Ghost Ship by Clive Cussler
“Here’s an enhanced photo.”
Kurt took the new printout. Computer augmentation had made the name more legible. Kurt read it twice to be sure, and then a third time. “I know you wouldn’t be joking at a time like this, but are you certain?”
Hiram nodded.
“The Waratah?” Kurt said. “The Blue Anchor Line’s Waratah that vanished in 1909?”
“One and the same,” Hiram said. “Between St. Julian Perlmutter’s vast number of records on the subject and a South African who spent years looking for the Waratah, we’ve confirmed that she had two double-enders of exactly this type among her complement of auxiliary craft and lifeboats.”
Kurt stared at the name on the photo. It certainly looked correct. But it seemed impossible. “It’s got to be a mistake,”
he said.
“Logic would tell you that,” Hiram agreed, “except that I know something you don’t. The Waratah never went down.” With that, Hiram pulled out another photograph. On it Kurt saw a derelict vessel covered in sediment, corrosion, and what Kurt guessed to be vegetation. She didn’t have much shape to her.
“I present the SS Waratah,” Hiram said. “Discovered by Paul and Gamay Trout, three days ago, adrift in the southern reaches of the Indian Ocean.”
Kurt looked at the photo. He realized that Hiram wouldn’t be joking about such a thing, not at this point, but it boggled his mind and he had to make sure. “You’re serious?” Yaeger nodded.
“How is it possible?”
Hiram explained their theory about how the sediment she was buried in stunted the corrosion on her hull, and what Gamay and Elena found in her sick bay.
“We’re operating on a theory that a violent group took over the ship,” he continued, “and sailed her north.”
“Any idea where she ended up?”
Hiram nodded. “The west coast of Madagascar,” he said, then followed up by explaining how Gamay had led them to that answer, passing yet another photo from the file to Kurt.
Two satellite images were printed on the photo side by side. They showed a muddy river snaking and turning.
“Before and after,” Yaeger explained. “The picture on the left is two months old. The picture on the right was taken last week.”
Kurt’s eyes went right to a highlighted section where the channel bent ninety degrees and then ran out to the sea. In the older photograph there was a large obstruction, like a hill or sandbar, that seemed to force the bend. In the newer photo the hill was gone, the river had carved out a new course, and the channel had widened and straightened substantially.
“Torrential rains last month scoured a new route to the sea,” Hiram said. “They took everything in their path along with them, including the hull of the SS Waratah. The hill in question matches her dimensions almost perfectly.”
Kurt rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So the Waratah was hijacked and stashed in this river, not lost at sea like everyone thought. Eighty years pass, and the Banisters, being held captive, discovered her, patched up one of her lifeboats, and tried to sail to safety, leaving five-year-old Olivia behind. They don’t make it. The hijackers keep the young girl and slowly indoctrinate her. All these years later, we have Calista to deal with.”
Hiram nodded. “You’d have made a good detective,” he said. And, with that, he presented one last piece of the puzzle. This time the image depicted a large plantation-style estate, complete with hedges shaped into a complex maze, terraced gardens, a large pool, and various other structures. A row of satellite dishes sprouted along one side of the main building, while a helipad with a moderate-sized hangar lay on the other. Kurt could see the tails of two military-looking helicopters sticking out of the hangar.
The property was sprawling, and the grounds beyond the walls looked like pastureland. Kurt could see livestock roaming free. At the very top of the property was a jagged bluff of weathered gray stone. It ran the entire width of the photo.
“This compound is five miles upriver from the spot where the Waratah was hidden. It’s owned by a mysterious but powerful man named Sebastian Brèvard. For four generations the Brèvard name has been connected with various types of criminal activity. Money laundering, bank fraud, trafficking in weapons and stolen goods. But strangely, there is no record of their existence before 1910, when they purchased this large tract of land.”
“I’m guessing documents were fairly scarce back then,” Kurt said. “Especially in Madagascar.”
“You’d be surprised,” Hiram said. “The fact is, from 1897 to 1960, the island was part of the French empire. In the land purchase records filed with the colonial governor’s office, the Brèvard family claim emigration from France. And a distant level of nobility. However, the coat of arms they lay claim to is made up. It has no true heraldic provenance in the annals of French society. Nor is there any record of a wealthy French family bearing the Brèvard name leaving France for warmer pastures during that time.”
