Leonard Jones, the current mayor, had interviewed her for the job. Madsen had been the most challenging at times because of his experience, but once the interview was over he had also been the one to tell her the most about the changes to Dominion since she'd left. He remembered her and Mattie and their troupe of girls causing minor havoc as teenagers, especially during that summer at Quarrelle Lake. He had behaved as if she were already the sheriff, though there were still two other candidates for the job yet to be interviewed. One, so he'd told her, had more relevant experience as a sheriff.

"Shall we go?" Mattie was trying to usher her back to her Mazda.

"Sorry."

"It's a lot to take in right now, but you'll settle quickly." She chuckled. "It's like riding a bicycle."

"What's the other case?"

"Just a local missing person; Albert Nguyen vanished about three weeks ago."

"Why is that a case? Are there suspicious circumstances?"

"He delivers produce to local stores and restaurants. I can't see anything suspicious in that. Harry's most likely hanging on to it because he and Albert were friends." She led Joan to her Mazda and then pointed to her silver Mercedes C350 Coupe across the street. "Follow me. It's an old house, a Victorian design that needs a lot of work."

"What kind of work?"

"Nothing serious, just the kind of renovations you told me you like doing." She hurried to her Mercedes, waved and got in.

Joan got into the CX-5, started it and made a U-turn to tuck in behind the Merc.

"I guess," Shana said, "all sheriffs are allowed to make U-turns anywhere, anytime. Oh, wait you're not the sheriff until Monday."

She scowled at her daughter, which brought a wider grin to Shana's face than she could manage in response to Mattie's greeting. There had to be a good military college in the Ural Mountains, there just had to be.

Following Mattie took them back through the same territory she had traversed after first entering the city.

"You remember this part, don't you?" Shana said with a sardonic tone that would make that famous Vulcan greeting sound like an insult.

She just responded with a snarling smile and wondered about Madsen's two remaining cases. She knew about the Wiley case. She knew about the billions of dollars that no one could find. Looking up as much as she could with the expectation that she would be brought into the case as sheriff; she had soon run into roadblocks from her former superiors with the explanation that she was no longer privy to information on FBI cases.

Madsen was still privy to information on FBI cases. Why ask him to continue rather than pass the case to her? She may not have enough relevant experience for sheriff work, but she certainly had enough FBI experience to know how to work that type of case.

Before she'd been cut off, Colin Foster had told her Wiley's schemes even threatened national security. Would Madsen know what that threat was, or was his handler at the FBI keeping him on a short leash?

Nestled in a crescent-shaped valley on the west side of the Cascade Mountains sixty miles south of Mt Hood, Dominion had grown from a Department of Forestry fire monitoring station prosaically nicknamed Firetown to be incorporated in 1928. During her time here, the only outsiders who ever came to Dominion were the campers, and later the cabin folk, who came for the area's one natural treasure: Quarrelle Lake. Campers favored the Midnight Fire Campgrounds at the north end of the lake, the cabin folk resided just west of that in Cabin Country, away from where Dominion's boisterous children, including her troupe in her day, hung out in the south at the end of Ditchburg Road.

Dominion had done a competent job of keeping up with change even after two of its main employers, Timber Brewery and its companion Treeline Winery, closed their doors just before she left seventeen years ago. According to Madsen, all 6,897 citizens of Dominion were excited about the coming of Do-Dads and Karyon Research and the plans to develop both summer and winter sports facilities for tourists. There were plans to expand Cottage Country to go with ambitious plans to revitalize Dominion's core. And in amongst all this anticipation, Stanford Wiley, a local financial advisor, had developed an internet-based investment con to both embezzle billions of dollars and then hide it where no one could find it.

Shana said, "Unless you want to change your mind and leave, which is all right with me, you better make the turn."

Mattie had moved to the left-turn lane at the corner of Lafleur and Madigan, two streets new to her.

She quickly checked, saw that no other car was coming and slipped the Mazda in behind the Merc.

"I suppose sheriff's get to do that all the time, too."

Joan glanced at the Cascade Mountains to the north and east. If she took Shana up the old forestry road and dumped her, it would take her at least two days to get back on her own.

Mattie turned left when the light changed.

Joan had to wait for two cars coming the other way before she could follow.

Shana muttered, "That must be rush hour."

She floored the gas pedal as she made her turn. The CX-5 didn't have enough power to win a race with a running Harry Madsen, something she couldn't imagine him even doing anymore, but combined with the sharp left turn she'd just made, it created enough centrifugal force to knock her daughter into her door.

Shana sneered at her before continuing her search for some song on her smartphone. She had stopped slouching, however.

"Sorry."

"No you're not."

"Ours is a special relationship."

"Whatever." Shana found her song, started it and put her head back against the headrest. She closed her eyes and hummed along to the songs every now and then.

Joan stayed behind Mattie as they passed through a newer neighborhood—newer in that it wasn't there when she'd moved away after the murder-suicide of her parents.

Finally, Mattie reached Yew Street and pulled over to park.

