The Spy Who Loves Me (18 page)

On screen, the image shifted to infrared, a pinpoint of intense heat apparent in the image.

“As you can see, gentlemen,” Drake said, “the technology requires two steps. First the target is painted, and then…”

“Voilà,” Diana said.

As they watched, the sign exploded, shards of burning wood and metal littering the sky, and the screen filling with smoke.

Amber met Finn's eyes. This was definitely an
oh shit
moment if she'd ever seen one.

“I must apologize for the lack of pyrotechnics before the explosion,” Drake said. “It would be so much more satisfying to actually see the laser racing down from space. But as my technical advisor, Ms. Traynor, tells me, the frequency of the beam from the satellite is invisible to the human eye.”

“That's it?” Mujabi said. “We're supposed to pay you two billion because you blew up an icon of the Western world?”

“No,” Drake said, infinitely patient. “Half is for the second demonstration. At a time and location designated by the high bidder. If you're pleased, upon receipt of the second half of the sum, I'll turn the technology over to you. And please recall, the bidding
starts
at two billion. For technology such as this, I expect much higher numbers.”

“Ridiculous,” Lao said. “There will be no second demonstration. The United States will destroy the satellite.”

At that, Drake actually laughed. “Oh,” he said, “I don't think so.” He gestured for Diana, stepping aside to allow her to share space at the lectern.

“The weapon you've just seen fired is code-named Prometheus,” she said. “As you've seen, it's part of a space-based weapons system. It is not, however, acknowledged by the Americans. It was created for one specific intelligence branch, presumably as a creative means for assassinations. We are not entirely sure if the president is even aware of its existence.”

Amber licked her lips. Their information had to have come from Unit 7. But who was the mole?

“Then that organization will destroy it,” Cornwallis said. “They'll do that rather than let it stay in your hands.”

“Undoubtedly,” Drake said. “But they don't know we have access.”

He turned to look directly at Amber. “And there's no one alive who can tell them.”

B
randon was going to talk to Bernie Waterman. Schnell might have forbidden such contact previously, but the commander had just given Brandon carte blanche to find Amber. To Brandon's mind, that gave him an open ticket to talk to anyone he damn well pleased.

That wasn't, however, an interpretation he intended to confirm. There were times, Brandon had learned, when it really was easier to ask forgiveness than to ask permission.

He headed first to ZAEL, expecting to find Bernie mindlessly entering data into the mainframe. Instead, he learned that the man hadn't shown up for work in a week.

“I think he's got the flu,” the receptionist said. “I talked to him a few days ago, and he sounded terrible.”

Brandon thanked her and headed back out, this time aiming his car in the direction of Bernie's apartment. Brandon hoped the guy was truly home sick and not just skipping out on work. Bernie was the only lead Brandon had. He needed to talk to the data processor now. Amber had been gone too long for comfort, and Brandon needed to find some answers.

But there was only silence when Brandon knocked, and he sagged against the door, trying to decide his next move. He could interview the neighbors, see if he could get some clue as to where Bernie might go if he was off playing hooky.

But he'd end up chasing from one end of Los Angeles to the other, and the odds of actually finding the man were slim. And even if he did find Bernie, he'd have wasted a hell of a lot of time looking for a man who wasn't even his ultimate goal.

No, Brandon needed Bernie only to get to Poindexter. And since there might be something in Bernie's apartment revealing the programmer's identity, that was the option Brandon chose.

He kept a set of lock picks in his car, and now he went and got them. Bernie hadn't locked his dead-bolt, just the spring lock in the doorknob. Brandon
tsk-tsk
'ed. Really, Bernie should be more diligent.

The lock wasn't a challenge, and Brandon was inside in well under thirty seconds. No surprise there. What he encountered inside, however,
that
was a surprise.

The place had been completely ransacked. Brandon pulled his gun, not really expecting to find anyone there, but cautious nonetheless.

Apparently someone else had had the same thought as Brandon—to use Bernie to lead them to Poindexter.

Unless…

A crazy thought pushed its way into Brandon's mind, but he shoved it aside. No way.

That couldn't be right.

But Brandon knew better than to ignore his instincts. And as soon as he finished searching Bernie's apartment, he was going to put Albert Alcott on the trail of his newest theory.

