The Cain Conspiracy (Harvey Bennett Thrillers Book 8), page 7
The men’s weapons exploded to life, hoping the long-range attack would be devastating enough to confuse the exoskeleton. But the suit reacted immediately, dropping to its knees and crouching, turning into a smaller target. At the same time, miniaturized reflectors all across the suit triangulated and immediately pinpointed the locations of the shooters. That data was sent at the speed of light to the suit’s central processing unit, which relayed targeting orders to the seventeen individual guns across the suit’s armor. Those guns began shooting less than a quarter-second after the units’ own firing began.
The Ravenshadow men had not been briefed as to the devastating accuracy of the tracking and defense technology Garza had built into the exoskeleton. His tests of the suit’s effectiveness against unsuspecting enemies needed to be as accurate as possible, so he often rotated his testing units in the field, giving all of his men their own first-time experience with new builds. He knew his men talked, swapped stories of what they were building here, but he also remembered what it was like to be a young soldier. Lots of speculation, plenty of hyperbole, and a great deal of skepticism.
They were professionals, and he wasn’t concerned about what they knew of the project. Keeping them in the dark was simply a way to keep his experiments as clean and streamlined as possible.
And this experiment was certainly impressive. Still, he needed to know one final piece of data.
“Switch to live rounds,” he said into his throat mic.
“Sir?” the technician asked. “Live rounds will most likely impact the subject inside the —”
“I’m well aware of the effect live ammunition will have, soldier,” he said. “Do you know of any other way to test the suit’s structural stamina?”
He already knew the answer. The exoskeleton was just that — it was nothing but a heap of metal and electrical components without a living human being inside. Robotics technology had advanced rapidly over the past decades, but armies around the world were still years away from bringing to battle fully functional robotic weapons that did not need direct human guidance.
Garza hoped that he could build not just the exoskeleton suit, but an army of soldiers who were willing to wear them, as well.
“Exchange magazines,” he said. “And engage immediately. Note that the subject will be firing returns with Simunition rounds, but please act as though you are engaging with an actual hostile force.”
He needed the experiment to be clean; he needed to know how long the suit would hold up against two hostile infantry units approaching from opposite fronts, but he wasn’t about to sacrifice his own Ravenshadow forces for a test.
He watched the subject inside the suit, flicking a magnification switch on the side of his tactical sunglasses that digitally zoomed his field of view. The subject’s face came into focus, the eyes and cold stare betraying nothing of her internal emotions. Garza knew well the effects of the anti-stimulant; he knew that the subject was still feeling everything, still processing, still thinking. They just… couldn’t act on those thoughts. Their mind had been overtaken, turned into a compliant computer processor, ready to receive external input.
This subject, a young woman, had responded well to the dosing and had shown that she was capable of managing the suit’s appendages easily while drugged. The younger, more agile subjects tended to be that way — not a surprise to Garza or his doctors.
He flicked the magnification back off again and removed his glasses. He wanted to see the battle with his own, unaltered eyes.
“Engage when ready,” he said.
16
Edmund
Father Edmund Canisius wished he could lose the collar and tight-fitting robe. He wanted to relax, to forget this whole thing. He was tired of the charade, the appearance, and wanted nothing more than to head back to his luxury accommodations and soak in the massive tub for an hour, catching up on his reading.
He shifted in his chair. No, there is a job to do. He pushed away the thoughts of laziness and reminded himself why he was here. He believed in the mission of his church, the church. He believed in his team back at the Vatican, and he believed in himself. He knew he was the best person for this job, even if he had not been informed of exactly why he was the best for it.
Canisius pushed a cold, hard pad of butter around an equally cold and hard piece of bread. He had torn the bread violently from the loaf, prepared to shove it into his mouth — he often overate when he felt impatient or anxious — but quickly recovered and set it back down on his plate. He sniffed, then looked around.
No one is watching me, he reminded himself. No one cares that I am here.
For the entirety of his time in Peru, from the moment he had disembarked from the jet and was met on the tarmac with Peruvian journalists and reporters, to the moment he had left his hotel to be driven to this restaurant, he had been inundated with people. Requests for autographs from the celebrity-seekers, blessings from the devout, and quotes for those whose careers were based on nothing but the vapidity of chasing another lede.
Until he’d settled into his booth. At this restaurant, the premier Peruvian upscale restaurant within driving distance from the hotel district, he finally felt alone. The other men and women here were like him — important, wealthy. They didn’t need his blessings or attention, and they were more than happy to leave him to his own business.
He sighed a breath of relief. Relax, he told himself again. You are the right man for this job. Whatever it may be, they have chosen you for a reason.
He cleared his throat as a party of three men and two women neared his table, all wearing elegant gowns and tuxedos. Have I underdressed? he wondered.
No matter. In his line of work, there was no such thing as underdressing. Wearing the cloth of the clergy was always en vogue, and he wore it proudly, smartly.
But the party turned at the last minute and headed toward another table, near the back of the restaurant. He saw the lead man wave at a couple that had already been seated at the large banquet table.