Joan parked behind her. It was an older neighborhood, but well maintained. Smaller homes and tract houses dominated the area. The occasional newer home, and even a couple of new ones currently being built, stuck out amid the modest residences like ostentatious neighbors. These homes weren't built to last forever, but seeing old ones go down always seemed cold and sad. It was a sentiment she and Shana and Michael shared.

She remembered this area of Dominion. Riley Hitchcock, the biggest liar in her class, who had always claimed to be related to the famous movie maker, had lived on Oak Street a few blocks away. The first time she had ever exposed her breasts to a boy was to Riley in his basement when she was fourteen, her daughter's age.

Shana was a gorgeous young woman with long, fine brunette hair like her mother, a tall, lean, athletic body, brown eyes sparkling with shards of bronze in them that were only going to break more hearts as she became a full grown woman, and breasts that were perfectly sized and perfectly shaped for her frame. While Riley Hitchcock had been fascinated and thrilled, he'd also been a bit disappointed at her lack of substance at fourteen. He would have fainted if he'd seen Shana topless.

Mattie was out of her Mercedes and standing by the gate before Joan had turned off her Mazda.

Her throat felt dry. The list of things she and Shana needed to talk about was just getting longer with every day she put it off.

"Oh, look," Shana said in an almost flawless imitation of Mattie's voice. "It's even got a white picket fence. Isn't that delightful?"

How could she have even heard Mattie with the window up and those damned buds stuck in her ears?

Shana was a mother's dream come true, but surely a quick smack up the side of her head might be enough to bring about a change in her attitude. The risk was that it would probably just get worse. And she would never hit her daughter anyway so it was an empty threat.

Joan got out, surprised to see Shana also getting out rather than remain in the Mazda. Having to stretch out cramps and find relief from a numb bum was a great motivator.

The Mazda was a bit short for Shana's length, especially with the rear of it full of stuff pressing against the back of her seat. It also drove like a go-cart, complete with point-and-shoot handling and transferring to its occupants everything the road had to offer by way of bumps and noise.

Mattie started her spiel the moment they got to her. "As I told you in my email, this house had been tied up in probate, but that's settled now and the executors are eager to clear the estate. We'll finalize the paperwork once the other executor is back from Eugene. Shall we go in?"

As she looked at their new home, Joan realized she hadn't been inside a house in Dominion since the night her old home burned to the ground with mother and father inside. She had spent the last few weeks in a motel room, having lost everything in the fire, before leaving to attend UCLA.

"That neighborhood we passed through," she said.

"Fleetwood Grove."

"Named after the dowager, Abigail Fleetwood, who spent her husband's fortune reclaiming areas he had clear cut to make."

"See? It's all coming back to you."

Shana said, "Just another thing to look forward to."

Mattie's smile didn't waver a bit. "Albert Nguyen lives there."

"The man who disappeared?"

"See?" Shana said. "You remember that, too."

"Shall we?" Mattie took hold of the gate.

#  REMBRANDT BE DAMNED

# Book 2 of the Proteus Group Series

#  Chapter 1 Rembrandt Be Damned

Within the hour, Jaxon Trevelyan would fall overboard onto a dead man. At the moment, he stood on the aft deck of the RBD Dagger concentrating on not becoming any queasier than he already was.

The Dagger belonged to Jerome Remington, one of the most powerful sharks-in-a-suit in New York City. He was President of Remington Bakersfield Draper, or just RBD. If you didn't know who they were and what they did from their headquarters in Lower Manhattan that was your problem.

"There you are," Cissy said as she came out of the salon. "I've been looking all over for you."

Cecilia (Cissy) Remington was the reason he was on the Hatteras 100RPH trying to make his stomach behave as the yacht pitched about on the Atlantic.

They'd met three weeks ago at an exhibition of his best friend's newest paintings.

She'd started with, "If that's his mad slash of brush work, it looks more like his plop and dribble technique."

Mad slash of brush work had become the catchphrase description of Sean Hennessey's style after his drunken appearance on the cable program New York City Arts.

He had countered with, "It's his own."

"It would have to be. I don't believe anyone else would bother with it."

She had changed into white slacks, a navy blue sweatshirt with the North Shore Yacht Club emblem on it and deck shoes but no socks. Her new earrings, her bracelet watch with a face so small one needed a magnifying glass to read it and the ring on her right ring finger matched the color of her sweatshirt. She went without a necklace on this jaunt.

"I can't go very far." Every word was going to be a challenge. Who knew what might come out with it?

She had pointed to a portrait of a nude girl. "Is that supposed to be his tribute to Vermeer's Girl with a Pearl Earring?" She'd squinted and looked closer. "What is that?"

"Naked virgin with a squid stuck in her hair."

"And that, I suppose, is his rendition of Rembrandt's Slaughtered Ox."

"It's Canadian Back Bacon, actually."

Cissy kissed his cheek. "You didn't tell me you were such a landlubber."

He'd defended Sean's reputation admirably, or so he'd thought. "He likes to poke fun at other painters."

"Well, that Long Island Shore landscape is atrocious. I've seen more artistry in crop circles."

