“We’re not sure, Mr. President, other than it seems to be some sort of particle beam. Going back and looking at what remains of the notes of this man Tesla, it seems most likely it was powered by a huge electrostatic generator to accelerate tiny articles of mercury in a vacuum and spew them out through some sort of specialized nozzle at great distance.”
“I’m no physicist,” the president admitted, “but if you need a vacuum to accelerate particles, what happens when they’re spewed out of the vacuum? Seems like they’d lose velocity. Sounds like nothing more than a crackpot idea.”
Hodges returned to the sofa, this time giving himself more room to turn and face the president. “Don’t be too sure. We know that, in 1908, Robert Peary was making his second attempt to reach the North Pole. Tesla sent him a pre-departure telegram, telling Peary he, Tesla, would try and contact the expedition and to please report anything unusual occurring on the tundra.”
“North Pole? Robert Peary? C’mon, Henry, you’re wasting my time!”
The chief of staff held up a protective hand. “Indulge me, Mr. President, please.”
The man behind the desk didn’t look pleased, but he wasn’t shooing anyone out of the office either.
“Anyway, on the evening of June 29, Tesla and his associate George Scherff climbed up a tower Tesla had built in Shoreham, New York, and aimed the so-called ‘Death Ray’ across the Atlantic toward the Arctic at a spot Tesla had calculated would be west of where Peary’s expedition should be.
“According to Scherff, Tesla turned the machine on. At first, there was nothing but a dull hum. They thought the device might have malfunctioned. Then an owl flew in front of them and seemed to disappear. Later, they found it dead and reduced to about the size of a sparrow.”
“An owl? So the thing shoots down birds. Air Force One is a little larger than an owl.”
“The damned owl isn’t really important. What is, is that two days later the newspapers carried a story of a huge explosion devastating Tunguska, a remote area in the Siberian wilderness, about the same time Tesla and Scherff were on the tower. Five hundred thousand acres of timberland destroyed, an explosion greater than any nuclear device ever detonated since the bomb was invented, audible from more than six hundred miles away.
“The first explanation was an asteroid or comet but no exact point of impact was ever found nor was any trace of the asteroid or comet. Tesla had a different explanation: His death ray had overshot its intended target and leveled a good part of Siberia.”
The president gave Hodges the famous look. “You believe that?”
“Tesla did. He dismantled the thing, put it away till the First World War when he tried to peddle it to Woodrow Wilson, offered to rebuild it.”
“And?”
“All he got was a polite letter from Wilson’s secretary.”
The president leaned back in his chair. “And that was the end of it?”
“Not quite. When the Second World War came along, J. Edgar Hoover and William Donovan corresponded about it. There seemed to be some reason. To think the Germans might have gotten hold of Tesla’s ray.”
“Did they?”
“Inconclusive, but we know we won.”
The president stood, a signal the conversation was at an end. “Which would seem to indicate this so-called death ray either doesn’t exist or, more likely, never did.”
Henry Hodges stood again. “I hope you’ll reschedule, Mr. President.”
“I’ll give it some thought, Henry.”
Which almost always meant the subject would not come up again.
44
“Who…?”
“Shh!” Andrews tugged Viktor’s shirt, bringing the Russian’s head below the top of the truck’s cab.
“But who…?” Viktor insisted, this time at a whisper.
“Tuareg rebels, National Movement for the Liberation of Azawad.”
“Aza what?”
Andrews was pushing Viktor toward the truck’s tailgate. “We can talk politics later. Right now, let’s deploy into the brush before they figure out Jason and Emphani aren’t alone.”
Inside the truck’s cab, Jason was staring into the barrel of an AK-47. From the passenger seat, Emphani was doing the same.
Jason rolled down his window, admitting a horde of mosquitos along with the warm night air. “You speak English?”
For an answer the door was snatched open, the hand not holding the automatic rifle grabbed the front of Jason’s shirt, jerking him out of the truck. Jason struggled to maintain his balance, stumbled, and fell to the ground. His hand automatically reached for his right calf where, concealed by his pants leg, his killing knife was strapped.
It took only a fraction of a second to realize he would be dead before the blade cleared its scabbard. The muzzle of the AK-47 was never more than a foot from his head as he got to his feet.
“But we weren’t speeding, Officer.”
If any of the men in blue thiyaab understood him, it wasn’t obvious.
Emphani, his hands over his head, came around the truck in front of another rifle. “They’re NMLA.”
“I thought the Tuareg rebellion ended in ’09.”
“So did I.”
Jason searched his memory. The Tuaregs were a nomadic group who claimed to be seeking freedom of their homeland, Azawad, from portions of Mali, Niger, Algeria, and Nigeria. Since the areas included in the nonexistent Azawad were almost entirely in the sparsely populated Sahara Desert, the countries involved put up little resistance. The near dormant movement was revitalized when the fall of Qaddafi put Tuareg mercenaries out of work and the Libyan arsenal was pretty much open on a first-come-first-served basis. Those who had served the Libyan strong man now existed with the banner of a cause as an excuse for banditry. Many in Africa linked the rebels to Al Qaeda’s African arm, an accusation the AQIM, or Al Qaeda in Islamic Maghreb, stoutly denied. Either possibility gave little comfort. Certainly the murdered unarmed civilians couldn’t care less as couldn’t the inhabitants of burned villages and raped women.
He could not be sure in the dark, but Jason identified six different men. Four of them had climbed into the truck’s bed.
Wincing at the sound of equipment being dumped onto the ground, Jason whispered, “Any idea what they want?”
“Anything of value small enough for them to steal,” Emphani replied. “And if they decide we might bring a ransom, they might let us live.”
At the moment, Jason wished they really were with the venerable magazine they claimed to represent. National Geo would pay a ransom. Momma would make a decision based on economics. A captured operative who had failed his assignment would have scant worth.
Momma!
Germane to nothing in his present situation, the revelation came to Jason like a vision to an Old Testament prophet.
He had been had.
Really had.
The men in the Mercedes in Liechtenstein. The shot into his bedroom in Sark. The men in the Mercedes had made no overt effort to harm him, only to let him know they were there. Little chance a random shot into a windowpane would have hit him.
But Momma knew about both. She could have had spies in Liechtenstein, but Jason was quite sure he had not told her about the shooting incident. Yet she knew, knew he would immediately jump to the conclusion his presence on Sark was known to his enemies. An assignment was a way to get off the island, to go somewhere until he could decide on another base. Somewhere that served Narcom’s purpose.
He didn’t notice the sound of teeth grinding in chagrin.
Momma’s duplicity wasn’t the problem of the moment, however. The Tuaregs were shouting, motioning for him and Emphani to put hands behind their backs, no doubt to be tied up with the rope Jason could see one of them holding in the headlights. Once trussed up like a Sunday dinner chicken, there would be no chance of escape.