The Emperor's Revenge (The Oregon Files) Read online

  “I noticed,” Juan said as he shoveled sand. “We’ll deal with that when we need to.”

  The driver started the engine and took off, flinging sand behind the fat tires. In another minute, they were over the next dune and out of sight.

  As they dug, Juan nodded his head in a rhythm only he could hear. After five minutes, he seemed to point and give instructions in English to Eddie and Linc about where to dig so that their captors wouldn’t realize they were having a conversation.

  “We’ll give Nazari fifteen minutes to reach the escarpment and dismount,” he said. “That’s when we’ll make our move. Linc, you take out our digging companion. Eddie and I will rush the machine gun.”

  Linc nodded and started digging in the spot that Juan had pointed to. “Do you think that’ll give us enough time to recover the nuclear cases?”

  “Did you figure out Hodgin’s code?” Eddie asked.

  Juan nodded in response to both questions. In his translation to Nazari, he’d left out one key note that Hodgin had recorded in his logbook. Linc and Eddie didn’t give any sign that Juan had skipped it, and he had committed the passage to memory.

  March 15, 1429: If the Soviets are searching for us as well, they might find us before the Americans. I couldn’t leave the cases for them to find, so I buried them. Hard work, with no water and a bum leg. You’ll find them straight on from the Jimmy Durante for the number of blue paces in my suede shoes.

  Hodgin knew that no Russian would recognize the American references. Jimmy Durante was a famous comedian and singer of the era known by the nickname “The Schnozzola” for his bulbous nose. Hodgin had buried the cases straight in front of the plane’s nose.

  The number of paces to count off referred to Elvis Presley’s hit “Blue Suede Shoes.” Juan had played the song back in his head while he was digging and counted twenty-one mentions of the word blue. If he was right, twenty-one paces out was where they should dig.

  “I’m glad you knew the song,” Linc said. “I’m more of a Marvin Gaye fan.”

  “If it had been a Beatles song, I would have been all over it,” Eddie chimed in.

  “That would have been about ten years too late,” Juan said. “Be ready for my signal.”

  He waited another ten minutes to be sure Nazari was at the farthest point in his trek. The timing would be close, depending on how far down the cases had been buried. Given Hodgin’s feeble condition at the time, he couldn’t have dug very deep. They had to hope the same storm that exposed the aircraft hadn’t heaped more sand over the spot.

  Juan speared his shovel into the sand and leaned back to stretch. He took the canteen from his belt and conspicuously drained it. He shook it out looking for more, then turned and started walking toward the Scorpion.

  Hasim, the soldier at the machine gun, straightened at the movement toward him.

  “Where are you going?” he demanded.

  “To get more water.”

  “Keep digging.”

  Juan kept moving toward the dune buggy only forty feet away. “I’m thirsty.”

  “I don’t care. You’ll get water when Nazari gets back.”

  Thirty-five feet. The AK-47s were still lying on the hood of Scorpion 3.

  “Stop! I will kill you and your men if you don’t.”

  Juan picked up his pace. Thirty feet now.

  The M2’s sight was squarely on Juan’s chest.

  “Stop!”

  Juan broke into a run.

  Hasim didn’t shout again. He thumbed the trigger and let loose a deafening barrage of .50 caliber shells.

  SIX

  MONACO

  Credit Condamine’s gate opened and the Tesla SUV barreled out of the dark garage into the sunny street as police cars skidded to a stop in response to the bank’s silent alarm. The first policemen were barely able to get out and draw their firearms before the SUV clipped their car, the Tesla’s motor whining in an eerily quiet hum that belied its quickness. Both officers had just enough time to clearly identify Henri Munier, screaming incoherently behind the wheel.

  From the tiny camera and microphone mounted on the dashboard, Golov could see and hear that Munier was actually yelling for their help, but the startled policemen must have assumed the bank president was shouting for them to get out of the way as he fled the scene of a crime.