Kurt saw what Hiram was getting at. “So this false band of nobles appear out of nowhere six months after the Waratah goes missing and they buy the land on which the ship is hidden, presumably to keep it that way.”
“Not just the land where the ship was hidden,” Hiram corrected, “but a mile-wide swath all the way from the water’s edge up to this impassable outcropping of granite.”
“I think I can guess where the money came from,” Kurt said. “Jewels, gold, and cash stolen from the passengers and crew of the Waratah.”
“Our thoughts exactly,” Hiram said. “Supplemented, we now think, by a stack of counterfeit notes that were considered among the best ever produced during that era.”
Kurt sat back and considered the implications. It seemed likely that Sienna’s kidnappers were the same group of thugs who’d abducted and destroyed the Banister family thirty years before. Beyond that, the evidence suggested they were descended from a group that pirated the Waratah back in 1909.
Instead of anger, Kurt felt only a cold determination to put an end to their destruction. “I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said. “Any idea who they really are? Where they came from?”
“It’s all speculation,” Yaeger said, “but a band of criminals known as the Klaar River Gang had been terrorizing Durban through the winter of 1908 and into the summer of 1909. Records show that the gang fractured in a power struggle and turned on itself just as Durban police were about to round them up. Most of the members were killed, but several high-ranking associates were never accounted for. Despite initially thinking the gang had been wiped out, the chief inspector of the Durban police soon came to the conclusion that the leaders of the gang had escaped and had killed the others to cover their tracks. He stated publicly that he expected them to surface again, but they never did. Later in his life he became enamored with the idea that they’d made their way aboard the Waratah and perished when it went down.”
“What made him think that?”
“Timing, for one,” Yaeger said. “They’d vanished two days before the Waratah sailed. But there was another reason as well. Counterfeit ten-pound notes eventually surfaced in the Blue Anchor Line’s payroll, very hard to distinguish from the real thing. It was assumed that some tickets had been purchased with the notes and that’s how they got into the office’s cashbox. Similar notes, and burned fragments, were found at the gang’s hideout.”
Kurt thought he saw the line of reasoning clearly at last. “So the leaders fake their deaths and slip aboard the Waratah, paying for passage with forged notes, only to vanish with the ship. Even those who guess where they might have gone think that’s the end of it, karma catching up with the gang or some grand cosmic rebalancing of the scales of justice. No one realizes they’ve hijacked the ship, taken it to Madagascar, and hidden it on this river. They use the wealth stolen from the passengers and their own forged banknotes to buy a new life. But instead of going straight, they slowly turn back to what they know: crime. And every generation since has followed the pattern.”
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“That’s about the size of it,” Hiram said.
“If we’re even half right, I think it’s time we put an end to it,” Kurt said. “Any chance we have the Delta Force or a team of Navy SEALs standing by?”
“Afraid not,” Hiram said. “A strike force is being readied. Believe me, no one back home is happy with what’s going on or with the possibility that such a prominent American is being used and held by a group as unsavory as this bunch. But there are logistical problems.”
“Such as?”
“For one, we have no proof,” Hiram said. “Beyond that, even if our theory is correct, we can’t be sure that the cyberattacks are emanating from this compound or that Sienna and the others are there. If we tip our hand and ask for help from the government of Madagascar, we’ll lose the only advantage we have going: the element of surprise.”
“You need boots on the ground to get you proof,” Kurt said.
Hiram nodded solemnly. “That’s where you and Joe come in. It’s strictly volunteer at this point, but we’ll be crossing over Madagascar in a few hours. That puts you and Joe four hours closer than the next-best option.”
“You know I’m game,” Kurt said. “And I’m sure Sleeping Beauty back there won’t want to miss out on all the fun. But what happens once we get proof? Assuming we can find it.”
“Call it in and sit tight,” Hiram said. “Special Forces will do the rest.”
Kurt liked that idea. But there was one concern. “What if the Brèvards know that Special Forces is being readied? They’ve been one step ahead of us all along.”
“Not this time,” Hiram said. “Like my trip out here to see you, all orders and logistics connected to this operation are being drafted up on old-fashioned typewriters and hand-carried to the commanders in question. The Brèvards can tap all the computers they want, but they won’t find what isn’t there. And if they do look, what they’ll discover is misinformation.