Sean Hennessey had painted that atrocious landscape to poke fun at his best friend's two landscapes of the eastern shores of Long Island after Hurricane Sandy had struck.

"Because," Sean had told him, "you're so bloody religiously serious about it all."

What he had meant to say to her in response was, "Why don't you shut your lovely lips before I make them fat." What he had said was, "He does mock quite a few of the masters, yes."

"We agree then. He makes a mockery of painting as art."

Then she had turned her invective on him, including remarks about what his level of artistic skill must be like, considering she had never heard of him or any exhibition of his works.

He looked past Cissy at the other guests gathered around the bar. Seventeen people were on the yacht, not counting the crew. None of them seemed to be having the difficulty he was with the Atlantic.

"I didn't know I was until tonight."

He had left the gallery rather than throw his punch in her face.

She had followed him out to continue their argument, or so he'd thought. Instead, she'd asked him out on a date. He'd politely declined and walked back to his studio. She'd sidled up beside him, slipped her hand into his and they'd spent the rest of the evening and most of the next day screwing their brains and artistic disagreements out. In between bouts of vigorous, physically hazardous sex, she had examined his paintings and declared that she loved them, that he had real talent and that she was exactly who he needed in his life.

They'd had hot, sticky, dirty, wicked sex—Cissy's term—at her penthouse condo on Central Park West—at 2300 square feet, it was four times the size of his apartment and about twenty times more expensive—every night since, which included a couple of times each out on her east terrace and then her south terrace.

Cissy invoked in him the same awe and admiration he had previously reserved only for Rembrandt's works. Her beauty was natural and undeniable. Straight blonde hair hung to the small of her back when it wasn't whipping around in passion or sprawled about her when she was looking up at him with green eyes, a small, elegant nose and those thin lips he could only conclude were perfect. Her body, lean and firm and far suppler than his, did everything she asked of it with fluid obedience.

When they weren't busy throwing his spine out and then putting it back into correct alignment, she was constantly telling him about all the wonderful things that were going to happen to him as both a man and an artist now that she was in his life. One of those wonderful things was supposed to be this cruise on her father's yacht on the last Saturday of April.

"Maybe the lobster didn't agree with you."

The Dagger was out of the North Shore Yacht Club at Manhasset Bay. Jerome Remington and his guests had spent the day coming down the East River to New York Harbor. The Dagger then sailed up the Hudson to pick up him and Cissy at the North Cove Yacht Harbor at 7:00 pm. The Dagger was on time. He and Cissy came from her condo by taxi after dining there and were ten minutes late, which had nothing to do with NYC traffic. The plan was to sail out past Sandy Point for a short excursion into the Atlantic before hugging the east coast of Long Island to disembark at the Freeport Bay Marina. There, they would dine late, spend the night and return to Manhattan tomorrow.

"It isn't the lobster."

He gripped the railing and looked out at the faint lights of Brooklyn coming on against the setting sun. They had been on this damned aquatic rocking horse for only an hour and he wasn't sure how much longer he could hold on to supper before making more room for their planned late dining. The smell of salt and foam wasn't helping him keep it down. The chill in the air that made him shiver only increased his queasiness.

She kissed his mouth; a great act of courage. "I'll get you something for it. I know just what you need."

She glided back into the salon and descended a set of circling stairs down to the galley and staterooms.

Jerome Remington, two other men and an African-American woman dressed as neatly and appropriately as Cissy were having a quiet but strained conversation near the bar. Remington, the woman and the tall, thin one of the two other men were focusing their conversation on the fourth member of the entourage: an older, shorter, heavier man nowhere near as vital as the trio against him. He was constantly gesticulating as if trying to hold them all off and offer his apology at the same time. The quartet, at the suggestion of the woman, moved away from the bar and headed below using the same stairs Cissy had used.

"Don't you look casual," a high, nasal male voice said, "and I'd say a bit green around the gills."

The man, six inches shorter than him, held out his hand. "Adrian Remington. My two seaworthy mates here are Bryce Kessler and Eugene Draper. We've been waiting for three weeks to meet you, but my devious sister has been keeping you to herself. We thought we would seize the opportunity while she was away."

Jaxon shook hands with men in their mid-twenties, all wearing similar yachting gear, complete with red, white and yellow windbreakers with the yacht's name and the three-banner RBD emblem on them. He wore faded jeans, old Nikes, a grey American Museum of Natural History sweatshirt over his blue Empire State Building T-shirt. It was his casual wear. He wore it a lot.

The three men were drinking martinis. They were tipsy but not in the same way he was.

Over the top of Adrian's head, he spotted the man Remington had been intimidating come up the stairs alone, go straight to the bar and order a drink.

Adrian, his straight blond hair slicked back over his head, stepped away to look him over, nodded and flashed a smirk at his two buddies. "I see she hasn't started dressing you yet. But just wait, she'll turn you into a Ken doll soon enough."

Adrian had the same slender build as Cissy and was just as tanned. It made Cissy appear healthy, composed and graceful. It made Adrian appear emaciated, even with the tan, and effete.