  Golov hadn’t told him to scream, but he figured that Munier would. The scenario was playing out perfectly.

  The SUV was already equipped with a camera built into the front bumper, so Ivana had routed the feed through a transmitter that broadcast to the display Golov was watching. He controlled the Tesla’s steering, accelerator, and brakes using a modified Xbox controller connected to the laptop.

  While Golov steered Munier’s SUV from the passenger seat of their car, Sirkal drove them sedately in the opposite direction toward the Achilles. They were already blocks from the bank, and with the security recordings of them erased, the police would have no idea they were involved.

  Munier’s wrists were lashed to the steering wheel with plastic ties. He wasn’t driving the Tesla. The wheel’s input had been disengaged from the signal going to the front wheels, so turning it did nothing. The accelerator and brake pedals had been similarly disabled. Munier had no choice but to go along for the ride.

  The SUV’s acceleration was faster than everything on the road except expensive sports cars. Certainly nothing in the Monaco police fleet could match it. By using the reconfigured backup camera to monitor the pursuit, Golov kept the chasing police cars in view. He wanted to make sure there would be no doubt that Munier had remained in the vehicle until the end.

  The Tesla rocketed down the street, sirens wailing behind it. The few cars that were on the road either didn’t see the approaching car or simply didn’t react and continued to block the way. Instead of heading into opposing traffic and risking a wreck, Golov drove it onto the sidewalk, sending pedestrians diving out of the way.

  He was disappointed there was no fruit cart to upend, like he’d seen in countless American movies, and he had to satisfy himself with smashing through an outdoor bistro. Tables and chairs went flying in all directions.

  Golov was sure the chase was being recorded on police dashboard cams and various street and security cameras. When the video was pored over in the aftermath, the obvious conclusion would be Munier had accidentally tripped the alarm during his crime and then tried to escape when he realized his mistake.

  Of course, people had seen him board the Achilles, but that would be understood as a crude attempt to provide himself an alibi. The discovery of Georges Petrie shot to death in his condominium with the same Glock that was now in the back of the SUV would be the final piece of evidence against Munier.

  There was still one last thing to eliminate and he was currently sitting in the Tesla’s driver’s seat.

  Merely crashing the SUV wouldn’t do. Golov had something more spectacular in mind.

  He steered the SUV around the next corner and accelerated toward his destination. He could see the Formula 1 racetrack two blocks ahead.

  The Grand Prix course was laid out on city streets, some of them so narrow that the race cars could not pass each other. Barriers were erected along the track edges as a safety measure not only for the drivers but to keep out other vehicles.

  However, the track had a few spots that could be opened to let fire trucks and ambulances enter and exit the track. Golov knew where the closest of those was.

  The weak point was near the famous hairpin turn by the Fairmont Hotel.

  “What’s the race status?” Golov asked Ivana, who was monitoring the Grand Prix from her seat in the back next to O’Connor.

  “They threw the yellow caution flag two minutes ago. There was a crash near La Rascasse. The safety car is just passing the casino.”

  Golov smiled. Even better than he’d h
oped.

  The Tesla sped up as it approached the temporary gate that allowed access to the emergency entrance. The policemen guarding the gate put up their hands to stop the vehicle, then saw the chasing police cars round the corner behind it. They didn’t have time to draw their weapons before the SUV smashed through the barrier and swerved through the entrance to the track.

  About half the Formula 1 race cars following the safety car had passed the entrance already. Even the caution pace was still faster than freeway speeds. Golov could only imagine the look on the nearest driver’s face when he saw an SUV rush onto the track in front of him.

  The driver yanked the wheel of his race car to the right to avoid the Tesla, careening into the wall in the process. Debris from the car’s carbon fiber body went flying in all directions. Three other cars behind it were caught in the ensuing crash.

  Golov accelerated and began to pass the race cars ahead of the SUV. He had always been a race fan and driving the Monaco Grand Prix track during the actual race was a dream come true, even if he was doing the driving virtually. It was as if he were playing the most realistic video game ever devised.

