The Machiavelli Covenant (31 page)

"My two cousins came in on an early-morning flight from New York for a family reunion. I went to meet them at the airport. It took a half hour to find them because the airline lost their luggage and they were off trying to locate it. They never did. It's still lost. On the way here we were caught up in whatever dreadful thing is going on in the city. It took an hour to get through one checkpoint. We had to show identification, everything."

"The authorities thought they had some terrorists trapped in a hotel not far from here," the concierge informed her. "They escaped. Or that's what we've been told, but they are still looking for them and that is the reason for all the chaos. I sincerely apologize for the inconvenience."

"It's not your fault, of course, and we all must do our part to stop these people. My problem, however, is not terrorists but my cousins. I don't like them to begin with. On top of that they are irritable and over-tired, neither can sleep, and one is crazier than the other. They want to spend the day sightseeing. I have other things to do. I'm also exhausted and want to sleep. I was thinking of a limousine, just have someone take them wherever they want to go, to see whatever they want to see and bring them back later this evening. Is that possible?"

"You want to do it now, at this time of day?"

"Yes, as soon as possible, and have whoever comes bring them something to eat, some bottled water and coffee. I don't want them waking me up to go to breakfast."

"I'm afraid it will be expensive."

"At this point, I don't care. Whatever it costs, charge it to my room."

"Very well, señorita, I will take care of it."

"One more thing. If the driver can find some way to avoid all of these tedious roadblocks and things . . . You understand, they'll just get more upset and want to come back early and then they'll take it out on me as if all this terrorist business was my fault."

"I will speak to the driver personally, señorita."

"Thank you, señor, thank you very much. I can't tell you how much this means to me."

At that point Demi started to turn away, then had one more thought.

" I'm sorry. I don't mean to keep imposing on you but other family members will be gathering in the hotel and the cousins' coming for the reunion is a big surprise. I would hope your staff and the driver will be discreet. I wouldn't want someone accidentally talking about it and spoiling everything."

"As before, señorita," the concierge half-bowed, "I will take care of it."

"Thank you again, señor. Muchas gracias."

Ten minutes later Miguel Balius and his Mercedes limousine arrived. Breakfast, bottled water, and coffee were provided by the hotel's room service. Demi kissed Cousins Jack (the president) and Harold (Marten) goodbye—with a whispered demand from Marten as he kissed her cheek—"Not a word to Beck or anyone else about 'Cousin Jack.'"

"Of course not, silly." She'd smiled, then reminded Cousin Jack to wear his big hat and be careful not to get too much sun, and off they all went. She to bed. They to try and escape the enormous manhunt for them.

•
7:00 A.M.

It was still nearly fifty minutes to sunrise. Again Marten glanced back at the rocky cliffs, looking for any sign of forces moving in to entrap them, but he saw nothing. Immediately he looked to the sky, half expecting the sudden swoop of a helicopter or to hear the drone of a search plane. All he saw was the deserted beach; the only sound, the lap of the waves at their feet. A second more, and his attention went to President Harris.

"We need to get moving and soon," he said with urgency.

"Yes, I know," the president said, and they turned back across the sand toward Miguel Balius and the limousine in the distance. "I've been thinking about Merriman Foxx, Mr. Marten. What to do, if and when we get to Montserrat. How to get him alone without being caught ourselves and after that how to get him to tell us what we have to know.

"Yet as important as all that is, it is only part of what is going on. To my horror I suddenly realized that I am the only person on this side of the fence who knows anything about the rest of their plan and if something happens to me those sons-of-bitches will be free to go ahead with it. And there's no question they will.

"I told you earlier, time is crucial but I didn't say why. Today is Saturday. On Monday I am scheduled to join the leaders of the NATO countries at a major conference in Warsaw."

"I know, sir, I read about it."

"What you don't know, what no one knows is what my so-called 'friends' have planned for that day. It's another part of the reason I crawled out through the air-conditioning ducts in Madrid. Why I came to you and why I'm here now. It's not just Foxx and whatever damned thing they have him preparing because whatever that is it will happen sometime
after
the NATO meeting," the president hesitated, his eyes probing Marten, as if he were still having trouble trusting anyone, Marten included.

"Please go on, Mr. President."

"Mr. Marten," the president made his decision. "The people conspiring against me are planning to assassinate the president of France and chancellor of Germany sometime during those NATO meetings. They want the current leaders removed so they can replace them with people in those countries sympathetic to their own ambitions. Exactly where and when or how the killings are to take place I don't know, but it will happen during the Warsaw meetings because they want it done on a world stage.

"They asked me—no, they demanded—that I issue a top-secret executive order authorizing those murders. I refused. In doing so I knew I had to escape or they would kill me. By law the vice president would then have become president and as a leading member of this conspiracy he would have no trouble whatsoever in giving it. The terrible irony is that in my absence the vice president will be in command anyway. The order will be given, Mr. Marten. Top secret, executed in the name of national security and authorized by the acting commander in chief."

"Jesus God," Marten breathed.

Anguish crossed the president's face. "I have no way to communicate that threat to anyone capable of taking
action without being found out and having that line of communication immediately shut down. And with the people trying to find me knowing almost instantly exactly where I am.

"There is an annual meeting of the New World Institute, a global think tank of highly respected, high-profile business, academic, and former political leaders taking place this weekend at a resort called Aragon in the mountains just northwest of here. The meeting is closed to all but members and guests and, like the World Economic Forum, usually draws a large number of protest groups and with them an equally large gathering of media. As a result the security is heavy, supervised, I believe, by the Spanish Secret Service.

