"Mercenaries," Nick said, "and ex spooks."
"Yes."
"I don't like that. Where did we see this before? Spooks and mercs?""
"In Texas," Ronnie said. He still felt the effects of the wound he'd taken there. "You think it's the same people, Director?"
"Yes. There was one incoming call on the phone you found. It traced back to a company called Endgame Development. They design interactive, violent video games. Think Friday the 13th in 3D and high definition. Endgame is a subsidiary shell of a subsidiary of an entertainment company owned by Malcolm Foxworth."
"Foxworth runs AEON."
"That's why I think it's the same people."
"What do you want us to do?" Nick asked.
"Endgame is in Brighton Beach, in Brooklyn. I want you and Lamont to go there and see what you can find out." Elizabeth fiddled with her pen. "This could have been a preemptive strike, so we don't get in the way of something. They'd go after you four because you're the guts of the fire team. Steph and I were probably on the list after they got the shooters handled."
"Big mistake." Lamont smiled. "They don't know you two very well."
Lamont had retired from the Navy Seals just before joining the Project. A shrapnel scar ran from his forehead down across his nose and cheek. It made a thin ridge of pink against his coffee-colored skin. He had pale blue eyes, a gift from his Ethiopian grandfather.
Selena said, "What could they be planning?"
Harker tapped her pen. "If the past is any indication we'll find out soon enough."
CHAPTER FIVE
The man who led AEON looked out from his penthouse windows over the city of London. The view took in most of the city. It was a good spot to contemplate power.
Malcolm Foxworth was a small man with a large presence. His hair was black with streaks of silver and carefully styled. His ears were a little too large for his head. His eyebrows formed thin, black streaks over flat eyes blue as glacier ice. Foxworth's face was unremarkable, common even. When he was angry, his complexion turned red. When he was very angry, his face turned chalk white.
Foxworth had started out with a small newspaper inherited from his father. Over the years he'd created a world-wide media empire by telling angry people what they wanted to hear. He controlled radio stations, newspapers, magazines and television outlets, all with one thing in common. Each worked to feed and strengthen the ominous cloud of divisiveness and fear spreading over the globe.
Fear was Foxworth's stock in trade. Fear overwhelmed reason. Fearful people became angry and could be manipulated. The world's leaders had always used fear to get what they wanted. They congratulated themselves and imagined themselves masters of the world. But few knew who pulled the strings that made the world dance.
Foxworth knew, because he was one of them. The conspiracy theorists were right about a hidden group seeking world domination but they'd gotten most of it wrong.
AEON had been called by many names over the centuries. The Illuminati. The Secret Masons. The Hidden Masters. The New World Order. The Trilateral Commission. The Bilderberg Group. Those were useful red herrings, shadows thrown up against the screen of human paranoia, psychological sleight of hand. No one had ever managed to expose the real conspiracy.
In the past year someone had begun to interfere.
Someone had pointed Harker's dogs at the Demeter operation. It was like throwing sand into a machine with closely cut gears. Years of preparation had been destroyed in hours by an insignificant team of ignorant, washed up soldiers led by a woman. It wasn't the first time she'd derailed one of AEON's operations. Every time he thought about Harker, Foxworth wanted to take her throat in his hands and crush it.
Harker drew her power from the Presidency. President Rice didn't play by the rules. He couldn't be bribed, or persuaded to see reason about things that mattered. He was weak, opposed to war. Without him, Harker would become irrelevant.
Rice's opponent in the upcoming US election was AEON's puppet. Voting was untrustworthy, no matter what the polls predicted. Foxworth had no intention of waiting until November to see his man elected.
He was going to assassinate Rice, then eliminate Harker.
He gazed out at the changing London skyline. A light rain spattered the glass. Beyond the Thames, the giant Ferris wheel Londoners called the Eye stood out against the gray sky.
A sudden stab of blinding pain staggered him. He placed his hand against the thick glass of the window to steady himself. His vision blurred. Then his sight cleared and the pain on his skull receded. He walked unsteadily to his desk and sat down.
A door on the other side of the room opened. A tall, smartly dressed woman with pale skin and long black hair came in. She moved with unconscious ease and sexual promise. She glowed in a cream-colored suit that set off her hair. Her red blouse showed just enough cleavage to intrigue the eye. Her dark eyes glittered with unspoken thoughts.
Mandy Atherton had been a model at the top of her profession when she'd met Foxworth two years before. In the cutthroat world of high end fashion and beautiful women there was always someone scheming to take her place. Mandy was no fool. She knew where her future lay, and it wasn't with the fashion industry. It lay in a rich man's bed.
Lately Foxworth had been finding it difficult to perform, but that wasn't a problem for Mandy. Besides, she had other ways to satisfy her needs. She was inventive and intelligent as well as attractive. During working hours she acted as Foxworth's executive assistant.
"Malcolm, Doctor Morel is here."
"About time. Send him in."
Doctor Morel wore a goatee and mustache and a three piece dark suit that had cost a great deal of money. He was 50 years old, balding and beginning to show a paunch. He looked like an actor portraying Sigmund Freud. Custom shoes that added to his height and expensive cologne hinted at his vanity. In his right hand he carried a smooth black leather briefcase full of select medications.
Morel was under five and a half feet tall, one of the reasons Foxworth liked having him about. Aside from the bonus of his height, Morel was also discreet. He was a man who knew how to make his clients feel pampered and respected. More important, he knew how to make them feel better.
"Goddamn it, Morel, what took you so long? I can't think with this headache."
"Sorry, Malcolm, there was construction on the M1. I came as quickly as possible. Please, sit down."
Foxworth insisted that associates he saw all the time call him by his first name. Worker bees called him "sir".
Foxworth sat at his desk. Morel placed his case on the desk, opened it and pulled up a facing chair. He took out an instrument and shone a light into Foxworth's eyes.
"Look up. Now right. Now left." He put the instrument away, took out a vial of clear liquid and a syringe.
"Any other symptoms, Malcolm? Blurring of vision? Hearing problems? Any problems with balance?"
"Never mind that crap. Just give me something for this headache. I've got an important meeting in twenty minutes."
"Of course." Morel filled the syringe, squirted a few drops. "Pants, please."
Foxworth stood. Morel noticed he was a bit unsteady, but said nothing. Foxworth exposed his buttock. Morel gave him the injection.
"You'll feel better in a minute or two," he said. "Are you still unwilling to put yourself in for a few tests? Just overnight."
"I don't want any tests." Foxworth felt the drug working. The pain receded. He took a deep breath. "I don't need any tests. These headaches are just stress."
"Malcolm…"
"Morel. I said I don't want any bloody tests."
Foxworth's voice had gone cold. Something ancient and dangerous lay just beneath it. Morel took an involuntary step backward, as if he had just seen something unspeakably evil. Ridiculous, he thought. It's just the stress talking.