  “The special effects are so lifelike,” he muttered, and then chuckled to himself when no one else in the sedan responded.

  Most of the Formula 1 drivers moved over to give him a wide berth. But at a narrow point, Golov scraped the wall as he tried to get past a car. The front bumper of the heavy SUV hit the wing of the race car, spun the car around, and slammed it into the opposing wall.

  It came to rest backward on the track, and one of the pursuing police cars hit the front of the car like a ramp. The police vehicle flipped into the air and finished the job of blocking the track. Golov’s pursuers could no longer continue the chase.

  He braked for the hairpin, which was so tight that even the most advanced race cars in the world had to take it at thirty miles per hour. He could almost hear the squeal of the tires competing with Munier’s shrieking.

  The next curve led into the track’s most unusual feature, a thousand-foot-long tunnel. The safety car, a Mercedes sports car with yellow lights flashing on its roof, paced the two leading race cars into the gloomy entrance. The driver seemed to be speeding up, trying to stay ahead of the crazy man behind him.

  This was the fastest part of the racecourse, with Formula 1 cars typically reaching a top speed of one hundred and sixty miles per hour. The safety car was pushing a hundred. Despite his effort, the Tesla gained on them.

  They exited the tunnel, and Golov slammed on the brakes heading into the kink in the track, called a chicane, and then onto the part of the track that abutted the harbor. Large grandstands were built along the next ninety-degree corner, and fabulous yachts were packed, gunwale to gunwale, to allow their passengers to watch the race from the comfort of their lavish surroundings.

  Golov caught up to the tail end of the three-car convoy as they reached pit road. The cars ahead continued to rocket along the course, but Golov didn’t follow them. He flicked the car to the right and sped down pit road at a speed far higher than the limit for the race cars.

  He took aim at one of the open garages next to the road. Pit teams scattered like minnows in front of a shark. Munier’s eyes widened in terror.

  “No!” was all he could cry out before the SUV plunged into the garage at over a hundred miles an hour and struck a fuel rig. A flash of white engulfed the screen and then it went dead.

  Golov switched to the live feed from the television cameras covering the race. A ball of fire erupted out of the garage. Several of the helmeted pit crew ran out of the building, the exterior of their fire-retardant suits aflame. Surely others inside hadn’t been so lucky.

  The highly reactive lithium in the batteries along the SUV’s chassis would now be burning ferociously, ignited by the fuel explosion. Little would be left of Munier’s corpse except his teeth for dental identification. The plastic ties cuffing him to the wheel would be vapor, and the bodies of the two guards in the back would be charred beyond recognition. Evidence of the electronic tampering would also be destroyed.

  The sedan rolled to a gentle stop at the dock where the Achilles was tied up.

  “Well done, everyone,” Golov said as they got out. “The champagne tonight is on me.”

  “Shall I shut down the party now, Captain?” Sirkal asked.

  Golov looked up at the guests who were gathered along the railing, watching the black smoke rise from the racetrack. Many of them were taking photos or videos with their phones. Few of them had put their drinks down.

  “Not just yet,” Golov said. “We don’t want to seem too eager to get them off the ship. But with the tragic events of today, I don’t think anyone will be in the mood to continue the festivities for much longer. Make the ship ready to sail in an hour. I’m sure Mr. Antonovich wouldn’t want to stay here any longer than he needs to. I want to be south of Majorca by tomorrow morning.”

  “Yes, sir.” Sirkal left with O’Connor to make preparations.

  Golov put his arm around Ivana’s shoulder and took in the dazzling orange flames that continued to engulf the garage. “There’s no turning back now, Ivana. We’re going to carry this through to the end, and I think we’re off to a wonderful start.” He turned to her and beamed with pride. “Excellent work, my dear.”

  She smiled back at him. “Thank you, Father.”