 

On the projection screen, the Hollywood sign still burned, fire trucks converging on it from all over Los Angeles.

“Maybe this agency didn't know you had access,” Mujabi continued, “but they'll bloody well know someone fired the weapon.”

“Actually,” Drake said, “they won't.”

“That,” Diana said, “is the beauty of our method of access. Prometheus is still a prototype, and as such has a few, shall we say, glitches. In this case, we utilized the programmer's back-door code. Unless it's fired during a routine simulation test, the weapon's firing won't even register on the organization's control panel. They will be as curious about why the Hollywood sign exploded as everyone else on the planet.”

Finn sucked in a breath. He'd done enough programming to know that what Diana said was likely true. It wasn't at all uncommon for a programmer to put in a back door, especially while the equipment was still a prototype. And once in through a back door, keeping a signal from the legitimate controller wasn't difficult for someone who knew what they were doing. Hell, he'd done the same thing in some of his game programs. Not to wreak havoc or anything. He just liked to keep his hand in things.

But this was no game. The Hollywood sign had exploded with a simple punch of a button, and the potential for destruction on a worldwide scale was glaringly obvious. Instinctively, he jerked forward, his efforts once again thwarted by the handcuffs.

Damn.
He needed to get to the computer. If he could only manage that, maybe he could hack in and close the back door.

Maybe.

But since he was currently attached to both Amber and the chair, that plan wasn't exactly overflowing with potential. Even his new realization that Amber knew more about all of this than she let on was no help. Even if she had lied to him—even if she was an operative with the agency that had commissioned Prometheus—at the moment she was as tied up as Finn and no use whatsoever.

“And now,” Drake said, “let's start the bidding.” The screen changed from the view of the Hollywood sign to a graphic of a piggy bank over a bar graph showing six bars labeled A through F. “The process is simple. Enter your bids in the box on your browser and the computer will compile your information. You can see your bid and your competitors' bids. And, of course, feel free to increase your bid as frequently—and as generously—as you see fit.” He held his arms wide. “Gentlemen, start your bidding.”

Apparently the sales pitch worked, because almost immediately, the bids hit $5 billion. Drake slipped his arm around Diana's waist, an expression remarkably close to sexual on his face as he watched the bar graph climb.

Beside him, Amber brushed Finn's hand. “He's insane,” she whispered.

Finn could only nod. He was insane, all right. But he was also well financed—and soon to be more so—as well as brilliant.

At $6.5 billion, the bidding slowed down, then stopped at an even $7 billion.

“That's it?” Drake asked. “That's all you'll pay for access to this technological marvel? A device that could not only launch a world war, but elevate the weapon's controller to superpower status?”

“Eight,” the one with the Oxford accent said. “And that's my final offer.”

Drake spread his arms wide. “Do I hear nine?” Silence. And then Drake nodded. “Very well. Eight it is.”

He pressed a button on the lectern console and five of the surrounding screens went blank, leaving only the high bidder. “Congratulations, Prince Mujabi. You've bought yourself a war.”

 

A war, Amber knew, was exactly what a man like Mujabi wanted. And when he named his target—the Al-Aqsa mosque in old Jerusalem—she knew her suspicions were right on.

“If you'll check your screen,” Diana said, “you'll see a calendar showing potential firing dates and times—the limitations stem from the satellite's position as well as the scheduled simulations for the satellite.”

Amber focused on the projection screen, committing the dates to memory.

“The twenty-first,” Mujabi said. “That will give me time to lay my foundation.”

“A delightful date,” Drake said, pulling a small appointment book from his inner coat pocket. “Prometheus will be in range on that date at oh-two-hundred hours. As for the details, the funds must hit my accounts by no later than noon on the twentieth. Ms. Traynor is sending you wiring instructions right now.”

“And access?” Mujabi asked.

“For the balance of the funds, it will be yours,” Drake confirmed. “We'll expect those funds within twelve hours of the destruction of the mosque. Otherwise, the deal's off.”

Mujabi nodded. “The instructions have arrived. Your funds will arrive in time.” He bowed slightly. “Mr. Mackenzie, it has been a pleasure doing business with you.”

“Likewise,” Drake said, and signed off.

Four days.
They had only four days to prevent a full-scale war in the Middle East that would likely escalate into World War III. First, of course, they had to get free.

