The Machiavelli Covenant (43 page)

"We're fine, Cousin," Harris said quietly, and followed Foxx inside. Marten swore under his breath and followed. A half second later the door slid closed behind them.

Marten and the president looked out on a sea of
bubble-top tables in a compartment that must have been a hundred feet long, at least sixty wide, and twenty high. At the far end were a number of steel cages,. Both large and small.

"Yes," Foxx acknowledged, "I was doing some experimental work with animals. But there are none here now."

"Do the people who run the monastery know about these chambers?" Marten asked.

Foxx smiled, "As I said previously, the Order has kindly provided for my needs."

Marten saw the president look around, the same as he had in the tunnel. The rough-hewn limestone walls, the ceiling, the floor. Abruptly he turned his attention to a large stainless-steel bench with heavy wooden uprights at one end and a large mechanical drum at the other. In between a second piece of stainless steel was mounted above a dual track that ran the full length of the surface. "What is this, doctor?" he asked.

"A production table."

"It looks like some sort of medieval torture machine."

"Torture machine? Well, perhaps for plants," Foxx smiled his easy, accommodating smile. "Seeds are spread out across the stainless-steel surface, then covered with a special plastic sheeting. The drum heats up and is run back and forth over the sheeting, cooking the seeds to the degree that they are ready for instant planting in a special soil similar to that found in the grow-benches in the other room. It's an incubator of sorts. Like everything else here, efficient, innovative, and harmless."

Harris glanced at Marten, then looked back to Foxx. "Actually, I preferred the idea of it being a torture table.
Something a man might be fastened to in order to have him confess his sins or treacheries."

"I'm not sure I understand," Foxx said.

In an instant Marten understood why the president had ignored his earlier warnings and why he had been looking around both in the tunnel and in here. He was searching for security cameras, microphones, other surveillance apparatus. He, of all people, should know what to look for. The Secret Service would have shown him almost everything in its arsenal, an asset that, combined with his own grit and knowledge of building construction, had been the primary reason he had been able to escape from the hotel in Madrid. Marten had been concerned that they were far too alone and isolated, that Foxx had them trapped. President Harris saw just the opposite. It was the doctor, not they, who was alone. While they couldn't be certain they were not under some kind of surveillance, the president was taking the same hard gamble he had by coming to meet Foxx in the first place.

"We would like you to talk to us, doctor," he said quietly. "To tell us about your plan for the Muslim states."

"I'm sorry," Foxx acted as if he didn't understand.

"Your plan. The program you and my good Washington friends have drawn up to devastate the Middle East."

"You disappoint me, Mr. President," Foxx smiled again. "As I have just shown you, the last twenty years of my work have been for nothing but prosperity, health, and goodwill toward the inhabitants of this planet."

The president suddenly responded in anger, "That's not going to cut it, doctor."

"What did you give to Caroline Parsons?" Marten said suddenly.

"You asked me something like that before, I have no idea who or what you are—"

"The Silver Spring Rehabilitation Center in Silver Spring, Maryland. Dr. Lorraine Stephenson helped you."

"I've never heard of the place. Or, as I also told you in Malta, of a Dr. Stephenson."

"Hold up your left hand," Marten snapped.

"What?"

"Hold up your left hand. Thumb pointed out. I want the president to see the tattoo on it. The sign of Aldebaran."

Foxx suddenly bristled, and Marten could see the rage come up in him, as it had at the Café Tripoli in Malta. "That's quite enough, gentlemen. We're finished here. I'll show you out."

Abruptly he turned and started for the door. As he did, he slid a small electronic device from his jacket pocket and started to speak into it.

•
2:13 P.M.

