Tesla Secret, The (3 page)

CHAPTER SEVEN

Endgame Development was housed in a concrete and brick building off Brighton Beach Avenue. The area was a zoning nightmare. Apartment buildings and row houses butted up against commercial shops and services. Most of the business signs were in Russian and Ukrainian. Brighton Beach was known locally as "Little Odessa". It was the base for the Russian and Ukrainian Mafia in the US.

The August day was hot and humid. Nick and Lamont sat at a grungy sidewalk cafe down the block from the building, eating Russian pastries and drinking black coffee. Sport jackets concealed their weapons. Nick had brought a .45 caliber Sig-Sauer P229 designed for concealed carry. He was thinking about changing over from his H-K. The Sig was smaller, less obvious. It sat snugly in a holster at his side.

No one would think they belonged in this neighborhood. They'd probably be taken for cops. Nick didn't like it, but there was no way around it.

There was little to see at the Endgame building. A long, dull yellow wall scrawled with graffiti. A large closed metal garage door at one end. Above and to the right of the garage, a door on the second floor opened out onto a black iron walkway running along the front. The building was four stories high. Two thirds of the way across, the walkway rose in a series of steps and landings to exits on the third and fourth floors. A few small windows, dirty and closed, looked out from the second story. At the other end was another garage.

"Doesn't look like much, " Lamont said, "for a high tech production company."

"Not very friendly. Like the architect was inspired by the Berlin Wall."

"Some of these guys around here probably helped build the Wall back in the good old days."

"I don't see any cameras." Nick sipped his coffee. The coffee was old. The pastry was new. "No obvious street surveillance."

"Neighborhood like this, there has to be something."

"Could be an agreement with the local mob boss. Plenty of security that way."

"Let's take a walk." Lamont tossed a few bills on the table and they got up. Inside the cafe, a rat-faced man watched them go and made a telephone call.

In this neighborhood Lamont's skin stood out like a neon sign. People passing by gave them hard looks. A small sign in English and Cyrillic by the entrance to the building announced that Endgame Technology was on the second floor. A short flight of steps led up to double glass doors. Stairs and a freight elevator were visible through the glass.

"How about the direct approach," Nick said. "I need to develop my game."

"After you." They entered the building.

The entry was dark and smelled of urine and stale beer and cigarettes. The steps were steep and dark and stained.

"Classy," Lamont said. "Their website made this look like the Hilton."

"Yeah, masters of illusion. That's one of their game titles."

They climbed the stairs. On the second floor a long hall covered in cracked linoleum stretched along the length of the building. Nick counted four metal doors, all painted a dull brown. A sign on the second door read Endgame Development, LLC.

Nick tried the handle. Locked.

A door opened down the hall. A large, muscular man with a buzz cut walked toward them. He wore a black tee shirt, black leather sport coat, black pants and black shoes. He moved like a boxer. His face was hard and he wasn't smiling. He looked like someone who could hold his own in the UFC.

Camera somewhere, Nick thought. Pretty good. Didn't see it.

"I help you?" His accent was Russian or Ukrainian.

"Sure, thanks. We're looking for Endgame Development. Got some work for them."

Nick reached in his jacket pocket, watched the reaction. The man covered it, but Nick saw the inner flinch. He's got a piece under that coat. Nick took out a business card and handed it to him. The card said he was Nicholas Allen, Executive VP of Video Production. It gave an address in Manhattan.

"I'm Nick Allen. This is my assistant, Lamont Cranston. We have a gaming project in mind. Endgame has been recommended. We'd like to explore possibilities with them, but they seem to be closed."

"Da, closed. Gone to beach." The man smiled. A gold tooth gleamed in his lower jaw. "You come back tomorrow." The smile didn't reach his eyes.

Nick heard the entry door close below, a whispered word. His ear started to itch and burn. His personal warning system, a psychic quirk that had saved him more than once.

"Well," he said, "I'll just slip my card under here." He bent down as if to push the card under the door, grabbed the man's leg and pulled it out from under him.

