C. Graham - The Solomon Effect

In the end, the world would be a better place. No more endless Middle East crises. No more suicide bombers. No more money-grubbing Jews, siphoning off billions in foreign aid, competing with American arms manufacturers, and wrecking havoc on the world financial scene. But Walker was, at heart, a businessman, and he had no doubt that the coming events were going to shake the world economy. Like any good businessman, he’d been reviewing his portfolio, making adjustments to certain key stock holdings. His financial advisors found these changes baffling, now. But in the days to come his actions would be seen as fortuitous. The world was about to change drastically, and Walker had given considerable thought to how a man could capitalize on those changes. It was as if he had been given a crystal ball in which he could see the future. Only a fool would fail to act on that knowledge.

Pouring himself a tall glass of liquefied wheatgrass sweetened with apple juice, he wandered out onto the gallery overlooking the sun-struck sea below and put in a call to Boyd.

“I just got the report from my lab guys,” said Walker, settling into an upholstered bamboo chair framed by a garden of wind-ruffled palms and dark tropical foliage.

Boyd’s voice was a low growl. “And?”

Walker let the moment draw out, enjoying the suspense. He took a sip of his juice. “The shipment was still 60 percent viable.”

“That’s good.”

“Good?” Their best-case scenarios had been 40 percent. “It’s great.”

“When will it be ready?”

“We should be able to sail with it Wednesday morning.” They were transporting the shipment to the mainland on Walker’s private yacht. “We’ll make Miami by Friday.”

There was a pause. Boyd said, “It’s come to my attention you’ve been making some unusual financial transactions.”

Walker sat forward. How the hell had Boyd found out about that?

“This isn’t about money, Walker. It’s about doing what has to be done to save this country.”

Walker let his head fall back, his eyes squeezing shut as he enjoyed a moment of quiet amusement. The General Boyds of this world never could seem to grasp the fact that, in the end, everything always came down to money. Of course this was about money-money that should be going to education, to rebuilding America’s crumbling roads and collapsing bridges, to fixing a medical system that was a disgrace to the Western world. The country was flushing itself down the toilet, wasting billions and billions of dollars every month for-what? To wipe the noses of a bunch of ungrateful rag-heads in Afghanistan and Iraq? To prop up Israel? And why? Because that pissant little country was strategic to American interests? Hardly. Walker supposed there were some people who might actually believe that. Much easier to swallow the standard line than to admit that certain individuals with divided loyalties had grown so powerful that they had every politician in America falling all over themselves to kiss their asses-while all the gullible, Armageddon-obsessed Christians just stood around singing hallelujah and waiting for the Rapture. Walker had learned a long time ago that the world revolved around money. It was only dinosaurs like Boyd who thought life was about honor, and loyalty, and service.

“Don’t worry,” said Walker. “No one’s going to notice.”

“Someone might see a pattern.”

“You mean, like the interesting financial transactions that occurred right before 9/11?” Walker took another sip of his juice. “So some conspiracy nut notices and puts up an Internet site. So what? Americans only believe in conspiracies if they’re hatched in a cave in Afghanistan. If you were smart, you’d make some adjustments of your own.”

“I will not profit from what is about to happen.”

“Well, I’ll tell you what: I’m sure as hell not going to suffer because of it.”

“If you jeopardize the mission-”

“I’m not jeopardizing anything. I’m just recouping my costs.” With a little extra, Walker thought. He let his gaze linger on the stretch of turquoise water before him and felt its calming influence. “Relax, Boyd. Things are going better than we ever expected. In less than a week, it will all be over.”

“Really? I’d say that by this time next week, it will have only just begun.”

Kaliningrad, Russia: Monday 26 October

9:10 P.M. local time

The flight from Kaliningrad to Berlin smelled of raw onions and vodka and hot, closely pressed bodies. Tobie leaned back in her seat and closed her eyes, but she was too exhausted and jittery to sleep.

Jax passed out before the flight even pushed back from the terminal.

Watching him sleep, she knew a welling of frustration that only seemed to grow with each passing minute. In less than a week, an unknown group of terrorists would launch a deadly attack on the United States. She had successfully located the U-boat the men had salvaged. But the true nature of its cargo had turned into an enigma, while the identity of the terrorists themselves remained a mystery.

No one knew better than Tobie the limits of remote viewing. Anything she tried to view from here on out could be dangerously influenced by what she already knew about the case. And tasking herself was always tricky. Without the protocol of an official viewing in place, no one in the intelligence community would give credence to anything she “saw.” But she had to try.

Taking a deep breath, then another, she willed herself to relax, sinking slowly down into her Zone. Her target was a person: the leader of the force that attacked the Yalena Saturday morning and killed its crew. Her target time: now.

The first images were, as always, indistinct. She saw a man. Dark hair. Dark skin. A flat nose. Full lips. Dark jeans. A heavy pullover sweater. She could feel the anger seething within him, combined with a lethal determination that sent a chill down her spine.

She pulled back from him, trying to get a sense of place. She was aware of the pinch of cold. Smelled damp earth and wet leaves. He stood outdoors, in the country, perhaps, or in a garden. In the darkness, trees and bushes were all reduced to indistinct shadows buffeted by the wind.

Pulling back further, she saw the faint glow of a lamp spilling through an uncurtained window. The sulfurous haze of a streetlight shining on wet pavement. A city, but not a crowded city.

What city?

Patiently, she returned to the man standing in the shadowy garden. The house behind him began to come into focus. High gables. Jutting dormers. Steep roof. Mullioned windows. A large house, well cared for, yet quiet.

She shifted her perspective to the street, the images of the neighboring houses becoming increasingly cleaner, stronger. If she were ever to find herself on this street, she would recognize it in an instant. But when she tried to move beyond the darkened houses, to the city itself, her impressions became less distinct and dangerously susceptible to “overlay” by her imagination.

With a sigh, she opened her eyes to stare out the plane’s small window at the darkness beyond. She felt the vibrations of the jet’s engines thrumming through her, and she knew it again, that sense of frustration combined now with a growing urgency. She had seen the man they sought; she was sure of it. She had felt his anger and his dark purposefulness. But who was he?

And where was he?

It wasn’t until their flight hit the runway, bounced, then rattled to a shuttering halt that Jax opened his eyes.

She said, “How do you do that?”

He glanced over at her and yawned. “What? Sleep? Practice.”

“I’m beginning to think I might kill for a bed and a shower.”

“You should be able to get both at the station.”