The Circle of Eight (17 page)

His master snorted and began to roll toward him.

Dietrich panicked and yanked the now divided chain just
as his master rolled completely over, now facing him.

But he had the key in his hand.

He quietly turned, the blade hidden behind his back, and
clasped the other key and its chain from the nightstand. He stepped back as his
master’s breathing readjusted with several snorts, then gently closed the
curtain. Stuffing the cabinet key into his pocket, he firmly held the basement
key in his left hand, the dagger in his other, hidden away in a deep pocket in
his robe.

He inched his way from the bed, then at the door,
prepared himself for looking purposeful again.

He was so tired now, the fear that had been fueling him
no longer able to keep up, that he could feel himself fading. Too much had
happened, and he had given himself no time to recover.

Only ten minutes more, if that!

He opened the door, stepped out into the hall, then
closed the door silently behind him. A quick glance and a wipe of his forehead,
and he was walking toward the basement, key in hand. The door wasn’t far, and
he reached it in moments, encountering no one.

The key slid in the lock, the mechanism creaked gently
and the door unlocked. As he pushed it open he felt a hand on his shoulder,
pulling him back.

He nearly urinated on the spot.

He turned his head and found a robed figure behind him.

“Good morning,” he whispered, his voice wavering in
fright. “You startled me,” he said, placing his hand on his chest. “I didn’t
realize anyone was up.”

“What are you doing?” asked the man, his voice low but not
the whisper Dietrich would have preferred.

“Shh,” admonished Dietrich, holding a finger to his
lips. “We don’t want to wake the master.” He held up the key to the basement.
“My master and I were in the basement earlier and he lit the room with the
black powder. I have to go replenish it before he wakes up, as I’m certain he
will want to check on the
item
immediately.” Dietrich looked at the hand
still on his shoulder. “Now if you’ll excuse me? I’d like to get this done so I
can go to bed. Tomorrow I become a full apprentice, and do not want to be
tired.”

At the mention of becoming an apprentice the hand darted
away from the shoulder. Though an apprentice had little power, especially early
on, the power within the organization they would command after their master’s
death was only rivaled by that of The Founder.

The man disappeared into the shadows, saying nothing.

Dietrich pushed the door open, took a lantern from the
wall, and entered the basement, closing the door behind him. When he reached
the stone floor below he paused for a moment, leaning on a table as he caught
his breath and tried to steady his shaking hands.

He eyed the cabinet at the far end of the room, but
resisted. If someone were to check on him, he would need to be seen doing his
job. He retrieved a small barrel of the black powder and scooped a generous
amount out, then poured it through a funnel as he let it fill the tiny groove
carved around the room, carefully filling the side channels leading to the
various torches to be lit.

He did the job a little quicker and a little sloppier
than he normally would, this merely his cover should someone come down, and
only his master would know if it wasn’t up to his usual standards.

Finished, he rushed toward the cabinet and slid aside
the lock cover. He pushed the key in the hole and turned, swinging open the
door. Reaching inside he grasped the Catalyst and pulled it out, placing it on
the nearby table. He locked the cabinet again, stuffed the key in his pocket,
then looked about the room for something to hide the cube in. It wasn’t large,
perhaps from his wrist to his elbow in length, width and height, and it wasn’t
heavy beyond feeling solid and substantial.

But it wouldn’t fit under a robe without an obvious bulge
impossible to explain.

His eyes travelled the room and came to rest on the
powder barrel. He rushed over, tipped it and emptied the black powder into a
corner. Then, prying off the top, he placed the Catalyst inside, the fit nearly
perfect, then put the top back on, hiding it from sight.

Now he merely needed to act as if it were empty.

He was about to climb the steps when he had one final
idea. It was bold, crazy, and potentially deadly. If there were any delay on
his part whatsoever, he might die.

Again, something he could live with.

Laura Palmer’s Private Jet, Over the Atlantic Ocean

“Sorry, BD, no luck. We just don’t have the intel feeds we need here
to do it, and we can’t ask the Colonel.”

