Rise of the Beast: A Novel (The Patmos Conspiracy Book 1) (12 page)

I have to lose 100pounds. I must row. Every day.

The Ukraine it was. What was one more unidentified airplane flying over rolling farmland?

27

New York City

BURKE CONTINUED TO NURSE TONIC water in a highball glass in the Oak Room located in the Plaza Hotel, a wood paneled bar half a flight down on 57
^th
Street, just south of Central Park. He had been there an hour already. This was no time to have a drink and a drink would have to wait until the operation was complete. He would need one. But now he needed a place to wait for Intel without looking like he was loitering. No one knew he was only sipping tonic but the bartender. He needed to fit in. No one knew his exact location except his men on the street, but you could never be too careful.

It didn’t help that a middle-aged blonde in a little black dress that revealed long tanned legs below and an ample décolletage above the scoop neck was hitting on him. Again. At least she kept trying to strike up a conversation. He would put her out of her misery and tell her directly that nothing was going to happen between them, but that wouldn’t be fitting in. So he laughed and gave quick responses to her incessant banter.

She crowded in a little closer and began to run a finger on top of his hand.

He didn’t want this right now. His agent—heck, she was nothing more than an amateur thief and hooker—had shot and uploaded six pictures to him. And just as suddenly she went silent.

Burke spoke three languages fluently and could butcher two more, including Greek. He just wasn’t sufficiently versed on the alphabet and grammatical structure Alexander used to trust his immediate translation. Alexander had no formal education, but had come up with what seemed to be a pigeon of modern and Koine Greek in meticulous Cyrillic lettering. What he skimmed over couldn’t be what his client expected to glean from Jonathan Alexander’s journal. It had nothing to do with business.

He kept coming back to what he could make out. The blood red horse of the apocalypse. The beast. Napoleon. Hitler. Alexander the Great. Western Civilization against the rest of the world. The will to rule. Put it all together and it was a fantasy that conspiracy theorists and theological nuts dreamed of in their arcane contemplations.

It was the stuff of mass genocide. No way. Not even a megalomaniac like Alexander would consider such thoughts. Or would he?

Burke needed to stay focused on what was right in front of him— except the blonde’s cleavage and wandering hands that had worked down to the top of his thigh. He had more pressing issues now. Primarily a missing operative. He would confirm a better translation of the opening pages of the journal later.

That’s all Pauline transmitted. Then she just stopped. That was more than ten hours ago. No word from her since. A lack of communication would be fine and expected had she not started sending pictures in the first place. He had embedded a number in her smartphone to call if she had questions, needed to share information or was in trouble. The line was picked up by someone who identified himself as a worker at La Bon Bouche patisserie in Luxemburg. Henri was reliable and could handle information and most problems. If it was an emergency
situation, Pauline’s call would be immediately routed directly into Burke’s permanent cell, never used but carefully guarded for one call only, hers, which was always on and always at his side. He switched phones often, but the randomized satellite path from his number would always find where he was and what he was using once he added a program through an app he dubbed Martian Invasion into the new unit. Pauline’s instructions had been to make contact only if absolutely necessary. Alexander was a formidable man and knew what was going on around him. She had called only once in the past six months. That was three days ago to let him know she was going to make the move to lift Alexander’s journal on their trip to Bentonville.

Bentonville? What the heck was Alexander doing in Bentonville? Was he planning to take control of Walmart, the largest company in the world? Retail didn’t seem like his style. But who knows?

Until he got Pauline in Alexander’s camp, it had been nearly impossible to follow the man. It was his second month on the assignment when it dawned on him that Alexander had a double. It wasn’t hard to figure out after that when Alexander wanted to keep his whereabouts a secret. His double would show up at his estate on the French Riviera or his ranch in Argentina.