“Right now, the NUMA database, the Air Force database, and even the international air traffic control system, show this plane winging its way to Guam. Orders putting you back on medical leave have already been set in motion, while Joe’s being reassigned to a whale-watching mission off the coast of Venezuela. In the meantime, a CIA threat assessment has labeled Acosta as the prime suspect, putting him in league with the Iranian cyberforce and North Korea’s Unit 121.”
Kurt grinned. “That’s not bad. If this Brèvard guy is taking a peek into our systems, he’s probably feeling awfully good about himself right now. We might even catch him flat-footed.”
“We might at that,” Hiram said.
Kurt stood up, stretched, and glanced back toward Joe. “I’ll go wake Joe. I think we’ll need some coffee.”
Sebastian Brèvard, his brother Laurent, and his “sister” Calista stood in the control room surrounded by computers, discussing the situation.
“I’ve brought all the men in,” Laurent said. “We have a total of fifty at this point. But they’re sitting around with nothing to do. When do you expect this attack to occur?”
“Sooner or later,” Sebastian explained. “I’m monitoring their most important channels. We have nothing to worry about at the moment.”
“In the meantime, we’re spending a fortune on these hired guns,” Laurent said. “I’m sure our regulars would have done just fine.”
Sebastian dismissed his brother’s whining. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “A pittance, compared to what we’ll control.”
“I don’t see why we have to draw them in,” Calista said.
Sebastian glanced toward her as he sat at his own workstation. “How many times have I told you, dear sister, a con is never about convincing your mark to do any particular thing. They must convince themselves to take action, firm in their belief that it was their idea all along.”
“That, I understand,” she said. “But why bring them here?”
“To make this work they must attack with vengeance and retribution in their eyes. The carnage and annihilation it brings will make the world think we’re dead. It will make them think this sordid chapter in their pitiful lives is over and the threat effectively neutralized. Only then will we be truly hidden and able to act with impunity. I told you I would give us a new life, one where no one is looking for us, and I shall.”
For the first time she could remember, he moved closer to her. Instead of the stern older brother, there was something more in his eyes. It made her uncomfortable in a way she was used to making others uncomfortable.
“What about the hostages?” she asked, pulling back.
He looked at her with disappointment. “For the second time in as many weeks you seem concerned with something other than our family. Are you feeling all right?”
“I just need to know,” she snapped.
“They can identify us,” Sebastian explained. “To prevent that, they will be destroyed in the conflagration. Their quarters are lined with napalm, much like the explosives that line our home. When the attack comes and the firefight begins, I will detonate the charges and the whole place will go up in flames. Make sure you’re on the helicopter with me when it does.”
She smiled, the slightly sadistic smile he was more used to. “Of course, dear brother. Where else would I be?”
“Good,” he said. “Now, bring Sienna Westgate to me. I have at least one last job for her.”
Calista nodded and left. With the door shut tight, Laurent reengaged Sebastian.
“She’s getting soft,” he said.
“Well,” Sebastian said, “it’s to be expected. She’s not really one of us, is she?”
Laurent smiled. Both he and Sebastian had enjoyed taunting her when she was a child; it had been a game. They both knew who and what she was. They were surprised by what she became, how strongly she bought into the family. In many ways she’d always seemed intent on proving herself as if she knew deep down inside that she didn’t belong.
“You know her purpose as well as I do,” Sebastian continued. “They will find her body and that of two others in the downed helicopter. Burned perhaps, but considering the jewels and treasures they’ll discover on board, there will be no choice but to assume it is the three of us. You and I will escape in the tunnel and destroy it behind us. I have rigged the explosives to go off in an acceptable progression. The outer buildings first, then the wings of the mansion. And finally the control room and the tunnel. It will give us extra time to escape.”
Sienna Westgate sat with her children in a one-story windowless lodge that was the communal prison of the hostages and their family members.
In an effort to shield her children from any more pain, Sienna’s trip to Iran and then Korea had been called a vacation. She’d promised them she would come back quickly, though she obviously had no control over when or if she would return. And the feeling of her children’s tears had remained with her all during her absence.
Her arrival back at the compound was met with smiles and kisses, and she wrapped her arms around them so tightly that she almost squeezed the air out of them. But after a brief moment of euphoria, Sienna began to fall into a pit of despair. She could see that constant fear and stress had already taken its toll on them.
Elise had become withdrawn and quiet, the opposite of her outgoing nature. Her face looked pale and gaunt as if she weren’t being fed or was unwilling to eat. Tanner was worse. He had a fever and insect bites all over his legs. He quickly became demanding and angry. He wanted his father. He wanted to go home. He hated it there.
