Plot/Counterplot Read online

  What Karelis discovered in that 67% was the Holy Grail of the physics world. Breakthrough scientific research, hidden for decades. And a description of a bizarre anomaly hidden here in the Hawaiian islands. President McKinley’s foresight made everything they had accomplished possible.

  Karelis knew the world would be safer if the project remained inactive, if they buried the anomaly and destroyed the accelerator and targeting mechanism. But he couldn’t resist the opportunity to expand the boundaries of known science. Since the dawn of enlightenment, there had been people all too ready to misuse scientific advances. The same equations that put men on the moon also created offensive-strike missiles. You could not allow the evil motives of some to impede the acquisition of knowledge by all. The destiny of humanity was to understand the world in which they lived. That was their sacred quest and Karelis would not forsake it.

  He was not above taking precautions, however. A smart man could prevent his discoveries from being misused. He had a touch of Hypatia in him, though he doubted he shared her capacity for sacrifice.

  Karelis was tired and he needed a bath. The water would refresh him. Perhaps he could still work a few more hours before he slept. Perhaps he would work all night.

  He had job security, work that he loved, and a comfortable place to live. Best of all, he was safe, securely ensconced in this high-security facility. No one could harm him here.

  * * *

  The steel-reinforced door to the Institute required a key card, but a single grenade from Xavier’s Russian GP-30 turned it into a revolving door. As he and his team entered, someone turned the corner and headed down the corridor toward them. A scientist, judging from the white coat and the preposterously unkempt hair.

  The staff were supposed to be out of the office today. Another screw-up.

  The scientist stared at them, seemingly perplexed. “You’re not authorized to—”

  Xavier lifted his Bushmaster XM-15 carbine rifle and gunned the man down before he could finish his sentence. He fell face forward onto the floor. Blood seeped through the coat, spreading like a black viral infection. Xavier never slowed his stride.

  “Keep moving,” he said, waving Tomas and the others forward.

  The second door on the left was supposed to be a security control room, but when Xavier opened it, all he found were brooms and cleaning supplies.

  Xavier’s fist clenched around his rifle. He could survive bazookas, butchers, and badasses—but no one could survive poor planning. At least not for long.

  It took them almost eight minutes to determine the actual location of the security control room, and that was about seven-and-a-half minutes too long. The door was locked and a grenade might damage the equipment, so Xavier used the latest CIA-developed toy: K4. Essentially a paper-thin sheet of C-4 that could be inserted into the jamb to “unlock” the door. After they stepped through the wreckage, Xavier was forced to kill four more people, which was not only inefficient but greatly increased the chances of premature detection. Someone surely heard the explosions or the gunfire and called the authorities.

  So the countdown had already begun. They did not have much time.

  Xavier located the target on the monitors, then used his rifle to disable all internal communications and video surveillance throughout the entire building.

  He hurried his team to his quarry’s lab and found— Chyort voz'mi! Who was running this place?—only one guard posted outside the door. The egghead inside possessed knowledge that could alter the geopolitical balance of power. So the government gave him one guard? They deserved what was about to happen.

  Xavier strode forward. “Show me identification!” he bellowed. The obviously rattled MP fumbled for his papers. As soon as the man lowered his eyes, Xavier twisted the rifle out of his hands and hammered him with the butt. The guard’s head slammed back against the wall. He still struggled to resist. Xavier grabbed his head by the ears and pulled so hard a piece of his right ear tore off. The guard screamed.

  “You supposed to watch?” Xavier asked. “Watch this.” He pressed his thumbs against the base of the sentry’s eyeballs and avulsed both at once. The man’s cries were choked in gurgled blood. A fitting end to a poor watchman.

  Xavier opened the door and pulled the dead guard in so he would not be spotted by any passersby.

  “Wait outside,” Xavier told Tomas. “Act like guarding Karelis. If someone asks, tell them was break-in, so boss brought more security. If they don’t buy it, kill them.”

  “Understood,” Tomas said with a curt nod.

  Inside the apartment, Xavier detected no sign of his prey. “Dr. Karelis?”

