This affects not only GSI, but other companies like it. Needless to say, GSI and the other companies like it are not happy at this news. They feel it's imperative that the New Prince understand the relationship is a mutually beneficial one, and that terminating it would be detrimental to all the parties involved. The New Prince reportedly responds by saying that, while he sees the detriment to their interests, he fails to see it to his own.
Men at GSI and the other companies like it begin to do everything they can to stop the New Prince. They entreat him, and his father, the King, and failing both, then turn to their own governments in the hopes of bringing appropriate political pressure to bear. Nothing works.
Then the New Prince's plane goes down in the desert, and there are no survivors. No one sees the plane go down. It just disappears from radar. There's a lot of desert, and not a scrap of wreckage is ever found.
The concessions remain in place.
Then there's the story about the reporter from Der Spiegel, a man named Kurt Hayner.
Herr Hayner, it seems, had asked himself one day just how it was that a certain nation in Central America had been able to suddenly crush a revolutionary movement that had plagued it for almost two decades, and that, in recent months, had begun to gain more and more popular support. How it was that, after years and years of combating these revolutionaries to no appreciable result, the country in question had so quickly solved its problem.
In the course of his investigations, Herr Hayner learned that an envoy from the country in question had paid a visit to certain representatives in Washington, D.C., asking for their assistance. The envoy argued that the revolutionaries in his country certainly would not have a good relationship with the United States as their political ideology was not one the United States approved of, and perhaps, for that reason, the United States might wish to offer some assistance in dealing with the problem.
The answer the envoy received was, at first, not at all what he had hoped for. No, he was told by these representatives, we cannot help you, much as we wish we could. Politically, it's impossible for us to get involved at the present time.
But, they told the envoy, you might wish to talk to someone at Gorman-North.
So the government of the country in Central America paid Gorman-North an immense amount of money to come and "advise" its military on methods to combat the revolutionaries.
This is not what made Herr Hayner a threat. What made him a threat was when he learned just how Gorman-North had been "advising." The words "intimidation" and "fear" and "preemptive action" and, most of all, "coercive interrogation techniques" were going to most likely feature very prominently in his piece for Der Spiegel.
That made him a threat.
So someone called a man in Wilmington, and asked if he could speak to Jacob Collins. No, the caller was told, I haven't heard from Jake in twenty years, not since high school, I figure. But, hey, what the hell, you can leave your name and a number, and if I bump into him, I'll make sure to give him the message.
Herr Hayner died in a house fire at his home outside of Berlin sixteen days later. My crimes are yet to be numbered.
CHAPTER
At Trent's insistence, we were staying with him at his home, and his arguments for us doing so were both persuasive and logical. Regardless of what CNN might be reporting, Alena and I were still ranking high in the Most Wanted category, and while we'd made it this far without anyone picking up the trail, there was no reason to push our luck. The last thing Trent wanted, now that he had us, was a sharp-eyed police officer or a concerned citizen with a memory for faces making us as we were moving from point A to point B. For the duration of the planning of the job, at least, we were going to remain his guests. It was, he insisted, one of the things he was paying for, the right to look over our shoulders.
It was his way of dealing with his guilt, I knew, though what, precisely, he felt guilt over was less clear. He knew he'd bought himself a murder, and that couldn't have sat well on his already weakened heart, no matter how much he wanted Natalie's death answered. Or perhaps it may have come from the fact that Alena and I were now his surrogates, commissioned to do the thing he wanted done, but could not himself do.
It didn't matter; we were staying, whether we liked it or not. While unspoken, the implicit threat of what would happen if we refused was perfectly clear. It was Panno who drew the line from Hayner to Alena, from Alena to Gorman-North, and from Gorman-North to Jason Earle.
Panno had run back to the hotel the previous night to gather our things and check us out, and had gone out again early this morning to chase down the shopping list Alena had prepared. The list wasn't anything fancy, but it had been specific, with the groceries we wanted, the nutritional supplements and the like that she and I both now made a habit of taking. Panno had rolled his eyes when he'd looked over the list.
While he was out, we tried to get some exercise in without actually leaving the house. There was some workout equipment in a sunroom on the first floor, an elliptical trainer and rowing machine, both of them with only the barest signs of use. We did our yoga and then used the machines, and Panno returned from his errands as we were coming up on ninety minutes. Seven minutes after that, according to the timer on the elliptical, he joined us in the sunroom, a cup of coffee in his hand. He walked slowly around us, watching Alena rowing steadily away and me running at a good clip to nowhere. Then he sat on the windowsill in front of us, so we could both see him.
"You killed him," Panno told her. It was a simple statement, devoid of judgment.
"Who are we talking about?" Alena asked. She asked it the way you ask after the health of someone you barely know, as a courtesy, a little breathless from her exertion.
"Kurt Hayner, with Der Spiegel. You turned him into a crispy critter."
She continued rowing, staring at a point past his shoulder, then nodded slightly.
"You killed him for Gorman-North," Panno said.
"When was this?" I asked.
"Six years ago," Panno said. He was watching Alena for a reaction, and not finding one. "She toasted him in Berlin, made it look like an electrical fire. Took everything in the house, including his notes."
"Yes." Her expression hadn't changed, nor had the pace of her strokes, and for a moment there was only the clack of our respective machines and the resistances they posed. Panno was watching her exactly as before. Today he was wearing blue jeans and a black T-shirt, and in the daylight, I could make out the details of the dragon living on his upper left arm. The scale work on it was excellent, and it must have taken a lot of ink and a lot of time, and a fair threshold for pain.
On the face of it, the murder of Kurt Hayner gave Jason Earle his motive for wanting Alena, and by extension me, dead. GSI had wanted Hayner dead and Earle had been the head of GSI at the time of the murder. She was carrying knowledge that could certainly destroy Earle and, depending on how it came to light, even collapse the administration in which he served. Knowing that I had been with her for several months, suspecting that she had taken me into her confidence completely, he had added my name to Earle's hit list right beside hers.
It was a motive.
I just wasn't certain it was a very good one, and at this point I knew Alena well enough to see that she didn't, either. Yes, it was possible the truth of Kurt Hayner's death could threaten Earle, but the more I thought about it, the more I realized that was really all it could hurt. The administration would survive it, the way administrations seemed to more and more. Unless there was oral sex involved or photographs or video, the public would let it pass, and the rest of the White House could spin it any way they wanted to; they could disown Earle, fall on him like the proverbial ton of bricks, even ignore it.