Sienna hated it too, but there was nothing she could do about it. She’d given in to her captors and done everything they’d asked—everything any of them had asked—all to keep the children safe and buy them some time. But now her spirit was beginning to weaken.
Video she’d seen of her husband talking to the press as if she and the kids had drowned was confusing and disheartening to her. He knew she’d been abducted. He was there. He’d seen it with his own eyes. She only hoped it wa
s a ruse and that rescue would eventually come, but she now doubted it. Especially after what she allowed to happen to Kurt and his friend in Korea.
Seeing them appear out of nowhere had been like a dream. But when Calista had gained the upper hand, Sienna had no choice but to obey her.
Her only solace was that, given another chance, she would make the same choice. She couldn’t face life knowing she’d chosen freedom and left her children behind. If they were going to die, she wasn’t going to let them face it alone.
The door to the room opened. Everyone looked up. Two of Brèvard’s men stood there. Calista was with them. “Sienna,” she said.
Sienna stood, but her children refused to let go, clinging to her hands, gripping her fingers.
“Don’t go,” Elise cried.
“It’s okay,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Mommy!” Tanner was screaming.
Sienna dropped down to their level and squeezed them together. Tanner broke out in tears; Elise looked almost numb at this point. “I’ll be right back,” she told them. “Take care of each other.”
As Sienna stood, another woman, who was married to the hacker named Montresor, came to her assistance. “I watch them for you,” she said.
If there was one positive to this communal prison, it was that they weren’t alone. “Thank you.”
Sienna left with the guards and followed as they led her along the pathway from what had once been the servants’ quarters and up to the main house.
Sienna glared at Calista. “You must have a heart of stone.”
“If I have a heart at all,” Calista replied proudly.
Sienna dutifully climbed the steps that led to the main compound and from there was led through the security doors to the control room. She began to feel sick as she approached, knowing that Sebastian Brèvard would be waiting on the other side, ready to order her to use her skills and the offensive capabilities of Phalanx against a new target, as he’d done each night since her return.
A day would come when he asked her to do something truly evil and she would have to decide between her children’s lives and the lives of countless others. She almost prayed he would shoot her before then.
Kurt took the new printout. Computer augmentation had made the name more legible. Kurt read it twice to be sure, and then a third time. “I know you wouldn’t be joking at a time like this, but are you certain?”
Hiram nodded.
“The Waratah?” Kurt said. “The Blue Anchor Line’s Waratah that vanished in 1909?”
“One and the same,” Hiram said. “Between St. Julian Perlmutter’s vast number of records on the subject and a South African who spent years looking for the Waratah, we’ve confirmed that she had two double-enders of exactly this type among her complement of auxiliary craft and lifeboats.”
Kurt stared at the name on the photo. It certainly looked correct. But it seemed impossible. “It’s got to be a mistake,”
he said.
“Logic would tell you that,” Hiram agreed, “except that I know something you don’t. The Waratah never went down.” With that, Hiram pulled out another photograph. On it Kurt saw a derelict vessel covered in sediment, corrosion, and what Kurt guessed to be vegetation. She didn’t have much shape to her.
“I present the SS Waratah,” Hiram said. “Discovered by Paul and Gamay Trout, three days ago, adrift in the southern reaches of the Indian Ocean.”
Kurt looked at the photo. He realized that Hiram wouldn’t be joking about such a thing, not at this point, but it boggled his mind and he had to make sure. “You’re serious?” Yaeger nodded.
“How is it possible?”
Hiram explained their theory about how the sediment she was buried in stunted the corrosion on her hull, and what Gamay and Elena found in her sick bay.
“We’re operating on a theory that a violent group took over the ship,” he continued, “and sailed her north.”
“Any idea where she ended up?”
Hiram nodded. “The west coast of Madagascar,” he said, then followed up by explaining how Gamay had led them to that answer, passing yet another photo from the file to Kurt.
Two satellite images were printed on the photo side by side. They showed a muddy river snaking and turning.
“Before and after,” Yaeger explained. “The picture on the left is two months old. The picture on the right was taken last week.”
Kurt’s eyes went right to a highlighted section where the channel bent ninety degrees and then ran out to the sea. In the older photograph there was a large obstruction, like a hill or sandbar, that seemed to force the bend. In the newer photo the hill was gone, the river had carved out a new course, and the channel had widened and straightened substantially.