  No answer. Xavier entered the small apartment. An Edith Piaf recording played overhead. He was assaulted by the odiferous evidence of a lifelong bachelor. Apparently the good doctor lived as well as worked here. But where was he?

  Xavier tripped a switch on the side of his goggles, activating the thermal imaging function. What would they do without the CIA to steal gadgets from? These goggles were so sensitive to heat differentials that they could not only detect where someone was but where they had been. He spotted a strong purple thermal reading from the desk in the corner. Karelis had been there for some time. In the distance, faint footsteps luminesced on the carpet. The target had walked down the corridor. Recently.

  He followed the heat readings until he heard splashing.

  Karelis was in the bathtub. This would be even easier than he imagined.

  Xavier quickly entered the bathroom, pressed down on the man’s shoulders and held him underwater. Karelis writhed beneath Xavier’s grip but in this position, the scientist had the same defensive capacity as a newborn baby—none. Nothing to grasp for leverage, no means of overcoming the strong arms holding him down.

  “Stop splashing.”

  Perhaps Karelis didn’t hear well, given the circumstances. Xavier wondered if his accent might be impeding communication. He was still insecure about his English and consequently never spoke unless it was unavoidable. Besides, a thick Russian accent made him too easily identifiable.

  He tried to imagine what must be running through Karelis’ brain, as he stared up through the water at the blurry image of a stranger with a stubbled complexion, buzzcut hair, and a weather-worn face. Not just another day at the laboratory. Xavier could almost feel sorry for him—if he weren’t working for the biggest murderers who ever strode across the globe as if they owned it.

  “If you resist, you cannot hear what I say.”

  And still the man splashed like a seven-year-old in a backyard swimming pool. How could a genius be so stupid?

  “Stop or I slit throat.” He drew his knife with his left hand, still holding the man down with his right. “Immediately.”

  The thrashing slowed. That was more like it.

  Xavier hauled Karelis’ head out of the water. He gasped for air so desperately he began dry heaving.

  “You have thirty seconds to tell everything you know about Kronos Key.”

  More than ten passed before Karelis was able to speak. “I—I—don’t know what you mean.”

  “Do not treat me like fool. I took papers on desk. And research notes. Tell me about Key.”

  “I don’t—I—I never—heard of it. I’m working on a theoretical problem in chromodynamic—”

  Xavier shoved him back into the water. It hadn’t been thirty seconds. But he had a low tolerance for lying. His time was limited. Reinforcements could arrive at any moment.

  He left Karelis under until he was on the brink of unconsciousness.

  “I’m telling you,” Karelis said, when the sputtering was done and he’d recovered his voice. “I’ve never heard of any...Kronos Key. I don’t know—”

  Xavier hit him in the stomach so hard it broke a rib. Then he hit him again, in the same place, so he would not only have a broken rib, he would know he had a broken rib. Karelis probably never had experienced anything like it. He was in poor shape, even for a man in his sixties. This fl
abby body spent its days in the lab, not the gym.

  He hit Karelis again and this time, just as the man’s eyes bulged, Xavier thrust him back into the water.

  His lungs sucked in water. He couldn’t last long. Xavier had probably torn the pleural membrane. A collapsed lung was the likely result. The doctor must know that if he stalled much longer, he might suffer brain damage.

  “You will tell what you know,” Xavier explained when he hauled him out of the water again. “If necessary, I hurt you more first. But you will tell.”

  Karelis gasped for breath, blood oozing through his gums. “When the hordes invaded the great Library at Alexandria, the librarian Hypatia stood firm against them. They stripped her naked, ripped her flesh from her bones with dull pot shards, then burned her alive. But by delaying them, she saved hundreds of scrolls, knowledge that later generations used to bring mankind out of savagery.”

  Xavier shook Karelis’ head by the hair, ripping strands out by their roots. “You will tell what I want to know. I am your master.”

  “You are the barbarian at the gate, trying to drag humanity back to the primordial slime. We have always fought your kind. We always will.”

  Xavier grabbed his head with his insanely powerful arms and crushed Karelis’ skull between his hands.

