The entire world was now arming for a third world war. The new amount of business would be the biggest in the history of the world, the vice chairman of Ares Corporation e-mailed to Creel, his glee evident in every word of his message. “What a stroke of luck, this Red Menace thing,” he’d added.
Creel read the message once and then deleted it. What a stroke of luck indeed. He made a mental note to find a new vice chairman to replace that idiot.
The cold war was back and better than ever. With a series of deft moves and remarkable planning he’d reshaped the planet’s power structure to where it should be. The pissants in the Middle East had immediately tried to suck the world back in, doing a version of “Hey, what about me, I’m still bad news,” by cratering another mosque in Baghdad, bombing a market in Anbar, and killing all of eighty civilians and two U.S. grunts. The world’s collective response had been swift and unmistakable: “Don’t bother us, we’ve got real problems. Millions could die!”
Ironically, Creel had made the world far more civilized by getting back to a “real” war mode. That was his plan, after all.
Not a shot fired.
And the money poured.
And the savages without a conscience put in their place.
It is the hat trick. Thank you very much.
It had never been about the money, really. It had been about the world. Nicolas Creel had just saved it.
Yet still, there was something wrong.
He was currently standing on picturesque Italian soil, the beauty of the Mediterranean coast spread out before him. The mother superior was next to him, resplendent in her lovely white robes. She was beaming, as she looked over preliminary plans for the building of a new orphanage to replace the one that had been constructed right after World War II when there had been a large number of orphans.
Speaking in Italian the mother superior said, “It is beautiful. And you are a beautiful man to have done it, Nicolas.”
“Please, Mother Superior. It was the least I could do. And I can assure you I will benefit spiritually to the same degree that the children will by having a new home.” He said all this in fluent Italian.
Creel was proficient in many languages; he’d learned them solely to gain an edge in business. Some of his biggest deals had come about simply because he could say “Please” and “Thank you” in his customers’ own tongues.
Yes, this should have been a time of great triumph for Creel as he strolled around the site where the new orphanage would be. But it wasn’t. And for one reason only.
Caesar had arrived from London and ridden a launch out to the Shiloh. Katie James had slipped through their fingers. One of Caesar’s men had been stuck with the damn needle instead. And Shaw, the man with the eyes like Creel’s, had been right in the middle of it. He and James were now out there together. Doing what, only they knew.
According to Creel’s sources Shaw had run out of The Phoenix Group building like he was on fire twenty minutes before he arrived at James’s flat. And worst of all, Creel didn’t know why.
For the first time in a long time, the fourteenth richest man in the world felt a twinge of real fear. Nicolas Creel was not a man who bet the farm or thought himself infallible. He was brilliant enough to know that he didn’t actually know everything. He was a man who could adapt a plan on the fly, apply new intelligence to maximum effect, and realized that a plan set in stone was always doomed to failure.
And as he thought about this, the mother superior hugged him, her angelic tears staining his blazer. “God will bless you for this,” she whispered in his ear.
And above all, Creel was a man who hedged his bets any way he could.
“Mother Superior, can I ask a favor please?”
“Ask and it shall be done, my son,” she said.
“Will you pray for me?”
CHAPTER 70
SHAW AND KATIE HAD HIDDEN OUT in a small row house outside London near Richmond that Shaw had previously arranged as a safe house. The next night they had received a visitor, an Italian with a Dutch accent. He was the same man who ran Shaw’s favorite restaurant in Amsterdam. He said a polite hello to Katie and then nodded at Shaw, who was scrutinizing him closely.
“How did you get here?” Shaw asked.
“Train,” replied the fellow. “A bit more congenial security-wise.”
Shaw nodded in understanding while Katie watched curiously.
“You have it?”
The man took out a small package from his pocket and handed it to Shaw.
Shaw tried to give the fellow a roll of euros but he pushed it away.
“At least for your expenses,” Shaw said.
“Come see me in Amsterdam, after this is all over. Spend your money there with good food and bad wine.”
The men shook hands and then the Dutch-speaking Italian was gone.
Shaw put the package in his coat pocket and looked at Katie, who was staring at him expectantly.
“Care to share?” she asked.
“No.”
Shaw next called Frank and filled him in. At the end of his lengthy explanation, Frank’s comment was brief but to the point.
“Ho-lee shit!”
“I was expecting something a little more helpful.”
“What do you want me to do? You’re got no real proof and you still don’t know who the third party is.”
“Then get me to Dublin and I’ll take it from there.”
“Why Dublin?’
“I’ve got people to see.”
“Like who? Leona Bartaroma at Malahide Castle? I know you went to see her.”
“FYI, I’ve got Katie James with me.”
“Lucky, lucky you.”
“So can you get me to Dublin?”
“Look, I had a hard enough time convincing the folks upstairs that your freelancing with MI5 was a good use of your time. If they find out you’ve split, all bets are off.”
“Just get me to Dublin.”
“I can, but you’ve got to swear you won’t see Leona about that.”
“I do.”
The next day Shaw and Katie were driven from London to Wales in an old bus. After that they ducked into the damp hold of a ratty tugboat that was now crossing the Irish pond in pitching seas. Katie spent an hour throwing up into a bucket as they bounced to Ireland. Shaw kept handing her soaked towels to wipe her face.
Katie finally sat up, nothing left to heave out of her gut.
“Your sea legs are impressive,” she said. “I’m more of a landlubber.”
“The high-speed ferry wasn’t an option since everyone in the world is looking for you.”
“Everybody wants to be famous until they are and finds out it sucks.”
“We’ll be there shortly.”
“Good to know,” Katie said, one hand over her still-writhing stomach. “So we get there, and then what?”
“And then we meet someone who can help us go deep underground. Disguises, new IDs.”
“And then what?”
“And then we figure out the next step.”
Later, Shaw walked over and looked out a porthole. The tug had slowed, the rocking had ceased. They were past the breakwater and into the harbor.