“Torrential rains last month scoured a new route to the sea,” Hiram said. “They took everything in their path along with them, including the hull of the SS Waratah. The hill in question matches her dimensions almost perfectly.”
Kurt rubbed the stubble on his chin. “So the Waratah was hijacked and stashed in this river, not lost at sea like everyone thought. Eighty years pass, and the Banisters, being held captive, discovered her, patched up one of her lifeboats, and tried to sail to safety, leaving five-year-old Olivia behind. They don’t make it. The hijackers keep the young girl and slowly indoctrinate her. All these years later, we have Calista to deal with.”
Hiram nodded. “You’d have made a good detective,” he said. And, with that, he presented one last piece of the puzzle. This time the image depicted a large plantation-style estate, complete with hedges shaped into a complex maze, terraced gardens, a large pool, and various other structures. A row of satellite dishes sprouted along one side of the main building, while a helipad with a moderate-sized hangar lay on the other. Kurt could see the tails of two military-looking helicopters sticking out of the hangar.
The property was sprawling, and the grounds beyond the walls looked like pastureland. Kurt could see livestock roaming free. At the very top of the property was a jagged bluff of weathered gray stone. It ran the entire width of the photo.
“This compound is five miles upriver from the spot where the Waratah was hidden. It’s owned by a mysterious but powerful man named Sebastian Brèvard. For four generations the Brèvard name has been connected with various types of criminal activity. Money laundering, bank fraud, trafficking in weapons and stolen goods. But strangely, there is no record of their existence before 1910, when they purchased this large tract of land.”
“I’m guessing documents were fairly scarce back then,” Kurt said. “Especially in Madagascar.”
“You’d be surprised,” Hiram said. “The fact is, from 1897 to 1960, the island was part of the French empire. In the land purchase records filed with the colonial governor’s office, the Brèvard family claim emigration from France. And a distant level of nobility. However, the coat of arms they lay claim to is made up. It has no true heraldic provenance in the annals of French society. Nor is there any record of a wealthy French family bearing the Brèvard name leaving France for warmer pastures during that time.”
Kurt saw what Hiram was getting at. “So this false band of nobles appear out of nowhere six months after the Waratah goes missing and they buy the land on which the ship is hidden, presumably to keep it that way.”
“Not just the land where the ship was hidden,” Hiram corrected, “but a mile-wide swath all the way from the water’s edge up to this impassable outcropping of granite.”
“I think I can guess where the money came from,” Kurt said. “Jewels, gold, and cash stolen from the passengers and crew of the Waratah.”
“Our thoughts exactly,” Hiram said. “Supplemented, we now think, by a stack of counterfeit notes that were considered among the best ever produced during that era.”
Kurt sat back and considered the implications. It seemed likely that Sienna’s kidnappers were the same group of thugs who’d abducted and destroyed the Banister family thirty years before. Beyond that, the evidence suggested they were descended from a group that pirated the Waratah back in 1909.
Instead of anger, Kurt felt only a cold determination to put an end to their destruction. “I guess the apple really doesn’t fall far from the tree,” he said. “Any idea who they really are? Where they came from?”
“It’s all speculation,” Yaeger said, “but a band of criminals known as the Klaar River Gang had been terrorizing Durban through the winter of 1908 and into the summer of 1909. Records show that the gang fractured in a power struggle and turned on itself just as Durban police were about to round them up. Most of the members were killed, but several high-ranking associates were never accounted for. Despite initially thinking the gang had been wiped out, the chief inspector of the Durban police soon came to the conclusion that the leaders of the gang had escaped and had killed the others to cover their tracks. He stated publicly that he expected them to surface again, but they never did. Later in his life he became enamored with the idea that they’d made their way aboard the Waratah and perished when it went down.”
“What made him think that?”
“Timing, for one,” Yaeger said. “They’d vanished two days before the Waratah sailed. But there was another reason as well. Counterfeit ten-pound notes eventually surfaced in the Blue Anchor Line’s payroll, very hard to distinguish from the real thing. It was assumed that some tickets had been purchased with the notes and that’s how they got into the office’s cashbox. Similar notes, and burned fragments, were found at the gang’s hideout.”