He turned back to his bread, fiddled with the cold steel knife on the unforgiving piece of butter, and was about to take a bite when someone said his name.
“Father Canisius?” a woman’s voice asked.
He looked up, sucked in a breath. He had to steady his nerves as well as his reaction as he took in the sight of a very attractive woman, perhaps fifteen or twenty years his junior. Another characteristic of his line of work was not often interacting with women dressed as she was.
The woman wore what he could only describe as a “ballroom dress,” a sequined emerald-green dress that clung to her curved body. A single strap carried the dress up and over a shoulder; the other was bare. Her hair was wavy, dark-brown with streaks of red that he wasn’t sure was natural or dyed. Her eyes were quick, sharp and alert, and her entire presence screamed control.
He sat up straighter in his chair, inadvertently clearing his throat and wiping his hands on his legs.
“I — uh, pardon me,” he said, rising to his feet. “I apologize, I am waiting for someone.”
He reached out a hand, expecting her to place hers within it, daintily, as the proper women of his generation had been taught. Instead, she gripped his tightly and shook it, once, never releasing eye contact. Her smile leaned out of the side of her mouth, a corner of her lip creeping upward.
“Father Canisius,” she said again. “My name is Rebecca St. Clair. I’m with the Orland Group.”
He couldn’t hide his surprise. They sent a woman? “Oh,” he said. “I do apologize, then. I believed I was waiting for, uh…” he stopped when he realized his folly.
“For a man?” St. Clair said, pulling the chair across from Canisius’ out and taking a seat.
“Well, uh, I —”
She smiled, but he could see the fire in her eyes. “Please,” she said. “No problem. It wouldn’t be the first time.”
He put the bread back on the table — he hadn’t realized he’d been holding it the entire time — and then sat once again. “Well, I mean no disrespect. In my particular business, it is, well, somewhat of a fraternity.”
She smiled again, and this time it seemed she actually believed it. “Never mind. I am sorry I’m late,” she continued. “This entire trip has been a whirlwind of logistical nightmares. I’m supposed to be at a gala across town after our meeting — I do hope we don’t have to cut things short.”
He tapped at the corners of his mouth with his heavy cloth napkin before speaking. “Well, I have to admit that in my own logistical excitement, I was unable to read the brief detailing our meeting here.”
She waved it off. “You weren’t supposed to know. Think nothing of it — it does not speak to your intelligence or capability, Father. It is merely a precaution. These meetings can be rather delicate.”
He nodded, but knew the confusion was showing on his face. Am I truly the right man for this job? He had been given hardly any information. Mostly numbers, at what price they were hoping to close the deal, a few pointers, and then he had been told to get ready. That everything else would become clear during the meeting.
“Anyway,” St. Clair said, reaching into a small clutch she’d been holding. “If you don’t mind, I won’t be eating. Please do not let it stop you, and please know that my company will graciously accept the tab.”
“Thank you for that,” he said. “Can you… tell me a bit about what we are negotiating?”
She looked at him inquisitively, as if contemplating something. “Father, this will not be much of a negotiation. The price has all but been set.”
“Then why —”
“We are here to sign the papers and shake hands, and those two events will take place over the course of two separate meetings. As we’ve already shaken hands, I believe our meeting is now adjourned.”
“Then why did they —”
“Deals like this often have the side effect of ‘leaking,’ as I like to say. Either from one party or the other. My organization is public, which implies a certain sense of openness. Transparency.” She cocked an eyebrow, as if saying, just like yours. “But these deals always lean more to the private side of things, and I have a lot of employees working very hard to keep the details on that side. As such, it is of the utmost importance that we both conduct our business with discretion, brevity, and clarity. And, it goes without saying, our agreement is fully binding and oral in nature.”
“A contract that will not be signed?” he asked.
“Oral does not preclude a signature — it will simply happen virtually, through an encrypted digital connection that records our verbal acceptance as the signature itself once we are both satisfied with the final terms.” She pulled her hand out of the clutch and revealed a single sheet of paper, about the size of an index card. She didn’t offer it to Father Canisius. “Now, I believe the agreement our stakeholders came to was an exchange of thirty-two point two three million dollars upon successful negotiation here, and an additional amount of exactly three times that upon successful delivery of the first prototypes.”
Prototypes? Delivery? He wished he had not left his antacid medication back at the hotel. “Uh, yes,” he mumbled. “That is the number — price — my associates have prepared.”
“Very well.”
He waited.
“I believe we are done here.”
This time he didn’t even try to hide his shock. “I — I am sorry, Ms. St. Clair. This, all of this — whatever we are to call it — does not make sense to me. I traveled halfway around the world to meet with a —”
“You traveled here to do business with the Orland Group, and you are.”
“May I ask what the nature of your work is with the Orland Group, Ms. St. Clair?” He was tired of feeling beaten down — getting interrupted — by this woman.
“Of course,” she said. “I should have given you a card before I sat down. I am not used to being unrecognized, a feeling I’m sure you know well.”
He nodded, feeling slightly sated for the moment.
