Hit Hard. Amy J. Fetzer
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to CNN. The reporter spoke in English, the Thai translation voicing over it. The camera panned the Kukule Ganga Dam, the destruction. My God. When did this happen? She focused on the dam, the people crawling over it like rock climbers. Viva moved closer to the screen, shoving a piece of miang into her mouth, then gasping at the spicy bite. Her gaze flicked over the camera shot, wishing they’d hold still, but the broadcast ended. She surfed the channels until she found it again, studying.
“That wasn’t a pressure crack,” she said to no one. She’d been working with the U.S. Geological Survey when that dam was constructed, mainly because there was a really hot-looking engineer on staff and she’d wanted him. He’d been a dud, in bed and out, reminding her looks weren’t everything, but she’d learned enough from him to know how and where pressure cracks would start.
The door opened and she turned, food halfway to her mouth.
“My car awaits.”
“Thank you so much, Dr. Wan Gai. Did you see this?” She gestured to the TV.
“The dam, yes, so tragic. All those innocent people.”
“When did it happen?”
He looked confused for a second.
“I’ve been on the dig for a couple months and the only news I had was a radio.” And her Thai translation skills weren’t that fast.
He smiled like a patient parent. “A few days ago. In the middle of the night, I believe.”
She nodded, frowning at the screen for another moment, then, after she washed her hands and sipped tea that was so sweet it’d give you diabetes, he led her out through the museum offices to the curb. Wan Gai’s assistant, a tall man with a scar running down the side of his face, stood near the open car door.
The curator handed over a receipt for the bracelet for Dr. Nagada.
“Thank you. It’s been a pleasure.” She stuffed the receipt in her pocket before his assistant ushered her solicitously into his car.
Viva sat back in the leather seat, and let out a long, tired breath. Holy Grail delivered into safe hands, she thought. Now I can enjoy some me time in Bangkok before heading back to the dig. Her mind instantly went to Sam, and what he was really doing here that he needed British intelligence guys. Dangerous man stuff, she thought, and leaned toward the window, looking at the sky for the helicopter.
It was empty.
Tashfin Rohki sat in the luxurious room, feeding on grilled prawns and drinking strong Moroccan coffee. His favorite. It was placating. The generosity extended to the value of the stones and the people he represented. He procured weapons, handled finances and operations for the LTTE Tigers of Sri Lanka. A large portion of his organization’s money was riding on this deal. And he’d been late to this meeting, stalling for time to find enough stones to compensate for the one the Irishman had stolen. It was his largest, and alone worth millions. How the Irishman had slipped it from the sack still confused him. He died for it, Rohki thought as he remembered the flood.
He tossed down a shrimp tail, wincing at the gust of pain from his broken ribs, then cleaned his fingers as he rose and walked around the room. It was all familiar now—and tiresome.
“Mr. Rohki,” a voice said, and he turned sharply, his gaze shifting over the room, then centering on the speakers mounted near the ceiling. “Please be seated.”
Rohki frowned as he obeyed. Theatrics, he thought, then a large screen on the wall blinked on.
For a moment, he couldn’t see anything, then the silhouette of a shoulder told him there was someone in the shadows. “The stones are not as promised. You may leave, Mr. Rohki.”
Rohki scowled at the screen. “You have what you demanded.”
“You offered a large stone. One you failed to produce.”
Rohki frowned at the man’s concern. “It was lost in the flood.” He’d spent days since gathering more to compensate for the loss.
The figure in the darkness went rock still. “You tried to sell it.”
“They’re mine to do with as I see fit. What do you care? You have the fee? Go back on your deal now and my people will spread the word.”
A stretch of silence that was almost painful eased by. “You have met the requirements.”
“And?”
“While you like to believe you are an intrinsic part, you are not. You wanted to bargain, you have opened the door,” the man said succinctly. “Yours is not the only group that wants my product.”
“Then I want proof of this weapon.”
The man hesitated, then said, “In eight days”—the tone was ripe with arrogance—“the world will see its power. Now you may leave.”
“A million in diamonds and I’m supposed to walk out with nothing?”
“You do not have a choice.”
Rohki stiffened when he felt the cold barrel at the back of his neck. He turned slowly, his gaze rising from the Sig Sauer to the man holding it. Zidane. The man who’d brought him onto the jet. Bloodthirsty bastard.
Zidane flicked the gun and Rohki stood, wiped his mouth, and followed. Zidane stopped at the door and produced a hood, saying nothing. Rohki put it on. More theatrics, he thought. He heard the door open, and felt a push. He held rigid, testing the ground before him. He wouldn’t be so shocked if he were being pushed out a window several stories up now that they had the stones. A ride in an elevator, they handed him into a car, the sound of engines telling him there were more participants. No one spoke and he was tired of this secrecy. The promise of a weapon beyond all weapons had a potential he wanted, yet each additional buyer bidding on it risked failure.
Eight days was a long time to wait for power over his enemies.
Zidane perspired in his dark suit, the concrete sweating against the cooler stone of the underground parking garage. He stood back as the hooded man was pushed into the car. The car pulled away.
“He has departed,” he said into the mike poised at his cheek.
“Bring in the next.”
Zidane signaled for the car, a smooth dance to keep the Pharaoh’s identity secret. It had been ongoing for three days. The buyers were contacted via e-mail, then picked up at a remote location, hooded, then driven in the maze of Bangkok streets before coming here.
Only Zidane and two of his men knew each of the buyers by face. They were expendable, Zidane was not. The Pharaoh trusted few, and he did not take it lightly. The men, and sometimes women, who dealt with him were warned. Breaking his strict guidelines would have dire consequences.
Zidane exacted them. Clean up. He kept secrets, buried them deep.
Like Noor. His mind instantly filled with the dark, exotic beauty. Appearances were deceiving, he thought bitterly. While she was sleek and feminine, there was nothing womanly about her; no nurturing spirit, no need for anyone, except the Pharaoh. The man used her to his utmost advantage, knowing that she was nearly obsessed with pleasing him. A father figure, perhaps—Zidane did not know or care.
Zidane shook himself, his unspoken attraction for her disturbing. She was a strange creature and considered sex a weapon of manipulation, torture, to be used to her advantage. Or misused. She had no concept that men would be grateful to find pleasure with her. To Noor, it was punishment, degrading to them. In that, she lost and didn’t know it. A weakness she hated and punished herself.
Two men helped the buyer out of the car. The man adjusted the sleeves of his jacket and tried for dignity. Blinded by the hood, it was impossible. Zidane grasped his arm, ushering him into the lift. He knew who stood beside him, the tattoos across his knuckles a calling card. Law enforcement of the free world would like to see this man tortured for his crimes. Yet Zidane would keep this, another secret, and escorted the man into the suite,