Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

She kissed him lightly on the cheek. ‘Then they’d be fools and I don’t want to talk about them.’

Webster chuckled. ‘I’m so glad you could join me on this trip.’

Vicky gave him a knowing look. ‘The king of Saudi Arabia has just been assassinated, possibly by religious rivals, the oil trade may hang in the balance because the successor to the throne isn’t a big United States fan, and you think I would pass up a chance for a front row seat to the coming Apocalypse?’

The choice of words surprised Webster. His eyes narrowed. ‘Well, I hoped you wouldn’t.’

She smiled. ‘And here I am.’

Vicky pulled her coat a little more tightly around her.

‘Come on,’ Webster said. ‘Let’s get you out of this weather.’ He held out his arm and she took it, automatically falling into stride with him as he walked toward the jet.

Two more luxury vehicles sped along the tarmac heading for the jet as well. Overhead, an executive Bell helicopter dropped in for a landing nearby.

Vicky shaded her eyes with a hand as she looked at the new arrivals. ‘Stephen Napier and Tristan Hamilton?’

Webster nodded. Stephen Napier was CEO of Prometheus Experimental Energy Research, one of the leading alternative energy developers. Tristan Hamilton was the scion of the legendary oil wildcatter Wesley ‘Dusty’ Hamilton, the latest mogul in one of the biggest oil families in Texas.

‘Bringing in the big guns, aren’t you?’ Vicky asked.

‘The president wants me to make an impression over there,’ Webster said. ‘I aim to do that.’

The helicopter touched down effortlessly. The door opened and a young man with dreadlocks, skin the colour of good coffee with cream, a soul patch and a copper-coloured Armani suit got out. Wraparound sunglasses hid his eyes. He carried a slim valise and walked with innate rhythm. Bright turquoise iPod earbuds nestled in his ears.

‘Who is Mr Cool?’ Vicky asked.

‘My secret weapon,’ Webster answered.

Vicky lifted an eyebrow. ‘After all these years, you still find ways to surprise me. I felt certain I knew everyone you knew who was worth knowing.’

‘Not all my friends want to be known.’

Stephen Napier was a solid block of a man in his late forties with black hair. He worked out religiously and had a chiselled jaw line. The weightlifter’s physique camouflaged the gifted scientific mind. Napier had graduated from college at fifteen and earned dual doctorates in physical science and chemistry by the age of seventeen. He had taken out his first three million-dollar patents between graduating college and earning his PhDs.

Tristan Hamilton wore jeans, cowboy boots, a dark brown leather duster and a chocolate-coloured Stetson complete with a turquoise and silver hat band. In his late twenties, he had practically grown up dividing his time between the family ranch and the family offshore oil wells in the Gulf of Mexico.

Both Napier and Hamilton watched the newcomer with cool gazes. The young man ignored them and walked straight up to Vicky DeAngelo. He took her hand delicately and pressed his lips to the back of it as he peered over the sunglasses.

‘Ms DeAngelo. It’s a pleasure to meet you.’

‘Thank you, Mr…’

He released her hand and stood straight. Up close, he was taller than he looked, six-three at least.

‘Call me Spider. All my friends do.’ His voice was musical. A hint of Jamaican ran through it, though Webster knew the man wasn’t a Jamaican by birth or upbringing.

‘And what is it you do, Spider?’ Vicky asked.

‘These days, I do whatever it is I wish to do. And I like it like that.’

‘So you like playing mysterious?’

‘I don’t play at being mysterious.’ He grinned good-naturedly. ‘If Vice-President Webster had wanted you to know who I was, you’d know by now. So I guess you’ll know when he gets ready for you to know.’ He shrugged. ‘Or maybe not.’

Napier and Hamilton joined them. The Texan towered above them, standing six feet six barefooted. The boots and the hat pushed him up over seven feet tall. He tipped that hat to Vicky.

‘Good to see you again, ma’am,’ he said.

‘Call me ma’am again and I’ll punch you in the eye,’ she threatened him.

Hamilton gave her a slow smile. ‘Honestly, I don’t think you could reach that high. You’re just a little bit of nothin’.’

Vicky smiled sweetly. ‘How would you like to be the centre of an exposé, cowboy? Maybe we’d get a few of those skeletons in your closet to rattle around.’

The easygoing grin held firm. ‘Vicky it is.’

‘Thought you’d see it my way.’ Vicky turned to Webster. ‘Are we expecting anyone else?’

‘No,’ Webster answered. ‘Not on this flight, at least. There will be others showing up in Saudi. People who have vested interests in the Middle East. But I expect you four to be the key players in this enterprise.’

Spider glanced round the group. ‘I guess this promises to be some shindig.’

That, Webster knew, was an understatement. If everything happened the way he hoped and planned, the meeting in Saudi Arabia was going to be world changing.

The only obstacle in his way was the book in the hands of Professor Thomas Lourds. But that would be taken care of soon.

Beyazit Tower

Istanbul University

Beyazit Square

Istanbul, Turkey

19 March 2010

A cool breeze blew in from the Golden Horn, the inlet of the Bosphorus River. Lourds stood with the breeze in his face and smelt the salt of the sea.

From his vantage point at the top of Beyazit Tower, he could see all the Old City, both banks of the Golden Horn and the mouth of the Sea of Marmara. If he squinted, he could even see Princes’ Islands where he had once taken Olympia Adnan to picnic. Travel there was by horse and cart, and the pace was a lot slower than on the mainland. Many of the cottages and dwellings dated back to Victorian times when the island became a vacation resort for the wealthy. Throughout the history of the islands, royalty had been banished there again and again. European kings and princes had been followed by sultans as Constantinople fell to be reborn as Istanbul. As a seaport and as a tie between the East and the West, the city had never had a peer.

The tower had been constructed of wood in 1749, then burned during the Great Fire of Cibali seven years later. Due to its importance as a fire-watch station, the tower had been rebuilt almost immediately, but it had been once more made of wood. It wasn’t until after the tower’s destruction in 1826 that the existing stone tower had been built in 1828. The baroque architecture made it look like something out of a fantasy story.

Three more floors were added an 1849 so the watchman could signal the approach of unfriendly ships as well as where fire was located in the city. During the day, baskets of different numbers were lowered to indicate where the fire was. At night, coloured lamps were lit to replace the basket system.

Lourds easily imagined what it had been like during those early years. The watchman stationed there would have found work and hobbies to fritter away the long boring hours between fires and excitement. No matter how the years passed, there were things in human experience that never changed.

‘You’re smiling.’

Lourds turned to face Olympia. ‘Of course I’m smiling. I’m standing at the top of the Beyazit Tower. All the times I’ve visited Istanbul, I’ve never climbed the tower.’

‘You have to have special permission.’

‘I know. I was told. On every occasion I asked.’

Olympia smiled. ‘And if you wanted to climb the tower so badly, why didn’t you ask me?’

‘I didn’t want to embarrass you in case you couldn’t make it happen.’