Olympus Device 1: The Olympus Device (35 page)

Grunting, she replied, “I’m well aware of such things, Sergei. I don’t like using heat because it makes my hair brittle.”

He continued to watch as she moved about the room, unashamed of her nakedness. Buxom, with strong shoulders and wider at the hip than most western men preferred,
Arianna was typical of good, solid Russian peasant stock. Capable of working in the field all day, the kitchen all evening, and the bedroom all night, the young woman benefited from years of generic advantages.

She hadn’t been recruited into the SRV
because of her looks; raw sex appeal had nothing to do with her advancements. Arianna was brilliant with numbers and equations. The fact that she possessed a healthy libido and volunteered to exercise it with the director of her agency was a happy bonus for both.

She moved
close to him, picking up his pack of cigarettes from the bedside table. After lighting her smoke, she sat beside him, a look of concern on her face. “I’m still not sure what it is you want me to do tomorrow,” she stated. “I know you didn’t go to the trouble of flying me in from Moscow just for good sex.”

“Tomorrow there is going to be an exchange with the farmer who invented the rail gun I was telling you ab
out. I want you there to examine the weapon during the trade.”

Shaking her head, Doctor
Sharapova replied, “There’s not much I can do, really. Without equipment and a lab, about the only assurance I can render is entirely speculation. Besides, as I told you on the phone before, I don’t believe the weapon is as powerful as claimed. It would defy the known laws of physics.”

“I understand
, Arianna. You are an insurance policy against the American playing any games. When we meet with him, I’m going to introduce you by your formal title. I want to watch his face… his eyes. If he is playing a game with us, then I’ll know.”

Nodding, she s
tood and moved toward the chest of drawers to retrieve her clothing. On top, next to her slacks and blouse, was a duffle bag full of money, gold, and a pistol. Glancing at the collection of wealth, she said, “Why don’t you just kill him and take the weapon? It seems such a waste to use such wealth when a bullet costing less than a ruble would do the trick.”

Smiling, th
en shaking his head, Sergei responded, “Have you been watching those western spy movies again, my dear? Word gets around when you break a deal – even a deal with a farmer. That amount of money is a fair price for what we will receive in return. I’ll protect myself against skullduggery on the part of the American, but I won’t instigate it myself. Such acts damage one’s reputation.”

“
Okay,” she shrugged, “I’ll leave the methods and procedures up to you. I’ll do the best I can with the science.”

She walked back around the bed, using the ashtray to extinguish her smoke. Looking down, she touched herself and said, “Are you through with me, or can I get dressed?”

“If you keep walking around in the nude, I most surely will require more of your company. What about you – still feeling the need?”

Laughing, she smiled and said, “I’m cursed, Sergei. I always feel the need. It is such a distraction that I’m surprised I get any work done at all.
It’s a good thing I was raised in the sparsely populated countryside, or I would have never finished school.”

They both had a good laugh over her comment. After the humor had faded, she moved her hand inside of his blanket. “
Perhaps I can accelerate your recovery,” she offered.

Monroe and Special Prosecutor Haskins left Maria’s home, each man having a co
mpletely different opinion regarding the outcome. The lawyer was upbeat, his workload lightened with the promised release of Hank Barns, his political future in Washington looking far more positive if his name was associated with the capture of the world’s most wanted man.

Monroe, on the other hand, was skeptical. After weeks of chasing Weathers, the end seemed all too easy. Many criminals had seen an end to their lives or freedom due to the betrayal of a woman they lov
ed and trusted. John Dillinger was only one of dozens of examples the senior FBI man could name.

Still, something just didn’t seem right about the entire situation. Finally shrugging off his pessimism, he decided he didn’t have any choice but to do his best to ensure that Weathers didn’t escape again. He
was familiar with the Port of Houston, and he would put a wall of steel around pier #19. No ship would leave until he had Weathers – either in cuffs or a body bag.

Dusty woke up from a catnap, the loud rumble of yet another in the seemingly endless parade of trucks waking him from the light slumber.

He glanced around the main terminal parking lot, the same cars and trucks parked in the same spaces as before he’d dozed off.

He’d been inside the security perimeter of the terminal since late the previous afternoon, sitting in his truck, occasionally walking down along the water’s edge just to circulate the blood. He figured Monroe would deploy his men early, so he’d made sure he was the first one in – the early bird, not the worm.

The night had passed slowly, Dusty’s level of alert
focusing suspicion on every car, truck and van that entered the busy port area. After a while, it had all become routine, and he’d managed some sleep. It wasn’t quite daylight yet – probably another 20 minutes before the sun crested in the east. He was sure the law enforcement teams would be arriving soon.

It was time to call his Russian friend.

“Da,” the now familiar voice responded on the first ring. “I hope after our exchange you will be a man who can sleep normal hours, Mr. Weathers.”

Dusty laughed, actually beginning to like the
foreigner’s attitude. “So have you managed to gather everything I requested?”

“Of course,
of course. I am eager to return home. Please tell me there won’t be any delay.”

