Sabotage (46 page)

“We'll set her down soon. Before we do, might I petition air traffic control for a flyby of Hoover Tower?”

“No one knows about our landing strip in the hills,” Clare said. “And as far as I know, this airspace falls under no control tower's jurisdiction.”

*   *   *

Ichiro quickened his pace along Serra Mall as he dialed a number on his mobile. There was no answer. Hearing the voicemail prompt for the third time, he snapped his phone shut and lengthened his stride toward the lawn.

Where was his roommate? So focused on the question was he that he failed to notice a faint buzzing noise growing louder.

They were supposed to meet for dinner at the Oval—all of them. A small group congregated in front of the quad up ahead. Rachel was there, wearing a satin, crochet-trimmed batwing top and looking fashionably elegant alongside Victoria in her cashmere cardigan. She had removed her aviators in the twilight hour. A man stood with them, one Ichiro didn't recognize by face, but he knew who it was.

Rachel spotted his approach and lit up.

She shouted. “Ichiro Yamada, you're late!”

His gait accelerated to a jog. “
I'm
late?” he said, huffing. “What about Austin and Professor Clare?”

“Them, too. That's okay. I can extend the reservation. Gives me time to make an important introduction.” He caught a sideways wink from Rachel, who motioned to the man and said, “This is the gentleman you've heard so much about.”

He looked grave and scarred, his countenance weathered. Most would have found his appearance forbidding, even malevolent. Ichiro could see he was acquainted with damage.

“Ichiro,” Rachel said, “meet Jacob Rove.”

The two clasped hands in what was, at least for Ichiro, a moment for reflection.

“I'm honored to meet you, Mr. Rove,” he said. “You've saved the life of a close friend of mine. Not to mention Victoria and her father, whom I will surely come to know and hold dear.”

Rove bowed his head only slightly. “If it weren't for Austin and Victoria's detective work, along with Rachel and you cracking the coded radio transmission, the Baldr satellite might have fallen into enemy hands. Our whole continent might have lost power.”

“Speaking of which,” Rachel said, “I'm still trying to get this story straight. What happened to Deeb in Iceland?”

Victoria spoke up. “After the explosion, Mr. Rove alerted the Navy of the need for rescue ships to transport three thousand thirsty, starving passengers ashore, along with a small group of people who had escaped on a lifeboat. He also told them a certain former Algerian oil minister, bound and gagged in a private jet, would require an escort to detainment facilities for questioning.”

“He sang like a canary,” Rove said.

“Where's the man now?”

Rove darkened. “Set free.”

“Impossible!” Rachel said.

“By disclosing the names and whereabouts of over two dozen high-level al-Nar associates, he complied with his interrogators, thereby meeting the terms of his release.”

“There's good news, though,” Victoria said. “Back in Bruges, I printed a document identifying agents from other terror groups. Vasya Kaslov had stored the list in his email account. All the participants in the bidding war, including leaders of eight extremist groups, were on the list. I faxed it to the Pentagon this morning. Did that ever feel good. Deeb's name was on the list, so at least we have a general idea of his whereabouts should the CIA—or perhaps a private defense corporation—go after him.”

The news brought Rachel a measure of ease. “You sly thing.” She placed a hand on Rove's shoulder. “Well, Mr. Rove, how'd you enjoy your vacation?”

“At least I squeezed in some recreational diving.”

“Not to mention one very important night dive,” Victoria said.

“You should call that banker,” Rachel suggested. “Tell him the cruise was … subpar. He'd send you on another.”

“As appealing as that sounds, my catamaran in Mexico is getting lonesome. You kids are always welcome down for a sail.”

Victoria smiled at him. “I'll never forget my confusion on the lido deck of the
Pearl Enchantress,
” she admitted. “When you told me not to leap for the gun, I didn't understand. All I could think of was the detonator twirling in Clifford Pearl's hands and what would happen when he pushed the red button.”

“What detonator?” Rachel asked.

“Clifford Pearl ordered Ragnar Stahl and his legion to line the ship's hull with explosive charges. On the last day, Pearl sailed off with the Marauders on one of their corsairs. He had every intention of sinking his own cruise liner.” The hard edge to her tone began to melt. “What Pearl didn't realize was, several nights before he sailed away, Jake had scoured the hull and switched the charges. He'd removed them from the cruise ship and fixed them onto the corsairs.”

Rachel said, “So when Pearl set off the charges…”

“He blew the ship he was sailing on, and all the other corsairs, to smithereens.” She imagined the burial site in those waters south of Iceland, where Ragnar and Dan Chatham also lay entombed in the sea's lower lockers. The thought gave her peace.

“I'm still wondering how one has a dogfight with a cruise ship,” Ichiro said.

“Sharpshootin' Hardy can tell you that one better than I,” Victoria said. “By the way, where
is
Austin?”

It was then that Ichiro noticed the buzzing noise. He glanced up and pointed. “Look!”

A glossy biplane barreled toward them, revolving in tight corkscrews. The aircraft glinted in the waning sunlight, smooth and buffed like the handcrafted models in Clare's office. It plummeted toward them with no sign of pulling out of its dive, coming so close they could smell the exhaust fumes, then flattened its trajectory and ran parallel with Serra Mall. Any lower, and Ichiro felt he could have reached out and touched the fuselage.

The biplane nosed up and banked south for the mountains. Watching from below, Victoria could have sworn she'd noticed one of the pilots sporting a white Stetson.

Rachel squinted and gestured toward an unfamiliar object gliding toward them. The object appeared to have fallen from the plane's cockpit. “What's that?”

“A paper airplane,” Rove said. He jogged to the street and caught it by the tail. “There's writing on the wing. It says,
To Victoria Clare
.”

The others looked curious as she unfolded the creased paper. When she finished reading the message within, she stuffed the paper into a pocket. She looked devilish.

“They're running late for dinner,” she said. “They'll meet us at the restaurant. Let's go.”

Later in the car, Victoria unfolded the paper and reread the message to herself.

You'd make a ravishing copilot. No uniform required.

—AH

 

ABOUT THE AUTHOR

Matt Cook wrote
Sabotage
while a student at Stanford University, where he also cofounded California Common Sense, a nonprofit dedicated to policy research and government transparency. A close-up magician, Cook has performed in Hollywood and across the globe. For his support of the military, Matt Cook was honored with the President's Call to Service Award. Cook is currently pursuing a doctorate in economics at the University of Pennsylvania while working on his next novel. Learn more at
www.visitmatt.com
.

 

 

This is a work of fiction. All of the characters, organizations, and events portrayed in this novel are either products of the author's imagination or are used fictitiously.

SABOTAGE

Copyright © 2009, 2014 by Matt Cook

All rights reserved.

Cover photographs by Getty Images

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The Library of Congress Cataloging-in-Publication Data is available upon request.

ISBN 978-0-7653-3811-2 (hardcover)

ISBN 978-1-4668-3787-4 (e-book)

e-ISBN 9781466837874

First Edition: September 2014