His mind traveled back to Pauline. What had happened? Burke hoped it was a simple matter that she had heard someone coming—probably the human killing machine named Jules—and had aborted before being exposed. She would return the journal where she found it and wait for a better time to finish. But he knew that was wishful thinking. Alexander’s Gulfstream left Bentonville and landed at the Teterboro Airport in New Jersey two hours ago. His watcher confirmed what he already knew in his heart. Pauline didn’t get off the plane. Neither did Jules. What more evidence did he need that her cover was blown and she was somewhere being questioned or already dead? For the first time in a violent career spent among the worst the world had to offer, he had failed. He had not delivered Alexander’s journal to his client.

Burke had lost operatives before. Two to be exact. But both men were professional dogs of war that fully understood the risk-reward nature of the business. Pauline wasn’t professional. He first saw her in the lobby bar of the Hostel Hassler at the top of the Spanish Steps in Rome. She was the escort on the arm of an Italian businessman. So technically, she was a professional. Burke had just finished a job for the Director General of the Gendarmerie Corps of the Vatican City State. The Catholic Church was being blackmailed by a con artist from Boston, Massachusetts. Burke delivered a report—an expensive report—that capped the Vatican’s liability to his fees and an already hefty legal bill. But not the multi-million-dollar settlement the man Burke exposed was seeking.

The Italian businessman drank heavily and began to get loud and aggressive. When Pauline didn’t respond the way he wanted to one of his crude jokes he slapped her on the face. Burke was old school Middle America. A man doesn’t hit a woman—unless she pulls a gun on him first, which had happened to Burke on more than one occasion. He still had never struck a woman.

Burke acted quickly. He walked over to the man and using only his forefinger gave a quick, sharp tap to the notch above the man’s sternum, just below the throat. A level three pressure point, it was not intended to cause pain or permanent damage. But the love tap created an immediate and powerful gag reflex—it’s tough to be a tough guy when you feel like you are about to vomit—followed by queasiness, and then what felt like an involuntary step—or flop—backward, which was his desired effect. This trick always worked for Burke. Even the most belligerent combatant backed off. The other reason it was one of his favorite nonlethal moves was that it usually went completely unnoticed. If someone did see his finger dart forward, it would appear to be nothing more than some angry finger wagging, with maybe a little poke to the chest. Nothing to get too concerned about. Mind your own business.

The man sat down with a stunned but docile expression. He probably didn’t realize how lucky he was. Burke wanted to punch him in the nose with the base of his palm to hear cartilage and bone crunch. But he restrained himself.

Pauline took his proffered arm and they headed down the Via Margutta, a popular side street off the Piazza de Spagna. After a brisk silent walk, they settled in the lobby of the Hotel Manfredi. He asked if she would like to have dinner with him and she said she would be delighted to. They spoke in French until one in the morning. She was charmed that an American could be so fluent in her native tongue. Okay, she knows how to flatter a man’s ego, Burke had recognized.

During their conversation, he learned about her childhood in a home with two alcoholics. He liked that she was honest and direct about her life since age sixteen. She didn’t euphemize what she did for a living, nor did she apologize or glamorize. She didn’t blame. She owned what she had become and took responsibility for her life. She didn’t whine that she had only received half her fee for her time with the Italian businessman. She let Burke know that she was looking for a way out of the business.

Burke felt he was a good judge of people and he believed her. He hoped it wasn’t just because she was so beautiful. Oh, was she beautiful.

Burke was attracted to her but unexpectedly felt a pang of his long lost sense of honor and morality. He registered a room for her at the Manfredi and told her to get checked in. Then he went back to the Hassler, picked the lock to her room, and packed her suitcase while the Italian businessman cursed and threatened him in at least five languages. But he never left the velvet loveseat after Burke ordered him to sit and not move. The man still looked a little squeamish.

Burke delivered her luggage to the front desk of the Manfredi, arranged transportation to the airport in the morning for her, and left a confirmation number for a first class seat to Luxemburg. He paid for everything.

He wasn’t sure he would ever talk to Pauline again, but he kept her number. He wanted to connect with her a number of times in the year that followed but could never bring himself to make contact. In his world you didn’t purposely pursue entanglements and complications. But then he needed her to help him set the honey trap for Alexander. It was not lost on him that she could pass for a twenties version of Alexander’s wife, Helena. He called to set up a meeting time.