“Meet me at the P
ort of Houston, Pier #19 at 10 a.m. Follow the signs for the free boat tour. I’ll meet you at the east edge of the terminal parking lot – the side closest to the big bridge.”

“This is acceptable. You
will have the weapon with you, I assume?”

“Yes. It is sitting right here beside me. One other thing – this area is very secure.
This is the only parking open to the general public. Just tell the guard you’re here for that free public boat tour.”

“Da. I will see you in a few hours then.”

Again the line went dead, Dusty assuming that the Russians weren’t big on salutations. Shrugging, he tossed the phone, no longer caring if anyone knew where he was. It was time to go.

He cleared out all of his personal items from the truck, the two packs bulky and awkward. Avoiding the pools of li
ght created by the high overhead fluorescent bulbs, he strode calmly toward the 610 bridge.

A working port uses a lot of pallets, and pier #19 was no exception. A virtual forest of wooden
frames stacked as tall as a man dominated one section of the loading area. Covering more waterside real estate than a football field, Dusty had played hide and seek with his son on this very ground years ago.

Disinterested in
the school field trip’s free boat tour, he and Anthony had slipped off to chase each other through the canyons of pallets while waiting. The size of the maze was just as he remembered, perhaps even larger.

It wasn’t uncommon for a stack to be knocked over, the forklift drivers occasionally careless, or the random
thunderstorm whipping up enough wind to push over a wobbly tower of wood and nails.

It was here, in a sea of old wood stacked in sloppy rows, that Dusty made his hide. Before the sun rose, he was concealed and comfortable under a makeshift
pile of random pallets, the powerful optic of the rail gun scanning for the arrival of false-friend, the Russian, and foe, the FBI.

It all ends here, today
, he determined.
I might be dead, in handcuffs or free, but I won’t be a trapped, helpless rat in this city… this foreign place where I don’t belong.

After scanning the area for riflemen, observers or teams of law enforcement officers sneaking into position, he relaxed a bit.
They’ll be here
, he reassured himself.
A watched pot never deploys its snipers.

Looking down at his pack, he decided to don the
Resistol, the crumpled hat having made the journey with him, looking as though it had suffered nearly as much as he had. Wearing a western man’s hat just seemed proper, a fitting way to go down if it all ended badly.

Great, historical last stands filled his mind. The Alamo didn’t end so well for the defenders, but most of the time things didn’t work out. Places with names like Stalingrad, Bastogne and Thermopylae filled his thoughts. He wondered if any of the 300 Spartans had a favorite hat, pondered if any of the Airborne troops holding off the Germans at Bastogne were just sick of the whole thing and only wanted it to end – one way or the other. 

Twice, he started to stand and leave – not sure if he had the stomach for the approaching confrontation, temporarily lacking the confidence he could pull this off. Movement caught his eye, grounding his retreat. A swirl of blue, out of place, rustled in the distance.
Here they come,
he sighed, his body locking into a motionless statue.

Dusty watched
an FBI agent with an M16 rifle move along the edge of the access road. The man disappeared into a patch of waist high weeds, only the black barrel of his rifle visible from the hide.
I hope that guy is laying on a fire ant mount.

A few minutes went by without seeing any other law enforcement. It was the glint of sun that exposed the next man – a Houston SWAT officer who hadn’t seen fit to remove his shiny sunglasses.
He should get an ass chewing for that rookie mistake,
Dusty mused.

Slowly, carefully moving his scope back into place – weary of flashing the sun himself, Dusty began studying his surroundings carefully. There, where the slope of the ground met one o
f the bridge’s support pillars, there was a sniper.

An empty semi-trailer was home t
o another. The black circle of the shooter’s scope was visible over the edge.

He almost missed the guy in the stack of discarded cardboard boxes. A clever fellow, Dusty scanned right over the top of him twice and would have n
ever spotted him were it not for part of a rifle sling hanging over the lip of a box.

He found several more while he waited on the Russians to arrive. He was also fully aware that for every cop he could see, there were probably three more he couldn’t.
Let the Russians deal with them
, he thought.

The W
est Texan’s experience with hunting had taught him that movement draws the human eye. Forcing every move to be extraordinarily slow, Dusty managed a glance at his watch. The Russians should be here any minute, and they weren’t the only ones.

A steady stream of cars began entering the parking area, mostly visitors arriving for the free boat tour provided daily by the Port Authority of Houston. With the increase of incoming traffic, it would be difficult to detect the Russians until they exited their car. Dusty didn’t care. He’d spot them before they found him.

Movement on the water drew his attention, a small Coast Guard gunboat slowly patrolling up the ship channel. He couldn’t tell if that was part of the FBI’s dragnet, or just a coincidence – and again, it didn’t matter.

While he waited, he
noticed the increasing traffic noise coming from the nearby bridge. Carrying six lanes of morning commuters, a background chorus of engine noise, singing tires and the occasional horn would continue to build as the day grew older. Dusty knew from his research that the crossing was called the Ship Channel Bridge by locals, its official title being
The Sidney Sherman Bridge
. Rising 130 feet above the water, the structure had been struck more than once by the cargo cranes of various ships. Two of these collisions caused the roadway above to be closed for weeks.
Keep your mind focused
, he chided.
Now’s not the time to wander off on internet trivia
.

