Chapter 10
Chapter Ten
Broken Arrow!
George Stillwell put his cell down. His hand was trembling. This was it. He knew exactly what Broken Arrow meant.
Nuclear weapons.
An Operation Gladio cache. He knew what that meant, too. Either a Davy Crockett or a man portable. Maybe both. Nineteen fifties stuff. Primitive, but nuclear.
This was it. That once in a lifetime opportunity.
How to make best use of it? Pointless to offer it to the Russians.
They were awash in nukes. They had so many they’d lost count of them.
And sometimes they had even lost their location.
The same for the Chinese. They had their own.
But terrorists…that was something else. Even an old nuke, set off in the center of a city, would make a big statement.
Could destroy a country if it was the right city.
And if nothing else, the uranium could be used to create a dirty bomb.
And if he could get it into the right hands, he could ask for whatever he wanted. Shake the dust of these consulates from his feet and start living.
He knew who to call to start the ball rolling. A man who was clever and fast, because George knew soldiers from the Sixth Fleet would be arriving soon. They’d come and find crickets.
The man picked up before the first ring ended. Marco de Luca. “De Luca here.”
The English was without an accent. He’d studied economics at Stanford and was the reason the Camorra was so rich. He was an expert in money laundering and knew how to invest.
He had perfect English and acceptable French. Wore Hugo Boss suits and Prada shoes and knew how to behave. He was also ruthless and cunning.
They said he was dating the niece of the President of the Italian Republic.
Smart and untouchable.
“Sir. We met at a party for an incoming consular officer.”
Keep it vague. He knew his phone was unhackable, but though de Luca was smart and tech-savvy, you never knew. They’d met at a huge reception where Caroline Munro had been introduced to the top layers of Neapolitan society.
“Indeed. Cultural affairs attaché, I believe?”
That blew his cover. De Luca had done it deliberately. To show he knew George’s identity and to compromise him. But George’s end of the conversation wouldn’t be recorded. When de Luca played it back, George’s words would be static. Another really useful app.
Feeling time pressing, George got straight to the point.
“There are eight nuclear weapons that have been uncovered by the earthquake. An Operation Gladio cache. At the moment they are unguarded, or rather guarded by one man and one woman, an historian, an expert on Rome. The man is a former soldier, but he is wounded. They have called it in to the Sixth Fleet and no doubt soldiers are on their way. If you get there first, you can grab eight nuclear weapons. They date back to the 1950s, but they would have been protected. And at any rate the uranium could be used for a dirty bomb. I don’t have to tell you what one nuclear weapon is worth on the open market. ”
Silence.
A modern nuke would be worth upward of forty million dollars.
Ten million at least for a 1950s weapon.
Times eight. Its destructive power would be less, but a nuclear weapon set off in London or Paris or New York would be devastating.
An attack for the history books. And nuclear material would go for at least two million dollars per kg.
“This is a time sensitive offer,” George said cheerfully.
He had the guy on a hook. “These opportunities come once in a lifetime. I can give you the coordinates where the nuclear weapons are, guarded only by two people. But as I said, the US military has been called in and they will be there soon. They will scramble, but it takes some time to put together a security team. If you leave right now, you will be in time to get there, eliminate the man and the woman, and grab the nukes. Sell them. There is a huge black market. What do you say?”
“How much do you want?” the voice asked cautiously.
“Ten million.” He’d done his calculations. It was one eighth of the profit de Luca would make. If de Luca moved fast, eighty million dollars would drop in his lap with no effort beyond picking up the nukes and maybe eliminating two people.
Drugs, people trafficking, illegal toxic waste dumping—all of that was remunerative, but not as remunerative as this, and it was work. This wasn’t work. This was sheer luck. Eight nukes dropping into his lap.
“How do I know you’re telling the truth?”
“You don’t. But I’m not stupid and I wouldn’t lie to you about this. I wouldn’t live to spend the money.”
“True.” There was a long pause. “Send me your bank details.”
George entered his bank account number. “Done. An account number at a bank in Aruba. Once I get the money, I’ll WhatsApp you the coordinates. Delete them as soon as you get them.”
“Of course. Hold on while I send the money.”
George waited until he heard a soft ping from his phone. He checked his account. He’d had close to a million dollars. Now he had just under eleven million dollars. That was fuck-you money.
