Deep Rising (An Outside the Lines Novel) (Entangled Select) (2 page)

Chapter Two

September 6 - 5:16 pm

Marrakech, Morocco

The whitewashed stucco buildings stood like dominoes in a row, their clay enclaves and fifteen-foot walls preserving the traditions of the ancient city. The souks still housed merchants, all boldly displaying their wares, from hand-woven cloths and rugs to knockoff handbags and the newest DVDs. The hammams, or bathhouses, and food stands littered the
Djemaa el-Fna
much as they had for the last two millennia.

All in all, Morocco surpassed Jared Caldwell’s expectations.

Jared shifted his bag. The tiny movement shot a pain along his arm. The damn wound continued to ache, but a body never fully recovered from a gunshot wound. Anyone who suggested otherwise—lied. Boasting an assortment of such trophies from knives and bullets, and in one case, a particularly offensive terrorist’s teeth, Jared’s body ached in a number of places. Easing some of those aches took precedence, and he hoped the old healing traditions here could provide something science couldn’t.

His cell phone rang.

Jared glanced at the flashing number and cursed.
So much for sick leave
.

Answering the call, he ducked into an old pay-phone booth. It didn’t provide the most secure location but it beat the mayhem of the souk. He shut the door for privacy. An automated server on his cell prompted him to enter his numeric ID. It took a few minutes to convey the various clearance codes, but a computer eventually transferred his call to the deputy director of the CIA, Gordon Quaid.

“What’s up?” Jared drawled.

“We have you pinpointed on our satellites.”

Jared leaned his head from the phone booth and flipped the bird.

Gordon’s laughter rumbled over the phone. “You’re offensive.”

“You didn’t call to discuss my lack of manners.”

“No,” Gordon agreed. “We have a problem.”

What else is new?

Once upon a time, Jared would’ve shouted
hoo-rah
at the prospect of a mission. Lately, he’d rather eat glass.

“You’re one of the only Bravo-4 operatives in position.”

Jared’s least favorite aspect of being a CIA operative was this hired-gun role. “Send me the profile on the target.”

“It appears one of our leading scientists is selling cataclysmic scenarios to the enemy,” Gordon murmured. “You’re staying at the Caval Casbah, correct?”

While it was surely the cell phone that allowed them to pinpoint his location, Jared couldn’t help but say, “I don’t have some tracking device inserted in my ass cheek, do I?”

Gordon snorted. “Go back to the hotel. When you arrive, a car will be waiting. It will take you to Menara Airport. Find hangar sixteen. The pilot is a level-three operative named Randall Wyerman.”

“You aren’t commenting on the tracking…”

Gordon plowed forward with the details. “Randall will provide the proper identification and clearance papers required for you to infiltrate Italian intelligence. He’ll also take you to Capri. You have two days to determine what transpired on Ischia. Then you’ll head to Guatemala.”

“If you have my ass on satellite, you should see I’m five thousand miles from Guatemala. Isn’t there someone else? Call Evan or Galen.”

“Galen is on assignment and Evan retired. I’ll drop him a line if you like, but you’re the man for the job.”

“Damn.”

Gordon ignored him. “Your target is Dr. Svetlana Orskya.”

A woman
. He’d never been called to make a hit on a woman. And damn it, he didn’t want to start now. If Quaid was calling, the woman obviously posed a serious threat, but… “Knocking off females isn’t my style. I’m out. Find someone else.”

“You aren’t out until I say you are. And Orskya isn’t up for assassination. Not yet, anyway. We need her for questioning and suspect that she may be working with the terrorists. Intel reveals she’s in Guatemala. Randall will brief you on the details regarding a tsunami in Italy.”

“Hold up,” Jared drawled. “You’re using the steamroller technique you’re famous for, and I don’t feel like being the asphalt. Why me?”

“Save the good ol’ boy routine. You’re the best operative we have for situations involving bombs and counterintelligence. And for some odd reason, you’re acting like you have a choice in the matter.”

