Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

‘Has it really been three years?’ Lourds asked, wishing he wasn’t grinning so foolishly.

‘It has.’

‘You look amazing.’

‘Thank you. I work at it.’ Some of the old playfulness flickered in her brown eyes. She reached out and pulled at his shirt collar. ‘Perhaps it’s something you should do.’

‘The last couple of days haven’t been anything like what you promised when you invited me here,’ Lourds countered.

Olympia wrinkled her nose. ‘I know. The news programmes have been full of that. I’m sorry for it. But you have to admit, most of this has been far beyond my control.’

That reminded Lourds of the perfume he’d smelled inside the suite. He put a finger to his lips.

Intrigued, Olympia narrowed her eyes and leaned in closer to him. ‘What?’ she whispered.

‘Someone’s in my room.’

‘Nonsense!’ Olympia looked affronted. ‘This is a very good hotel, I’ll have you know. I’ve stayed here myself, and I arranged for your booking.’

‘The security isn’t what it could be,’ Lourds replied quietly.

‘The security is good here.’

‘They let the police in earlier.’

Olympia put her fists on her generous hips. ‘They were the police, Thomas. Of course the hotel had to let them in.’

‘They could have mentioned it at the desk.’

‘Mentioned what? That they let the police into your room?’

‘Yes.’

‘Maybe the police told them not to tell you. Have you thought about that?’

‘Of course I have. And of course they probably did. I’m beginning to strongly dislike surprises.’

Olympia rolled her eyes. ‘I rather gathered that when I tapped you on the shoulder and you nearly wet yourself.’

‘No, I was preparing to defend myself.’

‘Well, in case no one has mentioned it before, as an expert in self-defence, you’re a great linguist.’

Lourds frowned in response. ‘Maybe you have changed. I really don’t remember you being this unkind three years ago.’

‘Nonsense. Any time you got overly pompous, I was always there to prick you.’

‘I’ve told you before that I really think that should be my line.’

She smiled at him disarmingly. ‘Then you should concentrate on getting it in sooner.’

While Lourds was engaged in the latest bit of double entendre, Olympia slipped past him. She plucked the keycard from his hand and, before he knew it, was opening the door.

‘Don’t go in there.’

Olympia arched an eyebrow at him. ‘Really? That’s supposed to stop me?’

‘Seriously, Olympia. Someone is in there.’

‘How do you know?’

‘I smelled her perfume.’

‘Well, you’ve got a fabulous nose for perfumes. But maybe it’s something left by another woman who’s been in your room.’

‘If there’s been a woman in my room, I don’t know about it.’ Even as he said that, Lourds was more than a little intrigued by the suggestive nature of their conversation as well as the flirting and hint of jealousy. ‘How’s your love life?’

Olympia grimaced at him. ‘What love life?’

‘I thought you were involved with the Belgian archaeologist.’

‘I was. Sadly, he and I both discovered that he’s a lot like you.’

‘Me?’

‘Yes. Too involved in your own pursuits to let any woman slow you down for long.’

‘Ouch.’

Olympia patted his cheek. ‘You never hurt me, pet. You made it very clear from the beginning that what we had was fun. And it was.’ She caught him by the shirt collar and pulled him down for a lingering kiss.

Lourds’ head swam at the intoxicating feel of her lips pressed against his. Definitely looks like it can be fun again.

‘Thomas,’ she whispered raggedly as she pulled away.

‘Yes?’

‘The door, pet, opens inward.’ Olympia slid the keycard, turned the handle, and pushed the door.

For a moment, Lourds was caught flatfooted between sensory overload from the kiss and surprise at seeing how quickly she’d outmanoeuvred him. Despite every instinct in him screaming to flee the premises, he trailed after her and went inside the room.

The Oval Office

The White House

Washington, D. C.

United States of America

17 March 2010

Vice-President Elliot Webster walked along the carpeted hallway to the president’s sanctum. Excitement vibrated through him because he knew everything he had planned for so long was coming to a head. He’d actually thought this time might be as much as two or three years away. He had had a handful of plans in mind to trigger the coming events, but Professor Thomas Lourds’ arrival in Istanbul had been too good to pass up.

He knew the re-emergence of the lost book was a sign of successes to come.

Two young secret service agents, one male and one female, stood in front of the Oval Office door. Both of them nodded as he approached.

‘Good morning, Mr Vice-President,’ one of them greeted him.

‘Good morning, Vincent. How did your mother do with her hip surgery?’ Webster’s mind was like a steel trap. He remembered everything he had learned, and every person he had ever met. All of them were little people who wanted some kind of recognition from those in power. He utilized his talents to make them feel appreciated. It bought him loyalty at no cost to himself. He’d cultivated that trait since he had gone into business.

Vincent smiled eagerly. ‘She’s doing much better, Mr Vice-President. She’s up and around these days, and talking about going dancing.’

Webster chuckled. ‘As an incentive to your mother, tell her that when she’s able to dance again I’ll take her out one night and we’ll paint the town red.’

Vincent reddened slightly. ‘I’ll tell her, sir. And she said to tell you thank you very much for the flowers.’

‘She’s very welcome, Vincent. After everything you do for the president, it’s the least that I can do.’ Webster turned his attention to the female secret service agent. ‘How are you this fine morning, Mildred?’

‘Fine, sir. Thank you.’

‘How is the new Little Sister coming along?’

‘She’s good, sir. A bit of a handful at times, but I enjoy taking her places.’ The young agent had recently signed up to be a Big Sister. Webster had provided the letter of recommendation that had sealed her sponsorship.

‘Excellent, Mildred. I’m glad it’s working out for you.’ Webster rubbed his hands together briskly. ‘Well, I guess I should find out why the president called me out of my meeting this morning.’

Vincent nodded, then turned and knocked on the door of the Oval Office.

‘Yes,’ a deep voice answered from within.

Vincent opened the door and said, ‘Mr President, Vice-President Webster is here to see you.’

On the other side of the room, President Michael Waggoner rose from behind his paper-strewn desk. He was a tall, gaunt man with dark hair that had gone grey at the temples while he’d been in office. In college, he had been a basketball player – had, in fact, almost gone pro – before enlisting in the Marines and putting in twenty years service. Some people believed Waggoner had joined the military to avoid his father’s political dynasty. Senator Kendall Waggoner had been in politics his whole life, and had died while still in office. On his deathbed, he had asked his son to finish out his term. Everyone had known about the illness that had eventually killed him, and his death had come as no surprise.

What had been a surprise to most people was how well the son had served the senator’s last two years. That service had also changed Michael Waggoner’s view of politics. It had got into his blood and he had made a career of it. Another term and a half later, he’d had the Democratic nod to run for president, and had swept the nation. Especially after he’d added Elliott Webster as his running mate.