Expedition Page 8

  “Now that’s one hell of a question,” Wakefield mused distractedly as he continued regarding the mysterious world through the telescope.

  ***

  “Talk to me, Karl.” Kristen settled down on the sand next to Grayson where he sat, his back to the beach bonfire gazing out across the nighttime bay. Atlantica was lit in all her glory. Even from over a mile away, the beat of music could be heard emanating from her deck.

  Kristen drew her legs in and wrapped her arms around them. “You’ve been different ever since you came back from the Atlantica.”

  Grayson remained silent, her words washing over him. He’d mentally roleplayed as many permutations going forward as he could think of. Plans which went nowhere. Or if they did, led the fleet back into a civil war. Sneaking aboard the Atlantica, confronting Reynolds, and beating the information he needed out of him was about the most realistic. The only problem was that would likely rapidly spiral out of control, and fast.

  “Karl!” Kristen snapped, interrupting his reverie.

  “Hmm?” He turned to his wife and reached across and took her hand. Reluctantly, she released it from where it was clasped around her shins and let him draw it toward himself. “Sorry, baby. Just thinking.”

  “You’ve done nothing but think since you got back,” she said sharply. After a moment, she gave a sigh. “Look, I don’t ask too many questions about before. We’ve lived in the moment, knowing that’s what matters. But I feel I’m losing you. Something has you rattled, and I know you don’t get rattled easily. You handle things, that’s why Bautista trusts you.”

  “I ain’t sure he trusts me.” Grayson gave a snort. “He tolerates me, I even think he likes me. But trusts me? No.”

  “Then more fool him,” Kristen replied cuttingly. “Just tell me, what was on that ship?”

  “I...” Grayson turned to look at the bay again, his gaze catching the beautiful yacht in the bay. The Osiris. She was moored next to a long pier that protruded out into the sea. The people who were on there were his real targets. But that ship was just as impenetrable as Atlantica. More so, because he knew they were immeasurably more dangerous and ruthless. No, his reconnaissance had come up with naught. There was no way aboard her. Worse, if they knew who he really was and how he came to be trapped here with them, they would come for him, and wouldn’t stop until he was dead.

  How much should he tell his wife? As far as she was concerned, he was an ex-soldier... which was the truth, as far as it went. But to tell her more might make her a target. Her and James, both. He turned back to her and smiled. “I’m just being silly.”

  He stood and dusted the sand off his ass before reaching down to haul her up. “Come on, let’s go find the little monster before he gets himself into trouble.”

  Kristen shook her head, pulling her hand back from his. “Just remember, Karl. He’s what matters the most in this world now. Don’t ever forget it.”

  “Everything I do is for him.” Grayson began walking back toward the collection of huts with his wife next to him.

  Chapter Eleven – The Past

  With a subdued grunt, Grayson lifted himself over the rough-cut stone block wall as Dillon boosted his foot with cupped hands. Twisting to lie precariously on the narrow top, he pulled Dillon up so he could get his own grip on the ten-foot-high wall.

  Both men dropped silently into the shrubby on the inner side of the Carlton Golf Club’s wall and looked around. After what had seemed to be an age of pouring over the reversed map, they had identified this as the location of Reynolds’s meeting.

  They were in one of the few blind CCTV blind spots. Whoever had designed the system had been good, damn good, but there was still a good few miles of perimeter line to cover. In the distance, the sound of barking from the security patrol’s dogs could be heard and Grayson winced. He hated dogs with a passion, and the muscular, powerful Rottweilers the guards at the club were being led about by looked like they could literally eat him for dinner.

  The moon’s light washed the course, giving a dark blue hue to the night as they hunkered down, letting their eyes fully adapt now they were away from the streetlights. From all around came the chirping of crickets and the rustle of other invisible animals.

  “Man, I’d kill to work on my handicap here,” Dillon whispered as he smeared camo paint over his face from a small tube and handed it to Grayson.

  “Maybe when you retire,” Grayson replied, daubing his own face with the dark paste. He tucked the tube away in his breast pocket and looked around, while pressing his finger to his ear. “Check, check, check.”