Gold tooth was quick. He hit the floor and kicked out at the same time. The blow landed on Nick's shoulder. It numbed his arm and broke the hold. Gold tooth rolled away and bounced to his feet, reaching inside his jacket. Lamont kicked out and slammed the knee. Nick heard it break. Gold tooth howled in pain. He had the gun out and fired as he went down. The bullet tugged at Nick's jacket.

Nick caught him with a hard kick to the groin. The man screamed. The gun skittered across the floor. Lamont kicked him in the head.

One down.

Footsteps pounded up the stairs. There was no cover in the hall. Nick drew the Sig and fired into the lock on the door. Lamont let off three fast shots at the head of the stairs. It would give anyone coming up something to think about.

Nick hit the door with his body. It popped open and they were inside Endgame Development. Lamont shut the door behind them. Bullets thudded into the metal.

The door was the only exit. They were trapped.

Piles of shrink-wrapped games were stacked along a wall. Four large wooden shipping crates took up one corner. Computers, a laptop and three large monitors sat on a work bench. A bright poster hung on the wall advertising a violent crime game Nick had seen in stores. It wasn't the real thing. The real thing was about to come through the door.

Nick signaled Lamont. The crates. Whoever was out there would figure they'd be behind the door when it opened. What they'd do was predictable. Nick and Lamont ran to the corner of the room and crouched down behind the crates. Nick breathed deep and brought the adrenaline rush under control. Outside the door, the hall was silent.

Lamont held up three fingers. Three men out there. Nick didn't wonder how he knew. Three or four or more, it didn't make much difference.

There were three.

The door burst open. The first man through rolled and came up shooting at where someone would be if they'd been waiting behind the door. The shots thudded into the plaster board wall. Lamont shot and missed, fired again and the man went down. It gave away their position.

The second and third men reached around the open door and began blasting away at the crates. Splinters exploded from the raw wood. A long piece struck Lamont under his eye and lodged in his cheek. Blood started. He kept firing. The men in the hall retreated.

Stalemate.

Fuck this.
Nick stood and ran to the opposite wall. As he ran he got an angle on the hall. He saw one of the shooters and put two rounds into him before he could react.

The last one was stupid. He reached around the door to shoot at Nick. Lamont fired twice. The man slid down the doorframe, folded over in the opening and stopped moving. The room was filled with the smell of spent gunpowder and the hot copper smell of blood. Then the stink of emptying bowels.

Nick went to the workbench and picked up the laptop. He looked at the dead men and holstered his pistol.

"Game over," he said.

CHAPTER EIGHT

Harker leaned back in her chair.

"The tabloids are calling it the 'Brighton Beach Bloodbath' and blaming it on a mob feud. The men you killed were all tied to one of the Russian gangs. The crates in Endgame were full of pornography packaged as New Age Seminars."

"That's a nice touch," Lamont said. He had a large, white bandage on his face where the splinter had gouged him. It stood out against his dark skin.

"That building is made out of solid concrete with thick doors." Nick tugged on his ear. "Nobody heard the shooting. Or if they did, they thought it was none of their business."

"How did you make it out of there?" Stephanie asked.

"There was a second set of stairs at the end of the hall that led down to a garage. We borrowed one of their cars."

Lamont said, "Nice car, too. A brand new Beemer. We left it parked in a loading zone. It's New York, it would have been towed in minutes."

Ronnie laughed.

"That was a pretty extreme reaction," Nick said. "They couldn't have known what we wanted. Hell, we could have been cops. But they got hard core right from the start."

"They had orders to stop anyone from finding out what was in there," Elizabeth said. "It had to be more than porn."

"The laptop you brought back is encrypted," Stephanie said. "1024 bit encryption. That's state of the art, as good as it gets. Military grade."

"When will you know what's on it?"

"Freddie's working on it now."

Freddie was a maxed out Cray XMT in the computer room. Stephanie had names for all her computers.

"I don't like the Russian connection." Nick said. "Why are Russians involved?"

Lamont looked at Nick. "Maybe it's just about porn. Mafia stuff."

"The Russian mafia is bad news but they don't start shooting people unless they have to. It gets attention and makes trouble. Look at the headlines we got."

