Drake was momentarily lost for words. “That’s bloody huge.”
“Damn right. So get your asses back here.”
Drake cut her off and shouted out the window. “Oy! You two! Time to go!”
Alicia looked up from where she had George in a playful headlock. “What? He’s enjoying it.”
“Work called,” Drake said. “We have a job to do.”
Dahl immediately focused. “Something big?”
“Something mega.”
Dahl headed for his Aston and Alicia climbed into the Porsche. “We’re taking the track day cars?”
Drake burned rubber as he swung the car’s tail around toward the exit. “The world’s safety is at stake,” he said. “And may depend on our speed. I think we owe it to ourselves, don’t you?”
CHAPTER FIVE
Ramses entered the bespoke elevator that would take him to the penthouse suite of his castle, barely noticing the gold-paneled interior, gilt buttons and plushy carpeted floor. The whoosh of the ascent was soundless and took only five seconds, the slowdown so smooth it went practically unnoticed. Ramses was a big man, almost seven foot tall and wider than some entrances, raw muscle upon raw muscle, with hands as big and deadly as a bird-eating tarantula and neck muscles that could crush Brazil nuts.
When the outer doors opened a guard greeted him with a nod which Ramses returned. He was an unassuming, quietly-spoken man for the most part, the menace, reputation and fear associated with him derived from what he had the power to do rather than what he actually did. It took very few examples to accrue that reputation. Ramses had initially cultivated a wide notoriety for violent fits of temper, though this was fabricated on purpose, or at least he thought so. All this said, Ramses hadn’t gone soft in his thirty years as the Prince of Terrorism. He would order mass murder at the drop of a hat, sacrifice one of his sons if need be, and then turn to watch the big soccer match with a beer, a burger and a hearty laugh.
He entered his office, which was empty. He was under no illusions. Ramses was a man alone — at the top of this game there were no comrades. But the return was worth it. For thirty years he had been exacting nothing but cold revenge, and would continue for thirty more.
The castle — his home — sat high in the Peruvian mountains, perched halfway up a cliff face and overlooking a wide valley. Its foundations were as old as time, its stones weathered through centuries. Ramses had scoured the world for a fortress he might reside in, one where he felt secure and well-defended, one that had seen much in the way of history, one where he might live undetected. The drug dealers that had owned this gave it up without too much of a fight and now added to its rich history, part of the foundations.
Ramses turned his thoughts to today’s itinerary. His schedule was quite full. Planning the world’s greatest black-market arms bazaar wasn’t easy and he refused to be dependent on any kind of help. Of course, it didn’t help that the venue was in the heart of the Amazon jungle — coincidentally an area where he’d had to clear even more drug dealers and other undesirables out to make any headway. The local authorities had been a big help though…
Ramses rushed past the fact that he’d also had to uproot two indigenous tribes to utilize the area he wanted, not knowing nor caring in the least about their final fate. For six months he had been laying plans — now the final days were upon them. It wasn’t the money or the notoriety he would gain from hosting the bazaar — it was mostly the small and large deals that resulted from it — many of which were made whilst it was underway and which otherwise might never have seen the light of day. When people came together, agreements and even detailed covenants were often made. The problem he faced, rather ironically, was the same problem posed by his enemies — security. The dark web was good for many things but even that was no longer perfectly safe. Email dropboxes were also out these days. Ramses found himself more and more frequently returning to the old fashioned ways.
Word of mouth, in particular. Face to face meetings in ancient rooms which were constantly swept and monitored for bugs. Underground caverns, impermeable to even the most sophisticated listening devices the Americans had. And here… the few places in the world where men like Ramses lived in anonymity. The logistics were awkward, but worth every discomfort.
Ramses stared over the valley, filled with a crawling mist, the air patterned by aimless, floating droplets. Distant trees hung heavy, their boughs indistinct and ephemeral. And the mountains that kept his small castle safe sat all around, watching over it all. From his vantage point he could gaze down onto the battlements and watch his guards shiver as they patrolled. He could see into the small courtyard, which at this time was empty. Plans for the great bazaar filled his mind, turning his focus inside for a while and he saw nothing. An old memory flitted through his thoughts.
Ramses had convened three arms bazaars in the past. The last had ended somewhat unsuccessfully due to a rather unfortunate and extremely noisy interruption — the team he now knew were called SPEAR. Like the Charge of the Light Brigade they had stormed his superior positions and totally routed his until-then highly productive event. It had taken years of recovery but here he was again — ready to lead the dark world to victory.
And thinking of the new dark world that was coming, Ramses now remembered his guest — the wealthy idiot that had thought he could create a new shadow organization that would control entire governments. Of course, the principles were sound — it had been done before — but the execution of those principles left an awful lot to be desired.
Ramses turned to his desk and pressed a button. “Send in Tyler Webb.”
Before he had even taken his finger off the button an adjoining door opened and his elite bodyguard entered the room. Akatash was whippet thin, almost as tall as Ramses himself, and possessed of steel-cable like strength. His skills were unsurpassed, his worst deeds the stuff of dark legend, and quite fittingly his name the same as the demon that created evil.
Tyler Webb appeared through another door a few moments later, closely followed by his own bodyguard — Beauregard Alain. Ramses was very much aware of Alain’s abilities and barely resisted a quick reassuring nod at Akatash. Tyler Webb, dressed impeccably, made Ramses boil inside. Here was a privileged, puffed-up, wannabe autocrat that had never known a day of hardship in his life and thought he could walk the same lethal line as a true radical, a true believer, and for that matter a real soldier, and then wondered where everything went wrong.
Ramses suppressed his hatred. “Welcome, my friend.” His quiet voice, surprisingly for a man his size, was designed to put people at ease. A false promise if ever there was one.
“What do you have for me?” Webb offered no greeting, no good conduct and no etiquette.
Ramses sat back, distracted for a moment by the silent assessments passing between Akatash and Beauregard. It would be an understatement to say that the look between them bristled with daggers, more like ballistic missiles. Ramses could feel a sphere of tension blooming in the air.
“Remind me what it is that you need.” Ramses said, deciding to give this American devil no assistance other than that which he might benefit from.
Webb sighed. “The suitcase nuke,” he tapped a finger. “For starters. And, far more important to me, the scroll.” He twisted a second digit rather nervously.
“Ah, yes.” Ramses acted as if he’d just recalled an earlier conversation. “I have many clients. They want missiles or ammunition or chemical substances. They want body armor or even jet fighters. But never before have I been asked for a scroll?”
Webb tried to act coy in answer to the implied question. “Buyer’s prerogative. My reason is my own.”