In a heartbeat Marten was behind him, his forearm pulled hard across his windpipe cutting of his air supply. Foxx cried out in surprise, then struggled wildly, trying to rip free and dropping whatever the device was he'd pulled from his jacket. But Marten only strengthened his grip. Foxx's chest heaved as he fought for air. Abruptly Marten shifted his pressure to the carotid arteries on either side of Foxx's neck, this time shutting off the blood
flow to the South African's brain. Foxx thrashed and kicked. But it was no good. One second. Two. Three. Then he went limp in Marten's arms.

Marten looked to the president. "Hurry!"

The president pulled the belt from his trousers, stepped around Marten, and tugged Foxx's arms tight behind him. Then, as if he were back in his California youth and hog-tying a steer, he crossed Foxx's hands over each other and wrapped the belt around them. Seconds later he and Marten hefted the South African onto the stainless-steel table, sliding his bound arms down over the top of one of the upturned table legs as they did.

•
2:16 P.M.

Groaning, coughing, his chest heaving as his lungs fought to draw in air, thirty seconds later Foxx regained consciousness. Another minute and the fog began to clear from his brain and he looked into the faces of Cousin Jack and Cousin Harold. Then his eyes swung to Marten and his presence sharpened.

"That was a police hold," he rasped. "You were a policeman once. Maybe still are."

The president glanced at Marten, but Marten didn't acknowledge. He looked back to Foxx. "I want to know what you have planned for the Muslim states."

For a long moment Foxx was expressionless; then slowly he smiled. A great, broad, chilling grin full of arrogance, even defiance. It was the look of a learned madman, one fully capable of executing a plan of mass murder and thoroughly enjoying it. "Only goodwill, gentlemen."

"I'll try once again. I want to know what you and your friends in Washington have planned for the Muslim states, for the Middle East."

Foxx's eyes darted between the president and Marten.

"One last chance, doctor," the president said.

Foxx looked at the president. "Mr. Marten seems to have put some rather peculiar ideas in your head."

The president took a breath and looked to Marten. "I think we should proceed, Cousin." Abruptly he slid a half-liter bottle of Vichy Catalan mineral water he'd purchased at the restaurant Abat Cisneros. He handed it to Marten.

Marten took it, then stared at Foxx. "Sparkling water. 'Con gas' as they say here. Maybe a little primitive for someone like you, doctor. An old border cop showed it to me. He used it to get drug traffickers and people smugglers to talk. They usually did."

Foxx's eyes went to the bottle. If he knew what was about to happen, he didn't show it.

"One final time, Dr. Foxx," President Harris said carefully. He wanted no misunderstandings. "What do you have planned for the Muslim states?"

"Peace on earth," Foxx smiled once more. "Goodwill toward men."

Marten looked to Harris, "You have a napkin from the restaurant?"

"Yes."

"The barnyard animals we talked about, held down for a shot from the vet. They don't like it; the doctor won't either. Take the napkin and stuff it in his mouth, then grab his head and hold him hard."

The next came fast and ugly. President Harris pulled a white cloth table napkin from his pocket and shoved it toward Foxx's open mouth. Foxx snapped it closed, twisting his head to the side. Marten hesitated for a split second, then closed his fist and drove it like a hammer
into Foxx's stomach. Foxx cried out, and the president stuffed the napkin into the wide-open gorge of his mouth.

At the same time Marten twisted the top from the Vichy Catalan bottle, put his thumb over the top, and shook it hard. The bubbles inside collided violently, compressing into what was very nearly a handheld bomb. Foxx tried to twist away again. But the president had his head in a viselike grip. Marten shook the bottle again, shoved it under Foxx's right nostril, and released his thumb.

An explosion of compressed air and mineral water shot up Foxx's nose. He groaned, the pain in his sinuses, in the front of his brain, excruciating. He kicked and flailed wildly, trying to pull away, to spit the napkin from his mouth.

The harder he fought the harder Marten followed. Shaking the bottle, again and then again, blasting the carbonated water up one nostril and then the other. Foxx was strong, as Harris had promised and Marten had seen in the restaurant. Jerking back, he got a knee up and slammed it into the president's face. Harris cried out and started to fall back, then recovered, holding on as Foxx wrenched one way and then the other, trying over and over to spit out the napkin so he could breathe and at the same time avoid Marten's onslaught.