Kurt thought he saw the line of reasoning clearly at last. “So the leaders fake their deaths and slip aboard the Waratah, paying for passage with forged notes, only to vanish with the ship. Even those who guess where they might have gone think that’s the end of it, karma catching up with the gang or some grand cosmic rebalancing of the scales of justice. No one realizes they’ve hijacked the ship, taken it to Madagascar, and hidden it on this river. They use the wealth stolen from the passengers and their own forged banknotes to buy a new life. But instead of going straight, they slowly turn back to what they know: crime. And every generation since has followed the pattern.”
“That’s about the size of it,” Hiram said.
“If we’re even half right, I think it’s time we put an end to it,” Kurt said. “Any chance we have the Delta Force or a team of Navy SEALs standing by?”
“Afraid not,” Hiram said. “A strike force is being readied. Believe me, no one back home is happy with what’s going on or with the possibility that such a prominent American is being used and held by a group as unsavory as this bunch. But there are logistical problems.”
“Such as?”
“For one, we have no proof,” Hiram said. “Beyond that, even if our theory is correct, we can’t be sure that the cyberattacks are emanating from this compound or that Sienna and the others are there. If we tip our hand and ask for help from the government of Madagascar, we’ll lose the only advantage we have going: the element of surprise.”
“You need boots on the ground to get you proof,” Kurt said.
Hiram nodded solemnly. “That’s where you and Joe come in. It’s strictly volunteer at this point, but we’ll be crossing over Madagascar in a few hours. That puts you and Joe four hours closer than the next-best option.”
“You know I’m game,” Kurt said. “And I’m sure Sleeping Beauty back there won’t want to miss out on all the fun. But what happens once we get proof? Assuming we can find it.”
“Call it in and sit tight,” Hiram said. “Special Forces will do the rest.”
Kurt liked that idea. But there was one concern. “What if the Brèvards know that Special Forces is being readied? They’ve been one step ahead of us all along.”
“Not this time,” Hiram said. “Like my trip out here to see you, all orders and logistics connected to this operation are being drafted up on old-fashioned typewriters and hand-carried to the commanders in question. The Brèvards can tap all the computers they want, but they won’t find what isn’t there. And if they do look, what they’ll discover is misinformation.
“Right now, the NUMA database, the Air Force database, and even the international air traffic control system, show this plane winging its way to Guam. Orders putting you back on medical leave have already been set in motion, while Joe’s being reassigned to a whale-watching mission off the coast of Venezuela. In the meantime, a CIA threat assessment has labeled Acosta as the prime suspect, putting him in league with the Iranian cyberforce and North Korea’s Unit 121.”
Kurt grinned. “That’s not bad. If this Brèvard guy is taking a peek into our systems, he’s probably feeling awfully good about himself right now. We might even catch him flat-footed.”
“We might at that,” Hiram said.
Kurt stood up, stretched, and glanced back toward Joe. “I’ll go wake Joe. I think we’ll need some coffee.”
Sebastian Brèvard, his brother Laurent, and his “sister” Calista stood in the control room surrounded by computers, discussing the situation.
“I’ve brought all the men in,” Laurent said. “We have a total of fifty at this point. But they’re sitting around with nothing to do. When do you expect this attack to occur?”
“Sooner or later,” Sebastian explained. “I’m monitoring their most important channels. We have nothing to worry about at the moment.”
“In the meantime, we’re spending a fortune on these hired guns,” Laurent said. “I’m sure our regulars would have done just fine.”
Sebastian dismissed his brother’s whining. “It doesn’t matter,” he said. “A pittance, compared to what we’ll control.”
“I don’t see why we have to draw them in,” Calista said.
Sebastian glanced toward her as he sat at his own workstation. “How many times have I told you, dear sister, a con is never about convincing your mark to do any particular thing. They must convince themselves to take action, firm in their belief that it was their idea all along.”
“That, I understand,” she said. “But why bring them here?”
“To make this work they must attack with vengeance and retribution in their eyes. The carnage and annihilation it brings will make the world think we’re dead. It will make them think this sordid chapter in their pitiful lives is over and the threat effectively neutralized. Only then will we be truly hidden and able to act with impunity. I told you I would give us a new life, one where no one is looking for us, and I shall.”
For the first time she could remember, he moved closer to her. Instead of the stern older brother, there was something more in his eyes. It made her uncomfortable in a way she was used to making others uncomfortable.
“What about the hostages?” she asked, pulling back.
He looked at her with disappointment. “For the second time in as many weeks you seem concerned with something other than our family. Are you feeling all right?”