While the bartender mixed the drink, the African-American woman came up the stairs and snuck up behind the man.

Jaxon gripped the railing harder when the Dagger suddenly pitched upward and dropped back down an instant later.

Adrian reached up to put an arm around Jaxon's shoulder as he sipped his martini. "You strike me as a nice guy, Jax, which means you're only going to finish last with this crowd, _and_ with Cissy. I'll give you a month or two, tops. She'll lose interest quickly, she always does."

Bryce, about his height and ten pounds lighter at 6'1" and near 180, said with sage wisdom as he lifted his martini to his mouth, "Always." He finished the cocktail in one gulp, ran his fingers through his thick bush of blond hair two shades darker than the Remington siblings' color and headed back to the bar for another martini all in one smooth motion.

Bryce, Adrian and Eugene might look a little bit more casual and seaworthy if they had some regurgitated steak and lobster on their jackets, chinos and deck shoes.

The woman put a hand on the man's shoulder, whispered something into his ear and waved off the prepared drink.

"You paint stuff," Eugene said, "isn't that right?" As short as Adrian and the heaviest of the three, he clearly came from similar wealth, but on him the clothes still had an ill-fitting, hand-me-down appearance to them. He was the dowdy tagalong of the trio.

"I paint."

She took the man by his arm, giving every impression she could and would twist it behind his back if she had to, and led him back to the stairs. The guests politely looked away, but conversations paused until the pair started down.

"I understand it's very clear stuff, comparable to Rockwell's work for The Saturday Evening Post. There's no doubt what it is and no doubt what it isn't . . . art, right?"

Adrian asked, "What exactly is it, Jax? What do you paint?"

Eugene answered for him, "Landscapes, stuff like that. I understand you've painted almost every bridge in New York, and the rivers, and the derelict areas, inspiring stuff like that."

"Is that right, Jax?" Adrian plucked the olive out of his glass and popped it into his mouth. "And it's art, right?"

"Art is so subjective, though," Bryce said and ran his fingers through his hair again before taking another sip of his martini. "Jaxon's paintings of what's left of the Domino Sugar factory and the Red Hook Grain Terminal aren't half bad."

He hadn't noticed Bryce return.

"Damned by," Eugene muttered.

Adrian put his arm around him again. "She does like struggling artists, Jax, I'll give her that. So, what does that make you? You're not an American in Paris because you're not in Paris and your new patron is actually younger than you."

Eugene finished his drink. "He's a Canadian in New York."

"I didn't know that. You're from Canada?"

Jaxon nodded.

"Whereabouts? Would I know it?"

"Abbotsford, British Columbia."

"Abbotsford, British Columbia." He smirked again at his two buddies. "Never heard of it, Jaxon, old man, but I'm sure it's a place to be proud of." Without looking, he held the empty glass out for Eugene to take back to the bar for a refill. "I'll bet your high school yearbook had you as the one most likely to live off women for the rest of your life."

"I don't have a rich father."

Adrian tried to yank him into a headlock, which only forced the twerp up onto his toes and brought his face close enough for a head butt. "First, she'll always be heartbreakingly too busy and unable to see you that night or for the foreseeable future. Then she won't return your calls. Then what?" He shrugged, still squeezing hard on Jaxon's neck. The force was more downward than sideways.

Jaxon clung to the railing and didn't act on his impulse to grab Cissy's pipsqueak of a brother by the waist of his chinos and just . . .

Eugene returned and handed over the martini, which required Adrian let go of him to take it.

"Oh, yes, after you've driven yourself mad with worry, she'll call you and tell you she just has to see you right away, which will delight you until you find out she only wants to tell you there's someone else."

"You'll be number seven," Eugene said. "I think it's seven."

Adrian counted on his fingers, Bryce and Eugene joined him.

"Seven or nine," Adrian said.

Eugene and Bryce were smirking the way Adrian had as the trio finished their martinis together. Adrian suddenly stiffened. Eugene and Bryce suddenly looked west at the last of the sunset and lowered their martini glasses as if trying to hide lit cigarettes from their parents.

Jerome Remington and the woman had come back up to the salon. They spoke to the bartender and were handed a number of towels before returning below deck. Cissy came up the same stairs holding a glass of water a few seconds later. She scowled when she saw who was with him.

"Uh-oh." Adrian cringed, but there was no real concern behind it.

Cissy brought him the drink. She was taller than her brother by a couple of inches. "This should help."

He drank what was clearly not water. It was bitter, sent frigid bugs scampering down his spine and convulsed his stomach. When he tried to thank her, he belched in her face loud enough to be heard over the Dagger's twin diesels, the wind rushing past and the slapping of the water against the yacht's hull.

"Fog's rolling in," Adrian said. He tried to lower his voice but it just cracked. "Best we get this tug turned around before it gets too thick."

"You three are the only things thick around here."

Adrian tried to give her a kiss, but she gracefully dodged his projectile of a face, which sent him staggering for the port side of the yacht. Bryce and Eugene were just able to catch him.

"Have a good evening, dear sister. And you, too, Jaxon, old boy, enjoy it while you can."

