Europa Conspiracy (Babylon Rising 3) (9 page)

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SEVENTEEN

MURPHY KNEW that Levi Abrams was a complicated man. He had been born in Israel and had gone to college in the United States. Then, immediately upon graduation, he had joined the Israeli Army Tall and muscular, he soon came to the attention of Mossad--Israel's Institute for Intelligence and Special Operations. The group recruited Abrams for top-secret work. Murphy could never get him to talk about what he had done during his years with Mossad.

Although Abrams said that he had retired from Mossad and was now living in the United States, Murphy wasn't too sure. He was too well connected in the Middle East and Arab countries, and he knew too much about current covert operations. Murphy believed that Abrams's job as a security expert for a high-tech company in the Raleigh-Durham area was just a cover. Levi might have just the information Murphy needed, so Murphy phoned his old friend.

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"How are you, Michael? I heard about your wrestling match with an SUV," Abrams said as soon as he got on the line.

"How did you hear about that?"

"You'd be surprised what I know, Michael. But if I told you, you know I'd have to kill you." Abrams's grin could be heard in his voice.

Murphy laughed. "I think you'd have a difficult time. I've learned some new karate moves."

"You sound a little cocky for someone who barely escaped with his life. Don't forget you're talking to the master teacher."

"Oh, I beg your pardon, O Great One. Is it possible for a lowly student to get some time with the Great Master?"

"What's on your mind, Michael?"

"Does the name Methuselah ring any bells?"

"What does that old buzzard want now?"

"I think he's given me a clue to another biblical artifact--the Handwriting on the Wall. The one written on Nebuchadnezzar's wall by the hand of God."

"You've got to be kidding, Michael. Do you really trust Methuselah?"

"Not very far. But he
has
led us to some great finds in the past."

"So, how can I help?"

"I need you to pull some strings and help me get back into Iraq. I have to go to Babylon, and you have all the connections."

There was a pause. "Are you serious, Michael? I think you have a death wish. There may not be SUVs trying to

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run you down, but there are roadside bombs, random mortar attacks, and kidnappings. Do you want to lose your head to a sword?"

Ignoring Abrams's question, Murphy continued, "I'm planning to take Isis with me. She's going to contact the Parchments of Freedom Foundation to see if they'll fund the trip like they did for the Ararat expedition. There's a good chance that they will."

"Oh, great! Now you're going to take a beautiful redheaded American woman with you. Do you think she won't attract attention? I think you hit your head in your last adventure. Iraq is not the safest place for civilians."

"Could we at least get together to discuss it?"

"When were you thinking about going?"

"Within a month or two. I'm going to fly up to New York on some business. Isis is going to fly up from D.C., and we're going to go over the details."

"Maybe we could get together in New York. Some friends have asked me to attend to certain matters there."

"Friends?"

There was another pause. "Michael, let's just say that they need some information to make effective business decisions."

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EIGHTEEN

EUGENE SIMPSON GLANCED at his watch as he pulled up next to the Gulfstream IV jet. With a sigh of relief, he shifted the polished ebony Mercedes into park and got out.
Whew I ... Just on time.

He had worked for Barrington Communications for three years and had been late only once. One mistake is all any employee ever had with Shane Barrington, one of the richest and most powerful men in the world.

As Simpson opened the back door, he looked into Barrington's flint-gray eyes. It gave him the chills. He quickly stepped back and stood at attention like a trained soldier. The athletic frame of the coldhearted corporate warrior emerged. He straightened the coat of his $2,500 suit and looked around.

The soft gray hair at his temples whipped around in the slight breeze. Simpson looked at his employer's high

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cheekbones and thin lips. His large body and confident stance were very imposing.

"Get the bags, Eugene."

It was slightly overcast when the jet put down in Zurich. The damp dark weather matched Barrington's spirit. He was not happy at being there. He was getting a little tired of being ordered around by seven pompous, smug, power-hungry egomaniacs. He'd about had his fill.

Careful, Barrington. They've helped to make you rich and can destroy you too. They do control your purse string, you know ...at least for now.

He felt his chest and stomach muscles tighten when the chauffeur drove up to take him to the castle.

Why do they always send that creepy driver who has no tongue? Oh, well. At least I don't have to listen to him jabber.

In about fifteen minutes the limousine broke through the low clouds. The sky was blue and the sun shone on the snow-covered Alps. It took about another hour before Barrington could see the Gothic spires of the castle in the distance. They didn't look quite as foreboding as the last time he was there.

Maybe I'm getting used to it
, he told himself.
If it wasn't for those egomaniacs, this would be a beautiful place to visit.

The chauffeur let Barrington off in front of the giant wooden door. Inside the large entry hall, he walked past suits of armor standing like lifeless sentries for some medieval king. Torches that usually burned brightly were out. The whole place seemed eerie and uninviting--deserted. His footsteps echoed loudly on the stone floors.

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By now he knew the routine. He strode to the large stainless steel door at the south end of the hall, which hissed open to allow him to enter, then hissed shut. He pushed the down button.
All aboard. First stop. Hell.

It had been Hell, all right. Especially the night he first met Talon as his son Arthur lay on a bed with a breathing mask over his face. He recalled the conversation.