  “Strength five and I’m showing our coms are secure,” Bradley’s voice came through loud and clear.

  “Good,” Grayson hissed in response. “We’re moving out.”

  ***

  The clubhouse created an oasis of light in the dark of the well-kept grounds. The one predictable thing in the heat of the Caribbean was the VIP lanai was open to the air.

  Soft music washed out of the terrace as a collection of people milled around, looking for all the world like they were enjoying some early evening drinks and canapes before some kind of ostentatious main event. Away from the table, suited men and women looked on with an air of patient watchfulness. They had hired muscle written all over them.

  The contrast to the glamour of his own situation wasn’t lost on Grayson as he crawled through mud and spiny undergrowth, doing his best not to swear as the plants nicked and caught at his skin. Just inside the edge of the foliage, he lifted his small telescope to his eye, the business end covered in a soft thin cloth veil to reduce its reflectivity.

  Running along it was a directional microphone, and now it pointed straight at the target.

  He clicked on his radio to signal he was in position. Through his earpiece, the only response was a dull wash of static.

  Damnit. He hadn’t been receiving anything as he’d moved forward of the lying-up position where Dillon waited, ready to cover his withdrawal if things turned hot. The big question, was it a malfunction, or was it something else? If he was a betting man, he’d put his money on some kind of jamming technology. If they could spoof ECHELON, then putting a stop to radio coms would be child’s play.

  A ramrod-straight figure walked onto the lanai and took a glass of wine from a passing waiter’s tray. The admiral. Grayson focused the mic on him as another figure greeted him, pumping his hand with a vigor Reynolds didn’t return.

  “John,” the figure said. “Great to see ya.”

  American, say late forties to early fifties. Grayson noted. That voice seems damn familiar.

  “Conrad,” Reynolds responded tersely with a nod.

  “Please.” The man, Conrad gestured at a chair. “Take a load off.”

  Reynolds moved to the round table and sat. He seemed tense, his hand gripped tightly in a fist.

  Grayson turned the telescope on the other man, trying to get a good look at his face.

  Conrad? Come on, now where do I know you from?

  “Ladies and gentlemen.” Conrad took position at the round table and sat in the comfortable looking garden chair. He was clearly presiding over this meeting, seeming to have control of it. “It’s real good for you all to have made it here.”

  “Mr. Wakefield,” a middle-aged woman said in an acid tone. “Is it really prudent that we meet so close to execution date just so you can live out some Illuminati-wannabe fantasy?”

  That was it. That was where he’d heard of this man before. Conrad Wakefield... Grayson raised an eyebrow as he lay in the mud. Some billionaire venture capitalist and philanthropist. He hadn’t done his homework on him, he hadn’t known he needed to. All he knew was what he had read in the newspapers about him, that the man probably had more money forgotten in his spare pants than Grayson made in a year.

  “Liza, I think we’re on first name terms now, don’t you?” Wakefield gave a winning smile. “And yes, I do think it’s important we have a touch of focus before execution. After all, th
is will be the last time we see each other in a while.”

  “Maybe,” the woman, Liza, replied. “But remember, not everyone is friendly to our plans. If any of them were to get wind of this—”

  “Yes, but he is,” Wakefield said, inclining his head to emphasize his point. “Friendly to our plans, that is. And he’s who’s important.”

  “Then perhaps he would like to introduce himself to us,” Liza retorted. “I’m not used to being at the beck and call of someone who I don’t even know the name of.”

  Wakefield gave a chuckle in response before gesturing at a tablet balanced on the table. His gesture turned into a wave. “Ain’t gonna happen, Liza. He’s shy. But you can say hello if you want. I assure you, he can hear you.”

  “Enough of this.” Reynolds slapped the top of the table. His face red. “I’m not here to bicker. I’m here to petition for a rethink.”

  “You’re not getting cold feet are you, John?” Wakefield turned to him.

  “Yes,” Reynolds growled. “And if you’re not, then there’s something seriously bloody wrong with you.”