Jared had no control regarding a mission, but that didn’t mean he happily accepted it. “I want out. My sister died and my mother needs help taking care of her kids.”

“I don’t blame you. But it isn’t going to happen right now. Look, I heard about your sister. I’m sorry. You do this, and I’ll hand-stamp your walking papers.”

Jared could barely think about his sister Julia’s recent death in the car accident that took her life but spared her alcoholic husband’s. Thanks to his last mission and a pesky little stray bullet, Jared had been in the hospital at the time, missing the funeral and a chance to get his hands on his sister’s husband, Brett, prior to the bastard’s incarceration.

“I do this and I’m out for good? No other strings?” He thought about the pain and suffering his mother had endured, losing Julia. He pitied his nieces and nephew, who lost not only their mother but their father as well due to the tragic accident. The sooner he finished with the Company, the sooner he could return home and help out.

“No more strings,” Gordon reiterated.

That was as good a promise as he would likely get. “Run the MO by me again.”

“Our miscreant uses incendiary devices to generate tsunamis.”

“Of course he does,” Jared mumbled.

“This could be a threat the likes of which we’ve never seen. We’re talking about every man, woman, and child in every coastal city from Nova Scotia to Argentina, Alaska to Antarctica.”

Jared banged his head against the door. He’d heard the “save the world” spiel before. He wasn’t Superman or Iron Man or any of the comic book heroes he’d idolized as a kid. Yet they asked—no,
insisted
—that he carry the weight of the world on his shoulders.
Again
.

“Someone detonated a bomb on the coast of Ischia, Jared. The blast and consequent landslide caused a tsunami. It decimated the Isle of Capri and killed twelve hundred people. If this madman detonates a bomb in the correct location he can potentially eradicate the entire Eastern or Western seaboard of the United States. We’re talking obliteration in the tens of millions.”

“Shit.”

“Exactly. Are you in?”

As if he had a choice. “Yes, sir.”

The phone disconnected with a gentle click.

Slamming from the phone booth, Jared strode toward his hotel. He’d evaluate the evidence on Italy. Then he’d get his answers from the woman in Guatemala because ferreting out information was his forte.

Svetlana Orskya would tell him what he wanted to know, he vowed. Or she would take her secrets to the grave.

September 7 - 11:54 pm

Langley, Virginia

Gordon Quaid stared at the seismic data. A potential terrorist bent on instigating tsunamis. Seriously? In his many years with the CIA, he’d thought he’d seen it all.

“Gordon, I’m keeping the wolves at bay, but they won’t hold much longer.” Katherine Russe waved her ringing cell phone and then consulted the number. She frowned. “It’s the White House. You want me to run interference for a while?”

“I’ve got no reason to hide.”

She took the call. Muffled yelling resonated halfway across the office. “They want to speak to you.”

“Somebody’s been talking out of turn,” Gordon mumbled. He accepted the phone. “Yes, sir,” he said, when he found a pause in the litany of accusations pouring through the line. “We are completely aware of the situation. I have an agent en route to detail our findings for the commander in chief.” He punched a button on the phone and flung it back to her.

Keeping his face devoid of expression, Gordon regarded his associates, Katherine Russe and Christopher Parkins. Katherine, an honest, intelligent woman, had climbed the ranks through hard work, unwavering dedication, and a sprinkling of nepotism. Gordon appreciated having her on his team. Christopher, however, remained a backstabbing asshole.

“Here’s the deal,” Gordon muttered. “Swiss tabloids claim this is the kickoff to the Super Bowl of Armageddon—and now our president is convinced he has box seats. We need to set the record straight. Christopher, you’ll deliver the statement personally.”

With any luck, they’d shoot the messenger.

“It will be as follows,” he continued. “A possible earthquake occurred in the Tyrrhenian Sea along a fault line on the southernmost part of Ischia. This anomaly caused a landslide. The displacement of seawater generated by the landslide was responsible for the localized tsunami that slammed into the northern coast of Capri.”