He waved at them both before taking his two buddies for more martinis. The guests near the bar moved off as the trio approached.

"Pay no attention to him," Cissy said. "Half the time he doesn't mean what he's saying because half the time he doesn't know what he's saying."

"And the other half?"

"He's usually unconscious or off somewhere with those other two."

He noticed movement to their right before he could ask how far back seven or nine took her.

Captain Pierre de la Tour came to them from the salon. He took off his cap when he reached them and said to Jaxon, "Mr. Remington will see you now, sir."

# Chapter 2

"I thought we were going to meet him together."

She kissed his cheek and shrugged. "Father has his ways."

Captain de la Tour said, "If you will come with me, please, sir. Mr. Remington does not like to be kept waiting."

Cissy took his glass and encouraged him with a gentle push from behind. "I'll be waiting here, darling."

The captain led him down the circular stairs to the lower deck and then forward to Remington's master bedroom suite. Remington and the three who'd been with him at the bar stood around a circular table. The captain nodded to Remington and left.

"Jaxon Trevelyan." Cissy's father came to him with his hand held out. "Jerome Remington. I'm very glad to finally meet you."

He was taller than Cissy by a couple of inches, not slender like his two offspring, had dark hair and hard, blue eyes. His grip was strong, his hand felt rough. Like shark skin should feel, Jaxon supposed

"Let me introduce my colleagues. This lovely young woman is Nyla Rowe, our Chief Operations Officer. I'm quite sure we would be dead in the water if not for her captaincy."

It was the first nautical metaphor he'd heard since boarding the yacht.

"She has incredible organizational skills, a talent for details that bewilders me, a superb analytical mind, and she's tough enough to shrivel your balls. For all I know, she may be running the company in ways I'm not even aware of."

"That's what makes me perfect for RBD because you're only concerned with results." Rowe shook his hand. Her grip was as strong as Remington's, though her skin had no roughness to it. "That's an interesting spelling of your first name, Mr. Trevelyan."

Her strong jaw line set off an oval face. Large brown eyes and hints of epicanthic folds imparted a sultry quality to her countenance highlighted by properly shaped eyebrows, proudly flaring nostrils and full lips covered in red lipstick that went with her nail polish. Her black hair was long and pulled back from her face into a high bun that made him think of a Nubian queen. Unlike Cissy, she wore no jewelry and her watch was a very bland digital-faced device for practical purposes only.

"Actually, it's a misspelling of my intended first name."

"How so?"

"When I was born, the computer at the hospital that was supposed to record all of my particulars for legal registration was broken. They had to fill out the form by hand. And wouldn't you know it the doctor's writing was illegible. When the form was submitted to vital statistics, whoever transcribed it read the scribbled 's' in my name as an 'x'. I have had to bear the shame of it ever since."

Rowe, her confident eyes capable of holding as firmly as her handshake, said, "It's unique."

The rail-thin man stepped forward. "Morris Triton, Jaxon, good to meet you." His handshake was as rough as Remington's. Their eyes were level with each other's.

"Morris is my partner in crime masquerading as the CEO of Remington Bakersfield Draper."

The man they all seemed to have been picking on earlier still appeared as cowering as he had at the bar. "I have no humorous anecdote for my name, Mr. Trevelyan. I'm John Smith."

"Speaks for itself, doesn't it?"

There was no humor in the man at all. He rolled his r's but that was the only hint of an accent he gave away.

Remington chuckled and moved to prevent Smith from stepping forward and shaking his hand. "If you will excuse John, he was just about to rejoin our other guests."

Smith left the suite almost bowing as if a peasant who had just be granted leniency from his lord. Probably most people at RBD had the same reaction after an audience with any one of these three.

Nyla Rowe went to a small bar and poured a drink from a pitcher. She brought the martini to Jaxon.

He declined. "I'm afraid the Atlantic and I have been arguing over what I am made of since the beginning of the trip. One of those may force me to reveal exactly what that is."

Rowe smirked at him the same way Adrian, Bryce and Eugene had—and Cissy, too, when she'd pushed at him, now that he thought of it—and returned the martini to the bar. "We can't have that."

"So, Jaxon," Remington said, "Cissy tells me you're an artist, that you have just completed your MFA at Columbia, that you have an apartment in Brooklyn and share a studio in Chelsea with three other artists, and that, as with all talented but as yet undiscovered artists, you are struggling to make ends meet."

Rowe was drinking the martini he'd refused. She was looking at Triton over the top of the glass. If eyes were windows to the soul, those two souls were intolerant of artists as precisely categorized as Remington had just done to him.

"New York, ya just gotta love it."

"Perhaps I could help you with your monetary issues."

Had this been one of Cissy's wonderful things planned for him? She'd been evasive when he'd asked her for details of what she was doing on his behalf.

Rowe finished the martini and said, "He means a job, Jaxon, that's all."

Remington chuckled. "Of course that's what I mean."

Triton said, "He wasn't offering to buy you off to get you away from Cecilia. She can handle herself, I assure you."

Remington asked, "Is that what you thought?"