The woman reached back into her clutch and withdrew another piece of paper, this one cardstock and in the unmistakable shape of a business card. She handed it to him. The front had the Orland Group logo and nothing else, and turned it over to the back.
He could feel the smug grin he knew she was pointing in his direction as he read the opposite side.
It had her name, Rebecca St. Clair, in all capital letters on one line, then an email address.
Below that, separated by a blank line, was a single word.
President.
17
Ben
The morning flew by. In less than an hour Ben had packed a change of clothes, some bathroom essentials, and Julie’s laptop. He wasn’t sure he’d even get a chance to use the clothes or hygiene items, but he wanted to at least have another way to reach the rest of the CSO team besides his phone.
Julie’s car was gone, but no one had seen her leave. Victoria’s own rental car was missing too, leaving Ben to deduce that Julie had done exactly what he was afraid she’d do: she’d gone with Victoria Reyes to Peru. At this point, Julie would be halfway to Anchorage. His fears were confirmed when he saw a note from Julie laying on the end table.
Ben, it began. I know how this is going to make you feel. I’m sorry. I didn’t want it to start like this, but I thought it was the only way. I hope you can forgive me, but I really hope you’ll join me. — I love you, Jules.
He held the note with a trembling hand. This can’t be real, he thought. This can’t be happening.
He stuffed the note into his pocket and threw the duffel bag over his shoulder. Reggie was waiting for him in the living room.
“Ready?” he asked.
Reggie nodded, wiggling his prosthetic arm. “Yes. And Archie left a few minutes ago. Has to take the rental car back and all that. Sorry, man. I had no idea —”
“It’s fine,” Ben said. “Not your fault.”
Mrs. E entered the room. “I spoke with Julie’s parents in the CSO wing. They are upset, but they understand that this is her job.”
“This is not her job,” Ben said. “Telling us where she’s going and discussing it with us is her job.”
“Harvey,” Mrs. E said. “I understand. We are going after her, okay?”
“Yeah, brother,” Reggie said. “She might be getting to Anchorage in fifteen minutes, but then she’ll have to get her ticket, wait for TSA, all that fun stuff.”
Mrs. E’s eyes fell to the floor, and Ben noticed it immediately. “What do you know?”
She lifted her head up. Her face was at Ben’s eye level. Back-to-back the woman was tall as he was, nearly as tall as Reggie. “I… uh…”
“Great,” Ben said. “You’re telling me she’s not going to the airport?”
“No, she is. Just not —”
“Just not a commercial flight,” Reggie said. “You got her a private plane?”
“Her and Victoria,” Mrs. E said. “But our own tickets have already been purchased. Me, Archibald, you, and Reggie. Archie is flying out tomorrow, and he’ll either meet up with us there or stay back in Iquitos and offer support from there.”
She was going to continue, but must have seen the look on Ben’s face. “Harvey, I —”
“You did this? You betrayed me — all of us!”
“Please, Harvey. Please understand that my husband and —”
Ben knew immediately. “He was behind this, wasn’t he? That little speech of his, the one-on-one conversation I had with him. He was trying to talk me off the ledge. To get me to agree that this was all a good idea. But he already had plans. He already knew Julie was going, and he helped her do it.”
“Harvey, I am truly —”
“Save it, E,” Ben said. He turned and stomped out of the living room and out into the chilly morning. He made a quick pace toward his SUV, tossed the duffel across the console and onto the backseat, then started the engine before he’d even fully descended onto his seat.
Reggie was there in another second, and he pulled the door open and slid in.
“You’re not packed,” Ben said.
“Technically neither are you.”
“I’m talking about —”
“I know, man,” Reggie said. “And I figured it didn’t matter. Mr. E has a private jet for them, ready to go. That means he’s been planning. Maybe not for a long time, but long enough that I don’t think we’ll need to worry about packing.”
“You think he’s got clothes for us, too?”
“Ben, this is going to be a military-style invasion. Surgical. Precise. Tactical. He’ll have full fatigues, in all our sizes, weapons, and a team.”
“A team?”
“Remember what I was telling you about? The contacts I’ve got?”
“You’re behind this, too? I can’t believe —”
“Ben, relax. No, I’m not,” Reggie said. “Honestly. I had no idea. But Mr. E knows my contacts. He knows how to get them onboard, and he’s got plenty of his own contacts. I have no doubt he’ll have a group of Special Forces ready and waiting in Peru.”
“Great,” Ben said. “Just great. We don’t get time to plan anything out ourselves, to think through this.”
“There’s not a lot of time, Ben. You know Garza. He’ll move as soon as he feels threatened. As soon as he’s done with whatever it is he’s been working on down there.”
“I know, but it still doesn’t give us time —”
“And, if I remember correctly, it’s a long flight from Alaska to Peru. We’ll have plenty of time to think through whatever you and I can come up and call it a plan.”
Ben sighed, for the first time that morning taking a deep breath. He needed to do that more often — to just stop and breathe. Julie was gone, but he knew where she was and where she was heading. And this time she had the backing of her team. The CSO was on the offensive, planning to move against a known enemy who wouldn’t know they were coming.