And then they were there. Dusty
recognized the Russian from their previous encounter in the parking lot. The female walking beside him, as well as the muscular man a few steps behind, were both strangers. All three wore FBI logos on their clothing. The burly guy carried a large duffle bag – no doubt full of either newspaper, if treachery was afoot, or currency.
I didn’t realize that amount of money would take up so much space
, he noted.

Dusty reached slowly for the Russian’s phone lying next to him. He dialed a memorized number belonging to his last no-contract cell, and waited for the connection to go t
hrough. Both he and the Russians could hear the ringing, the cheap phone lying nearby on a bench. The older man shook his head and moved to answer the phone.

“Da.”

“Sorry to be so dramatic, but I’m new to this game. Please bring the money and walk toward the pallets to the west. I’m waiting inside. Please come alone,” Dusty said.

“This is unnecessary… but… I will play along.
However, I do need to bring the woman with me.”

“Why?”

“We are exchanging quite a bit of money, my friend. She is a doctor of physics…an expert. I want her to examine the goods I am buying.”

Dusty
analyzed the request for a moment, finally deciding it was a bluff. No one could be an expert on a technology that didn’t exist. “No problem – bring the woman. Leave the big guy where he is.”

“Da.”

True to his word, the Russian turned and snapped an order to Mr. Muscles, taking the duffle and pulling it over his own shoulder. He then motioned with his head for Miss Big-boobs to follow.

Dusty slowly backed out of his hide, the toy rail gun in his grip.

One quarter of a mile away, on the roof of a warehouse, Monroe lowered his binoculars and turned to Shultz. “What the fuck is going on down there, Tom? Those people in the parking lot have on FBI uniforms. Are you sure we don’t have a team that didn’t understand their orders?”

“I don’t get it, sir. Everyone received the same operational orders. Yet, they look like our people.”

“Something’s not right,” judged Monroe. “Send in the teams. If our people have fucked this up, heads will roll.”

Shultz interrupted his boss – a large optic still focused on the ground below. “Wait, sir. Something’s happening. There’re moving out of our sight.”

As if on cue, both agents’ earpieces sounded with a chorus of “I’ve lost contact with unknown team,” and “They’ve moved off to the west; I can’t see them now because of the pallets.”

“Shit!” snapped Monroe. Keying his mic, he ordered, “All assault t
eams, this is Monroe. Move in. Move in now!”

Dusty let the two Russians walk right past him, the dense maze of stacked pallets impossible to maneuver in a straight line. He cleared his throat.

The older Russian jumped just a little and turned quickly. “Only in the movies do they do this sort of thing, Mr. Weathers.”

Dusty shrugged his shoulders, “That’s about the only example
this old cowboy has to go by.”

“This is the weapon, d
a?” he inquired, nodding towards Dusty’s fake rail gun.

“That is the money and other items I requested?” Dusty replied, nodding toward the duffle.

Smiling, the Russian sat the sizable bag on the ground, tugging on the zipper and pulling apart the sides. He held open the edges so Dusty could look inside. It appeared to be a butt-full of money, complete with clear tubes of gold colored coins. “It is all here, including the passport. Our Canadian embassy assures me it is a real document, issued by a friend working in the government.”

Dusty approached the stoic woman and handed her the rail gun.

The Russian physics expert hefted the weapon, appearing to examine the coils and other mechanisms. He then handed her two ball bearings, and answered her questioning look with, “The bullets.”

While the woman examined the gun, Sergei watched Dusty. The man seemed relaxed. “Your hat – it is a real cowboy hat?” He asked.

Grunting, Dusty nodded.
What else would it be?

“I wish to trade you something for it. You have plenty of money now to purchase another. I would like it for a souvenir of my travels. My friends back in Moscow will be impressed.”

“What do you have to trade?”

The question seemed to give Sergei pause. He brightened after a bit, and pulled off his FBI jacket. “How about this
coat? It is close to the real thing.”

An idea formed immediately in Dusty’s head. The jacket and its gold FBI letters might help if things got dicey during his escape. “Sure, he replied,” and took off his hat.

Sergei donned the cover, smiling at his companion who was still mesmerized by the rail gun’s configuration. “How does it function?” she asked.

Dusty
opened his mouth to explain, but his words were interrupted by a gunshot ripping through the air from behind them.

Sergei and Dusty both uttered “What the fuck,” at the same time, the former doing so in Russian. Snatching the rail g
un from the woman’s hands, the director began walking with purpose back toward the parking lot.

Dusty bent and grabbed the
duffle, hustling away in a different direction.

More shots rang out, their report guiding Sergei back toward the parking lot. As he approached th
e end of the pallet-maze, he noted his captain prone on the pavement, his sidearm pointing toward an area of overgrown weeds nearby by. It quickly became obvious what his man was shooting at, as three uniformed Americans jumped up and scrambled a few steps closer to his position.