She jerked against the cuffs, frustration building. Finn covered her hand with his, and she met his eyes. She saw the question there, and knew she had some explaining to do. “Four days,” though, was all she said.

He nodded. “Any ideas on how we prevent the next step in Drake's agenda?”

She frowned.
They
were the next step, and she knew full well that Drake intended to kill them. After what they'd seen, he certainly couldn't let them live.

“Nothing,” she said.

“What? No laser in your wristwatch to cut through the cuffs? No false hair that's actually a garrote. No secret decoder ring?”

“We'll talk about it later,” she said, more harshly than she intended. But the truth had just hit her upside the head—this man wasn't an agent. He'd come to the attention of the wrong people for the same reason he'd come to the Unit's attention—he'd been watching Diana Traynor. And now Amber had to get both herself and a civilian out of this mess. She closed her eyes and sighed. She'd seduced a civilian, dammit. She'd wanted information and all she'd gotten was an orgasm.
Shit.

“Later,” Finn repeated. “Absolutely we'll talk later.
If
we live.”

“We'll live,” she said. “I promise.”

But then a jolt of movement shot through Amber's body.

“I'm afraid,” Drake said, “that it's time to say good-bye.”

They were descending, their chairs moving them down into the floor on some type of hydraulic lift. And as they sank deeper and deeper, Amber had to admit that she had no idea how she'd go about keeping her promise to Finn.

 

Apparently the section of floor to which their chairs were bolted doubled as some sort of open elevator, because now Finn was eye level with the command center's stone floor.

“I'm not liking this development,” he said, as the floor began to descend even faster.

“You and me both,” Amber admitted. She jerked forward, and pain seared against his wrist as the cuff caught on the chair.

“I don't think so, sweetie,” Diana said. “I've been wanting to do this since the first moment I met you.” She aimed a small flat device at Amber, then pressed a button and two wires shot out, catching her in the chest. A Tazer. Amber's body jolted and jerked, and she collapsed back into the seat.

“Amber?” Finn clutched her hand and she squeezed back, weak.

“She'll be fine,” Diana said. “This Tazer is particularly weak. But it does the trick.”

Amber aimed a puny smile at Finn. “I really don't like that woman.”

They both looked up as they were lowered farther and farther into the floor. The passage through which they were descending was made out of smooth steel and exactly the same shape and size as the bit of floor to which the chairs were bolted. So even if they could have gotten their wrists free, there was nowhere to go.

They continued that way for at least a minute, and then the walls disappeared as they entered another chamber. Their pseudoelevator came to a halt with a thud. Finn twisted, trying to check out their new cell.

“I apologize for the accommodations,” Drake said, his voice hollow as it filtered down the passage through which they'd traveled. “But I promise you won't have much time to bemoan the lack of amenities.”

“You won't get away with this,” Amber said, her voice already stronger.

“Big words, considering your current predicament.”

“If not me,” Amber said, “then someone else. But you are going down.”

“I'm quaking in my boots,” Drake said. “Actually, my dear, I was quite pleased to learn your true identity. I so hate to kill civilians.”

Finn grimaced but didn't say anything. And then he noticed that his feet were damp.

Amber noticed at the same time. “Drowning?” she said. “Not very original.”

“I don't have time to tie you over a cistern and wait for the rats to eat away the ropes, I'm afraid,” Drake said. “This will have to do. As you can see, the room is filling with water.”

That much was true. Water was beginning to seep in from tiny jets just inches off the floor.

“Don't even think about digging your way out. This island was designed as a weapons test site. It was never used, but the room you're in was originally intended as a bomb shelter. The walls are five feet thick. Take my word for it.”

Amber frowned, her eyes darting around the room. “Thanks for the tip,” she said.

“My pleasure.” Drake cleared his throat. “I've made modifications, of course, one of which you're experiencing now. The water is seventy-eight, so I don't expect you'll be chilled while you die. In case you're wondering, at the current rate of entry, it will take thirty-two minutes for this chamber to fill. Not really enough time for you to compare your various agencies' retirement packages. But since you won't be retiring, I suppose that doesn't matter.” He saluted, then disappeared, a stone tile sliding into place in the ceiling.

Trapped.