“I just need to know,” she snapped.
“They can identify us,” Sebastian explained. “To prevent that, they will be destroyed in the conflagration. Their quarters are lined with napalm, much like the explosives that line our home. When the attack comes and the firefight begins, I will detonate the charges and the whole place will go up in flames. Make sure you’re on the helicopter with me when it does.”
She smiled, the slightly sadistic smile he was more used to. “Of course, dear brother. Where else would I be?”
“Good,” he said. “Now, bring Sienna Westgate to me. I have at least one last job for her.”
Calista nodded and left. With the door shut tight, Laurent reengaged Sebastian.
“She’s getting soft,” he said.
“Well,” Sebastian said, “it’s to be expected. She’s not really one of us, is she?”
Laurent smiled. Both he and Sebastian had enjoyed taunting her when she was a child; it had been a game. They both knew who and what she was. They were surprised by what she became, how strongly she bought into the family. In many ways she’d always seemed intent on proving herself as if she knew deep down inside that she didn’t belong.
“You know her purpose as well as I do,” Sebastian continued. “They will find her body and that of two others in the downed helicopter. Burned perhaps, but considering the jewels and treasures they’ll discover on board, there will be no choice but to assume it is the three of us. You and I will escape in the tunnel and destroy it behind us. I have rigged the explosives to go off in an acceptable progression. The outer buildings first, then the wings of the mansion. And finally the control room and the tunnel. It will give us extra time to escape.”
Sienna Westgate sat with her children in a one-story windowless lodge that was the communal prison of the hostages and their family members.
In an effort to shield her children from any more pain, Sienna’s trip to Iran and then Korea had been called a vacation. She’d promised them she would come back quickly, though she obviously had no control over when or if she would return. And the feeling of her children’s tears had remained with her all during her absence.
Her arrival back at the compound was met with smiles and kisses, and she wrapped her arms around them so tightly that she almost squeezed the air out of them. But after a brief moment of euphoria, Sienna began to fall into a pit of despair. She could see that constant fear and stress had already taken its toll on them.
Elise had become withdrawn and quiet, the opposite of her outgoing nature. Her face looked pale and gaunt as if she weren’t being fed or was unwilling to eat. Tanner was worse. He had a fever and insect bites all over his legs. He quickly became demanding and angry. He wanted his father. He wanted to go home. He hated it there.
Sienna hated it too, but there was nothing she could do about it. She’d given in to her captors and done everything they’d asked—everything any of them had asked—all to keep the children safe and buy them some time. But now her spirit was beginning to weaken.
Video she’d seen of her husband talking to the press as if she and the kids had drowned was confusing and disheartening to her. He knew she’d been abducted. He was there. He’d seen it with his own eyes. She only hoped it wa
Seeing them appear out of nowhere had been like a dream. But when Calista had gained the upper hand, Sienna had no choice but to obey her.
Her only solace was that, given another chance, she would make the same choice. She couldn’t face life knowing she’d chosen freedom and left her children behind. If they were going to die, she wasn’t going to let them face it alone.
The door to the room opened. Everyone looked up. Two of Brèvard’s men stood there. Calista was with them. “Sienna,” she said.
Sienna stood, but her children refused to let go, clinging to her hands, gripping her fingers.
“Don’t go,” Elise cried.
“It’s okay,” she said, “I’ll be right back.”
“Mommy!” Tanner was screaming.
Sienna dropped down to their level and squeezed them together. Tanner broke out in tears; Elise looked almost numb at this point. “I’ll be right back,” she told them. “Take care of each other.”
As Sienna stood, another woman, who was married to the hacker named Montresor, came to her assistance. “I watch them for you,” she said.
If there was one positive to this communal prison, it was that they weren’t alone. “Thank you.”
Sienna left with the guards and followed as they led her along the pathway from what had once been the servants’ quarters and up to the main house.
Sienna glared at Calista. “You must have a heart of stone.”
“If I have a heart at all,” Calista replied proudly.
Sienna dutifully climbed the steps that led to the main compound and from there was led through the security doors to the control room. She began to feel sick as she approached, knowing that Sebastian Brèvard would be waiting on the other side, ready to order her to use her skills and the offensive capabilities of Phalanx against a new target, as he’d done each night since her return.
A day would come when he asked her to do something truly evil and she would have to decide between her children’s lives and the lives of countless others. She almost prayed he would shoot her before then.