  The false cheeriness left Wakefield’s face and he leaned forward, his piercing eyes locked on Reynolds. He drummed his fingertips on the table, otherwise silent for a long moment. “John. You know as well as I do this project must succeed. You’ve done more than most to make this happen. I don’t want to lose you as an ally. As a friend.”

  “We’re not friends, Conrad.”

  “We’ll stick with ally, then. The point still stands, though. You know what’s at stake. Elpis cannot fail. It must not fail.”

  Reynolds appeared to deflate, the anger washing out of him, and he settled back into his seat. “No, it must not fail. And don’t worry, I’m not about to go running off to the authorities. Just... just don’t ask me to be there when the button is pushed.”

  Wakefield stood and circled the table until he stood behind the old man and lay a hand on his shoulder. “John, no one wants this. But it’s the only way. You know it, I know it.” He waved a hand to encompass the others at the table. “They know it and he knows it. That’s why he’s going to do it. He’ll push the button. Our consciences will be clear.”

  “We’re party to this, Conrad. Our consciences will not be clear.”

  “Maybe, maybe not,” Wakefield said, an introspective tilt to his head.

  “Millions, Conrad.” Grayson strained to hear him. Reynolds’s voice little more than a whisper.

  “Possibly billions.” Wakefield patted Reynolds’s shoulder. “But you know the cost if we don’t. And that will be everything.”

  “But there’s other projects...” Reynolds voice took on a pleading tone.

  “You know as well as I do what the odds are on those projects working out. Only ours has a double-digit percentage chance of success.”

  Grayson frowned. What the hell were they talking about? Millions, billions? Of what? Dollars? Wakefield wouldn’t be interested in millions. To him that was pocket change. Maybe billions, but then why? It wasn’t like Wakefield could spend what he had.

  He refocused in time to watch Reynolds nod soundlessly.

  “You’ll have a place on board Osiris with me.”

  “No.” Reynolds looked up, his voice and demeanor once again firm. “I’ll be with my daughter when it happens. I can’t help anymore.”

  “Okay, John. Okay,” Wakefield said with false resignation before turning back to the others. “Execution date is in three days as planned—”

  “Satellite imagery shows we have an intruder, forty-seven meters west-south-west.” The voice was accentless, androgynous. Grayson couldn’t tell who the source was, maybe from the tablet.

  Two of the burly men standing behind Wakefield immediately grabbed him firmly and pushed his head down so he was bent double, and shoved him none-to-gently toward the terrace doors. Handguns had appeared in their grips. The others likewise scrambled from the table and made to follow.

  “Shit,” Grayson breathed. He mentally back-traced which direction he was from the lanai. The voice had indicated on his position. He stuffed the telescope and mic into his rucksack and picked himself up off the muddy floor. Even from this distance without the scope, he could see a large group of figures pile out onto the lanai, heading in his direction.

  He was made.

  Chapter Twelve – The Present

  Wakefield stepped onto the platform mounted on one side of the cavernous interior of the Osiris’s hanger bay. He moved through the industrial metal passageways until he reached the urbane reception area. He nodded appreciatively; the varnished mahogany decking positively shone, having been buffed to a pristine finish. Monet paintings adorned the walls. All of them original, of course. He idly ran a finger over a burnished metal rail and examined it. Not a hint of dust. Someone had been hard at work.

  Just how I like it.

  The man waiting for him had a brutal burn covering the right side of his face, his skin sloughed and half of his hair missing. He seemed uncaring about his mutilation. No, not uncaring, more like he relished the intimidating look it gave him. The fearsome visage made Wakefield’s stomach turn. Not that he would show it, but still it was pretty gross.

  “Mister Wakefield. Welcome back. I trust you enjoyed dinner.”

  His voice was graveled, a symptom of his burned throat which he had so recently recovered from.

  “If anyone invites you to dinner over there...” A hatch slid open and Wakefield paced through. “I’d suggest you decline. Politely.”

  “Understood, sir,” Creighton rasped.