He’d spent three hours conferring with geological experts. This was the most plausible explanation they could cook up.

“What about the ‘boom’ heard by natives on Ischia prior to the earthquake?” Christopher countered. “The bomb utilized in the attack generated deafening reverberations.”

“Delayed sound blast catalyzed by isostatic rebound,” Gordon replied.

“Good,” Katherine said. “Oh, Gordon, that’s very good. I’ll contact CNN.”

“Yes. For all intents and purposes, a natural disaster occurred, nothing more. Let’s get our ducks in a row.” He glowered at Christopher. “What are you waiting for? Foreign news crews are having a field day with this!”

When the door to the office closed, Katherine snickered. “I could’ve handled it, you know. I grew up with the VP.”

He still had the letter of recommendation that Vice President Chandler had sent. He’d hired Katherine without glancing at it. “I thought you worked for him.”

“I did. His family and mine own a real estate corporation. I managed the development division before I went to NIU.”

“Few people work when they don’t need to,” he said neutrally.

“We all make choices. An idle life isn’t one of mine. Now, about the VP—”

“I’m keeping your political liaisons in reserve,” Gordon cut in. “We might need them yet. Call Interpol and British intelligence.”

“I already did,” Katherine assured him. “British SAS is sending in a team.”

“What about the preliminary reports?”

Katherine thumbed through the data recorded by NOAA and CIA satellites. “The wave traveled at a speed of sixty-four meters per second. From the onset of the earthquake and subsequent landslide as recorded, it took two minutes for the wave train to hit land. Even with a warning, there wouldn’t have been time to evacuate.”

“How many casualties?”

“Total? So far, twelve hundred and nine. American, eighty-six.”

Gordon shifted in his chair. The last major, media-grabbing tsunami had occurred in Sumatra, and it had amassed more than two hundred thousand casualties. This limited death toll would be in and out of the news within a week.

“What did we learn about the blast?” he asked.

“Next to nothing. Luckily, the Italians know better than to cast any stones until they know where to throw them. Besides, tourism is the lifeblood of the region. Until they apprehend someone or have a decent lead, they aren’t about to broadcast how ill-prepared and inadequate their defenses are.”

“If only every country were so reticent. What about Immigration?”

“No Islamic, Russian, Korean, or South African notables have entered the area within the last two weeks,” Katherine said. “Harbor registers throughout the Mediterranean are notoriously lax. Ischia is off the coast of Naples and it’s a hot spot for yachts. It’s possible one of our most-wanted terrorists decided to go nautical.”

Or it could be an unknown
, Gordon thought. Thousands of whom popped up on their radar for a single, random act of violence before retreating into obscurity. Wild cards presented the most difficult miscreants to track. Gordon folded his fingers into a steeple. He closed his eyes to concentrate.

“There are two naval carriers on hand…”

Gordon shook his head. “The last administration used fear tactics to instigate wars,” he argued. “I’ll be damned if I’ll let this turn into another call to arms.”

“It was only a suggestion, sir. Intel reveals a striking similarity between the attack and a scenario presented by…” Katherine paused and flipped through her papers. “Dr. Svetlana Orskya.”

“Yes. I drew the same conclusion. I called in Jared Caldwell. He’ll apprehend and interrogate Svetlana.”

Katherine smiled. “That woman doesn’t stand a chance.”

Chapter Three

September 8 - 9:16 am

The Isle of Ischia

The
Petite Cherie
idled into the harbor, approaching the jetty at a forty-five. The boat glided into position against the dock with satin ease, a compliment to Randall’s skill at the helm and to the current weather conditions in the Tyrrhenian Sea. The first leg of the journey, flying from Marrakech to Naples, had been uneventful too.

Jared stepped off the stern and onto the dock. He wore suit pants, leather loafers, and a white collared shirt. He completed the ensemble with an ugly navy tie. He
looked
like a representative for the American government, and with a glaring ID badge slung around his neck, Jared wouldn’t chance being mistaken for anything else.

