Armen Gharabegian - Protocol 7

“It’s not, though, Sam. Not-”

“I know that now,” she said. “It was stupid and immature from the beginning. But that doesn’t change two things for me, Simon. One: I have to live with the consequences of my decision, no matter how much I regret it. And two: I still do love you. I want to protect you more than ever.”

“…Even if I’m constantly putting you in danger?” Simon looked past her out over the water. “It’s not right. I just wanted to find my father. I didn’t want to make things worse.”

She shook her head. “You need to get some sleep. You’re going to collapse soon. There’s nothing that you can do, no problem you can solve between now and the time we reach Malta. So stop trying.”

“But-”

“Rest, Simon. Please. We need you.” She looked straight into his eyes and squeezed his arm. “I need you.”

He looked deeply into her eyes and knew, for the first time, that she would be fine on her own, at least for the next leg of the journey.

They joined the others in the galley, where his team was drinking strong coffee and sampling all the baked goods the cook was happy to supply. Simon sat at the table with them; Samantha stood close behind him with a casual, warm hand on his shoulder.

He pulled the packet from his coat, opened it, and withdrew a sheet of papers. Ryan recognized them immediately.

“Ah,” he said. “They came.”

“They did.”

Simon leafed through the contents of the package very quickly, then handed it over his shoulder to Ryan. Ryan inspected the papers and the passports a bit more carefully, then passed them out to each team member, once again like a dealer distributing cards. They took the individual packets with a strange, wordless solemnity. They all knew, each of them, that the world was about to change again.

Hayden was the first to speak up. “Are you sure these are going to work, Ryan?”

Ryan’s response was quick and convincing. He had obviously been thinking about it. “I can’t guarantee anything,” he said, “but this is the best option we have.”

Hayden grunted, hating to agree, then stuck the papers in his pocket and looked out of the murky window of the boat. The old paved road-the one leading away from the coast-was still above and beyond them.

Simon took only a moment longer to examine his new identity. He could barely make out the name in the dim light of the moving vehicle, but he didn’t care who he was, as long as they reached the rendezvous point for the Munro with plenty of time to spare.

“When we land in Santiago,” Ryan said, “there’s to be no talking, no sharing cabs, nothing. Go to the hotel or inn that is listed in your packet. Stay there until you receive the signal on your safe phones. We will meet again on the deck of the S.S. Munro.”

They all looked at their papers with renewed curiosity, anxious to see where they would be spending the next, solitary leg of their journey. Simon saw that he was set in a hotel with an unpronounceable name on a street which sounded just as odd.

Then something unusual caught his eye.

There was a piece of paper inserted in his new passport-a thick, creamy sheet, exactly like the paper Leon had used for his handwritten note back in Corsica.

What the hell…he thought. Without bringing any attention to it, he pulled the note free and read it quickly. All the others were busy looking at their own documents; no one seemed to notice he had an extra sheet. It read:

When you reach Chile, call a scientist by the name of Nastasia, who will help you on your mission. Do not speak to anyone about this note. It may jeopardize everything.

Who the hell wrote this? he wondered. Doing his best to look inconspicuous, he reached into the inner pocket of his jacket and pulled out the note from the study door-the note that had changed his life, that he had kept in his pocket, on his person, since the moment he had discovered it. He compared the handwriting on the two documents, squinting in the dim light of the gallery to be absolutely sure.

No. They were different. Whoever wrote the first note-and it had to have been Leon, he signed it-did not write the second.

Then who…?

He pushed the thought away and carefully stashed all the papers-including the note-in the inner pocket of his coat. The others seemed to have found safe places to store their own documents.

Enough intrigue, he told himself-prayed, actually. Enough secrets.

Suddenly, Simon realized just how tired he was…and imagined just how good a hot shower and a nap would feel.

The hovercraft that pulled out onto the remote island was no unusual experience for Blackburn. He sat blindfolded, escorted by a team of men that he had never seen. He had done this before. Flown off the coast of Argentina for hours; and then onto a hovercraft to different islands each time. It usually took less than two hours to reach his destination once the plane had landed, but for some reason this time it took a bit longer. He was accustomed to what would happen next. He would be blindfolded until he had reached a specific chamber, usually large enough where he could hear the echo of his own voice reverberating.

The Hovercraft came to a complete stop and deflated. Blackburn was escorted off, and in less than fifteen minutes he had entered the chamber. His blindfold was taken off and like always, the room was nearly pitch black. Only a faint glow surrounded his figure and cast the shadow of his body onto the floor.

Blackburn was ruthless, a coldblooded villain in his own right. However, each time he had to confront the chamber, it made him more uncomfortable. He had never seen the ones he answered to, and was never sure if each time might be his last. It was almost as if a fear, greater than he could explain, compelled him and guided his life. He lived completely in two separate worlds, one as a politician in Washington and the other as a servant to powers he could not comprehend. Each time he stood in the chamber, like this very moment, he could sense the silhouettes of the multiple figures that sat around him. He could almost feel their eyes, peering into his back and was never sure if one wrong word would end his life. As always, he was rarely given a chance to repeat his words, so he had to choose carefully when asked. Then like a knife, through the darkness of the air, the voice cut through Blackburn.

“Speak.”

“We are making progress, and I anticipate that within a couple of weeks I will have answers,” Blackburn said, noticing his own voice tremble, as it echoed through the room.

“And the asset you spoke of?” asked the Voice.

“We are very close to making him confess,” replied Blackburn.

“And if he does not?” asked the Voice.

“He must. He is our only asset, and the only one that knows what’s going on.”

“For your benefit, he must confess sooner rather than later. For we have no time.”

“Understood,” said Blackburn.

A minute later he was blindfolded and escorted out of the chamber. He knew that his life was in danger, and the next time there would not be another chance.

Via Casa Hotel

It was just past four a.m. when the old-fashioned phone in Simon’s hotel room rang-a long, burring, ugly tone. It didn’t wake him up; he hadn’t been able to sleep at all since he had set foot in Santiago hours before.

He put a hand out to answer it-an automatic gesture, a standard response to stimulus-and then he stopped himself.

Who could be calling him at this time of night? The only people who knew where he was would use the secure phones if they needed to talk to him, not an open line. And even then, they knew better than to call. Anyone could be listening.