Charles Brokaw - The Lucifer Code

As the helicopter swung back into the alley, Dawson spotted two marked police cars speeding up from the other end. A sinking sensation formed in the pit of his stomach.

One of the men stopped firing, yelled hoarsely, and pointed at the back of the sedan. One of the new arrivals pulled a rocket launcher from the vehicle’s trunk. He settled it over his shoulder and aimed even as Metternich tried to pull up from the attack run.

The helicopter filled with flames and the cameras went offline.

Off Istanbul Cd

Yesilkoy District

Istanbul, Turkey

15 March 2010

Stunned, Lourds watched the helicopter go to pieces in the sky above the alley. Flaming wreckage flew in all directions. Some of it dropped onto the rooftops, but a lot of it fell into the alley. The cacophony of explosions and their echoes rolled through the confined space and physically battered him.

Still on his feet, but only because he hadn’t thought to throw himself to the ground, Lourds ran his hands over his body. As far as he could tell, he was still in one piece. But he didn’t think he was in a good position to know for sure.

By the sedan, the man with the rocket launcher calmly reloaded his weapon. Sirens shrilled behind Lourds. When he turned to look back, he spotted two police cars on the other side of the flaming debris. The wreckage blocked them from approaching.

Lourds turned and fled back toward the policeman. He raised his hands and shouted, ‘Don’t shoot! Don’t shoot!’

The doors on the police car opened and two officers squatted down behind them with guns drawn.

Lourds repeated his entreaty in two different languages and was on his third when Kristine tackled him. Her arms encircled his knees and he plummeted forward just as the police opened fire. The bullets passed overhead within inches.

Kristine slithered up his body and settled on top of him in a prone position.

‘You’re going to get yourself killed,’ Kristine shouted into his ear. ‘You must have some kind of death wish.’

She slapped the back of his head.

The man with the rocket launcher fired again. This time the round streaked for the police car. The police officers had just enough time to abandon their positions before the explosive slammed into the vehicle. The car flew up from the ground and flipped over backwards. As the vehicle lay rocking like an overturned turtle, flames wreathed it.

Rubber shrilled behind Lourds as the sedan navigated the alley and skidded to a stop beside him. Kristine rolled off and grabbed him under one arm while one of the men grabbed him under the other.

‘This is the professor?’ the man asked.

‘Yes,’ Kristine answered.

Together, they unceremoniously shoved him into the sedan’s rear seat. Thinking quickly, Lourds grabbed the door handle, yanked, and tried to escape. Another man filled the door and batted Lourds back into the car with a hard elbow to the head. Lourds’ hat fell into the alley as he toppled back dazed against the seat. The man stooped long enough to get the hat and push it into Lourds’ face, then sat down beside him and slammed the door.

Kristine crowded in on Lourds’ other side. The two other men slid into the front seat beside the driver.

‘Go! Go!’ the man in the passenger seat roared, and slapped the dash impatiently.

The driver pressed his foot heavily on the accelerator and they shot out of the alley into the street. They skidded wildly for a moment, losing traction across the pavement, then the driver regained control.

Lourds glanced through the back window and hoped to see a police car there. He didn’t know how he was going to explain his current predicament, but having to explain it rather than survive it had to be an improvement.

A sharp pain bit into the inside of his right thigh. When he looked down, he saw the man beside him had stabbed a hypodermic into his leg. He grabbed for it but the man was already pushing the plunger. More pain invaded Lourds’ leg, along with a cool sensation that quickly spread.

‘What is that?’ Kristine asked.

‘Something to knock him out.’ The man withdrew the hypodermic. ‘From what we’ve seen, he is nothing but trouble.’

Lourds wanted to object. None of this had been his fault, but a warm lassitude drifted through him and he found he couldn’t quite gather his thoughts.

Then the waiting darkness claimed him.

Zola

800 F Street

Washington, D.C.

United States of America

15 March 2010

Dawson grabbed his briefcase, slid out of his Dodge Charger, and tossed the keys to the young female valet.

‘Good evening, sir.’ The valet caught the keys one-handed and held the door for him.

‘Somewhere close.’ He handed her a twenty-dollar bill. ‘I may be leaving quickly.’

‘Of course, sir.’

The International Spy Museum and the Spy City Café sat adjacent to Zola in the Le Droit Building. The vice-president had chosen to meet him there for a late dinner. The refurbished restaurant was a favourite of the man’s, but wasn’t one that the Agency often used. Dawson thought it amusing that the vice-president wanted to meet his private spy there.

The Le Droit Building was old, a hangover from past glories in the nation’s capital, but it had been recently remodelled and shone like a jewel. Zola was one of the district’s chic places to eat and had private dining rooms.

The maître d’ greeted Dawson when he stepped into the foyer. ‘Do you have a reservation, sir?’

‘I’ll be joining someone,’ Dawson replied.

One of the vice-president’s security people stepped forward. Dawson didn’t remember the man’s name. They all tended to look alike: young, tough and emotionless. The earwig in his ear gave him an other-worldly appearance. Most people wouldn’t have noticed the device, but Dawson was acutely aware of it.

‘He’s with us,’ the security man said.

The maître d’ smiled. ‘Of course.’

‘Good evening, Special Agent Dawson.’ The security man nodded to the CIA SAC.

‘Good evening.’ Dawson shot his cuffs. ‘Is he already here?’

‘Yes, sir. He’s in the same dining room. Do you know the way?’

Dawson said he did and started off at once. Anxiety knotted his stomach as he strode through the red and black décor. The thick carpet muffled his footsteps.

Two security guards stood outside the private dining area. Like the first, both wore black suits and earwigs.

‘Good evening, Special Agent Dawson,’ the older of the two said.

‘Good evening, Special Agent Reeves.’ Dawson remembered this man’s name easily. The vice-president never went anywhere without him. Without being asked, Dawson gave his briefcase to the younger of the two agents.

Reeves made no apology for their quick search of the briefcase’s contents. The vice-president was adamant about his personal security. All the briefcase contained was Dawson’s encrypted notebook computer and a satellite phone keyed to it.

The younger agent handed Dawson’s briefcase back. ‘Here you go, sir. Everything looks in order.’

Dawson accepted the case, then Reeves knocked on the door.

‘Yes?’ the vice-president called.

‘Special Agent Dawson is here, sir.’

‘Good,’ the vice-president said. ‘Show him in.’

Elliott Webster, former senator from New Hampshire and party whip and now vice-president of the United States of America, stood at one end of the intimate dining table. He was an inch over six feet tall and maybe twenty pounds overweight but it looked good on him. He was in his late forties but easily looked twenty years younger due to the strong jawline and the dark blond hair that had refused to grey. His cerulean blue eyes invited friendship and promised trustworthiness within a nano-second of being turned on someone. Many men instinctively trusted him and many women wanted to coddle him. No matter how imposing the setting in which Dawson saw Webster, the vice-president seemed to fill the room. The man oozed charisma.