"I was to have been the surprise guest speaker at the sunrise service there tomorrow morning. A close friend, Rabbi David Aznar, lives in Gerona, an hour from here by train. He is presiding over the prayer service and was going to introduce me. I came to Barcelona hoping to use it as a jumping-off point to Gerona. Once there I'd planned to find my way to his home, tell him what was going on and hope that he could get me to Aragon and somehow past the security forces unseen so that I could still address the convention."

"And tell them what's happened."

"Yes. Politically and strategically dangerous maybe, but considering who they are, that they are meeting in seclusion and at a place relatively close by, and that there will be no media present—taken with the unbearable shortness of time before Warsaw and the fact that millions of lives are at stake—it would have been foolish of me not to attempt it. But then I realized the force looking for me was too great and that Rabbi David himself would undoubtedly be under physical surveillance
with all of his electronic communications closely monitored. So the thought of reaching Aragon under his protection and addressing the assembly was no longer viable. At that point I knew I had to get off the streets before I was caught and taken somewhere and killed. That was when I saw the newspaper photograph and found you."

They were nearing the limousine now. Miguel Balius had opened the rear door and had towels over his arm for them to wipe the sand from their feet when they arrived.

Marten nodded toward Balius, "There's a good chance he will have had the radio or TV on, most likely listening to the news of what's been happening in the city. It's possible they may even have broadcast our descriptions, although that's doubtful because they don't want it to get out about you. Still, who knows what they've said or suggested? If he gets any sense that we're anything other than what he thinks we are he may want to do something about it."

"You mean alert the police."

"Yes."

They were almost to Balius, and he came toward them. "How was the walk gentlemen?" he said in his Aussie-accented English, reaching to take their coffee cups. Behind him, through the open door to the rear passenger compartment, Marten could see the glow of the limousine's small-screen television. He'd been right—Balius had been watching it.

"Nice beach," Marten said offhandedly. "Anything new about what's going on in the city?"

"Only what we heard before, sir. The authorities are looking for terrorists they thought they had trapped in a hotel but who escaped. That's all they're saying. Very close-lipped about the whole thing."

"I guess they have to be these days," Marten glanced at the president. Just then his cell phone rang. He started to reach for it, then saw the president shake his head in a clear warning not to answer it.

The phone rang again.

"What if it's Demi?" Marten said carefully. "What if the family plans have changed and we are to meet somewhere else?"

The president took a breath. He didn't like it, but Marten was right; anything could have happened, and the last thing they could afford was to lose their lone connection to Merriman Foxx.

"Make it brief. Very."

Marten opened his phone and clicked on, "Demi," he said quickly as Balius handed the president a towel and he sat down on the limousine's rear seat to clean the sand from his feet.

"What the hell's going on in Barcelona?" It was Peter Fadden, keyed up and gruff as usual.

"The police are looking for terrorists." Marten said clearly so that the president and especially Miguel Balius could hear him. "Supposedly they had them trapped in a hotel but it didn't work out. They're checking everyone. The whole city feels like a war zone. You still in Madrid?"

"Yes. And whatever started here seems to have shifted there."

"What do you mean?"

"I've interviewed maybe twenty employees at the Ritz and none of them saw or knows anyone who saw the Secret Service make a move to take the president out of the hotel. Then yesterday morning the Secret Service was all over the place interviewing everyone about what they saw the night before. It was like something has happened
to the president but nobody's talking. Then the entire press contingent that was supposed to follow him to Warsaw was flown back to Washington riding on the official story that he was taken to an undisclosed location in the middle of the night because of a reliable terrorist threat. Now the whole of Spanish intelligence seems zeroed in on Barcelona. Something big is going on. Is it really terrorists, or does somebody have the president and they're trying to keep it quiet?"

Marten glanced at the president. "You're asking the wrong guy."

"No, I'm asking a guy who's there and who might have some sense of it. I'm not thinking terrorists, Nick, I'm thinking Mike Parsons's committee. I'm thinking Merriman Foxx."

Suddenly President Harris was dragging his hand across his throat. Once, twice, three times. He meant for Marten to cut his conversation right away and get off the phone.

"Peter, let me get back to you," Marten said quickly, "soon as I can."

Marten clicked off and watched the president slide out of sight into the dark of the limousine's interior.

"Towel, sir," Miguel Balius held a fresh towel out to Marten.

"Cousin Harold can clean his feet in the car, Miguel. I would like to leave the area right away," the president said firmly.

"Now, sir?"

"Now."

"Yes, sir."

•
7:17 A.M.

Miguel Balius's foot touched the accelerator. For an instant the Mercedes' rear tires spun in the roadside gravel, then they caught and the limousine roared off, bouncing over what was little more than a dirt lane.

"Miguel?" President Harris said out loud, looking through the privacy glass that separated the driver's compartment from the passengers'. It was a test to see if he could hear their conversation without the passenger pushing the intercom button. Marten had done the same thing when they had driven from the Hotel Regente Majestic through the city's back roads to the beach. But he wanted to test it again to make sure.

"Miguel?" he said once more, but Balius didn't respond. Immediately he looked to Marten. "Your phone," he said.

"I understand," Marten said. "The Secret Service knows who I am and will have the number. They'll have a global satellite trace on it."