"That's enough," the president said.

Marten ignored him. Kept on. Thumb over top of bottle. Shake the bottle. Bottle up against Foxx's nose. Pull back thumb. Release cannonade of carbonated water.

"I said that's enough! I want answers, not a dead man!"

Suddenly Foxx's eyes twisted up under their lids, and his flailing all but ceased.

"Stop! Stop it!" President Harris let go of Foxx and
grabbed Marten, pulling him away. "Enough! Dammit! Enough!"

Marten stumbled back to stare at him wide-eyed. The prize fighter shoved into his corner, chest heaving, eyes locked on his beaten and pummeled quarry, confused, wondering why the fight had been stopped.

Abruptly Harris moved in, blocking Marten's view of Foxx and getting right in his face. "You're letting what he did to Caroline Parsons run away with you. I don't blame you, but right now your own private feelings are something none of us can afford."

Marten didn't react.

The president stayed in his face, nose to nose. "You're killing him. Do you understand me? If you haven't already."

Slowly Marten regained his composure. "Sorry," he said finally. "I'm sorry."

The president stayed where he was for a moment longer, then turned to Foxx. His head was at an angle. His eyes still turned up under their lids. Mucus and spent mineral water ran from his nose and onto the table. He snorted, trying to get air and at the same time get rid of whatever liquid still remained in his nasal passages.

Immediately Harris bent over him and pulled the napkin from his mouth. There was a resounding gasp as Foxx's lungs filled with air.

"Can you hear me, doctor?" the president said.

There was no reply.

"Doctor Foxx, can you hear me?"

For a long moment nothing happened, and then came a vague nod of the head. The president eased him over, and Foxx's eyes came down from under their lids to stare at Harris.

"Do you recognize me?"

Foxx nodded almost imperceptibly.

"Can you breathe?"

Again the nod. Stronger this time. So was his breathing.

"I want to know what you are planning for the Middle East. When it is to happen, exactly where, and who else is involved. If you won't tell me we will repeat the procedure."

Foxx didn't respond, just lay there staring at the president. Then ever so slowly, his eyes went to Marten and held there.

"What are you planning for the Middle East?" the president repeated. "When is it to happen? Exactly where? Who else is involved?"

Foxx lay silent and motionless, staring at Marten. Then his eyes came back to Harris and his lips moved. "Alright," he breathed, "I will tell you."

The president and Marten exchanged hugely emotional glances. Finally. After everything. They were going to have an answer.

"Tell me all of it, every detail," the president demanded. "What are you planning for the Middle East?"

"Death," Foxx said with no emotion whatsoever.

Then, with a sharp glance at Marten, he bit down hard, grinding his teeth together.

"Grab him!" Marten yelled, moving toward Foxx. "Grab him! Open his mouth!"

Marten shoved a stunned President Harris aside, then took hold of Foxx's jaws and tried to pry them open. It was too late. Whatever it was worked extremely fast. Merriman Foxx was already dead.

•
2:25 P.M.

Hap Daniels flung a rented dark maroon Audi around a tour bus and accelerated up the steep road leading to the Benedictine monastery at Montserrat. When he got there it would be needle-in-the-haystack time, fighting through a mass of tourists looking for a balding, toupeeless John Henry Harris and Nicholas Marten, whom he had seen in person only once and then very briefly.

At the same time he would be trying to find an attractive young French photographer called Demi Picard who, as the concierge at the Regente Majestic had said, had short dark hair, wore a navy blazer and tan slacks, and was most likely in the company of a middle-aged African-American male and an older European woman. Add to that the fact that he was following a raft of information he thought was correct but had no way of knowing for certain and going to a place he'd never been. Never mind that he was traveling on little more than coffee, adrenaline, and twenty minutes' sleep.