Debris littered the cove. Shards of wood, pieces of roof, paper, clothing. Confronting an enemy proved relatively painless in comparison to witnessing the senseless slaughter and devastation of the innocent. As he walked along the deck, Jared scanned the water. At any moment, he expected a bloated body to float up to greet him.

Sliding a pair of sunglasses into place, he cleared the end of the bulkhead before a trio of Italian police officers cornered him.

“
Buona sera
,” he said, flashing his badge.

One of the
Polizia di Stato
, a fair-skinned man with jet-black hair and eyes, stepped forward and removed the badge from Jared’s neck. He punched a button on the radio he held and rattled off Jared’s information.

“Hold up, partner,” Jared drawled. “My paperwork’s in good order. And I have it on the authority of my superiors and yours that you’ll cooperate. Now, if you don’t mind, can we please speak English, or Española, if you’d prefer. No
capisco Italiano.
”

The second officer, a middle-aged man, cocked his head to the side and regarded Jared for an uncomfortable length of time. The stitching on the man’s uniform read “Giuseppe Ancorra.”

“You don’t speak Italian?” Ancorra asked, although it was more of a statement than a question.

“Not a lick.”

The man’s eyes narrowed. He turned to his comrade and said, “
L’Americano
è
molto stupido e brutto.”

Jared’s expression didn’t waver but inside he smiled. It wasn’t everyday someone dared to call him stupid and ugly.

Officer Ancorra stared at him for another moment before switching to English. “Plastic explosives were utilized. Several hundred pounds. We have not been able to determine what the blasting cap was composed of.”

“A pallet of C-4 isn’t exactly easy to transport,” Jared said. “And our intelligence suggests the explosives would have had to be detonated in a very specific manner in order to generate the type of landslide we’re talking about.”

“You are correct,” the third officer agreed. He appeared young, perhaps in his early thirties. His eyes and skin bore the pallor of extreme stress or prolonged sleep deprivation.

Jared recognized the signs. Previous missions had forced him to go days without rest.

“They meticulously selected the location,” the officer said.

“Can you show me?”

The three men exchanged a glance. Officer Ancorra nodded.

“Come with me,” the younger man said. “It is perhaps a mile up the coast.” He extended his hand. “I’m Giovanni Pisani.”

“Nice to meet you,” Jared responded.

He followed the two investigators along the coastline to a set of stairs. At the top of the cliffs, they ducked beneath a glaring blockade.

Masses of people crowded the barricades. Reporters and news crews competed to portray the carnage.

A pretty child with tangled blond hair clenched an eight-by-ten photo of her mother. A steady stream of tears coursed down her fair cheeks. An elderly woman, her grandmother by the look of her, pressed the girl against her hip.

Officer Pisani squatted beside the child and lifted her into his arms. He whispered something to the old woman.

After a few seconds, he rejoined Jared and Ancorra.

“She is my daughter.” He opened the door to a white van and gestured for Jared to precede him. “My wife traveled to Capri for her cousin’s thirtieth birthday.” He frowned. “She didn’t want to go. It was the first vacation apart from myself and my daughter. I…insisted. I wanted her to have fun. She works so hard and is very busy with our child.” His voice broke. “She was on the beach…”

From the man’s glassy eyes, Jared knew the answer before he asked, “Has your wife been found?”

“No.”

The reports and the satellite pics had shown nothing but devastation. The massive wave had slammed into the tiny coastal beach on the northern coast of Capri and swallowed everything in its path. He doubted her body would ever be found. What the wave didn’t destroy, the ocean predators had. “I’m sorry.”

Officer Pisani looked away. “Not as sorry as I.”

Ancorra caught Jared’s attention in the rearview mirror. “Buckle up,” he advised, slamming the gas pedal to the floorboard.

The van coursed along the roadway.