The negotiation for her services was painful. He sensed that maybe she had thought of him over the past year as well and was hoping the purpose of his call was for a different, less tainted reason. Again, he might think that she had real feelings for him because he wanted to believe it, creating a false sense of guilt. Whether or not that was the case, he was not proud of himself for what he was asking her to do.

You have a strange way of telling a girl you like her, Burke said to himself. What in the world happened to you?

But they agreed to a deal. It was her means to a new life. It was the highest subcontractor fee he had ever paid. Two million euros. He wondered if Pauline and he could start over after the operation and see each other with fresh eyes. Doubtful. By enlisting her as a high priced escort he had closed that door. What was he supposed to say? I know that I used to be your pimp, but believe me, all I ever wanted was to get to know you better. He shook his head in disgust.

It was an outrageous idea to connect with someone after being disjointed so emphatically by what he had asked her to do. He wasn’t sure what the road back to normal human interaction would be for him with her or anyone else.

“You look preoccupied, darling,” the blonde said. “Can I help take your mind off something?”

“I’m not sure there’s any chance of that, but thank you for the offer.”

“Was that an offer I just made?”

“Pardon me. I was presumptuous.”

She laughed. “Of course it was an offer. A standing offer. I’ve been told I can be very helpful. Was it a woman who hurt you? We can be such bitches.”

“I’m sure you know how to help me, but not tonight.”

She looked hurt.

“Let me buy you a drink,” Burke said.

“Get another one for yourself and maybe you’ll change your mind,” she said with a pouty expression that was overridden by a twinkle in her eyes.

He caught the bartender’s eye and pointed at both glasses.

He had a man watching Alexander’s townhome and another sitting at the bar in Per Se down the street. Why? Pauline wasn’t on the return flight with Alexander. Face it. She had been caught and had been taken somewhere private and impossible to find for some excruciatingly painful questioning. Or she was already dead. Simple as that. It was his fault.

Burke looked at his phone again. Nothing.

“You really aren’t talkative, sweetheart. She must have done a real number on you.”

He had almost forgotten about the blonde, impossible as she was making that. He shook his head no and confirmed the answer to her question by saying nothing. This was obviously his cue to leave. He was past trying to pretend to fit in as a lonely heart looking for a pickup. He pulled a hundred from his wallet and put it on the bar as the drinks arrived.

He decided to check on his men working the street and then head back to Harlem.

“Aren’t you even going to say goodbye?” the blonde asked to his back.

Nope. I’m not.

There would be no extraction from Per Se, a restaurant on Columbus Circle and one of the City’s finest. He already knew Alexander had cancelled dinner reservations. There would be no snatching her off the
street in front of Alexander’s townhome on 67
^th
Street. She didn’t walk off the plane. She wasn’t in the City.

Why did I involve her in this? Why didn’t I call her when I wanted to get to know her for her own sake?

He walked out the door, ready to disappear into the night.

The blonde watched him exit, picked up her phone, and made a call.

28

Devil’s Den Hiking Trail,
the Ozark National Forest

THE SWISS ARE FAMED FOR luxury goods, secretive banks, expensive watches, chocolates, political neutrality, and Swiss Army knives. Despite the ubiquitous red acetate butyrate casing that houses magnifying glasses, toothpicks, saws, screwdrivers, and a host of other tools, including the promised knife, the namesake Swiss Army does not command the same international reputation as the knife, primarily because the Swiss Army does not take part in armed conflicts on foreign soil.

Despite being best known for making expensive timepieces, the Swiss do take their military seriously. Ninety-five percent of their armed forces are conscripts who function as the world’s largest militia per capita. At the end of two years of active service, all soldiers keep their weapons and military equipment at home—subject to unannounced inspection—as part of their agreement to continue serving in the militia.

At age eighteen, all Swiss males found physically and emotionally fit for service are drafted into the military and spend half a year in training and up to another eighteen months in active service. In rare cases, when all forms of national military service are exempted, the male citizen pays an extra three percent in federal taxes until age thirty. When a national referendum to abolish the draft came to vote in 2013,
it was devastatingly defeated with seventy-three percent of voters indicating they believed it was best to keep the draft in place.