  * * *

  Out the window of Karelis’ apartment, Xavier saw two trucks filled with armed troops pull up to the front door of the Institute. Military police. Wouldn’t take them long to get up here. He needed a diversion.

  He took all the K4 from his pack and pressed it into place, then added the blasting caps, then inserted a radio-controlled detonator. He unwound the silken cord wrapped around his waist and tied it to the shower head.

  “Tomas! Get in here!”

  He addressed his entire team.

  “Will be ten or so men surrounding corridor in less than one minute. You hold them off.”

  “What’s our extraction route?” Tomas asked.

  “Rear stairwell. After I clear it, I call for you. Pull your men back and follow downstairs. I wait for you in garage.”

  “Yes, sir. But—”

  Xavier raised his voice several notches. “Do you understand orders?”

  “Yes, sir!”

  Tomas positioned his men around the corridor. A moment later they were firing. Xavier retreated into the bathroom.

  There was no rear stairwell, of course. His men were already dead, even if they didn’t know it. But Xavier was excellent at repelling. He lowered himself out the window and down the side of the building, pushing off the brick wall to maintain momentum. He touched pavement in fewer than ten seconds. No one spotted him.

  Until he reached the parking garage.

  “Freeze!”

  Xavier’s hands went up into the air. Damn. They left a man behind to guard the back door. A sensible precaution.

  “Down on the floor. Now!”

  As he dropped to the pavement, Xavier took in the uniformed MP holding an assault rifle on him. He looked young and nervous. Good.

  “Just stay put till I—” The MP scrutinized Xavier’s face. “Wait a minute. I’ve seen you before. On the barge. I know where you live. Good God, I’ve got to tell—”

  Xavier pivoted on one arm and swung his legs around like a Cuisinart blade, knocking the MP off his feet. Before he hit the ground, Xavier had his head in both hands and pounded it against the concrete.

  Xavier took the last of the K4 from his pack and rolled it like a cigarette with a fuse. He stuck it inside the MP’s mouth, then duct taped his mouth closed.

  You will tell nothing to no one, Xavier thought, igniting the fuse. He moved away to escape the blast. The K4 exploded with the muffled pop of a thousand firecrackers, blasting the young MP’s head into a million pieces.

  Never threaten my home, Xavier thought, as he made his way back to the Hummer. Your people took that from me once, in Sabaa. Never again.

  He slid behind the wheel and drove.

  Just before Xavier pulled out of range, he triggered the detonator, igniting the K4 in Karelis’ bathroom.

  The entire fourth floor of the Institute exploded with a thunderous din that hurt Xavier’s ears even at this distance. Huge chunks of the building flew through the air. Sonic vibrations made his car shudder. The crumbling fourth floor tumbled into the third, the foundation weakened, and barely a heartbeat later the left side of the building was dust. The Cartwright Institute looked as if a giant cake-cutter had sliced out the westmost wedge.

  Tomas and the others had always been expendable. The objective had been to obtain information. And he had accomplished that, with the documents, though Karelis failed to tell him all he knew about the Key. Xavier could not escape his own harsh judgment. This mission was less than a success. And given the massive destruction, the military would be alerted to the potential threat—an unnecessary complication created because their plan had been clumsy and unimaginative from the start.

  He knew where to go for the schematics, all the details, everything they would need to use the Key or to build their own. But extracting that information would require careful planning, ingenuity, and specialized skills. They needed finesse, not brute force. They needed to take what they wanted without the government even knowing it was missing. They needed to do the impossible.

  They needed new ideas.

  And Xavier was going to find them.

  The Courtship

  “The role of a writer is not to say what we all can say, but what we are unable to say.”

  Anais Nin

  Chapter 1

  Present Day

  Dylan loved it when Leilani purred. He reached upward to the soft swell of her breasts. He tickled her on the underside and she curled up, pushing her velvety bottom into the air. He knew what that meant. She wanted to be taken from behind.

  Dylan was happy to oblige.