“Got it,” he said. “I’m sending you the coordinates.” The coordinates had been in the phone call, Nikolai Garin sharing his location with Caroline Munro. Imagine her surprise and horror when Garin’s body and the body of her niece were found at the bottom of the excavation of a Roman villa.
Oops.
With the added advantage that he could continue his monitoring of the Consul’s phone for a while longer. Maybe get up to fifteen million before taking the app out.
Press for that posting to the Dubai Embassy. There would be endless opportunities for money making.
Life was good.
“Got the coordinates.” De Luca’s voice interrupted his reverie.
“Get there fast,” George said and tapped the connection closed.
Nick took Parker’s elbow and directed her to the concrete wall of the tunnel. “Let’s sit down and wait for the cavalry.”
She took one look at his face and nodded. Actually, Nick had been thinking of her, that she needed to rest. But the fact was he needed to rest, too. He didn’t think he was concussed, but he had a raging headache and saw double if he moved his head too fast.
And of course, his shoulder hurt like a bitch.
So sitting sounded pretty good.
He grabbed a tarp that had covered a wooden case of M1 Carbines and shook it out.
There was surprisingly little dust. The place had been sealed off for seventy years.
He folded it several times so it would provide a cushion over the rough concrete and placed it on the ground.
He stumbled slightly as he stood up. Damn!
The world turned black for just a second.
But Parker noticed, and without making a fuss, helped him sit down on the floor and then sat down gracefully next to him.
It took him a moment to realize what the fuck had just happened. A woman had helped him down. Him. Nikolai Garin, aka Superman. Tough commando, temporarily as weak as a girl. It was humiliating.
He was holding Parker’s hand with one hand and with the other was holding on to the ground.
Jesus, he hated feeling weak. Just hated it.
The blackness passed and his back straightened. He let go of the ground but not of Parker’s hand.
She said nothing of the fact that she’d had to help him down like a child.
She looked over at him and gave a crooked smile. “Would be nice to have the cooler, wouldn’t it?” And just like that, his appetite roared to life. Not just for food. The cooler with food was an hour’s crawl away under a ton of rubble.
But Parker was right here.
With his free hand he turned her face to his and studied her. So dirty and dust-streaked and so very beautiful.
“What?” Parker asked.
“You’re so beautiful,” Nick sighed.
She laughed. “You really did get a blow to the head. A big one.” Her expression changed. “I hope your friend Jacob Black didn’t forget to ask for a medic for you.”
“Honey, Jacob never forgets anything. Don’t worry about that. And I’m not that bad.”
She cocked her head. “You’re a Monty Python sketch all by yourself. You know the one where the medieval knight gets his limbs lopped off and he hops up and down on his torso insisting he’s fine?”
“Yeah.” Nick rolled his eyes. He knew the sketch, and it was funny/sick. “Not that bad.”
“Definitely that bad. You sustained a blow to the head, you probably have a massive headache—” she looked sternly at him until he reluctantly nodded his head, “—and you have a serious deep gash in your shoulder which needs cleaning out and stitching. And it’s still bleeding. How is that not needing a medic?”
Nick stretched out his legs and put his arm around Parker. She sighed and leaned her head against his shoulder. The not-dinged shoulder.
“Would I win macho points if I said the shoulder is just a scratch?”
Parker huffed out a breath. “You most definitely would not. That’s not just a scratch. You could have died. I’m just glad you’re alive. For a moment there, I was…scared.”
Her voice wobbled for a moment, and Nick looked at her sharply. Her face was turned away and, though it hurt to move his left arm, he turned her face to him. Her eyes were wet. A tear escaped and moved down over that perfect skin.
She was crying. For him. Because she’d been worried about him.
Nobody worried about him, unless it was his teammates when he didn’t respond to a check-in. Which had only happened once and because his radio had taken a bullet. Otherwise everyone assumed he could take care of himself. Which he could.
Nobody had to worry about him, except…having Parker worry felt sort of nice, though he’d shoot himself rather than say it. She cared. Of all the women he’d dated and bedded, he couldn’t think of one who actually cared for him, as opposed to caring what he could do for them.
He was feeling a little shaky himself. They’d almost died. He’d realized in a flash that he was close to falling in love for the first time in his life. Was actually already there.
They’d stumbled across nukes.