"Talon? What kind of name is that, a first name or a last name?"

He could hear the South African accent like it was yesterday.

"It makes no difference. I use it because it is a tribute to the only serious wound I have ever gotten in my life as a warrior. The first falcon I raised and trained as a boy in South Africa--the last thing I allowed myself to grow attached to--turned on me one day and ripped my index finger off my hand."

Barrington remembered Talon removing the glove of his right hand and displaying what looked like a flesh-colored finger, except where the fingertip should have a nail, the whole tip was honed to a sharp point. The artificial finger was in reality a deadly killing weapon. And Talon used his finger of death quite effectively.

Even as hardened as Barrington was, he shuddered as he remembered Talon using his finger to cut the breathing tube that fed life-giving air to his son, Arthur. Barrington watched silently as his son slowly suffocated to death. He really didn't love the boy, but he was angry with himself.

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Why didn't I try to stop Talon? It was cold-blooded murder, and I did nothing to stop it.

He could feel his fists clenching tightly as the elevator came to a stop and the door hissed open.

Barrington's attention shifted to the ornately carved wooden chair in the center of the darkened room. A light came down from the ceiling and lit it up. He could see the gargoyles on the arms. He remembered grabbing them on other occasions.

Well, let's get this over. Time to take the hot seat.

He sat down in the chair and looked at the long table in front of him covered with the bloodred cloth. No one was seated in the seven chairs behind the table. In the ominous silence, Barrington could hear his own heartbeat.

This is like going to the principal's office in high school They make you sit outside and sweat for a while before they talk to you. I know their game.

Ten minutes passed before the Seven entered and took their places.

Not very brave. They shine lights in my face so I can't make out who they are. But someday I'll find out. Then we'll see how brave they are.

John Bartholomew was the first to speak. "You're a little late, Mr. Barrington. Do we need to buy you a Swiss watch?"

The sarcastic tone inflamed Barrington.
Just smile and ignore it.
"That might be a good idea. Do you know where I can get one?"

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"Are we a little testy today, Mr. Barrington?"

Barrington knew he had better cut out the sarcasm. He was on their turf, and they had the power... this time. He was forming his response when General Li spoke.

"Yes, we are very concerned. What was Dr. Murphy doing in Orlando with a Dr. Harley B. Anderson? Our messenger failed to dispatch both of them, and we are quite disturbed."

The voice of a German woman broke in. "We want you to find out more information about this Dr. Michael Murphy. We are not satisfied with what we are getting. What are your plans for procuring this information for us?"

Barrington knew he really was in the hot seat. "I have one of my best investigative reporters following up on Dr. Murphy right now."

"Is that a fact, Mr. Barrington?" came the smooth response of Señor Mendez. "Would that reporter happen to be Stephanie Kovacs?"

How do these people get all this information?
Barrington thought angrily.

Mendez continued silkily, "Isn't she also your live-in lover?" The man's voice had an unmistakable smirk in it.

Barrington was desperately trying to think how to respond when Sir William Merton spoke up.

"Can you trust her, Mr. Barrington?
We
do not have much patience with those who are not loyal," he said, stroking his clerical collar.

Barrington bristled. He didn't like being threatened by anyone--especially by people who hid in the dark. His

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hands gripped the gargoyles tightly as he said icily, "I can trust her. She always pursues a story to the end. I also have a student in one of Murphy's classes working for me--Paul Wallach. Between these two people, I think you will get the information you need."

"You had better hope so, Mr. Barrington. Your health depends on it," Bartholomew stated firmly.

If someone had talked to me that way when I lived on the streets of Detroit, they wouldn't still be standing
, Barrington swore silently.

"Our recommendation is that you watch her very carefully. Are we clear about this?"

Barrington clenched his teeth tighter.

"I didn't hear your response, Mr. Barrington."

Now it had come to a push-and-shove game. The Seven were testing him as to who was in control and who had the power.

"I understand."

"What did you say, Mr. Barrington? I couldn't hear you," Bartholomew repeated.

It was plain to see that they not only wanted submission but they also wanted to humiliate him.

"I said I UNDERSTAND!"

"Well, it's nice to have you on board. And by the way... next time don't be late."

Barrington bit his tongue. His mind was racing as he got up and left.
Who do these people think they are... having me fly all the way across the Atlantic for a short meeting like this! They could have phoned the same information. They just want to let me know who is in control. I don't know how much more of this I'm going to take.

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NINETEEN

MURPHY GLANCED at his watch.
Ten minutes to nine. You'd better get going.

He finished his last sip of coffee and tossed the cup into a trash container. Then he got up, stretched, gathered his notes, and took a deep breath. The scent of magnolias filled the air. This quiet spot on campus was a haven to think and pray before his classes started.

Many of the students were already seated when he entered the lecture hall. Murphy walked down the stairs to the platform and opened his briefcase. Then he took out his notes and glanced around the room. Shari was talking with two students on one side of the room. Paul Wallach was seated on the other side.

I guess they're still having problems
, he thought.

A number of students were gathered in a group toward the back.

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"Please take your seats," Murphy announced. "We're going to begin."

As the group began to split up, he saw that they had been gathered around Stephanie Kovacs.