  SEVEN

  ALGERIA

  Hasim was shocked as Juan continued to run through what seemed like a hail of rounds that should have torn him to shreds. Instead, noise and empty ejected shell cases were the only product of his efforts. He screamed in disbelief when he realized the machine gun was loaded with blanks.

  He released the trigger and reached for the assault rifle slung across his back. He brought it to bear, but not in time.

  Juan had already covered the distance to the Scorpion. He grabbed one of the AK-47s and fired three shots into Hasim’s chest. The Egyptian fell back and slumped against the seat, blood streaming down his shirt.

  Juan wheeled around, ready to take out the second soldier if needed, but he could see Linc hunched over the man, who was sprawled on the ground with the hilt of a combat knife jutting from his chest.

  Eddie was right behind Juan and grabbed the two other AK-47s.

  “It’s good Hasim didn’t use the grenade launcher. He might have taken your head off.”

  Juan shrugged. “I would have come up with something. At least there are two more down. Now it’s three of them and three of us. The odds are even.”

  “That’s a generous assessment,” Linc said as he approached them, wiping his knife on the headscarf he’d removed. He put it back in the scabbard and took the extra AK-47 from Eddie. “Are you forgetting that Nazari now has the only armed Scorpion?”

  Juan had suspected some kind of double cross from the very beginning of the mission, which was why they’d loaded live ammo only into their Scorpion, the one marked discreetly with a “1.” Eddie had made sure to claim it first when they landed, intending to take Nazari and his men captive once they had the WMDs in hand, but his sudden departure had put a kink in that plan.

  Juan checked his watch. Certainly Nazari had heard the shots. He might think that they’d been killed as ordered, but the distinctive sound of the AK-47 following the M2 could have given him doubts. Nazari would return as quickly as he could in the fully armed Scorpion.

  Juan said, “We need to dig out those cases pronto.”

  They counted off twenty-one paces from the nose of the plane according to Hodgin’s “Blue Suede Shoes” code. Putting their backs into it, they scoured a hole up to Juan’s waist in less than five minutes. If it had been dirt, they never would have reached the depth they needed to in time, but the fine sand was easy to toss aside.

  Two minutes later, Linc’s shovel clanged on something hard. They attacked the ground and quickly unearthed two
aluminum cases. The yellow and black radiation hazard symbol hadn’t lost any of its menace in sixty years of burial.

  Linc and Juan each picked up a lead-lined case by its handle, while Eddie ran to get the Scorpion that didn’t have a dead body in it.

  “It must have taken Hodgin forever to drag these out here with a torn-up leg.”

  “You have to admire the guy,” Juan replied. “Dedicated to the end.”

  Eddie skidded to a stop next to them in Scorpion 2 and pointed into the distance. “By the way Nazari’s Scorpion is tearing over those dunes, I’d say he figured out that we didn’t follow his command to dig or die.”

  The desert patrol vehicle jumped over the crest of a dune, and Juan caught a glimpse of Nazari, yelling at his driver.

  He and Linc bungeed the cases to the Scorpion’s frame and got in, Linc on the impotent machine gun and Juan in the passenger seat behind the grenade launcher. They donned their helmets as Eddie took off.

  Moments later, the first grenades landed where they’d just been parked.

  “Are they nuts?” Linc yelled over the comm system. “If they rip open one of those cases, we’re all toast!”

  “Either they’re not thinking clearly or they don’t care,” Eddie offered.

  “I don’t think it’s a good idea to stop and point out their poor judgment to them,” Juan said. He pulled his pant leg up, opened his combat prosthesis, and removed a tiny transmitter. He clicked the button and said, “Head for those cliffs.”

  “You got it,” Eddie said, and steered toward a wall of rock five miles away.

  Grenades rained down behind them, churning the sand into clouds of dust. Every time they were provided with a smoke screen of sand, Eddie veered to one side or the other to throw off any subsequent shots.

  The zigzagging was slowing them down, while Nazari came at them on a direct path.

  “Any ideas?” Eddie said.

  Juan scanned the horizon for any obstacles to put between them. One feature stood out.