  They walked down a long corridor into a rear lounge. The women within were all beautiful, beautiful and submissive. Just like he liked them... well, mostly. And her job was to keep the others in check. None of them met his eyes, except one that was. “Evening ladies. Have they all been behaving, Lia?”

  A beautiful woman, older than the rest, reclined in a seat, her long legs crossed. “But of course, Conrad.”

  “Glad to hear it.” Wakefield gave Lia a grin. God, he loved her cultured British accent. She sounded like a lady from a period drama. “I wouldn’t want to have to make any examples.”

  He walked to one girl—a young thing, her hands clasped in her lap, looking sullenly at the floor. Wakefield admired her tanned, toned shoulders, and let his gaze drift down to her smooth legs.

  “Go wait in my room, sweetie. I’ll be right along.”

  She nodded, her eyes still downcast, and walked slowly out the room.

  “Jeeze, you ladies are going to give a guy a complex. You’d have thought I just asked her to clean the head.” Wakefield looked around the room at the other women before giving a shrug. “Which can be arranged if some of you don’t look a little enthusiastic on occasion.”

  He glanced at Creighton. “Or perhaps some of you could take up residence downstairs? The crew have their needs, too.”

  “That’s be most welcome, sir.” One half of Creighton’s face grinned widely as he ogled a girl dressed in little more than a short gown.

  “See, there’s a willing audience. Supply and demand and all that.” He poured himself a glass of red wine from a bottle on the sideboard and took a long slurp on it. “Right, speaking of downstairs.”

  Carrying the glass, he trotted down a spiral staircase to the lower deck. A guard stood by an innocuous bulkhead. Without prompting, he held his wrist against a reader and it swung open for Wakefield. He headed deep into the bowels of the ship. The décor moved away from the palatial fittings of the upper decks, becoming more utilitarian. Pipes and wiring were exposed, following the hasty gutting and refit of the yacht from a billionaire’s pleasure palace into something which would carry a kernel of humanity into the future.

  The final hatch before his destination, an imposing pressure door, awaited him in the belly of the ship. The layout had long since been rearranged from Osiris’s original configuration to prevent easy access to this place. It was guarded as much by being lost in the labyrinthine
lower decks as it was by the impressive security systems protecting it. Only Wakefield had unrestricted access, and that was just the way he wanted it.

  The final layer of security was an RFID chip implanted in his wrist. A scanner sensed it as he approached and the hatch rumbled open, revealing the space beyond.

  The room was an underwater viewing chamber with huge thick windows creating an inverted bubble on the keel of the Osiris. The ship’s exterior floodlights pierced the water outside, creating a constant swirling blue montage to fill the room. Strange nocturnal fish darted nervously around, creating flickering shadows throughout the chamber.

  In the center of the chamber, a pair of leather couches were arranged facing each other. On the one opposite the door, a young boy—no more than ten years of age—sat, his hands patiently resting on his lap.

  “You have not been here in days,” the boy said, only the slightest inflection of accusation in his voice.

  Wakefield cocked his head briefly before placing his wineglass on a table. Perhaps that’s because I never pretended to be a damn babysitter. “I’m sorry. I’ve been a little preoccupied.”

  “I am lonely.” The boy turned to look out the window, his gaze tracking a large fish. “You must visit more often.”

  Wakefield moved to sit on the couch opposite the boy and crossed his legs. He reclined back as he gazed at the child. Truth be told, the kid freaked him out. He may have looked sweet and innocent, but Wakefield knew better. “I’ll try. Listen, kid, I need your help with something.”

  “I was told you would look after me. You would help me here.” The boy turned to look at Wakefield, and his eyes seeming to pierce Wakefield’s soul. “You have not. I want to be released from here and go to the Atlantica. There will be lots of people on there. They may help me find the others.”

  “There are lots of people on there.” Wakefield wafted his hand dismissively. “But they won’t help you, at least not yet. The situation is still very fluid and unpredictable. I need to ensure I have control, then we can be confident that things are stable enough for you.”