In some areas, the ground heaved into spires. In others, the road plunged away completely. Living thirty miles from the mainland, the people of Ischia would face another exigent obstacle in obtaining the necessary provisions for repairs. It would take months, perhaps years, to fix the damages.

Armed men, the Italian version of the National Guard, directed traffic away from the blast zone. Ancorra parked the van in a narrow alley. “The explosion wiped out three city blocks. Millions of tons of earth plummeted down the hillside into the sea. Many villas were nestled along the hill.”

“Were there any survivors?” Jared asked.

Ancorra shook his head. “Not among the villas.”

They exited the van.

As if a giant ax had cleaved the land, deep gouges and furrows marked the terrain. The entire road plummeted into a dark canyon. Remnants of houses and buildings littered the slope. Power lines and telephone poles, uprooted like matchsticks, crisscrossed the rise. Perhaps a quarter of the way down the hillside, a gas line must have broken. A two-story plume of fire shot straight from the ground. A helicopter flew overhead, and a cameraman hung precariously from the cabin. Jared shielded his face with his hand and spun around.

“I thought you had this area secured?” he accused the Italian officers.

Ancorra grabbed the radio at his belt and chewed out the operator at headquarters. Jared couldn’t follow all of the conversation, but he heard something about air traffic and a baleful discourse on “getting it under control or else.”

Less than a minute later, the helicopter veered away.

“The person who did this understood the topography of the island,” Officer Pisani remarked.

“They did their homework.” Ancorra pulled a cigarette from a metal case. Lighting it, he took a long drag.

“What do you mean?” Jared asked.

“Do you know the history of this island?”

Jared shook his head.

Ancorra kicked at the ground. “These are cobblestone roads, built by the Romans before the birth of Christ.”

“I noticed some ruins along the docks.”

“Ah, yes. The Roman infantry kept a meticulous pier. But I warrant Roman plumbing is more pertinent.”

“Excuse me?”

“Toilets,” Ancorra replied. “Sewers and irrigation. Two of Rome’s greatest gifts to humanity.”

Jared rubbed his hands over his face. The puzzle pieces coalesced with brutal precision.

Ancorra paced to the edge of the ravine. He kicked at a grapefruit-sized rock and sent it tumbling over the edge. “This town was built atop ancient Roman ruins. Our plumbing, drains, sewers all branch from the original Roman pipes and tunnel network.”

“Are the plans readily available?”

“Bah, of course!” Officer Pisani shouted. “This Internet is the best weapon! Everything is but a few clicks away.”

Jared found no argument there. “How did they access the main?”

Officer Pisani pointed to a gaping aperture in the earth, a fissure thirty feet from them. “There was a well in the basement of a home.”

Jared approached the pit. He kept a distance from its sides, unwilling to test the integrity of the existing earth. He squatted, squinting against the sun to decipher the secrets buried in the scarred trench.

“The water amplified the explosion,” he mumbled.

“What?” Ancorra flicked his cigarette.

Jared watched the glowing arc of the ember and hoped there weren’t any other ruptured gas lines in the vicinity.

“What?” Ancorra repeated.

“Water,” Jared said. “When water is heated it boils, correct?”

Ancorra nodded.

“Well, when it is superheated it converts instantly to steam. And the steam has enough potential energy to wreak havoc on its own. Consider champagne in a bottle. The compressed air, the gas, is hidden within the liquid, but when the cork is removed and the gas has space to escape, it bubbles out. Or a teapot when it whistles.”

“I do not comprehend,” Officer Pisani said. “You speak too fast.”

Ancorra repeated the analogies in Italian, and Pisani nodded his head emphatically.

The buildings on the hillside that survived the explosion bore perforations.

“A claymore,” Jared muttered.

“A sword?” Officer Pisani shot Jared an incredulous look.

“No,” Jared said. “A claymore is what we call a C-4 bomb with ball bearings embedded in it. When it explodes, those ball bearings melt, compress, and are the fiercest form of shrapnel you’ve ever seen.”

“This would explain the penetration,” Ancorra said.