Dawson was frustrated, but he knew it wasn’t Atlas’
fault. They were running this op off the books, privately financing it with their
own savings, and calling in every favor they could. The plane and rental in
Richmond were donated by friends, the first flight to Geneva donated by a
corporate honcho whose daughter they had rescued years earlier from Yemen.

And this flight, donated by Professor Palmer. He wasn’t
too proud to accept funding from someone who was filthy rich. He had read her
dossier when she had been first identified during the Triarii incident, and knew her
late brother had left her over one hundred million when he died. He had often
wondered what he would do if he were to suddenly find himself rich. It was hard
to think of doing anything beyond The Unit. He knew eventually he’d be too old
for it, but then he figured he’d still be involved, probably training the new
recruits, or becoming one of those “go to” guys like Thor had become.

If you need me, I’ll be there.

The Unit was his life and he didn’t want it any other
way. Which was why he never bought lottery tickets. There was too much of a risk
he might win. And it was also why he was determined to avenge Stucco’s death.
This was his family.

And you don’t mess with my family.

Spock and his team had already landed in Geneva and were
arranging quarters and supplies. He and Red, along with Niner and Jimmy, as
well as the two professors, would be arriving within a few hours, but they
didn’t have enough intel. He had hoped the cellphone they had retrieved from Sylvia’s
abductor in the church might have led to something, but it had come up empty
due to a lack of resources. The briefcases and wallets retrieved by Spock’s
team had proven dead ends, the wallets merely filled with cash and fake ID’s,
the briefcases holding weapons and clothing, the only thing of value were that
their clothes were made in Italy.

“Time to call in another favor.”

Dawson hung up and dialed a number he had been given
only for emergencies. A number he had never thought he’d have to call.

The CIA makes me nervous.

Namale, Fiji

CIA Special Agent Dylan Kane sat in a very feng shui chair, his back
to the wall, all the entrances and exits visible, the lighting subdued due to
the unscrewed bulb in the light hanging from the ceiling. It had been a
fabulous dinner with equally fabulous company. The young lady that had sat
across from him as they had their Kobe beef steak had shifted to the chair
beside him, one hand on her Chalk Hill chardonnay, the other on his leg,
squeezing life into an adjacent appendage.

He sipped his Glen Breton Rare, a scotch that was hard to
find but worth the effort. All of his regular haunts across the world had a
case stored away in the event he might show up. He felt the tingling numbness
begin to take over, the warmth spreading through his body with each sip.

He leaned back and sighed, pulling Talei’s chair a
little closer then putting his arm around her. He was about to plant a kiss on
her that he knew would lead to something even better than a fine scotch, when
his phone vibrated.

“Just a second, darling,” he said as he fished the phone
from his pocket. He answered, not recognizing the number. “Go ahead.”

“Hi, it’s me,” said a voice Kane didn’t recognize.

“That’s nice, this is me too.”

“You had that same damned sense of humor every time you
got a finger or two of scotch into you after training.”

Kane smiled, the voice now clearly recognizable as his
old Sergeant Major and Delta buddy Burt “Big Dog” Dawson.

“Hey! What can I do for you old buddy?”

“I need a favor.”

“Name it.”

“I need a cyber-asset.”

“I know just the man for the job. I’ll have him contact
you shortly.”

“Thanks, my friend. Now make that call before you take
another drink.”

“You know me so well.”

Kane ended the call then fired a message through his
phone to an untraceable relay, the encoding on his text message directing it to
the correct recipient more securely than any other method available to him in
Fiji.

The message sent, he cleared the phone of any record of
the message or call, then pocketed it, turning back to Talei.

“Now, where were we?” he asked, his mischievous smile
awarded by a heart quickening kiss from a woman so gorgeous, she’d piss off
super models.

The perfect distraction for trying to forget New
Orleans.