"It wasn't that. I've known Cissy for three weeks. In that brief time I have been overwhelmed by her enthusiasm and drive to help me. I appreciate everything she's done, but, as with all talented but as yet undiscovered, struggling artists, there is a difficult balance between accepting help and giving in to it."

"I'm not sure I follow you on that."

Rowe said, "He means enthusiasm and drive, indeed assistance of any kind, if it is before he is ready as an artist, may do more damage than good. Is that right, Mr. Trevelyan?"

"Partly. Both the artist and his work must be ready. And I'm not just talking about enough work for an exhibition, but work that is ready to be exhibited."

"You have your MFA," Triton said. "How much more do you need to be ready?"

"If I knew the answer to that . . ."

"I think I understand," Remington said. "I won't insult you by pretending I understand the artistic temperament, but I do understand preparation, imagination and hard work. I understand there is a commonality to achieving excellence in all things, and that the artist, perhaps above all others, needs a unique environment to develop that regime and get the results they hope to achieve. I'm just offering the opportunity to keep a roof over your head, food on your table and clothes on your back until you do."

An empathic and generous shark-in-a-suit; who knew? "What kind of job?"

"Security guard," Remington said this without any hint of mockery, sarcasm or bile. This offer was his noblesse oblige. At least he wasn't offering him a job as a waiter or chauffeur. He probably offered those jobs to struggling actors. "RBD always needs security guards. You could work whatever shift you want, pick the one that best suits your artistic timetable."

Thank you, Cissy, thank you so very fucking much.

"Sounds good."

"Marvelous, and don't you worry about a thing. Nyla will take care of getting you processed and fitted with a uniform."

Rowe was smirking again like Adrian had. A few highlights of steak and lobster bits in her bun would augment her appearance nicely.

He wondered if Adrian rather than Cissy had a hand in this offer. That trio struck him as great practical jokers to rival Sean. But Remington was right about him needing the money. New York was a fantastic city. In his opinion, it was the best city in the world and he never wanted to leave it, but New York City sure as hell wasn't easy to live in.

"Now," Remington said. "If you will excuse us, Jaxon, the three of us suffer from OCD and still have more work to do."

With that the audience was over.

Jaxon didn't bow or crouch or nod or acknowledge RBD's royalty in any way before he left the master bedroom suite and returned to Cissy. He found her on the flybridge aft deck reclining on a lounger and talking to a woman about her age.

Rather than get off the chaise, Cissy reached up, pulled him down and kissed him. She then handed him the drink she'd prepared for him. "Don't worry, darling, it just tastes sweet. It has no alcohol in it."

He sipped a bit of it rather than risk offending her. She had gone to the trouble of making him another drink she was sure wouldn't upset his delicate tummy. While he loved New York City, he was really beginning to hate the Atlantic Ocean.

The drink was sweet and fruity, but instead of achieving what it was supposed to, it only made his stomach flutter the same way drinking diet pops did if he didn't eat something with them. The butterflies in his stomach—wriggling worms, really—that had disappeared during his audience had returned with hot stingers attached to them that kept stabbing into his delicate internal parts.

"This is Constance Penelope Smythe, from Saint Albans. We've been best friends since we were eight years old."

Constance Penelope Smythe got up from her chaise and shook his hand. "Call me Penny; it's not such a mouthful."

She was model tall but not model thin. Her tanned shoulders were broad and muscular. A sapphire sundress revealed equally tanned and muscular arms and legs. She had been a rower at one time. Her posture was erect and strong. Cropped tawny hair was cut so it wouldn't get in her way. She wore sandals on her long, bare feet.

"It's hard to have fun on the water when your stomach won't cooperate. My first few times, I had trouble swallowing anything."

"It's not swallowing that I'm worried about."

Penny smiled small, white teeth that suited her. She didn't need row after row of huge, dazzling beacons to enhance her beauty. "You'll get your legs. For now, just try to focus on points and not take in the whole."

"You may find this hard to believe right now, but I worked on a fishing boat for two seasons off the coast of British Columbia. I had no trouble then with—"

"Man overboard!" The alarm came from someone on the deck below.

The yacht shuddered and pitched when it came to a stop as fast as it could. Penny caught him when he staggered.

He, Cissy and Penny headed down to the back of the lower deck, tucking in behind and following the captain and crew at the main deck level. The captain ordered everyone else to stay where they were.

Adrian, Bryce and Eugene were already on the lower deck holding martinis and looking over the side. They ignored de la Tour's command to get back, but did so when Jerome, Morris and Nyla arrived.

Captain and crew went about the job of bringing the man back on board.

"Oh, God," Cissy said when she looked over the side, "the boat must have struck him."

He looked over.

The crew had snagged Smith with a pole and a rope and had just lifted him out of the water. His forehead was bashed in above his right eye. The skin had been abraded as well as peeled back to expose the skull, which had both large and hairline fractures on it.

"Oh, sh—" There was no point to focus on when he looked out at the darkness surrounding the Dagger. The lights of the yacht became bright shards of red, white and yellow that stabbed at his eyes. The salt and diesel smell rushed into his lungs and churned his stomach.