Officer Pisani swore in Italian and threw his hands in the air. The language barrier prevented him from keeping pace.

Jared pointed to the nearby buildings. He spoke slowly, hoping Officer Pisani would be able to follow. “They look like pincushions. It’s a telltale indication a claymore was used. C-4, or RDX as it is sometimes called, does a lot of damage and it’s easy to manipulate,” Jared explained. “It’s very effective as far as explosives go.”

It was also just the type of incendiary device that terrorists liked to use to maximize casualties. But Jared didn’t think that piercing bystanders was the primary objective. No. According to CIA intel the consequent landslide seemed to be the primary goal. Officer Pisani’s eyes misted, and Ancorra stepped between Jared and Pisani. Shit. He wasn’t about to criticize the young officer for mourning his wife.

“The landslide sent twenty million tons of rock and material crashing into the Tyrrhenian Sea,” Ancorra said. “This is what triggered the tidal wave.”

Jared didn’t bother to correct Ancorra for calling the tsunami a tidal wave. It was a common misnomer and completely irrelevant to the logistics of uncovering who started it. The damn wave had done more than just wipe out the beaches along Capri, the wave had spread and caused flooding in several areas along Sorrento, Vico Equense, and Puolo. “We figured out how the wave originated. What we don’t know is who or why.”

“We waste our time then, friend,” Pisani pronounced. “For we will not find those answers here.”

Scanning the wreckage and mountainous pile of debris, Jared reached the same conclusion. The initial explosion obliterated any evidence that might have existed. And even if clues
had
remained, the subsequent landslide had swept them into the sea.

Jared paced away from the Italians and pretended to examine one of the remaining buildings while he placed a call to Central Intelligence. He relayed what little he’d discovered regarding the explosive event that triggered the wave. An operative transferred his call, and he waited for an update on his next directive.

“Target confirmation,” the computerized voice said. “Target has left Guatemala. Proceed to Seattle, Washington. Ground transfer to Pierce County to be provided…”

Seattle beat Guatemala, Jared mused, disconnecting.

“All right, Svetlana,” he whispered. “Your time has come.”

September 8 - 7:30 pm

Buckley, Pierce County, Washington

The last sharp rays of the setting sun strained across the mountaintops, then vanished as if they never existed, snuffing all light and heat from the valley. The brilliant, heavy blue of twilight swelled into the sky like an ocean rising from the depths of the horizon.

Removing her glasses, Lana set them on the table beside her rocking chair. She adjusted the quilted blanket on her lap and pressed a steaming cup of chai tea to her lips.

The carved oak chair had been handcrafted by her great-grandfather and transported from Russia to the US by her father when he had escaped Communist Moscow nearly forty years ago. The quilt had been passed down on her mother’s side, and again, made by hand, by a great-aunt, before Lana’s mother emigrated from Colombia. How her parents, both newcomers to America and the English language, had met and fell in love, Lana couldn’t fathom, but she considered their courtship priceless. Besides the fact that they were her parents, they were two loving, supportive people whom she adored.

She lifted the portrait of her parents from the table. Her job required her to travel, and while she enjoyed this aspect of her profession, she missed her parents and brother. When they had moved to Florida, she’d briefly considered selling the cabin and buying a condo there. But the thought of leaving Washington had left a coldness in her chest nearly as unsettling as the brisk mountain air. No, she belonged here. And if she wanted to see her family, she could fly to see them. Her parents were vacationing in Juradó, Colombia, right now, visiting with her mother’s family. Lana had considered joining them but had decided not to. She had not wanted her parents to see her like this.

She crossed her arms, hugging her waist. Her teeth started chattering and it took some serious meditative breathing to halt the jarring shiver. Her stomach muscles knotted in a painful spasm.

Post-traumatic stress sucks.

Her boss had warned her. Adam had insisted that, while she acted fine and pretended her near-death experience was no big deal, her mind and body begged to differ.

Chalk one up to the boss being right
.