  When he first met Leilani, he had no idea she would be the woman with whom he wanted to spend the rest of his life. They were introduced at the book release party for his fifth Fargo Cody thriller, The Venetian Vendetta. During the years after his second novel hit The New York Times-bestseller list, he had been through more women than he cared to recall. It was an embarrassment, the way he’d let sudden success give him the social maturity of a teenager. He thought of himself as a caring, sensitive human being. He never meant to be shallow. But that’s exactly what he was.

  Until he met Leilani. They were an unlikely pair. She was a paramedic, he was an artist. When he asked her out that first night over cocktails—actually, he asked if she wanted to join him in his hot tub, he recalled with a cringe—she’d stared into his eyes with an unaccustomed directness, held his gaze, and said:

  “Are you ready to evolve?”

  He didn’t have to ask what that meant. As it turned out, he was ready, and they’d shared the best two years of his life mutually discovering what it meant to be not just lovers but partners. She made him a better person. He was better with her than without her.

  He had a brother here in Honolulu and a father somewhere, but he rarely saw either. He had a few friends, none of them close. His world was his fiction, his college mentor, and Leilani. He cared more about her than anyone he had ever known.

  Dylan stroked and teased her for a long time, until her arousal reached a level so intense she could no longer remain still. He knew she liked to feel his lips on her, not just at the usual points of interest but everywhere, on the nape of her neck, across her arms, between each knuckle, across her soft belly, up and down her legs. He sucked on her toes, just the middle three, gently at first, then with increasing pressure. Only a few moments of that and she was moaning, undulating her hips, wanting him.

  “Ready?”

  “Yes,” she whispered. “Please, yes.”

  He resisted the temptation to take her hard and fast. There were times when she liked that, but this was not one of them. Instead, he entered slowly. A sudden gasping told him he had touched exactly th
e right spot. He gently massaged her from the inside out. Only when her cries of ecstasy resounded did he plunge. He leaned forward powerfully, squeezing her buttocks together, pushing with increasing force. She screamed and he began pounding, strong and rhythmically. Her head turned sideways on the pillow, whimpering, while he continued thrusting with the strength of thighs muscled by daily long-distance sprints. Running was Dylan’s other passion. He strove for stamina and style. Just as he did now.

  Leilani’s cries echoed through the dark bedroom. He knew it would not be long now. She flung her head back, urgently, her long black hair flying, gripping his hand and pulling him closer, harder, faster. He gripped her hair, pulling her head toward him, and that clinched it. They both exploded at the same time, crying out to the heavens, totally immersed in a shared moment of bliss.

  When enough time had passed, he rolled her over gently and wrapped his arms around her. It was at least a full minute before either spoke.

  “My God, Dylan. Oh my God.”

  Not scintillating dialogue, but he knew what she was saying. “I feel the same way. You’re wonderful.”

  “You’re wonderful. I remember imagining what you would be like when we first met. I mean, you’re a writer. I expected you to be timid and to use words like, ‘Indubitably.’ A part of me still wondered: Could he make love like Fargo Cody does? But no scene in a book could ever be as powerful as what we share.”

  Dylan stroked her cheek. This was a problem he often faced—people expecting the creator to be as incredible as his fictional creation. Dylan enjoyed writing those books, trying to recreate the works that had sustained him in his youth—John Buchan, Graham Greene, Ian Fleming, Trevanian. But even though he took pride in his creations, Fargo Cody was only fiction. No one could ever be so clever, brave, and thoroughly fantastic in real life. Certainly not Dylan.

  “We’re writing our own book,” he told her. “And it’s the greatest story ever told.” He stood up, naked, and opened the rear window so the breeze would cool them. The palm trees on the beach below swayed mysteriously, silhouetted against the cerulean blue of the Hawaiian night sky. The fronds seemed to slither toward him like undulating arms threatening to seize him and carry him away. He’d taken this pricey penthouse condo for the view, the security, and the privaCy. He preferred his hidden cabin in the wilds of Pupukea, on the North Shore of the island, but when he had to be in Honolulu, this was a place he and Leilani could stay free from prying eyes and autograph hounds.