Jules did his two years of military service, excelled, and started down a professional career track in the army. He ultimately found the Swiss Army experience to be too inactive. What was the point of learning a craft but never actually doing it?

Jules was a man at sea after the debacle with being rejected by the Swiss Guard. He wondered if the mysterious and brutal murder of the Bishop of Basel could ever be linked to him. Not a chance.

Based on a tip from a friend, he used all the money he had saved and traveled to Fairfax, Virginia. He didn’t have an appointment, but after a human resources specialist made time to meet with him, he was hired immediately after he blew away the physical by DynCorp, a private military company. He had found a temporary home. DynCorp did contract work for various governments in exotic destinations like Bosnia, Afghanistan, and Iraq, ostensibly to do security work, but routinely—and off the books—to take part in armed combat on foreign soil.

He still didn’t know how Alexander found him, but the great man reached out to Jules through a firm that recruited security professionals. Nothing was ever said, but it was clear that Mr. Alexander desired the services of someone comfortable in both reactive and proactive defense roles. The employer and employee found a match made in heaven—or hell, depending on one’s point of view.

At the moment Jules appeared as impassive as a rock in the eyes of the men who were conducting a two-headed search for Pauline—boots on the ground and drones in the air. But inside his emotions were roiling between rage and shame.

When he knew he’d lost Pauline, he returned to the place he first spotted her, removed the silencer from his Sig Sauer P220, and holstered the weapon. He knelt down and gently placed Mr. Alexander’s leather portfolio and Pauline’s smartphone and fanny pack in a leather
shoulder satchel. Her driver had been dismissed and been told Pauline wanted to spend the day walking the trail instead of running it. He told Mr. Alexander’s driver a different story, that she wasn’t feeling well and wanted to return to the plane. He needed both men out of the area immediately, but telling two stories was just one of his mistakes this trip. At some point the two men would talk and notice the discrepancy.

Mr. Alexander had given him his marching orders to eliminate the discrepancy. Only one man had to die, unless it was determined they had spoken to each other and possibly compared notes.

He worked with Klaus to get a search team on the ground within a few hours. He let Mr. Alexander know he needed to stay and coordinate the hunt. Alexander agreed immediately. A first. Alexander liked Jules close to his side. His rage burned brighter at the thought the man might turn elsewhere for protection.

Has he written me off? Is he looking for my replacement? All I can do is regain his trust.

Jules realized his biggest mistake was the fact that Pauline was still part of Alexander’s world. The boss hadn’t wanted to listen to him when he expressed concerns about her. He should have made himself heard. That’s what a good soldier does. Jules didn’t think Alexander was losing his keen ruthlessness—both hideous and beautiful to behold—but he knew big things were underway and there is only so much one man can keep in his sight lines. That’s why he was needed. Whether ascribed by Alexander or not, Jules determined to take full responsibility not only for bungling her capture, but also for allowing an enemy inside the camp.

Unacceptable.

She was wounded. She had no known way to communicate to the outside world and call for help. If she did, the team already had a man in Arkansas law enforcement who would alert them to her whereabouts. She was in the middle of a state park—or maybe the National Forest by now—that had no commercial or residential development for miles.

They needed to find her, dead or alive. Both options were preferable to the debilitating state of not knowing.

If they found her dead, he would bury her in the Ozark Mountains—and keep a single eyeball, tooth, and fingertip to add to his collection. Men brought souvenirs of war home with them. Why should his needs be different even if he didn’t wear a uniform anymore?

He swore in his mind again that he would personally punish whoever was responsible for this affront. Anything done against Mr. Alexander was an act against Jules.

He hadn’t slept for nearly twenty-four hours. That didn’t matter. A soldier sleeps when he can and stays awake as long as it takes to kill and not be killed.

There was nothing more he could do to assist in the search. It was time to pay a visit on a professional driver who watched too closely and asked too many questions. He would then drive up the highway to Bentonville to take care of Garrison.