He heaved, vomited onto Smith and fell over the side onto the body. Smith cushioned the impact, but he still bumped forehead to wounded forehead just before they both dropped into the water.

Salt water rushed into his mouth as he thrashed about grabbing for anything. His hand found purchase on Smith's suit coat, but it was slippery and his fingers couldn't keep hold of it. He pulled himself out of the water only to slip back under just as he was taking a breath. More salt water rushed into his mouth. The sparkling lights above him were drifting away. His body wanted to cough out the sea as he kicked for the surface. His hands found Smith's belt. He pulled hard to get his head above the waves just as Smith's body began to roll. He went under again.

If he didn't cough out the water they'd be pulling two bodies out of the Atlantic.

Something pushed against his back then wrapped round him. An octopus? He reached for tentacles and felt arms. A moment later, he felt legs knock against the back of his as someone took them both up to the surface.

His head rose into the cool, salty air. He coughed hard enough to scratch his throat.

"I got you," the man said.

The Dagger was about fifteen yards away, the only brightness in the night, a splotch of silvery red paint on a black canvas, except it bobbed up and down.

He coughed when the man spoke again and the man had to repeat himself.

"Just relax, sir. I've got you. They're coming."

He squinted against the spray of foam and saw splashes approaching them. Two men were coming to help bring him in. He coughed violently again when he tried to thank the man holding him up. The Dagger and its lights started to come into focus. The gentle pitching of the yacht settled his stomach. He looked for Cissy.

The other two crewmen put a lifesaver around him that was secured to the Dagger by a rope and they all started swimming back. Cissy came into focus as she reached over the side. Penny came into focus as she took hold of Cissy's shoulders and backed her out of the way.

Smith bobbed up and down in the waves like an abandoned air mattress. They had temporarily secured Smith to the port side of the Dagger with three ropes so they could come get him.

Three yards to go and the Atlantic splashed a wave into his face that had him coughing and gulping for air again.

Adrian, Bryce and Eugene were alternating between coming to the side to check the progress of the rescue and recovery and then stepping back to laugh even harder.

The three men took him astern to get him up onto the back platform three feet below the lower deck. Captain de la Tour, Triton and Rowe were coming down the stairs with one other crewman to assist getting him back on board.

He reached for the platform and grabbed hold tight enough to make his shivering hands ache. When he turned in the water to thank the trio that had jumped in to retrieve him, he saw Smith come floating around from the side of the yacht. He tried to say something, but his trembling tongue and lips wouldn't form any words. As de la Tour, Triton and Rowe hauled him up onto the platform, he pointed and grunted.

The three men splashed after Smith while someone took off the lifesaver and threw a blanket around him. Cissy and Penny came down to the platform despite being hollered at not to. Cissy hugged him. Penny returned to the lower deck.

The trio of rescuers brought Smith's body to the platform as Triton and Rowe also returned to the lower deck. Cissy held on tightly to him.

Jaxon looked up at the lower deck, at Rowe's irritation with what she would see as his weakness, at Adrian and his buddies laughing at his predicament, at Jerome Remington's concern about who his daughter had brought into her life. The boat lurched down when the crewmen rolled Smith onto the platform behind him. He dared to take a glimpse at the body as Cissy tried to usher him up to the lower deck.

"Oh, sh—"

Gravity pulled on him as the Dagger dropped away. With another heave, he vomited again, slipped out of the blanket and Cissy's grasp onto Smith and they both slid off the platform back into the Atlantic.

# Chapter 3

Captain de la Tour brought the Dagger back to the North Cove Yacht Harbor. NYPD Harbor Patrol escorted them in. Two detectives and an ambulance were waiting.

Jaxon sat on a bench near the berth where the Dagger was moored. He had changed into clothes from one of the yacht's crew and still had the blanket around him. The Atlantic had swallowed him twice and a good deal of it was still sloshing around inside his stomach to replace what he had lost during their argument. It had sprayed salty foam into his lungs. The chill of it wouldn't leave him.

He watched the two detectives taking statements from the other guests and the crew. Jerome, Cissy, Penny, Adrian, Bryce and Eugene had already given their statements. The ambulance had taken Smith away about ten minutes ago.

Footsteps approached from the parking lot but it wasn't Cissy.

Rowe asked, "How are you doing?"

He coughed before he could speak.

"That good, huh? Maybe you should have drunk that martini."

"I'm doing better than Smith. What were you all talking about?"

"That is none of your business."

"Do you think he fell overboard, jumped or was pushed? Did someone hit him or did he collide with the Dagger after he was in the Atlantic? Did Adrian cut the body loose just to see if it would still float?"

"Have you talked to either of the detectives yet?"

"He looked frightened when he was with you three, like you were ganging up on him."

"Where's Cissy?"

"She's with Jerry and her bro. It's a family tradition in the face of threat or trauma to circle the wagons. She'll be back in a few minutes."

"Just relax, be cool and answer the detective's questions when he gets to you."

"What else would I do? If you're worried I saw something I shouldn't have, like a knife in his back before it fell out, you can be assured that I didn't."