"This isn't about porn," Harker said, "it's something else. You went there because we found Endgame's number on that phone in California. It stirred up a hornet's nest. Foxworth is playing hardball for a good reason."

"What's next, Director?"

She set her pen down on her desk. "I want to see what's on that computer. It might give us the next step."

CHAPTER NINE

Malcolm Foxworth pressed a button concealed in the carving on his desk. A flat panel slid open along the top, revealing a large monitor and keyboard. He pressed a key and the monitor elevated itself. He looked at his gold Rolex. A minute to go. While he waited, he imagined the future and smiled. Precisely one minute later the screen came alive. It showed images of eight men, the other members of AEON's inner circle.

AEON had begun in the 18th Century. A group of wealthy and powerful men in England and France had formed an association based on the mutual creation of wealth and the application of power to achieve their goals.

The nine members always addressed each other on a first name basis. It created an illusion of collegiality, but Foxworth had no illusions about the group. None of them did. The leaders of AEON were more like a school of sharks than a gathering of colleagues. Like sharks, they would turn on any member who showed signs of weakness or lack of judgement. Alliances between members were matters of common convenience. Friendship was not unknown, but it was rare.

Foxworth began the conference.

"Gentlemen," he said. "Thank you for joining me."

There were nods of recognition.

"I believe we can keep it brief today. Anatoly, can you give us an update on your progress?"

Anatoly Ogorov was Russia's Foreign Minister.

"The Tesla device is almost complete." Nods of approval greeted his words. "I have been assured that we are close to testing the prototype. Construction of the power generator is ahead of schedule."

"What is the projected completion date?"

The speaker was the representative from Brazil, Don Julio Silva. In one way or another, Silva had gained control of all energy resources in Central and South America. He was one of the world's 100 wealthiest men. He was also the most powerful member of the inner group after Foxworth.

"Late October or early November," Ogorov answered. "Before the American election."

"You have overcome the obstacles?"

"Not all of them. Not yet. There are still problems. But I am confident."

Silva nodded. "Good. Yes, the election. Malcolm, what do you intend to do about that? We must defeat Rice. His policies are making things difficult for us."

There were murmurings of agreement from the others.

"I understand. Steps are being taken. Rice will not be a problem."

"We have your assurances on this?"

Silva wanted to unseat him as leader. Success was the criterion of continued leadership. There was only one answer possible. Foxworth gave it.

"You do."

For the next fifteen minutes they reviewed the European strategy. There was still disagreement about how long to let the Eurozone and the Euro currency continue. AEON intended to bring down the Euro and reap the benefits of the economic depression that was sure to follow. It wasn't a question of if but of when. There was no immediate urgency. They agreed to further deliberation. Foxworth ended the meeting on that note.

He pressed the hidden button and the monitor retracted into the desk. The panel slid back in place. He activated the intercom.

"Mandy, get Healy in here."

"Right away, Malcolm."

A few minutes later Healy knocked and came into the room.

Michael Healy was Foxworth's Chief of Security. He stood in front of Foxworth's huge desk, his feet slightly apart, hands clasped behind his back. Besides overseeing Foxworth's protection, Healy took care of operations that had nothing to do with corporate security or personal protection.

Healy had spent fourteen years in the SAS, Britain's elite Special Forces unit. He'd gotten caught up in a civilian sex scandal involving underage prostitutes and been kicked out of the service for "behavior unbecoming to an officer". A man with his skills could always find work. He'd ended up here, with Foxworth.

His civilian clothes might as well have been starched. The creases in his pants looked like they could cut. His shoes blinded with their shine. His back was erect, his shoulders wide, his face all angles and planes. His eyes were hazel and cold. Foxworth approved. He appreciated discipline.

"Are things ready in America?"

"Everything is in place."

"You are certain there can be no connection back here?"

"Yes."

"Good. You have a green light. Proceed with the operation. That's all."

"Yes, sir." Healy turned smartly and left. Foxworth watched him go.

All the little people with their prattle about democracy and freedom of speech and the rule of law,
he thought.
Soon there'd be a new rule of law. His law.