“Unless the threat of danger proves too high,” answered Butcher Boy. “You can’t spend money if you’re dead.”
“But aren’t there certain risks to every mission?”
“We’re battle-seasoned vets. You’re not. The core of command decisions are based on current threat. Should you make the wrong determination, then my unit can get wiped out.”
Hall shook his head. “This little excursion of mine is not against a military faction,” he said. “Your purpose is to see that I return to this ship safely once the matter is concluded.”
“That’s it?”
“That’s it,” he answered. “I guarantee that you will not be confronting anyone bearing arms.”
The commandos looked at each other. This was easy money. But still, a red flag went up. Why pay so much for sentinel protection if there was no true opposition?
“Low risk, high yield,” Hall said enticingly. “Do we have an agreement?”
“No combatants?”
“None that you’ll need to worry about.”
It was like stealing candy from a sleeping baby. How could they proffer any type of refusal with a five-million dollar commission per soldier for minimal risk? Let the man play the role of Napoleon Bonaparte if he wanted to, as long as his money was good.
“Do we have a deal?”
“On one condition,” Butcher Boy said, leaning forward with his face rock-hard. “I don’t care how much you put on the table, Hall. When my employer pays me to do a job, he does so because he can’t do the job himself. And since I like to be Judge, Jury and Executioner of my command, then I take the lead when I’m in the field. I will not jeopardize the safety of my unit for any price. Nor will I allow someone with no combat experience to take leadership of a company when he hasn’t so much as laid a finger on a weapon. But I will concede to your demands because of the factor of minimal risk. But if an imminent threat arises, one that would compromise the safety of my team, then the command becomes mine.”
“So terse,” said Hall.
“That’s my one condition.”
Obsidian Hall leaned forward to counter. “Mr. Butcher Boy, let’s get one thing straight right now, shall we? Tomorrow we leave for Turkey. If you do not want to abide by my rules, then I’ll have the chopper readied for you within ten minutes. And that goes for your team. Do you really think guys like you are so unique?” He fell back and barked a laugh. “Guys like you are a dime a dozen.”
Butcher Boy looked around, noting the faces of a team that had been together so long there was an umbilical tie between them. No words had to be spoken. The looks on their faces said it alclass="underline" compromise.
Obsidian Hall relented, however. “But with negotiations being what they are, then I agree to your term,” he said. “It would be prudent to hand over military authority to those who are most capable of handling the situation, should a threat arise. But until that time, Mr. Butcher Boy, first there’s God, and then there’s me.”
Butcher Boy nodded, the agreement sealed. “You haven’t told us about the mission.”
“It’s not really a mission,” he told him. “More like an expedition to an unchartered domain.”
“You’re taking us on a hike?” This came from the freckle-faced Irishman whose red hair was closely cropped. He was, fittingly, called Red.
Hall nodded. “Tomorrow,” he began, “we’ll be heading for Turkey where you will all commit to serve as my team.”
“We’re essentially bodyguards, then,” said Red.
Hall looked at him straightforwardly. A facsimile of the man sat beside him, a brother perhaps, except this man’s hair was blond, but their features uncannily the same. “Your job will be to protect my backside and make sure that I walk away alive and well,” he told him.
“And how will payment be made?” asked the blond man.
“I will forward two million dollars to your account immediately,” he said.
“And the other three million?” asked the Aussie.
“Upon my safe return, then I will send the balance to your accounts.” And then: “It’s not much of a gamble, gentlemen. Do your job, see that I’m protected, and none of you will have to work another day in your life. That I promise. If you agree, then I’ll have the money wired to your accounts within fifteen minutes. If not…” He pointed toward the direction of the helipad. “Then off you go.” He brought the crystal glass to his lips, and took a sip while waiting for a response.
Butcher Boy looked at Aussie, who nodded in agreement, then to Red and his brother, who also nodded acceptance. “We agree,” Butcher Boy said evenly.
Obsidian Hall lifted his glass in cheer. “Very good. I love to negotiate terms.” He then snapped his fingers to the Hindu man, who bowed and left the room. He focused his attention on the mercenaries at the table. “Right now, two million dollars is being wired to your accounts,” he informed them. “And by this time, come a day or two, I’ll be sitting on the throne where humanity first began.” Nobody knew what he was talking about. They simply chalked it up as the ramblings of another eccentric billionaire. “Salud,” said Hall, raising his glass.
Beyond the observation window, the bull sharks continued to swim in perfect circles.
CHAPTER THIRTEEN
After landing at the Esenboğa Airport in Ankara, Turkey late in the afternoon, John Savage put himself up at the Swissôtel Ankara Hotel. The room was moderately spartan with a wide double bed, a combination of travertine tile and Berber carpeting, and a balcony that overlooked Ankara. It was fairly unremarkable and far from some of the luxurious venues he was accustomed to in the past. Tonight, however, Ankara was just a place for him to lay his hat.
He stood before the bathroom mirror staring at his own reflection. He looked tired and gaunt with the gray moons surrounding his eyes, and the encroachment of the five o’clock shadow making him look fatigued. Yet he remained a classically handsome man with angular features and dark hair, luminous blue eyes and a Romanesque-shaped nose, standing on a packed six-foot-one frame of one hundred ninety pounds of lean muscle.
Feeling refreshed after splashing water across his face, he left the bathroom, removing his cleric’s shirt and Roman Catholic collar as he went, tossed them on the bed, and felt an odd sense of liberation.
Standing by the door were two aluminum suitcases, one the size of a child’s lunchbox. He picked up the small case and brought it to the bed, where he undid the clasps and lifted the lid.
His Glock, suppressor and ammo clips were lying inside molded foam. He picked up the gun, felt the heft of its weight, and pointed it at his mirror image across the room. In quick succession he pulled the trigger in a series of dry clicks, the barrel pointing to his center of body mass, and then a couple to the head. When he was done, he stared at his image for a long moment before returning the weapon back to its molding.
After locking the case, he grabbed his cell phone and dialed a quick-dial number.
“Yes.” It was the assistant director of the Servizio Informazione del Vaticano.
“It’s me,” said Savage. “I’m in Ankara.”
“Good.”
“I’ll be taking transportation to the Göbekli site in the morning, which should take a good part of the day to get there.”
“Make sure you keep us posted.”
Savage didn’t answer; he simply snapped the phone shut. Within a few strides, he was able to cross the room to stand before the glass doors leading to the balcony. Outside, the streets of Ankara were alive. It was going to be a long night, he thought — probably without sleep. But in the morning he would head off to Göbekli Tepe, find the woman, and put a bullet in her head.