"Why would I be concerned about something like that?"

"Just wondering out loud; like with that Adrian cutting loose thing."

"Don't." Rowe knelt down to be at eye level. "There's an opening in the graphic arts section of our marketing department. It's probably a better use of your talents, though I can't imagine they're that impressive."

"Thanks."

"Don't be too grateful. You don't know what I have in mind for you yet."

She walked back to the parking lot when the older of the two detectives started their way. In just a few seconds, their conversation became a very animated but hushed argument. The detective bristled at something she said. After a few more seconds of them glaring at each other like boxers about to fight, he nodded. They both looked his way for a moment before leaving together. If it was a matter of taking each other's worth, Rowe appeared to have won that round.

Jerome, Cissy and Adrian came to him.

Remington asked, "What did you and Nyla talk about?"

"She wanted to know how I was feeling."

Cissy asked, "And how are you feeling?"

"I can still feel the planet turning, but at least I'm connected to it again."

Adrian stood to Jerome's right and a step behind being the silent and dutiful son. Cissy was on her father's left with her arm looped together with his; an interesting family portrait.

She said, "And what else did you two talk about? She was with you for longer than it would take to just find out how you are feeling."

Was she jealous of Nyla Rowe? As ridiculous as that notion was it did warm him.

"She thought there might be a position for me in the graphic arts section of RBD's marketing department. She said it would better suit my impressive talents."

"See what I mean?" Remington smiled down at him. "She might actually be running the company behind my back."

Adrian appeared as ill as he had felt on the Dagger.

Jaxon could think of nothing comforting to say to him.

Rowe and the older detective came to them.

"Detective Hewitt," Remington said, "is there something else we can help you with?"

"You can all go now."

Jaxon asked, "Don't you want my statement?"

"It's been an upsetting night for you. Ms. Rowe told me what you've been through and I'm sure you didn't see any more than anyone else concerning Mr. Smith's fall overboard. Go home and get some rest. I will call you in a couple of days to take a statement."

It was a straightforward and tragic incident, Smith had just fallen off the boat, but Rowe clearly had some influence over the NYPD. Sending him home to wait a few days before giving a statement was not standard NYPD procedure for something like this.

Cissy helped him up. "I'll take you home." She gave Rowe a disingenuous smile. "Thank you for finding something more appropriate for Jaxon's talents."

Rowe smiled exactly the same way before escorting Hewitt back to his partner. They talked a great deal as they went. Hewitt appeared to be coming around to whatever she was telling him.

"Max will be here in a few minutes," Cissy said.

He felt warmer by the second as Cissy escorted him to the parking lot. His ears still had water in them, so he might have only imagined Cissy hissing as they passed Rowe and Hewitt.

Captain de la Tour came to them. "Is there anything I can do for either of you?"

"I could use something hot to drink."

He said to Cissy, "Your brother, Mr. Kessler and Mr. Draper will be staying on the Dagger tonight."

"That's a party waiting to happen. What about the other guests?"

"I believe, Mr. Trevelyan, they have all gone home." He headed back to the yacht.

Cissy said, "You don't keep anything to yourself, do you?"

"God, I'm thirsty."

She headed back to the yacht and miraculously returned with two hot chocolates to counter the wind that was coming in from the harbor. April in NYC had been unusually cold this year. Though it had warmed up the past three days, the nights still got chilly quickly. They found shelter on a bench on the leeside of a stone wall and drank up. She huddled close to him and said nothing while they waited.

They had reached a level of comfort in their relationship that required no small talk or forced conversation until Max arrived. Manhattan was the antithesis of a deserted island. Part of the most boisterous and enthralling city in the US, in their silence he could imagine they were the only two on it right now.

When Max arrived in the BMW 760Li, Cissy insisted on opening the door for him and helping him get settled. She put on his seatbelt.

"I can do that."

"Nonsense," she said and kissed his cheek. "What you need right now is some tender loving care. I'm going to take you to my place and give you all that I have."

They drove back wrapped together in the blanket and that same comfortable silence.

Once out of Battery Park City, Max took them past the new World Trade Center up through Tribeca, Greenwich Village and Chelsea, the Garment District to 8th Avenue and then through Columbus Circle to Central Park West and on to 88th and Cissy's condo in the Upper West Side.

Along the way, Cissy had taken hold of him and ducked under the blanket, but then had thought better of it, brought her head up and just snuggled against him until Max parked in front of her building.

Cissy was sincere, he knew that, and he did look forward to everything she was going to do to and for him. He just couldn't shake the notion that Rowe's offer of a better job was somehow a tacit request for him to keep to himself whatever suspicions he had about what might have happened to Smith. With that in mind, Cissy's earnest efforts would likely be as much in vain as Grace Kelly's were with Jimmy Stewart in the early scenes of _Rear_ _Window_.

Rowe probably just knew he would be of greater use in Graphic Arts for whatever she had in mind. And Grace Kelly did eventually win over Jimmy Stewart. She only had to almost get murdered to do it.

**About the Author**

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