Chris Leroux Residence, Fairfax Towers, Falls Church, Virginia

CIA Analyst Chris Leroux sat on his couch, sipping a Diet Coke and
grasping at air, the bag of Cheetos empty.

“I ate the whole thing?” he asked aloud, examining the
bag. He turned to scold his girlfriend Sherrie for allowing him to eat the
entire bag when he remembered she wasn’t here. She was off on some op in God
knows where. She was an agent, he was an analyst, and he wouldn’t have it any
other way. At least in that there was no way in hell he wanted to be an agent.
He knew the gonads for that belonged to her.

Which was totally cool with him.

She was like his own personal Lara Croft, a superhero
off fighting for duty and honor, then the best damned girlfriend a guy could
ask for when back home.

Damn, you’re hopeless.

He knew he was damned lucky. Until he had met her he was
chronically shy. Still was. He was on his way up at the agency, at least in the
analyst pool since the Brass Monkey incident he had figured out for them, and
he had the ear of the Director now. But all of his current confidence he owed
to Sherrie.

God I miss you!

His phone vibrated on the table, the dull rumble causing
him to nearly shit his pants.

Definitely not agent material.

He checked the message and jumped from the couch,
turning off the TV and calling his escort team that had been assigned for
security purposes, his current assignment considered too important and too
risky for him to be left unguarded.

“We’re leaving in five.”

“Yes, sir.”

Dylan Kane had been his friend since high school. Kane
had gone army then CIA, Leroux had gone academic then CIA. Neither had known
the other had ended up at the agency until a chance encounter that had
rekindled their friendship.

Kane had saved his life, had given him the courage to go
after Sherrie, and had been a good, albeit infrequent, friend.

And he’d do anything for him.

Köln, Germany

1472 AD

Dietrich pushed open the basement door and stepped into the hallway,
closing it behind him. The barrel was tucked under his arm as he tried to make
it seem as light as he could. He returned the lantern to the wall, then locked
the door, stuffing the key back in his pocket. He turned and the robed figure
was again there.

“What is that?”

Dietrich looked at the barrel.

“What, this? It’s an empty powder barrel. I need to put
it out with the others so they can get refilled when our supplier gets here in
two days.”

“Let me see it,” said the man, his voice at least a
whisper this time.

“Of course,” said Dietrich, his hand still in his pocket
from depositing the key. He gripped the dagger handle, shifting his body to the
left to transfer the barrel to the man’s outstretched hands, then swiftly
pulled the dagger and plunged it into the man’s belly.

He dropped with a groan that echoed through the halls,
his body sliding off the now bloodied dagger.

There was no time to waste as the shadows seemed to be
moving.

He rushed down the hall, away from the basement door and
toward the front of the house. He passed the master’s room, the door still
closed. He saw a hand reach out from the shadows but he darted to the left,
avoiding it, the dagger still in his hand, the barrel uncomfortable under his
arm.

He reached the front door and turned the latch then
pushed open the door. A hand grabbed his left shoulder and he spun, driving the
dagger between the man’s ribs and into his heart. He dropped to the ground in a
pile of moaning flesh as his blood spurted out over his robes and the floor.

“Alarm!” yelled a voice from deep within the house, and
immediately he could hear the pounding of footsteps.

He ran down the steps, out the front gate, and raced up
the hill toward Heike’s house. They deserved to know what had happened to their
daughter, and he was determined to tell them should he be successful. Footfalls
echoed through the dark streets behind him, his exhaustion and the barrel
slowing him down. He knew he wouldn’t make it, the guards undoubtedly well
rested and strong.

As if to prove his thoughts, he was suddenly overtaken
by several of them who blocked his path, their arms outstretched, the ghostly
figures of the baggy robes terrifying in the moonlight. He dodged to the right but
it was no use. A glance over his shoulder showed more coming. To the left was
the ledge Heike had been thrown over, to the right the wall of a house. He made
for the ledge, but was blocked, forcing him to retreat to the house.